Dangerous Encounter, page 17
I stopped, seeing a faint smile of satisfaction slide over Hodges' pug face. Instantly it vanished. Hodges' face again became anxious as though in my behalf. It instantly occurred to me, between the time I'd escaped his hospital and this morning, either Hodges himself or Roy had searched my house and found the money. I saw Harry nod toward the security guards. Pain increased, stabbed me fiercely under my ribs. My heart hammered.
"Yvor, you can't get away with it. You're bluffing it out to stop them from placing Marcia before a fluoroscope. Tell me. What about that wrong house, last night?"
"What about what wrong house?"
"When you and Gormerly tagged me there."
"You phoned me, my boy, from a house into which you'd broken in. You entered it after you'd killed a Doberman dog. Are you beginning to remember?^
"Oh, Albin," Marcia cried. "Not Mugsy! If Mugsy is killed it was Dr. Hodges who killed her. Oh, I've listened and listened and Hodges is being so clever. Albin, think! Did Laurel give you only one of those things to swallow-those capsules?"
That brought me up with a start.
I looked at Marcia. I said. "No-as a matter of fact she gave me two. You gave me one from the big jar after you took mine and then when Laurel returned she gave me a second to swallow in fifteen minutes but I forgot. I never swallowed the second one until I was on the train, going to Colfax Springs."
"You swallowed the second capsule-" Marcia turned upon Hodges in a fury, and he retreated as she cried, "It was the second one all the time, wasn't it, Dr. Hodges? Wasn't it? Admit it. Albin might've been suspicious of the first capsule. But you and Laurel were much too clever. Oh my, yesl The second one was the one, loaded and filled-
“Paul! Mr. Weymouthl" Marcia pointed at Hodges. "Oh, look at him! Look at your brave Dr. Hodges, will you? And where's Laurel? Stop her, can't you? Paul, are you going to let that-that bitch get away? Are you?
"I'm so damned mad at you, Paul," Marcia shouted in a raging voice. "Do something, can't you? Who cares about Albin? Who's ever cared? He was only good at racing sports cars. He's no longer even any good at that. All he was capable of doing was to save you two from losing your precious Skyjack specs and prices, after getting himself nearly killed and badly beaten. Instead of taking care of himself he's made his way here this morning. Half the county's police force is out hunting him. He came here because he believed I'd swallowed that thing and I might die. At least, will you look at Albin if you need proof? Look at him-he's shivering and shaking and in so much pain he can scarcely stand. Why doesn't somebody do something for him?"
"By George, I'll do something for him," said Hodges in a thick voice. He whipped out his revolver.
Marcia jumped in front of me.
Harry said, "Don't be a fool, Yvor."
Hodges stared once at Marcia and at me. He sagged. "Harry," he said, "I'm ruined, I've lost the throw of dice-" He paused. Then he said something that sounded to me like, "Laurel-tell Laurel-" and he saw Laurel had skinned out and his voice came to a stop.
Perhaps Hodges hoped to reassure Laurel that he was keeping his promise to her, and being a goddamn gentleman and letting her off the hook. But no one will ever really know what he hoped to say to her, for immediately he thrust the muzzle of his revolver into his mouth-and pulled the trigger. The concussion was tremendous. It echoed and echoed.
Sometimes, at nights, the memory of it still echoes in my mind.
Chapter 11
= 1 =
Instead of getting up and walking three days after they opened me up at Stanford's Medical Center to extract a small fully pronged plastic container, complications set in, my kidneys nearly stopped working, and I wasn't released for nearly two and a half months. After the first couple of weeks, visitors were allowed; Marcia arrived promptly every evening during visiting hours and usually with a Scrabble board.
It was George who told me that Paul Perugia had remained in the hospital with Marcia when the surgeon had me on the operating table that Saturday morning in January, and that the following day he'd flown to Washington. Paul was away five weeks. Consequently, I didn't see Paul until a late afternoon late in February when he walked in, shook hands with me, pulled up a chair by the bed, said he'd returned from Washington only a day ago, and how was I?
