Читать книгу Judas Journey - Lee Roberts - Страница 10

SUNDAY NOON Ramsey opened his eyes to bright sunlight. His head pounded wickedly and his mouth was hot and dry. He squinted his eyes against the sun and tried to remember all that had happened the night before.

He and Pete had met the girls on a gulf pier where there’d been a huge dance floor and a brassy big-name band. His girl had been a redhead, all right, as Pete had said, with a short freckled nose, big blue eyes and a generous red mouth. He remembered the feel of her tall body against him as they danced, and the friendly throaty sound of her laughter. Pete’s girl had been small and dark-eyed. Her name was Arletta. The redhead was Leona. Just a couple of thirsty and healthy girls out for a good time, as he and Pete had been. A mutually enjoyable evening.

He looked across the room at Pete’s bed. It was empty, and he remembered then that Pete and Arletta had drifted away some time during the night’s revelry, leaving him and Leona alone. He had a hazy recollection of Leona’s two-room apartment, of her warm lips and sturdy body and, later, the cool dawn breeze on his face as he walked unsteadily to the Gulf Hotel. He brought his left wrist around in front of his eyes. Twelve-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. He crawled cautiously off the bed, stood up and went to the bathroom, swaying unsteadily.

He felt a little better after he’d shaved, brushed his teeth and showered. He put on cord slacks and a short-sleeved shirt and was donning socks and loafers when Pete came in. His dark skin held a pale tinge and his eyes were red-rimmed.

“Cheers,” Ramsey said. “I gather you and Arletta hit it off fine.”

Pete stumbled to the bed and held his head with both hands. He groaned.

Ramsey said, “There’s some aspirin in the bathroom.”

“Arletta gave me some. It didn’t help.”

“How about a drink, pal?”

“Please,” Pete pleaded. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. “Go away. Let me die.”

There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” Ramsey called.

Nevil Simpson stepped into the room. He peered at them over his gold-rimmed glasses and said mildly, “Big night, boys?”

Pete groaned.

Simpson moved his head slowly from side to side and lifted a reproving finger. “Moderation in all things is the secret of a happy life. Always remember the law of physics that every action has a reaction.”

“Amen,” Pete mumbled, holding his head.

Simpson winked at Ramsey and said, “You have letters from Pittsburgh at the desk.”

“That’ll be our money,” Ramsey said.

“Good. I think we can be ready to leave by Wednesday noon.”

“All right.”

Suddenly Ramsey thought of Sara Colvin. He knew that she didn’t work on Sunday, that the Jungle Tavern was closed, and late in the afternoon he telephoned her apartment. Her soft voice answered immediately.

“Yes?”

“Hello,” he said.

“Oh, Rack . . .”

“What’re you doing right now?”

“Dressing, fixing my hair.”

“For me? How about dinner, some quiet place? I think we should talk a little, Sara.”

“Rack, I—I am sorry. I did not hear from you, and I have made another engagement . . .”

His fingers tightened on the phone. “Break it.”

“I would like to, truly, but I cannot.”

“All right,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be seeing you—maybe.” He was acting badly, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. What the hell was the matter with him?

“Rack, I am sorry, but—”

“Sure. So am I.” He hung up.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon walking the streets aimlessly. He thought of calling the redhead, Leona, but remembered that she had told him that she had a date with a boy from Beaumont. He’s an old friend, Rack, honey, and he has a Caddie convertible, and all . . .

At seven o’clock he had dinner with Pete and Simpson at the Gulf Hotel. Afterward they went up to the room he and Pete shared. Simpson brought a bottle of Scotch and he and Pete began a game of double solitaire. After one drink of the Scotch, Ramsey left the two men talking about Mexico and went out to a movie. When he left it, he couldn’t remember what it had been about. The hotel room was dark and he heard Pete snoring gently. He undressed quietly and got into bed. Before he went to sleep, he thought, She’s with him, Blake Bowen, her employer. Does she tell him about the teachings of her aunt in Mexico . . . ?

