Read Online A Swell-Looking Babe by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Thompson
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question, an invitation. He felt his way forward slowly, guided by the sound of her voice.
His knee bumped against the bed. A hand reached up out of the darkness. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and her arms fastened around his neck.
There was one savagely delightful moment as his mouth found hers, as he felt the cool-warm nakedness of her breasts. Then, suddenly, he was sick, shivering with sickness and fear. It was all wrong. It wasn't like it should have been.
Her mouth was covered with lipstick. He could taste its ugly flatness in his own mouth, feel the sticky smears upon his face and neck. And she wasn't naked. Only part of her was nude, and there the nakedness was not complete. It was as though her night clothes had been torn. It – She didn't speak. She was still clinging to him, smearing him, digging her nails into his face. She didn't speak, but there was a voice:
"Y-you filthy, sneaking little bastard! Yes, bastard, do you hear? We got you out of a foundling asylum! And God curse the day we… No, I won't tell him. I won't do that to him. But if you ever -"
He was almost motionless for, a moment, paralyzed by the unbearable voice. But it had never happened. It was only a bad dream. And this…
There was a roll of thunder. The drawn curtains whipped back in a sudden gust of wind, and lightning illuminated the room just for a second, but that was long enough for him to see:
The over-turned chairs. The upset lamp. The deliberate disorder. The night-gown, half ripped from her body. And the smeared red mouth, opened to scream. He hit her as hard as he could.
SEVEN
The next thirty minutes was a nightmare. A confused and hideous dream, the incidents of which piled terrifyingly, bewilderingly, one atop another. He was bent over her – pleading and apologizing – hysterically trying to bring her back to consciousness. Then, he was leaving her room, running blindly down the hall, bursting into Tug Trowbridge's suite. And Tug was gripping him by the shoulders, slapping him across the face, forcing him into a semi-calm coherence… "So okay, kid. I'll try and square the dame some way. Now straighten up and beat it back downstairs. Before old Bascom sends out an alarm for you."
He was washing his face, combing his hair, under Tug's supervision. He was in the elevator, then crossing a seemingly endless expanse of the lobby. With Bascom's eyes on him every step of the way. And at last – at last, immediately – he was facing Bascom across the marble counter.
Trying to explain the inexplicable.
"Bill! Answer me, Bill!"
"Y-yes, sir…?"
"What took you so long? What have you been doing up there in Miss Hillis' room?"
"I – I-"
It made no impression on him at the time: the fact that, illogically, Bascom knew where he had been. He was still too frightened, too conscience-stricken, to raise even a silent question.
"Bill!"
"N-nothing, sir. The – the window in her room was stuck. I had to pry it open for her. P-prop it open."
"And that took you thirty minutes? Nonsense! What were you doing up there? What have you done to – to -"
Bascom's voice trailed away. Eyes fastened on Dusty's face, he picked up the telephone. Gave a room number to the operator.
Dusty would have run, then. He would have, but his legs refused to obey the frantic signaling of his mind. He could only stand, paralyzed, wait and listen as Bascom spoke into the phone.
"… uh, Miss Hillis? This is the night clerk. The bellboy tells me that you were having some trouble – that there was some trouble with your window, and… I see. You're all right – I mean, everything is taken care of, then? Thank you very much, and I hope I haven't disturbed you."
He hung up the phone. Incredibly, he hung it up… without summoning the police or the house detective. And, seemingly, the nightmare began to draw to a close.
Dusty could breathe again. He could talk – and think – again.
Tug had squared the dame some way. He'd bought her off. Or,
His knee bumped against the bed. A hand reached up out of the darkness. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and her arms fastened around his neck.
There was one savagely delightful moment as his mouth found hers, as he felt the cool-warm nakedness of her breasts. Then, suddenly, he was sick, shivering with sickness and fear. It was all wrong. It wasn't like it should have been.
Her mouth was covered with lipstick. He could taste its ugly flatness in his own mouth, feel the sticky smears upon his face and neck. And she wasn't naked. Only part of her was nude, and there the nakedness was not complete. It was as though her night clothes had been torn. It – She didn't speak. She was still clinging to him, smearing him, digging her nails into his face. She didn't speak, but there was a voice:
"Y-you filthy, sneaking little bastard! Yes, bastard, do you hear? We got you out of a foundling asylum! And God curse the day we… No, I won't tell him. I won't do that to him. But if you ever -"
He was almost motionless for, a moment, paralyzed by the unbearable voice. But it had never happened. It was only a bad dream. And this…
There was a roll of thunder. The drawn curtains whipped back in a sudden gust of wind, and lightning illuminated the room just for a second, but that was long enough for him to see:
The over-turned chairs. The upset lamp. The deliberate disorder. The night-gown, half ripped from her body. And the smeared red mouth, opened to scream. He hit her as hard as he could.
SEVEN
The next thirty minutes was a nightmare. A confused and hideous dream, the incidents of which piled terrifyingly, bewilderingly, one atop another. He was bent over her – pleading and apologizing – hysterically trying to bring her back to consciousness. Then, he was leaving her room, running blindly down the hall, bursting into Tug Trowbridge's suite. And Tug was gripping him by the shoulders, slapping him across the face, forcing him into a semi-calm coherence… "So okay, kid. I'll try and square the dame some way. Now straighten up and beat it back downstairs. Before old Bascom sends out an alarm for you."
He was washing his face, combing his hair, under Tug's supervision. He was in the elevator, then crossing a seemingly endless expanse of the lobby. With Bascom's eyes on him every step of the way. And at last – at last, immediately – he was facing Bascom across the marble counter.
Trying to explain the inexplicable.
"Bill! Answer me, Bill!"
"Y-yes, sir…?"
"What took you so long? What have you been doing up there in Miss Hillis' room?"
"I – I-"
It made no impression on him at the time: the fact that, illogically, Bascom knew where he had been. He was still too frightened, too conscience-stricken, to raise even a silent question.
"Bill!"
"N-nothing, sir. The – the window in her room was stuck. I had to pry it open for her. P-prop it open."
"And that took you thirty minutes? Nonsense! What were you doing up there? What have you done to – to -"
Bascom's voice trailed away. Eyes fastened on Dusty's face, he picked up the telephone. Gave a room number to the operator.
Dusty would have run, then. He would have, but his legs refused to obey the frantic signaling of his mind. He could only stand, paralyzed, wait and listen as Bascom spoke into the phone.
"… uh, Miss Hillis? This is the night clerk. The bellboy tells me that you were having some trouble – that there was some trouble with your window, and… I see. You're all right – I mean, everything is taken care of, then? Thank you very much, and I hope I haven't disturbed you."
He hung up the phone. Incredibly, he hung it up… without summoning the police or the house detective. And, seemingly, the nightmare began to draw to a close.
Dusty could breathe again. He could talk – and think – again.
Tug had squared the dame some way. He'd bought her off. Or,
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