O.K., I said. My kidney specialist, Dr. Young, hoped to have my kidneys free of uremic poisoning in another three or four weeks. After we'd talked awhile, Paul mentioned, by the way, Sid Horrabin in PR had asked how I'd liked the news releases on me?
I said, very much, my reputation appeared to be looking up lately.
That Saturday last January all of the local papers had come out too soon with headlines about me as a man on a psychopathic rampage in Colfax Springs; and accordingly, they'd afterwards tumbled over themselves to make it up to me. The happiest outcome of all was a long-distance phone call from my father, followed by a letter, Pop's first since I'd been canned from the old Call-Bulletin.
When I asked how the Skyjack bid was doing, Paul's face lit up with a smile. While the news wasn't out officially and wouldn't be for a few more weeks until a joint announcement was made by NASA and SMC's Board Chairman, the contract was signed. Over a ten-year period it ought to amount to sixty million dollars. I said that that was something, wasn't it?
Paul nodded. "Yes, we're shifting into high gear now," he said, glanced at the time, and stood, explaining if he didn't get going he'd be late for an appointment. But before he left, again he wanted to thank me for spiking Hodges' great scheme to hand over the Skyjack bid to a competitor.
I assured Paul I didn't know what I'd have done without Marcia backing me up all the way that explosive night last January. Now Paul was here, it also occurred to me, I couldn't find a better moment to tell him I hoped to persuade Marcia to marry me, once I was on my feet again.
I never had a chance to tell Paul I loved his sister. He interrupted me before I even began. His olive-colored and Italianate face had suddenly grown greenish as if his lunch disagreed with him, he twiddled his fingers nervously around his pipe, and he shot me a look of intense displeasure that surprised me. "That reminds me," Paul said, "now you've mentioned Marcia-" And he came to a dead stop.
He tried once more. "Often a very young and unsophisticated girl, like Marcia, you know, is apt to become briefly interested in an older man."
"Marcia's twenty-four, isn't she?"
"I'm not referring to temporal age," said Paul stiffly. "As with all highly intelligent persons, Marcia's maturing late. I matured late. He walked to the door and back, stopped in front of my bed and took a deep breath. "Al-Al-this will probably pretty much astound you. The truth is-I'm afraid Marcia's somewhat interested in you."
I said nothing, nothing at all, to that. Paul got his pipe turned around in his hands and by accident tried to insert the bowl in his mouth instead of the stem. He jerked away the bowl, gazing balefully at it and then across at me.
"When Marcia was a teenager, I remember," he continued, "how much she liked watching you race those damn sports cars. I hoped she'd forget that teenage crush when she went East to Smith. But now-" He left it unsaid and his oval eyes, so much like Marcia's, gave me a swift scrutiny to observe how I was taking it, so far.
"Smith-College?"
"On a scholarship. Dad never had much cash. Didn't Marcia tell you?"
I swallowed. "About Smith?"
"About the scholarship."
"No."
"She graduated with honors in math and came back here while we settled Dad's estate. Then a year ago she started in at UCLA, in Los Angeles, on a grant they offered her to continue her Ph.D. studies as a cryptanalyst."
"Jesus."
"She threw away a brilliant future in that field because damned if she didn't get interested in human communicative problems, instead. When Sid Horrabin was at North American she talked him into giving her a job. I was against it, but catch Marcia listening to my advice anymore," said Paul with a bitterness. "No, there's no use of me talking to her. Marcia does exactly as she pleases ever since a real-estate syndicate bought Dad's two hundred acres of apricot orchard for six thousand an acre. Marcia's invested her quarter of a million, her share after taxes and fees-"
"A quarter million dollars?" I heard my voice say.
"More like a third of a million by now," Paul said, sounding glum about it. "She hit a lucky investment. I don't know how she does it, either."
After a short and painful silence between us, Paul said with another long observant look at me, "I don't know what my old man'd say if he heard me throwing the shaft into you like this, about Marcia. He always liked you. But what can I do? Marcia's my sister. I consider myself responsible for her, and I want her to marry someone with a responsible future."
"Not someone with a four-hundred-a-month job."