The next day, Monday, they pooled their cash, a little over thirty-five hundred dollars. Everything was to be share and share alike, with all expenses and the hoped-for profits split three ways. Simpson then proposed a legal partnership agreement. Ramsey and Pete protested, saying that it was not necessary, that they could trust one another. But Simpson was firm, and in the end they picked a lawyer from the telephone book. His office was close to the Gulf Hotel and his name was Jefferson W. Carr.

“A good, solid American name,” Simpson said. “We shall give him our patronage.”

The outer office of Jefferson W. Carr, Attorney-at-Law, consisted of paneled walls, thick tan carpeting, a few straight chairs, framed diplomas, and a pale blonde secretary behind a typewriter on a small desk. She wore heavy dark-rimmed glasses and a crisp white blouse with frilled collar and sleeves. Her nose was a trifle too long and her lips were thin but very red. She gazed at the three men with an expression of cool inquiry.

Before Nevil Simpson could speak, the door to an inner office opened and a man carrying a bulging brief case stepped out. He was stocky and a little below average height. His eyes were a frosty gray behind rimless glasses, his nose thin, and his mouth beneath a narrow black mustache was sullen-looking, with drooping corners. He wore a dark gray suit with a vest, a white shirt with a stiff collar; his tie was a sober court room gray. A gray felt hat with the brim turned up all around sat squarely on his head. His expression, at the sight of the three men, was one of faint annoyance.

Nevil Simpson said politely, “Mr. Carr?”

“Yes, but I am just leaving, as you can see.” The lawyer spoke in a flat nasal voice. “I must catch a plane for Austin.”

Simpson inclined his head gravely. “Very well, sir. We will see another lawyer.” He nodded at Pete and Ramsey and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Carr said quickly. “I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“A partnership agreement,” Simpson said, “for the three of us.”

Carr took a gold watch from a vest pocket, glanced at it. “Very well,” he said shortly. “I have time for that.” He turned back into the office.

Simpson, Ramsey and Pete Davos followed him into a large room where a wide window overlooked the gulf. One wall was filled with thick legal volumes behind glass doors. There were chairs, but Carr did not ask them to sit down. He sat behind a big glass-topped desk and poised a fountain pen over a ruled yellow pad, not bothering to remove his hat. “Just what sort of agreement do you want?”

Simpson told him in a quiet, precise voice, glancing occasionally at Pete and Ramsey for approval. It took twenty minutes to draw it up. Then Carr pressed a button beside his desk. The long-nosed secretary entered immediately, and he handed her the agreement. “Please type this, Miss Whitney. Three carbons.” She nodded and left. Carr said to Simpson, “That will be twenty dollars.”

Pete Davos whistled softly. “A buck a minute,” he murmured.

“I am not charging for my time,” Carr said coldly. “I am charging you for knowing how to draw up a partnership agreement.”

“Very well, sir,” Simpson said. “Please keep it for us. We will return in three or four months perhaps. If not, we will contact you by mail.” He nodded at Ramsey. “Pay the gentleman, Rackwell.”

Ramsey paid him. Carr dropped the money into a desk drawer and locked it. “Thank you,” he said shortly. “Miss Whitney will have the typed copies for your signatures in a few moments. Each of you sign them in her presence. She is a notary public and will certify them. You may retain one copy, if you wish. We will keep the others on file.” He stood up, lifted his brief case from the desk, and started for the outer door. He stopped abruptly.

A girl stepped into the office. Miss Whitney was behind her, looking nervous. “I told her you were busy . . .” She gnawed at the knuckle of one finger.

“Very well,” Carr snapped, and Miss Whitney disappeared. Carr smiled at the girl, but his gray eyes showed annoyance. “Hello, Marcia. What brings you down here?”

The girl’s gaze flicked over Ramsey, Pete and Simpson, and then back to Carr. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked lightly, moving up to Carr with a long graceful stride. “I just came to say goodbye, darling.” She patted his cheek.

