Хал Эллсон - Mink Is for a Minx

Time had stopped. Marian felt as if she had been driving on this road forever, through terrain that was ghostly and unfamiliar in the fog. There was no hope, and she hardly noticed a dim red gleam ahead. It went into focus as she approached and turned into Neon letters — BECK’S MOTEL. Vacancy. She turned into driveway edged with white wagon wheels. The truck followed.

She flung open the car door and ran toward a lighted entrance, her heels catching in ice-clotted gravel. In the office a woman with grey-streaked brown hair looked up from her magazine. “May I telephone?” Marian asked.

The woman gestured. “There’s a phone booth outside.”

“Please, I’m in trouble. A man in a truck is following me. He’s out there now, waiting behind my car. Can’t I call from in here?”

The woman got up and went to the door. For a moment Marian thought she was about to be sent out again into the nightmare. But the woman set the night latch instead.

“Use the phone on the desk.”

Marian dialed with frantic fingers. Rod’s “Hello?” sounded near, but it was a voice remembered with longing from a distant past. She realized she had not expected ever to hear it again.

“Rod... Rod—”

“Hold it, Baby. What’s wrong?”

“Come and get me, Rod. Beck’s Motel, Highway Thirty-one.”

“I know where it is. What’s the matter?”

“Quickly, please, please. Hurry.”

His voice sobered and sharpened. “Hang on. I’m coming.”

Marian swayed as she got up from the chair. The woman guided her to another one, went back to the desk and dialed.

“Highway patrol? This is Mrs. Beck. Better send some men to Beck’s Motel. There’s a man outside, tried to molest a girl. All right. Thanks.”

She crossed to Marian’s chair, put a hand under the shaking elbow and drew her up.

“It’s all right. Now go into the powder room and fix your face. Dash on some cold water and comb your hair. I’ll make you a cup of coffee while you’re gone.”

The powder room mirror showed a white face streaked with mascara and tears. Marian scrubbed, replaced the bitten-off lipstick and dusted powder onto the reddened nose. She found the comb in her purse but she had to steady her arm against the wall to control her shaking enough to use it.

She came out and the woman poured from an electric percolator on a stand beside the desk. Marian sipped gratefully. Then there was a shriek of brakes as Rod’s sports car swerved into the drive.

“Is that your husband?” Mrs. Beck asked, her hand on the latch.

“Yes— Oh, yes!”

Marian flung herself into Rod’s arms.

“The truck— Oh Rod, I think that maniac is driving it. He followed me all the way from the store, crowding up close. Finally I panicked and missed the turn—”

There was a scream of sirens, nearing.

“Wait, Rod—” she clung but he ran out, jerked open the door of the truck, reached inside. Two patrolmen on motorcycles screeched up as Rod dragged the truck driver out, stood him up, and towered over him.

He was a little man, elderly and frail. Perspiration stood in drops on his forehead, below a faded blue cap.

“All right, Pop, tell your story. Fast.” Holding the man by the scruff of his collar, Rod shook him a little. The other fist seemed itching to strike.

“Look quick — on the floor in the back of her car.”

The patrolmen stepped over to Marian’s car, and one of them opened the door. Their revolvers whipped out. Rod joined them, still holding the little truck driver by his neck.

“Come out of there,” a patrolman said.

A giant of a man, tall and heavily built, unfolded himself and came out. He stood rigid, expressionless, unresisting as one officer held him by the arm while the other searched him thoroughly.

“Let go of my neck, will you,” the truck driver said to Rod. The hand relaxed its hold and the little man straightened himself with dignity. “Your girl didn’t know she had a passenger, but I did.”

The patrolman’s hand went in and out of the big man’s pockets. A club like those carried by policemen, but smaller, came out of one pocket. From another came a half sheet of paper, torn diagonally. The officer’s flashlight beam picked up black pencilled scrawls that were almost, but not quite, words.

A station wagon with whirling red light on top rolled in the driveway, to a diminishing moan of siren. Two more highway patrolmen got out.

Suddenly the big man jerked free of the officer’s hand and ran. One of the revolvers coughed, and the man fell.

“You got him in the leg,” the lieutenant who seemed to be in charge said. “Load him in the wagon.”

There was no sound from the prisoner as he was lifted and put into the station wagon. The two officers got in, the siren howled again and the wagon drove away.

One of the troopers had his notebook out and the truck driver was telling his story.

“Name’s Fred Buxton. I make short hauls — it’s my own truck. I was parked in front of the store, meaning to go in and buy a sandwich to take along. The lady parked in front of me and ran into the liquor store. I saw this man get out of another car that was parked across the street, without lights. The lady came out again and went into the delicatessen.

“Instead of getting out of my truck and going on in the store I just sat there, because there was something I didn’t like about the way he watched her. When she went into the food store he opened her car door and crawled into the back. She came out and got in without looking, and drove off.

“What could I do? I’d be no match for him. But I figured if I kept close with my bright lights on, he’d stay down. I thought any minute we’d see a cop, but we didn’t. So I just kept on following. I was scared she’d panic and wreck herself, but she’s a pretty cool girl. A real good driver, too.”

Marian, safe in the tight circle of Rod’s arm, had stopped trembling. She told her story firmly, they gave names and ages and addresses. Then she walked over to the truck driver, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek.

“That,” she said, “was for saving my life.”

She kissed him again, this time on the mouth.

“And that was for saying I’m a good driver.”

He returned the kiss with more fervor than his appearance would have caused a lady to predict

“You are, Miss,” he said. “And you’re pretty, too.”

He strutted a little, going back to his truck.

Rod parked his sports car in the motel lot, handed Marian ceremoniously into the right front door of her car, went around and got behind the wheel.

Steering expertly with one arm, he drove his wife back to their party. She had been away from it for an hour and ten minutes.

Martin Calder said cheerfully, “Goering, you are going to kill your master for me.” The big, gentle Doberman, one hundred sixty pounds of loyalty and affection, whined. Whether this was because he objected to “Goering,” when his real name was Siegfried, or actually understood the implications of the threat against Tracy Benton, was known only to himself. Calder patted the sleek head, and the dog licked his hand.

“You may say ‘no,’” Calder murmured, “but Pavlov says ‘yes’ — and my money’s on the famous Muscovite. The fact is, Hermann, he knew more about your species than you do about his. Goering, my boy,” he added wryly, “you’re living proof that dumb animals have no better intuition than people. If they did I’d be chewed to bits by now.”

Actually Calder had nothing against the dog, which belonged to his brother-in-law. If he called him by so obnoxious a name, it was merely to annoy Tracy Benton, who hated the idea. As an excuse, Calder had drawn Tracy’s attention to the Doberman’s excess poundage, for certainly the animal was overfed.