Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

The little man licked his firm lips and grinned at Post. “That’s one case history. We’ve just started here. There’ll be lots of them. I got the idea that you isolate people and they lose courage. They can’t go out on the street and see thousands of other people around them. They sit and look at the lake and think. Things bother them. I like to think that I’m a doctor of mental ills. I don’t cure them — I rub a little salt in them and let the bucks drop into my hand. The trouble with most operators who start this kind of a racket — they’re out of touch with their customers. I just bring the customers right here to me and let them sweat it out. Then they don’t get out of hand.”

“How about the Bendersons?”

“A good question. I got him up here on the spur of the moment just because he has more bucks than anybody I ever met before. His pappy founded shipbuilding outfits and clock companies. He’s lousy with it. I’ve done research on him, and the guy has never stepped out of line far enough so I can put the pressure on him. It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get an idea. I’ve got one now.” He gestured toward the sleeping man in the bunk.

“Why tell me all this?”

“Because you’re staying here and you’re going to be right in it with the rest of us. I needed another guy and the one I was looking for is a guest of the government for an indefinite period. I was mad. I stopped the car and went into that little bar for a drink. There you were. Pennies from heaven. All wrapped up in a fight. I figured that I might be able to use you, and I turned out to be right.”

“I still don’t get it. How the hell can you use me? I’m not interested in your racket. I’m not interested in any racket. I just want to be left alone. That’s all. First chance I get, I’ll leave. It won’t be worth my time to go to the cops. I’ll just leave.”

“I don’t believe it, Post. I think you’ll be glad to stay. I got something I want to show you.” He slipped the familiar wallet out of his jacket pocket and found a clipping in it. He handed the clipping to Post.

He read: “HESSLER KILLER IDENTIFIED. Police today stated that they have identified Walker Post, age 31, as the man who brutally kicked Victor Hessler to death in Donovan’s Bar on West Street four days ago. Post is still at large. After Hessler died a few hours after the fight, police checked all places in the city where transients stay. Mrs. Mary Cortez of 88 Plant Street stated that a man named Walker Post had checked out of her rooming house a few hours after the fight. She stated that Post left no forwarding address and that he seemed nervous and upset. She stated that his face and lips were cut and bruised. A picture of Post was obtained from his previous employers, a prominent architectural firm, and the picture was positively identified by Mr. Donovan and the two companions of Hessler as the man who had kicked Hessler to death. Police expect an early arrest. Post is described as being of medium height, brown hair, gray eyes, wide shoulders. He is sullen and dangerous. He is a veteran of the war in the Pacific.”

Post sat and read it again. It gave him a strange feeling, as though he were reading about someone else. So he had killed the one they called Hessy. He remembered the boy’s brown arms, the way he had hooked his thumbs in his belt. He felt sudden regret and contempt for himself. He glanced up. Drake was wearing his superior smile. Post wanted to smash him in the face. Instead he handed the clipping back, holding his hand as steady as he could.

Drake took it and tucked it away. “So you won’t leave?”

“I don’t know. I may still leave.”

The smile didn’t fade. “Here’s some more amateur psychiatry, Post. You are now running up against a primary instinct for self-preservation. I admire you. You can make yourself look calm. You know you’ve got to be cold. But it’s only on the outside. On the inside you’re afraid. No man is so depressed that he won’t fight against an outside force that wants to kill him or imprison him. A man on his way to a high building from which he wishes to leap will skip out of the path of a truck. Your face is a lie.”

Post shrugged. “Those are pretty words, Drake. Maybe you’re trying to talk yourself into the idea that you got me hooked here because I killed a man. I can’t tell you right now whether you have or not. I may leave. I may not.”

“You leave and they’ll pick you up.”

“So I get picked up.” Even as he said it, he felt a quiver of alarm. He knew he didn’t want to go back out to where they could find him. He wanted to stay hidden in the woods. Suddenly the quiet lake seemed like exactly the proper spot to be. The proper spot in which to stay. He kept all expression off his face. He had killed and he had run away. If they caught him, he would grow old in prison. The free existence which had become so unbearable during the past months became suddenly desirable. He stared steadily at Drake and shrugged again.

“You’re pretending, Post. No man willingly goes to the cops on a thing like this. I’m going to prove you’re pretending. If you’re so anxious to go, I’m going to do you a big favor.”

He got up and walked to the doorway. He called Strane. The tall man shambled in. “Rob, we’ve got an experiment here. Post killed a man back in town and the cops want him. He says he doesn’t care. I’m going to let him go. Don’t stop him. Pack up your stuff, Post, and shove off.”

Drake came and stood in front of him. Strane was in the doorway. “So the great man of indifference starts to care. Suppose I force you to leave?”

“Then they pick me up and I tell them what I know about this place.”

“And what do you know? Burke won’t talk. Benderson’s got nothing to talk about. You saw the other clipping. This is a health resort. I think you better write me a check. Strane, go through his stuff.”

Post tried to grab the suitcase but Strane brushed him aside. He sat while Strane pawed through his clothes. He found the checkbook inside one of the flap pockets. He handed it to Drake. Drake riffled through the stubs.

He handed it to Post. “About two thousand ought to be fine. Make it two thousand even. Don’t make it out to me. Make it to cash. I think I can get it cashed without identifying myself with a guy the police want.”

Post held the checkbook and his hands felt numb. He wondered how Drake had known about the checkbook. Strane and Drake stood over him. Drake handed him a pen. He didn’t try to write a check.

“I promise you, Post, that if you don’t write it, you’ll be out of here and in the hands of the police in two hours. Consider it a fee for being at my rest camp. You’ll still get your keep. I’m not a bad guy. I won’t even stop your wages.”

Somehow the money didn’t seem important. He knew that it was his last crutch, his last chance to spend idle empty days in small rooms stinking of stale beer. If Drake hadn’t demanded it, it would have gone slowly and the day would have come when there would have been no money to buy liquor or food or a roof. He wrote out the check and tore it out. Balance: twenty-one dollars and fourteen cents. He wrote that down at the top of the next stub.

He stood up. He wanted to walk down by the lake. He wanted to sit and think it all out. It had happened so quickly. He walked toward the door. Drake leaned against the doorjamb. He said softly, “I like to have a man know who’s running the show. I want people to jump when I talk. Suppose you call me Mr. Drake for a while.”

Post stopped. The smaller man’s head was near his right shoulder. Without looking he slapped his left hand around, palm open. Drake clattered onto the board floor. Post walked heavily toward the lake, his hand stinging.