Part 16 (1/2)

”What scaffold?” Frank asked, although he knew.

”For the hanging,” the bellhop returned, brought the elevator to rest, pus.h.i.+ng back the grill. ”Ain't you heard?”

The Sullivans looked at him watchfully, moved out of the elevator into the corridor.

A girl in a silk wrap and sky-blue pyjamas, carrying a sponge bag and towel, pa.s.sed them. In her lips, painted into a savage cupid bow, dangled a cigarette. She looked at the Sullivans and her eyes smiled.

Frank didn't even notice her.

”What hanging?” he asked the bellhop.

”Where's our room?” Max broke in. ”Come on, show us the room.”

The bellhop led them down the corridor, unlocked a door, pushed it open, turned on the lights. It was the usual sort of room you'd expect a hotel like this to offer you. It had been furnished for economy rather than for comfort: not the kind of room you'd wish to stay in for long.

”What hanging?” Frank repeated, closing the door.

The bellhop rubbed his hands on the back of his trousers. He looked like a man with good news.

”The Waltonville murderer,” he said. ”Ain't you read about him? He killed three dames all in the same evening and then gave himself up. I guess he won't kill any more dames after nine o'clock tomorrow.”

”Get out,” Max said without looking at him.

The bellhop stared.

”I was only telling you, mister-” he began.

”Get out!” Max said softly.

The bellhop went quickly to the door, hesitated, looking back at the Sullivans. They stared at him, still, intent, watchful. There was something about them that scared him. It was like losing your way in the dark and finding yourself suddenly in a cemetery.

When he had gone, Max picked up the bag and tossed it on to the bed.

Frank still stood motionless in the middle of the room. The m.u.f.fled hammering held his attention.

”I wonder what it feels like to be hanged,” he said suddenly.

”I haven't thought about it,” Max said, and for an imperceptible moment he paused in his unpacking.

”To be locked in, to hear that hammering, knowing it was for you; to hear them come down the pa.s.sage for you, and you not able to do anything about it,” Frank went on in a low voice. ”Like a beast in a cage.”

Max said nothing. He began to undress.

”It could happen to us, Max,” Frank said, and little beads of moisture showed on his white, fattish face.

”Get into bed,” Max said.

They didn't speak until they were in bed and Max had turned off the light, then Max said out of the darkness: ”I wonder where we can find Magarth. It shouldn't be difficult. The thing that will be difficult is to find out where he's hidden Larson, and if Larson has talked.”

Frank said nothing: he was still listening to the m.u.f.fled hammering.

”How long do you reckon they'll keep up that noise ?” he asked.

Max, who missed nothing, detected the slightest quaver m Frank's voice.

”Until they've fixed it good,” he said. ”Go to sleep.”

But Frank didn't. He lay listening to the hammering and it got on his nerves. Max's light, even breathing also got on his nerves. To think a guy could sleep with that going on, Frank thought angrily. He was angry because his nerve wasn't as good as Max's, and because he was frightened.

After a while the hammering stopped, but still Frank didn't sleep. Later, a sudden loud crash made him start up, and he snapped on the light.

”What's that?” he demanded, his nerves crawling on the surface of his skin.

Max moved out of sleep into wakefulness as easily and as quickly as the turning on of an electric lamp.

”They're testing the trap,” he said calmly.

”Yes,” Frank said, ”I hadn't thought of that,” and he put out the light.

Now neither of the Sullivans slept. Frank was thinking about the condemned man, and his mind slipped back into the past; the faces of the men and women he had helped to murder floated out of the darkness; surrounded him, pressed in on him.

Max didn't sleep because he was thinking about Frank. For some time now he had been watching Frank. Although Frank had shown no outward sign, Max suspected that he was losing his nerve. He wondered how long it would be before Frank would be of no further use to him. The thought disturbed him, for he had known Frank a long time. They had developed their knife-throwing act together when they had been at school.

But later they both slept, and woke at eight-thirty the following morning when the hotel maid brought them coffee and rolls. She also brought in with her the atmosphere of suppressed excitement. It was more electric now than the previous night, but it didn't affect Max. He sat up in bed, poured the coffee, pa.s.sed a cup to Frank, who put it on the table at his side.

”They'll be coming for him in a few minutes,” Frank said, betraying that he was still thinking of the execution.

”The rolls aren't hot enough,” Max grumbled, got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

He had just finished shaving when the trap was sprung. The crash left him unmoved. He continued to clean his razor, his white, cold face expressionless. A moment after the trap was sprung a vast sigh came up from the street in through the open bathroom window, and he looked out and saw the huge crowd standing before the jail.

”Vultures,” he thought, and with sudden vicious hatred of them and their morbid curiosity he spat out of the window.

When he returned to the bedroom Frank was quiet. He was still in bed, and his pillow was dark with sweat, and sweat ran down his face so that his skin glistened in the sunlight.

The two men didn't say anything to each other. Max noticed that Frank hadn't touched his coffee nor his rolls.

While Max dressed the only sound came from the shuffling feet of the crowd as they broke up and returned to their homes. Frank stared up at the ceiling, listening to the shuffling, and sweat continued to darken his pillow.

”I'll be back in a little while,” Max said at the door. ”You'd better wait for me here.”

Frank didn't trust his voice, so he didn't say anything, and Max didn't seem to expect him to say anything.

”Any news?” Magarth asked as he pushed open the door to the Sheriff's office and entered the dingy little room.

Kamp glanced up.

”I've just got back from the execution,” he said. There was still a faint greenish tinge in his brick-red complexion. It was his first execution in five years and it had upset him. He grimaced, went on: ”I've had a report that the Packard Clipper we want was seen in Kinston midday yesterday and was headed for Campville, but nothing else has come in-no trace of the girl. Campville's sheriff is keeping his eyes open. We'll hear if anything else turns up.”