Fritz Leiber - The Sinful Ones

“And all of us.”

Tom sipped his coffee. “Well, in that case Keaton’s idea certainly sounds like it might be a gold mine,” he admitted, as if honestly impressed.

But there was a certain uncomfortableness between them and it lingered as they returned to the office. Damn it, Carr thought, Tom’s all wet about my not liking people. What I don’t like is the conditions under which we meet most people today—the superficiality of the contact, the triteness of ideas exchanged, and the synthetic, movie-and-radio shaped nature of the feelings involved.

He was tempted to tell Tom about Jane, to show him he could enter into the spirit of people. But he was afraid Tom might turn their argument against him by pointing out that he and Jane had behaved like two typically lonely, unsociable people.

No, he wouldn’t ever discuss Jane with anyone. It was one of those things. Over and done with. Something that would have no consequences whatever.

He and Tom climbed the one flight to General Employment. Carr stopped at the men’s room. A minute later, entering the applicants’ waiting room, he looked through the glass panel and saw the big blonde who had slapped Jane sitting in his swivel chair, rummaging through the drawers on his desk.

Carr didn’t move. His first impulse was to confront the woman, but right on its heels came the realization that she’d hardly be acting this way without some sort of authorization—and hardly obtain an authorization without good cause.

His mind jumped back to his fleeting suspicion that Jane was mixed up in some sort of crime. This woman might be a detective.

On the other hand, she might have walked into the office without anyone’s permission, trusting to bluff—her very brassiness and self-assurance—to get away with it.

Carr studied her from behind the glass panel. She was undeniably beautiful. With that lush figure, faultless blonde hair, and challenging lips, she might be a model for billboard advertisements. Even the slight out-of-focus look of her eyes didn’t spoil her attractiveness. And her gray sports outfit looked like a high-class hundred dollar or so.

Yet there was something off-key, unpleasantly exaggerated, overripe about even her good looks and get-up. She carried the lush figure with a blank animal assurance’ there was unhidden cruelty in the challenging lips, there was an unashamed barbarousness in the two big silver pins piercing her mannish gray sports hat. She seemed utterly unconcerned with and contemptuous of the people around her. She glanced through Carr’s folders with the cold detachment of a biologist examining cancer slides. If ever there was a woman who gave the impression of simply using people, of using the world, this was she. Carr felt strangely cowed.

But the situation was getting impossible, he told himself. Tom, apparently busy with some papers at the next desk, must be wondering what had happened to him and what the devil woman was up to.

Just then the blonde dropped back a folder, shut a drawer, and stood up. Carr faded back into the men’s room. He waited perhaps fifteen seconds, then cautiously stepped out. The woman was no longer in sight. He looked into the outside corridor. It was empty. He hadn’t heard the elevator for the last few seconds. He ran to the head of the stairs. He spotted the gray sports coat going though the revolving door. He hurried down the stairs, hesitated a moment, then darted through the lobby entrance into the small tobacco and magazine store adjoining. He could probably still catch a glimpse of her through the store’s show window. In any case, it would be less conspicuous than dashing right out on the sidewalk.

The store was empty except for a middle-aged man who, in the proprietor’s absence, was coolly leaning across the counter and helping himself to a package of cigarettes. Carr ignored this slightly startling scene and moved quietly toward the window. With commendable nerve—or perhaps he was a bit deaf—the middle-aged man tore open the filched pack without looking around. He was well-dressed and inclined to portliness.

Just then Carr glimpsed a patch of familiar gray approaching and realized that the blonde woman was coming into the tobacco shop from the street.

The lobby door was too far away. Carr sidled behind a magazine rack.

The first voice he heard was the woman’s. It was as disagreeable as her manner.

“I searched his desk. There wasn’t anything suspicious.”

“And of course you did a good job?” The portly man’s voice was quite jolly. “Took your time? Didn’t miss anything?”

“Of course.”

“Hm.” Carr heard a match struck and the faint crackle of a cigarette igniting. His face was inches away from a line of luridly covered magazines.

“What are you so worried about?” The woman sounded quarrelsome. “Can’t you take my word for it? Remember, I checked on them yesterday.”

“Worry pays, Miss Hackman, as you’ll discover when you’ve been in the situation a bit longer.” The portly man sounded pleasanter than ever. “We have strong reason to suspect the girl. I respect your intelligence, but I’m not completely satisfied. We’ll do another check on the girl tonight.”

“Another? Aren’t we supposed to have any time for fun?”

“Fun must be insured, Miss Hackman. Hardly be fun at all, would it, if you felt someone might spoil it? And then if some other crowd should catch on…No, we’ll do another check.

“Oh, all right.” The woman’s voice expressed disgusted resignation. “Though I suppose it’ll mean prowling around for hours with the beast.”

“Hm. No, I hardly think the beast will be necessary, Miss Hackman.”

Carr, staring sightlessly at the pulp and astrology magazines, felt his flesh crawl. It wasn’t so much the murky import as the utter matter-of-factness of the conversation.

“Why not let Dris do it?” he heard the woman say. “He’s had the easy end lately.”

“Hm. That’s a possibility, all right. We’ll think it over.” The portly man’s voice was moving toward the street door. “Best be getting on now.”

Several seconds later Carr peered around the rack. Through the window he could see the big blonde and the portly man entering a black convertible. The driver was a bored-looking young man with a crew haircut. As he turned toward the others, throwing his right arm along the top of the seat, Carr saw that it did not end in a hand, but a hooked contrivance. He felt a thrill of recognition. These were the three people Jane had mentioned in her note, all right. “…affable-seeming older man…” Yes, it all fitted.

The driver had his hand hook on the wheel, but the car didn’t move yet. All three of them seemed to be discussing something. Again Carr got that intimidating impression of power he’d had when watching the woman upstairs.

The driver seemed to lose interest in the discussion. Turning sideways again, he dangled his hook into the back seat. There was a flash of glistening black, which instantly vanished. Carr felt another shiver crawling along his back. Perhaps the driver had merely flirted up the corner of a black fur driving robe. But this was almost summer and the black flash ha been very quick.

The middle-aged man seemed to speak sharply to the driver. The convertible began to move. Carr hurried to the window. He got there in time to see the convertible swinging around the next corner, rather too swiftly for sensible downtown driving.

He stood there for a few seconds, then turned around. The proprietor had returned, but Carr ignored him. He slowly walked upstairs.

He hesitated at Tom’s desk. He had half an impulse to tell Tom about things, ask him about the woman, but the big Swede was busy with an applicant. Another applicant was approaching his own desk. Frowning, he sat down.