Read Online A Swell-Looking Babe by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim Thompson
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him about at the time of his employment.
"… Very careful about waste, Bill. Lights not in use, leafy water taps, two trips with the elevator when one might suffice, more soap and towels and stationery than a guest can legitimately use. Little things… but they aren't little when you multiply them by several hundred. It's those little things that count. They made the difference between profit and loss…"
Dusty glanced at the clock again. For no reason that he could think of, merely to kill time, he walked up the aisle to the room rack. There was nothing to be learned there, of course. She was just another one of hundreds of small white slips… a capital-lettered composite name, place of residence, rate and date… He returned to the bell captain's section, drummed nervously on the neat stack of stationery.
He picked up me outside phone, dialed the first two numbers of the lunch" room, and replaced the receiver. This wasn't important enough to have Bascom come rushing back. If she waited until this time of night to write letters, she could wait a little longer. That's the way-. Bascom would look at it. That was the way he looked at it. She was just another guest, good for a two-bit tip, perhaps. So what was the hurry?
Dusty leaned over the counter, and looked up the expanse of lobby to the front entrance. He went out the door and waited in front of the counter.
Stationery at three in the morning. Not usual, but it wasn't extraordinary either. A guest couldn't sleep, so to pass the time, he or she wrote letters. It happened. Every few nights or so there'd be a room call for stationery. As for the way she'd talked over the phone, the was she'd acted that first night…
Well…
He shrugged and ended the silent argument. Why kid himself? She'd been interested in him from the beginning. Now, she'd worked herself up to the point of doing a little playing. And so long as she wasn't a spotter – and she wasn't – so long as he let her take all the initiative and he damned well would – it would be okay. No trouble. Not a chance of trouble. He'd never done anything like this before, and he never would again. Just this once.
Bascom came in the front door. Dusty signaled to him, jabbing a finger into the air. The room clerk nodded, and Dusty picked up the stationery and trotted off to the elevator.
At the tenth floor, he opened the door of the car and latched it back with a hook. He started down the long semidark corridor. There was a low whistle from behind him, then a:
"Hey, Dusty!"
Dusty turned. It was Tug Trowbridge, standing in the door of his suite in undershirt and trousers. Two men – the two he had met a few nights before – were with him.
"In a big hurry? How about running my friends downstairs?"
"Well" – Dusty hesitated – "yes, sir," he said. "Glad to." It had to be done. He couldn't leave them waiting indefinitely for an elevator.
He took them downstairs, said good night and went back to the tenth floor. He latched the door back quietly, and started down the hall again.
Slowly, then more slowly.
Now that he was here, rounding the corner of the corridor, approaching her door, standing in front of it – now, his nervousness, his sense of caution, returned. An uneasy premonition stirred in him, a feeling that once before he had done something like this with terrifying, soul-sickening results. There had been another woman, one who like this one was all woman, and he –
He shook himself, driving the memory deep down into its secret hiding place. It had never happened, nothing like this. There had been no other woman.
He raised his hand, tapped lightly on the door. He heard a soft, rustling sound, then, dimly, "Dusty?"
"Yes."
"Come in."
He went in, let the door click shut behind him. He stood there a moment, his eyes still full of the light outside, seeing nothing in the pitch black darkness. His hand unclasped, and the stationery drifted to the floor.
She laughed softy. She murmured… a
"… Very careful about waste, Bill. Lights not in use, leafy water taps, two trips with the elevator when one might suffice, more soap and towels and stationery than a guest can legitimately use. Little things… but they aren't little when you multiply them by several hundred. It's those little things that count. They made the difference between profit and loss…"
Dusty glanced at the clock again. For no reason that he could think of, merely to kill time, he walked up the aisle to the room rack. There was nothing to be learned there, of course. She was just another one of hundreds of small white slips… a capital-lettered composite name, place of residence, rate and date… He returned to the bell captain's section, drummed nervously on the neat stack of stationery.
He picked up me outside phone, dialed the first two numbers of the lunch" room, and replaced the receiver. This wasn't important enough to have Bascom come rushing back. If she waited until this time of night to write letters, she could wait a little longer. That's the way-. Bascom would look at it. That was the way he looked at it. She was just another guest, good for a two-bit tip, perhaps. So what was the hurry?
Dusty leaned over the counter, and looked up the expanse of lobby to the front entrance. He went out the door and waited in front of the counter.
Stationery at three in the morning. Not usual, but it wasn't extraordinary either. A guest couldn't sleep, so to pass the time, he or she wrote letters. It happened. Every few nights or so there'd be a room call for stationery. As for the way she'd talked over the phone, the was she'd acted that first night…
Well…
He shrugged and ended the silent argument. Why kid himself? She'd been interested in him from the beginning. Now, she'd worked herself up to the point of doing a little playing. And so long as she wasn't a spotter – and she wasn't – so long as he let her take all the initiative and he damned well would – it would be okay. No trouble. Not a chance of trouble. He'd never done anything like this before, and he never would again. Just this once.
Bascom came in the front door. Dusty signaled to him, jabbing a finger into the air. The room clerk nodded, and Dusty picked up the stationery and trotted off to the elevator.
At the tenth floor, he opened the door of the car and latched it back with a hook. He started down the long semidark corridor. There was a low whistle from behind him, then a:
"Hey, Dusty!"
Dusty turned. It was Tug Trowbridge, standing in the door of his suite in undershirt and trousers. Two men – the two he had met a few nights before – were with him.
"In a big hurry? How about running my friends downstairs?"
"Well" – Dusty hesitated – "yes, sir," he said. "Glad to." It had to be done. He couldn't leave them waiting indefinitely for an elevator.
He took them downstairs, said good night and went back to the tenth floor. He latched the door back quietly, and started down the hall again.
Slowly, then more slowly.
Now that he was here, rounding the corner of the corridor, approaching her door, standing in front of it – now, his nervousness, his sense of caution, returned. An uneasy premonition stirred in him, a feeling that once before he had done something like this with terrifying, soul-sickening results. There had been another woman, one who like this one was all woman, and he –
He shook himself, driving the memory deep down into its secret hiding place. It had never happened, nothing like this. There had been no other woman.
He raised his hand, tapped lightly on the door. He heard a soft, rustling sound, then, dimly, "Dusty?"
"Yes."
"Come in."
He went in, let the door click shut behind him. He stood there a moment, his eyes still full of the light outside, seeing nothing in the pitch black darkness. His hand unclasped, and the stationery drifted to the floor.
She laughed softy. She murmured… a
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