Read Online Nightfall by David Goodis - Free Book Online Page B

made the whole thing miserable. But it had to split somewhere along the line. It couldn't keep up this way. Maybe in another ten or twenty minutes or so he would have a hold on himself and he would be ready to visit the police and tell them all about it.
      The thought was in there, solid and compact, very pure and logical. But it lasted for only a few moments. After that it began to float away from him because he was telling the story to himself as he would tell it to the police, and it seemed like a foolish story. It seemed a little fantastic and more than a little ridiculous. The bathroom, for instance. They had put him in the bathroom but they had not locked the door. That was the start, and from there on it became downright comical. They had gone out of the room, leaving him in the bathroom with the door closed but unlocked. He had come out of the bathroom. And there on the bed, all ready for him, was a revolver. And there on the dresser, shining and plump was the little black satchel with all that money in it. He could see the faces of policemen, he could see them looking at each other, he could see them leaning toward him with disbelief jumping out of their eyes. And yet, with all that, one big weapon remained on his side. He still had the satchel.
      He told himself that. He still had it and he could go to them and hand it over and he still had the satchel. He begged himself to believe that he still had it as he raised his hand, and looked at his hands, saw two white hands against the background of black woods. And no satchel.
      There was a moment of nothing. No thought, no motion, nothing. Then an attempt to reason it out. Then the realization that he couldn't reason it out, it was too far away from him. It was away back there an hour ago, or two hours ago, miles away back there. Maybe during the minutes when he was crossing the stream. Maybe ten minutes later in these vast woods. Maybe an hour later. But there was no way of putting it on a definite basis, no way of remembering when he had let the satchel fall from his hand, or where he had let it fall.
      Again Vanning saw the faces of policemen. Big pink faces that formed a circle around him, came moving in on him. And one of them was bigger than all the rest and the mouth was moving. He could hear the voice. The voice hit him, bounced back. He stumbled toward the voice and the voice hit him again.
      The voice said, “You say you came out of that room and you were carrying the satchel. Is that right?”
      “Yes,” Vanning said.
      “What were you going to do with the satchel?”
      “Hand it over to you.”
      “All right. Then what?”
      “He came in from behind me and put a gun in my back. We went out of the hotel. Then when we were on that narrow street he took the satchel away and told me it was too bad, but he was forced to do away with me.”
      “Then what?”
      “I took the gun out of my pocket and shot him.”
      “Just like that?”
      “Yes,” Vanning said.
      “What about his gun?”
      “He didn't use it.”
      “Why not?”
      “I guess he was too surprised. I guess that was the last thing he expected, my having a gun.”
      “Your own gun?”
      “No,” Vanning said, “I told you how I got it.”
      “Yes, you did tell us that, but I'm wondering if you expect us to believe it. Doesn't matter. We'll skip that section. We'll put you on the street with him. He's dead. You're standing there, looking down at him. And now what do you do?”
      “I start running.”
      “Why?”
      “I'm afraid.”
      “What's there to be afraid of? You haven't done anything wrong. You've killed a man, but you've done it in self-defense. You're in the clear. What bothers you?”
      “The satchel. I saw that I had it in my hand. I couldn't