Dan Marlowe - Doorway to Death

Johnny stared down at the girl in the booth. “I'll get her out of here.”

“Geez, would you?” Relief beamed in Dave's round face, followed by doubt. “She won't go easy, though. She's been like this for a week. Not drunk… that's something new. Nasty. Starting to take it out on the customers, too. The old man said something to her about it the other night, and damn if she didn't take out after him, too. It don't make for longevity on the payroll, Johnny.”

Johnny nodded in agreement. “Get a cab around to the back door, Dave.”

“She says she won't go till she's damn good and ready,” Dave warned him anxiously. “She's meaner than a snake right now.”

“You get the cab,” Johnny told him. “She'll go.”

He reached down and tapped a rainbow hued shoulder and the shoulder twitched rebelliously. “Lea' me alone, Dave.” Johnny tapped the shoulder again, and the dark head came up from the forearms with what would have been a snap if her reflexes had been better, and Johnny noticed that the cameo-like quality of the usually flawless pale features under the jet black hair was marred by a puffiness around the eyes.

She had difficulty in focusing on him, and when she did the beautiful mouth twisted. “Th' boy scou',” she said thickly. “Ged the hell oudda here.”

“On your feet, Shirl. I'm takin' you home.”

The red-lipped mouth did a reverse twist. “You're not taking me anywhere, you… you buff'lo. You get away from me.” The voice rose harshly. “Or I'll scream… like THIS-!” Beside Johnny, Dave winced visibly as she filled her lungs; almost casually Johnny took the nape of her neck between a thumb and forefinger, and the dark girl fell over sideways in the booth.

“Jesus!” Dave said in an awed tone, roundeyed. “What the hell was that?”

“Nerve-end pressure,” Johnny said impatiently. “Will you for God's sake get that cab around here?”

“Yeah. Sure. Right away.” Dave bustled off to the front, turning once to look back curiously. Johnny sat down across from Shirley's limp figure, lit a cigarette, and waited. After a moment he reached across the table and took hold of a wrist; he pushed the long sleeve of the harlequin shirt well up above the dark girl's elbow, and carefully inspected the smooth flesh of the inner arm as far as he could see. Disappointed, he released the wrist and took up the other one, pushed back the sleeve, inspected the arm, and thoughtfully released it. The wrist watch caught his eye; he removed it, turned it over and held it up to the light while he impassively read the inscription, and restored it to the wrist.

The door behind him opened, and over his shoulder he could see Dave's white shirt and the cabbie's cap. He stubbed out his cigarette, rose, lifted the girl from the booth and carried her to the door.

“I explained to him,” Dave was saying unnecessarily as Johnny stepped down with his burden and maneuvered into the back seat of the cab.

“Doesn't need much explanation,” the cabbie said sourly. He was an elderly man with a pinched face; he slid back under the wheel, obviously glad he didn't have to help.

“She lives at the Hotel Francis on 48th,” Dave volunteered. “Thanks a million, Johnny. I couldn't have handled it.”

Johnny nodded; as the cab pulled away across Broadway and Seventh Avenue he leaned forward. “Never mind that Hotel Francis, Mac. Go on over to the first block of East 65th.”

The cab slowed immediately; Johnny could see the driver watching him in the rear view mirror. “I'd have to hear her say that, mister. That's a good-looking girl. I know Dave, but I don't know you. I'm not getting mixed up in any white slave-”

“Will you shut it off?” Johnny demanded wearily. “Take me there; you can come back with the cops later.”

“Well-” Despite the reluctance in the cabbie's tone the cab turned right on Eighth and sped north; Johnny fumbled Shirley's purse out of her bag and looked for her keys. He was going through the contents for the second time when he realized that she had the apartment key clipped on with the Hotel Francis key. He slipped the keys in his shirt pocket, and returned the purse to the bag, and as if it were a signal Shirley stirred on the seat beside him and lifted her head. She looked around dazedly.

“Wha' happened?”

“You passed out,” Johnny told her.

“Oh.” She closed her eyes again, and the cabbie spoke quickly.

“Where you want to go, lady?”

The eyes opened, but they didn't see him. “Home,” Shirley said promptly. “Feel awful.” The eyes closed positively.

“Well, look, lady-” The cab slowed again as the driver turned to look at the again comatose Shirley. He bristled as he felt Johnny's eyes on him. “Look, Jack… you don't like the way I'm doing this maybe you'd like to walk the rest of the way? I-”

Johnny's voice cut across his like a razor. “I've had a hard day, Mac. You expect to enjoy your meal tonight, you get over to East 65th, and fast.”

The cabbie muttered under his breath, but the cab accelerated. They rode in silence until they entered the block, and Johnny leaned over and shook Shirley awake. “Can you walk?”

“Certain'y I c'n walk,” she said indignantly, but made no effort to prove it as Johnny paid the disapproving driver. When he had helped her onto the sidewalk, however, she didn't do badly with the assistance of his hand beneath her elbow, and in the elevator the bored operator took no more than one look at them. They emerged in good order on the third floor, and Shirley's key in Johnny's hand admitted them. He snapped on the lights in the tiny hallway; he had been there before, but he looked again with fresh interest.

To the left of the hallway was a sunken living room with pastel love seats and kidney shaped glass tables. The heavy drapes were dove gray, and the carpeting and the ceiling a rich moss green. The massive fireplace extended up the wall where it formed itself into an oversized chimney festooned with hanging copper skillets and mugs. A mahogany baby grand crowded the nearer corner, and a strangely anachronistic grandfather clock stood sentinel at the far end of the room. On the upper level to the right a room that would have been a dining room if it had had a table was dominated by filled bookshelves around the walls and spindle-legged, sharply-angled ultra-modern chairs.

Shirley descended the two steps to the living room level with no more than a moderate stagger and made a beeline for the tiny portable bar. “Feel awful,” she announced as she opened the cabinet. Johnny believed her; from his position a little above her he could see plainly the white face and the dark circles under the eyes. He opened his mouth to protest at the size of the drink she poured for herself and closed it again. A little more, or a little less… what difference? The tall girl threw back her head and drained the glass in three long swallows, and Johnny stirred himself. When that jolt hit her, he was going to need a place to put the body.

He knew that the bedroom was off the living room, but it took him a moment to find it. Some facet of Willie's outlook on life had made him insist that the bedroom be camouflaged; the door was a heavy-hinged affair set flush with the wall and covered with the same somber hunting scene wallpaper, so carefully blended that despite his prior knowledge Johnny was surprised when under his probing a section of the wall slid silently back, revealing the extremely feminine bedroom within.

He turned to Shirley; she was half on and half off a love seat, and she was fast losing the battle to retain her precarious balance. He caught her in mid-air as the whites of her eyes rolled up, and he carried her into the bedroom, transferred her dead weight to one arm and with the other stripped the satin coverlet from the huge bed. Despite her height and very respectable dimensions she looked lost when he placed her in its center.