"Your words," Paul said. "Not mine."
"Didn't Harry tell you he's promised me the job of editing SMC's new quarterly journal? That ought to be worth eight hundred a month to start, and a good future, providing SMC keeps expanding."
Paul gave me as near a pitying look as ever I cared to receive in my life and said, "Oh, hell, you ought to know how Harry is, by now."
"I know how Harry is, yes, and I'm still counting on him."
"I recommended to Harry we give you a thumping big bonus. But what Harry decides about the quarterly is his decision, not mine."
"Don't bug me with Harry and I'm in, I tell you."
Paul's eyes slanted a dubiously inquiring glance at me as if to say, "What kind of talk's that? What the hell's wrong with you?"
"You wouldn't try to kill my chances with Marcia," I asked, "once I hook into that editorship?"
"Let's wait until you've talked to Harry," Paul said reasonably and reached to open the door.
"Paul, what’s new about Laurel?" I asked, suddenly wanting to throw a shaft of my own into him. "I see by the papers, Laurel still hasn't been found."
An opaque expression shuttered over Paul's face. He opened the door and paused, before speaking, while a nurse sailed by in the corridor.
"The FBI know Laurel got across the border into Mexico with a wad of money, probably on her way toward Rio. She'll never make it to Rio. They're convinced she's disguised herself-changed her hair color-and think she's hiding somewhere in Guatemala. Sooner or later, she'll try for a ship or airliner and then-bingo!
"Hodges must've given her the money to use in an emergency before he shot himself. I know I didn't give her money to run off with and I wouldn't want anyone," Paul said, "ever to think I did. I wish to God I'd known in time she was playing around with Hodges' scheme to steal us blind and I'd have done everything possible to stop her. Now it's too late to do anything for her. There's been too much finagling and plain thieving in the big scramble for government aerospace and component research contracts. When the FBI finally grab Laurel, as they will, she'll have to stand the gaff-I can't help her. What happens to a couple of Hodges' other employees, a nurse and an orderly, who also went to ground, I don't care. They're small fry.
"But that meatball cousin of Laurel's, Gormerly-" Paul's voice became grim. "He also got across the border with her. Take my word for it, I'll never rest until he's found and given everything the law's got to give him."
Paul turned, walked out, and shut the door.
* * *
That evening, Marcia came in a little after seven with her hair brushed smooth, and wearing a bright yellow linen affair that set off her hair, her legs bare, tap-tapping in on spikes for a change, very ladylike, my love, and carrying the Scrabble board and her new spring coat.
We played two full games until the light flashed above my bed and a ghostly voice announced it was five minutes before closing time for all visitors. Marcia hastily toted up the scores of some fifty-two games we'd played since I'd been in the hospital. By her count I came out, so far, four games ahead. "Not so bad for a sicker," Marcia said and gave me a searching look. "You aren't feeling too up this evening, are you? You have scarcely said a word. I haven't tired you?"
"No, Marcia, I've been thinking about us-"
"About us? How nice."
"It's not so very nice, I'm afraid."
"No!”
"It's hellish hard to say this, but I've been thinking it's probably better if you didn't visit me so often in the hospital-"
"What!"
Marcia shot up from the chair, grasping the Scrabble board, going red in the face and opening her mouth as if to say something more, and then her teeth snapped shut and she said nothing more at all.
"It isn't fair to you, Marcia, if people start talking about us seeing so much of each other until I get that job Harry promised."
"Oh, God, I tried to tell you-you haven't a chance."
"I'm not entirely the fool you think," I said, sounding obstinate and sullen, and knowing how I sounded, "even if I failed to recognize you as Paul's sister after knowing you all your life."
"You didn't know me all my life. You only knew me when I was young, wore braces on my teeth, my hair cut short, and everyone called me 'Sis' or 'Horty' for 'Hortense.' After mother died and I went East to Smith I used my mother's name, 'Marcia.' It's better at least than 'Horty.'"
"Yes, I remember you as 'Horty'-"
In a falsely hollow tone of voice Marcia cried quickly, "Damn you, Horty, get away from that engine. Stop trying to reset my timer when I've got it right. Clear out from my car or I tell you, I'll beat your little tail to fragments-" She checked herself, drew a breath, and gave me a half-smiling look.
