Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

Mitch’s stomach turned sickishly. Then he jumped and whirled as a wild scream rent the air.

It was the girl. She was kneeling, sobbing hysterically, at the base of a tree. Her husband’s coat was there, suspended from a broken off branch, and she was holding a slip of paper in her hands.

‘I didn’t mean it!’ she wept. ‘I wouldn’t have done it! I was just sore, and—’

Mitch told her curtly to shut up. He took the note from her and read it, his lips pursed with a mixture of disdain and regret.

It was too bad, certainly. Death was always regrettable, whether brought on by one’s own hand or another’s. Still, a guy who would end his life over a dame like this one — well, the world hadn’t lost much by the action and neither had he.

Mitch wadded the note and tossed it after the cliff. He frisked the coat and tossed it after the note. Then, briskly, he examined the wallet and personal papers of the late Martin Lonsdale.

There was a telegram, confirming reservations at El Ciudad Hotel and Country Club. There was a driver’s licence, and a photostat of Martin Lonsdale’s discharge from the army. Mitch examined the last two items with particular care.

Brown hair, grey eyes — yep, that was all right; that matched the description of his own eyes and hair. Weight one hundred and eighty — right on the nose again. Complexion fair — okay, also. Height six feet one inch...

Mitch frowned slightly. Lonsdale hadn’t looked to be over five eight or nine, so—. So? So nothing. Lonsdale’s shoulders had been slumped; he, Mitch, had only seen the man on his feet for a few seconds. At any rate, the height on these papers matched his own and that was all that mattered.

The girl was still on her knees, weeping. Mitch told her to knock it off, for God’s sake, and when she persisted he kicked her lightly in the stomach. That stopped the tears, but it pulled the stopper on some of the dirtiest language he had ever heard.

Mitch listened to it for a moment, then gave her a stinging slap on the jaw. ‘You’ve just passed the first plateau,’ he advised her pleasantly. ‘From now on, you won’t get less than a handful of knuckles. Like to try for it, or will you settle for what you have?’

‘You dirty, lousy, two-bit tinhorn.’ She glared at him. ‘I just lost my husband, and—’

‘Which was just what you wanted,’ Mitch nodded, ‘so cut out the fake sob stuff. You wanted him dead. Okay, you got your wish, and with no help from me. So now let’s see if we can’t do a little business together.’

‘Why the hell should I do business with you? I’m his widow. I’ve got a legal claim on the car and dough.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Mitch nodded judiciously. ‘And maybe you can collect, too, if you care to wait long enough — and if there aren’t any other claims against the estate. And if, of course, you’re still alive.’

‘Alive? What do you—’

‘I mean you might be executed. For murder, you know. A certain tall and handsome young man might tell the cops you pushed Martin off of that cliff.’

He grinned at her. The girl’s eyes blazed, then dulled in surrender.

‘All right,’ she mumbled. ‘All right. But do you have to be so — so nasty, so cold-blooded? Can’t you act like... uh—’

Mitch hesitated. He had less than no use for her, and it was difficult to conceal the fact. Still, when you had to do business with a person, it was best to maintain the appearance of friendliness.

‘We’ll get along all right, Babe.’ He smiled boyishly, giving her a wink. ‘This El Ciudad place. Is Martin known there?’

‘He was never even in California before.’

‘Swell. That strengthens my identification. Gives us a high-class base of operations while we’re cashing the cheques. There’s one more thing, though—’ Mitch looked down at the telegram. ‘This only confirms a reservation for Martin Lonsdale.’

‘Well? It wouldn’t necessarily have to mention his wife, would it? They have plenty of room at this time of year.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Now, about the clothes. Maybe I’m wrong, but Marty looked quite a bit smaller than—’

‘They’ll fit you,’ the girl said firmly. ‘Marty bought his clothes a little large. Thought they wore longer that way, you know.’

She proved to be right. Except for his shoes, the dead man’s clothes fitted Mitch perfectly.

Mitch retained only his own shoes and socks, and threw his other clothes into the ocean. Redressed in clean underwear, an expensive white shirt and tie and a conservative-looking blue serge suit, he climbed behind the wheel of his car. The girl, Babe, snuggled close to him. He backed out onto the highway and headed for El Ciudad.

‘Mmmm...’ Babe laid her head against his shoulder. ‘This is nice, isn’t it, honey? And it’s going to be a lot nicer, isn’t it, when we get to the hotel?’

She shivered deliciously. Mitch suppressed a shudder.

‘We’ll cash the cheques,’ she murmured, ‘and split on that. We’ll divide everything, even-stephen, won’t we, honey?... Well, won’t we?’

‘Oh, sure. Naturally,’ Mitch said hastily. ‘You just bet we will!’

And he added silently: Like hell!

El Ciudad is just a few miles beyond the outer outskirts of Los Angeles. A truly magnificent establishment during the tourist season, it was now, in midsummer, anything but. The great lawns were brown, tinder-dry. The long rows of palm trees were as unappetising as banana stalks. The tennis courts were half-hidden by weeds. Emptied of water and drifted almost full of dried leaves and rubble, the swimming pool looked like some mammoth compost pit. The only spots of brightness were the red and white mailbox at the head of the driveway and a green telephone booth at the first tee of the golf course.

Briefly, the exterior of the place was a depressing mess; and inside it was even less prepossessing. The furniture was draped with dust covers. Painters’ dropcloths, lumber and sacks of plaster were strewn about the marble floor. Scaffolds reared towards the ceiling, and ladders were propped along the walls.

There was only a skeleton staff on duty; they were as dejected-looking as the establishment itself. The manager, also doubling as clerk, was unshaven and obviously suffering from a hangover. He apologised curtly for the disarray, explaining that the workmen who were refurbishing the place had gone on strike.

‘Not that it makes much difference,’ he added. ‘Of course, we regret the inconvenience to you’ — he didn’t appear to regret it — ‘but you’re our only guests.’

He cashed one of the hundred-dollar cheques for Mitch, his fingers lingering hungrily over the money. A bellboy in a baggy uniform showed ‘Mr and Mrs Lonsdale’ to their suite. It consisted of two rooms and a connecting bath. Mitch looked it over, dismissed the bellboy with a dollar tip and dropped into a chair in front of the air-conditioning vent.

‘You know,’ he told Babe, ‘I’m beginning to understand your irritation with Marty. If this is a sample of his behaviour, going to a winter resort in the middle of summer—’

‘A double-distilled jerk,’ Babe agreed. ‘Scared to death that someone might make a play for me.’

‘Mmm-hmmm,’ Mitch frowned thoughtfully. ‘You’re sure that was his only reason? No matter how scared he was of competition, this deal just doesn’t seem to make sense.’

‘Well—’ the girl hesitated. ‘Of course, he probably didn’t know it would be this bad.’

The kitchens and dining-room of El Ciudad were not in operation, but the bellboy made and served them soggy sandwiches and muddy coffee. He also supplied them with a bottle of whiskey at double the retail price. They had a few drinks and ate. Then, with another drink before him, Mitch sat down at the desk and began practising the signature of Martin Lonsdale.