Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

He slipped from the car quickly, but the momentary opening of the door allowed in a cold blast which caused the couple in the rear seat to shiver. For a few minutes neither the man nor woman spoke.

Cynthia, depressedly musing on the bleak prospect of their self-imposed imprisonment, found the stealthy thought creeping into her mind that it would be even bleaker if Johnny Venuti were not along. Instantly she combatted the thought by inducing in her mind synthetic dislike of the lean bodyguard. He looked at her, she told herself righteously. His face always respectful, of course, but unable to hide completely the suppressed hunger deep in his eyes.

Then, in an unexpected flash of honesty, she admitted to herself she had caught the same look, not even suppressed, in the eyes of many other men without getting upset. What disturbed her about Johnny was her irrational response. For every time she sensed his hidden hunger, she was forced to strangle an equivalent sense of hunger in herself.

Perversely, in an attempt to convince herself she disliked Johnny, she said, “Why did we have to bring him , Harry?”

Her husband glanced at her in surprise. “Who would have driven otherwise, Cyn? You, who can’t park without denting a fender? Or me, with a bullet hole in my leg?” When she made no reply, he asked, “Don’t you like Johnny?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I just thought... won’t it be kind of crowded? The cabin doesn’t seem very big.”

“It isn’t. But we’ll manage. Take it easy on Johnny, Cyn.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a touch of panic, fearing he had detected her unconscious reaction to Johnny’s glances.

To her relief he said, “I mean don’t act like you resent his presence. Johnny means a lot more to me than just a bodyguard, and I mean a lot more to Johnny than just his boss. He’d risk his life for me, baby. In fact he has more than once. He did again yesterday when Master’s hood put that bullet through my leg. It’s bad enough for him to be stuck up here all winter. Don’t make it worse by making him feel uncomfortable.”

She said in a low voice, “I like him all right, Harry.”

At the sound of the trunk lid being raised, both turned to peer through the rear window. Johnny was dragging out suitcases and staggering toward the cabin with them.

A few minutes later the bodyguard slid into the front seat, his clothing covered with snow. “Everything set,” he said, and switched off the ignition.

There was something final in the sound of the motor dying. Up to that instant there had been a slim hope in Cynthia’s mind that Harry would abandon the idea of using the mountain hideout and they would start back to civilization. The hope died with the motor.

With Cynthia supporting his weight on one side and Johnny supporting him on the other, they managed to get the wounded man into the cabin. When they had eased him onto one of the two built-in double-decked bunks, Johnny rushed back to the door, slammed it against the encroaching cold and bolted it. Cynthia shook the snow from her mink coat and then stared around her in astonishment.

The cabin consisted of only one room of about nine by twelve feet. One wall was entirely taken up by the two double-decked bunks. The opposite wall was piled from floor to ceiling with cut firewood. A single narrow window next to the door by which they had entered looked out from the front wall, and the rear wall contained another door in its center.

To one side of the rear door was an old-fashioned cookstove, at the moment emitting a satisfying glow of heat. To its other side was a small metal sink without taps, and whose drain spout led to a bucket beneath it. Over the sink was an open tier of shelves containing dishes, pots and pans, and an enormous supply of tinned foods.

The only other furnishings were a wooden table, four wooden chairs, a galvanized washtub and an old-fashioned bedroom commode. Light was furnished by a gasoline-mantle lamp hung from the ceiling, and in lieu of closet space a few bent coat hangers dangled from nails in the walls.

Watching his wife’s expression with wry amusement, Harry said, “Not exactly the Waldorf, is it?”

She turned to look down at him. “I didn’t expect running water and electricity, Harry. But good God! You expect us to live six weeks in this small space?”

When he merely continued to regard her with amusement, she pointed at the rear door. “Where does that go?”

“Outside, baby. Fifty feet away you’ll find the outhouse. It’s small, only a one-holer, but it’s built snug and it’s got a little kerosene stove in it.”

“Good God! There’s not even a curtain to draw. How am I supposed to take a bath?”

Harry pointed to the galvanized tub. “You fill that with snow and put it on the stove. Don’t worry about Johnny. He’ll turn his back.”

Cynthia’s gaze moved to the square features of the gunman, who looked back at her without expression. But in his eyes she detected the same faint look of hunger with which he always regarded her, and quickly she averted her own eyes for fear he would be able to read the responsive hunger in them.

“Sure, Mrs. Ross,” Johnny said quietly. “I’ll turn my back.”

The room by now had become comfortably warm. Shrugging out of his topcoat, Johnny hung it from a nail on the wall and turned to help Cynthia off with her coat. With her back to him, she felt his knuckles rub along the silk covering her arms as she slid from the coat, and the contact sent a terrifying sweep of fire through her whole body.

As Johnny carefully hung the coat on a hanger, Harry regarded his wife admiringly. She was a beautiful woman, with delicate features, an over-ripe mouth, a pale, milk-white complexion emphasized by jet black hair, and a perfectly proportioned body. Cynthia was proud of her body and proud of the hold it gave her over her middle-aged husband. She started to respond to his admiring glance by flattening her stomach and thrusting her firm breasts outward to make the thin silk of her dress outline her figure in detail. But when Johnny turned around, she abruptly let her shoulders slump and folded her hands demurely in front of her.

Together she and Johnny helped Harry remove his topcoat, suit coat and shoes, so that he lay on the bunk in only shirt and trousers.

“Now loosen your belt so I can pull off your pants,” Cynthia ordered. “I want to give that wound a decent dressing.”

Obediently Harry did as directed and she pulled his trousers down below his knees. In the center of his right thigh was a blood-soaked rag bandage.

Carefully she pulled it loose and looked down with pursed lips at the purple-ringed hole. Ordering the wounded man to roll on his side, she examined the puckered but clean exit hole on the back of his thigh.

“Heat some water,” she told Johnny without looking at him. Rising, she began poking through the first aid kit attached to the wall next to the front door.

Twenty minutes later Harry Ross, freshly bandaged, sat upright on his bunk wearing clean pajamas and sipping a cup of coffee. His wife and Johnny Venuti sat on opposite sides of the table with cups before them also. Johnny had removed his suit coat to disclose a leather shoulder harness containing a German P-38 with a transparent grip.

Cynthia’s eyes rested idly on the gun, traveled to the bodyguard’s powerful shoulders and then to his square, expressionless face. There was strength in that lean body, she was thinking. Ruthless, almost animal strength. Fleetingly she imagined his arms crushing her against him, and was horrified that the thought created a guilty feeling of pleasure.

“Something bothering you, baby?” Harry asked.

Swiftly she jerked her gaze from Johnny. “I just wondered why Johnny has to keep wearing that gun up here,” she improvised.