I passed over Marcia's attempt to mimic what I must have said to her years ago when she used to try to take out my MG engine, piece by piece; and I told her:
"And all that hoo-ha you gave me about winning a coat in a raffle didn't exactly help me remember you, either."
"Oh! When I was at North American Aviation I did win a raffle. On a block of lottery tickets and one happened to pay off enough for that mink. I suppose my dear brother talked to you about me this afternoon?*'
"We're not talking about Paul. We're talking about us."
At that, Marcia rolled her eyes while her face suddenly went quite red with anger exactly as it used to go red when she was a kid.
"Marcia, please. For once in my life I'm trying my best to do what's right and rational-"
"Oh, I'll bet. You're the most irrational and selfish man I've ever known. I suppose you listened to Paul telling you how I was such a young unsophisticated girl. How I let myself get infatuated with a no-good dog who got me stoned on grappa. Who nearly wrecked my Lotus. Who was so loaded himself he drove me to the wrong house instead of his own to kiss me. And would jump at the chance of marrying me because my father-all his life a hard-working Italian apricot grower with little cash money-died and left Paul and myself small fortunes in Santa Clara land."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, like hell you don't know what I'm talking about!"
"Marcia, when I ask you to marry me, I'm trying to tell you it won't be until I'm more than a four-hundred-a-month tech writer who your brother thinks hasn't any-"
"Oh, what silly conceit! What makes you think I'd ever think of marrying you!" Marcia hurled the Scrabble board at me, followed it with the box of wooden letters, snatched up her new white coat, and departed, slamming the door.
= 2 =
During the several following days and nights a retrospective thought impinged itself upon me. Not only had I bashed up all remnants of friendship with Paul; but, thanks to Paul pressing me, from start to finish I'd bungled things irrevocably with Marcia, being presumptuous and almighty ridiculous about it in her eyes, and showing to her a real crappiness of mind when my own emotions had pitched me up into a schmaltzy Walt Disney-type mood for a great and useless gesture, only to find myself flat on my ass.
I tried writing letters to Marcia and tore them all up: Dear Marcia, Since yesterday I’ve decided I should certainly apologize-: Dearest Marcia, After a couple of days of reviewing my egregious and crepitated attempt-: Marcia, my darling, I know I've been the damndest fool and if in time you could forgive me-et cetera, et cetera. I tore them all up.
I got out on a Monday, the last week of March. By that time, the real-estate firm had sold my house and after paying back taxes and the bank I had $750 left from my equity. More than that, my $400 a month from SMC had accumulated in the bank during ten weeks of hospitalization. However, Hodges' thousand dollars in five-dollar bills was gone. In early February I'd asked George to have a look in my house for me. He reported that someone had smashed my footlocker. Though he hadn't found any money he found the bedroom in a shambles, and it was his guess that that little orange-haired orderly had been sent by Hodges to ransack my house the same night I'd gotten free of Hodges' decaying hospital.
At all events, I had more money in the bank that I'd had for years. With George's help and his battered Morris, Monday afternoon I moved my few belongings and myself into the same apartment-motel in South Palo Alto where once Laurel lived.
I returned to work the next day, Tuesday, everyone in the Pubs Sec shaking my hand, and Ned Kramisch taking me to lunch in the cafeteria; and it was a great day, although I did not see Marcia. I waited all Tuesday and the next day for Harry to phone me. When he failed to call, Thursday morning I got through to his secretary, Mrs. Cunningham.
I told her I didn't know how much longer Mr. Weymouth wanted me to stay up here in Pubs Sec as a technical writer. While I knew he was busy with more important matters, I'd appreciate it if he'd let me know how soon he wanted me to take over planning the first issue of the quarterly journal. Mrs. Cunningham said yes, he'd been terribly busy die last month; but she'd place a memo on his desk. She was certain he'd want to have a talk with me early next week. I thanked her and hung up and after hanging up I became aware of George watching me with the strangest expression.