Watching her, Ramsey saw that she was tall and slim, with black hair combed smoothly back over small flat ears and tied with a red ribbon in back. Her eyes beneath neatly plucked black brows were big and soft brown, with heavy lashes. Her dove-gray suit clung smoothly and smartly to her slender form, accentuating the slim waist, the delicate curve of her hips and the soft swell of her breasts. A red silk scarf was knotted at her throat, bringing out the whiteness of her rather large but well-shaped mouth.

“I’m just leaving, Marcia,” Carr said. “I must hurry.”

“Can I drive you to the airport?” Her voice was strong and clear.

“I have my car,” Carr said. “I’ll leave it at the airport until I return.”

“Have a nice trip, darling.” She kissed him lightly, seemingly unaware of the presence of the other three men.

“Thank you,” Carr said stiffly. He dabbed a handkerchief to his mouth, inspected it for lipstick stains. “I’ll be back in four or five days, I hope, but you know how those legislature committee things are.” He moved past her to the outer office.

The girl turned then and gazed curiously and frankly at Simpson, Pete and Ramsey. When her gaze met his, Ramsey thought he detected a sudden glint of interest. He watched for things like that. He knew, of course, that he was attractive to women, most women, anyhow, but he wasn’t vain about it. He smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back, but her steady cool gaze never wavered. Something like a shiver went up Ramsey’s spine.

From the doorway Jefferson Carr said impatiently, “I really must go, Marcia. My plane . . .”

She blew a kiss on long slender fingers. “Run along, darling.”

Carr hesitated, his expression suspicious and doubtful. Then he turned abruptly and went out, carrying the brief case. The outer door slammed behind him and the only sound was the busy typing of Miss Whitney. Then the tail girl’s gaze swung slowly back to Ramsey. He was aware that Pete and Simpson were moving past him to the door, but he didn’t look at them. There was a small silence. And then Miss Whitney’s typing stopped and he heard her say crisply, “Sign there, please.”

Ramsey didn’t move. He had an odd sensation that if he looked away the girl would be gone. She was smiling a little now, her full lips barely curved, and there was a reckless light in her eyes. He wondered briefly if she had begun her afternoon drinking early, and decided that she had not. She was the cocktail-swimming pool-country club type, but for all he knew she could have been a tennis champion in training. She had that look, too.

Ramsey heard Nevil Simpson’s voice, “Rackwell, will you sign this agreement, please?”

“In a minute,” Ramsey said, not taking his gaze from the girl. “You go ahead. I’ll see you at the hotel.”

“Very well,” Simpson sighed.

There was a brief silence, then the faint rustling of paper and the scratching of a pen, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing. Ramsey looked away from the girl, saw that Pete and Simpson had left the outer office. Miss Whitney, her thin mouth a red slash, began to type briskly. Ramsey swung his gaze back to the girl. She was watching him coolly, her lips still curved, almost mocking now.

“Hello,” he said.

“Rackwell,” she said. “That’s an odd name.”

“After my maternal grandfather, who fought at Bull Run. My friends call me Rack.”

She nodded toward the outer office. “The man with the glasses—he called you Rackwell.”

Ramsey grinned. “Simpson? He’s the exception—but a friend, though.”

She held out a hand. “I’m always glad to meet Jeff’s clients. I’m Marcia Stockton.”

Her fingers were cool and soft. He held them a little longer than necessary. Then the meaning of her name hit him, and he released her hand. “Stockton,” he said. “That’s a well-known name in Texas.”

“My father was Clint Stockton.”

“I know.” Everyone knew about old Clint Stockton, he thought, one of the last of the early wildcatters who had pyramided a vast fortune. Oil money. There had even been a book written about Clint Stockton. Ramsey had read it. The old man had died two years before, leaving ten million dollars, more or less, to his only child, Marcia. And this was Marcia gazing at him with cool mocking eyes. Her left hand moved to the scarf at her throat and he saw the white glitter of the big diamond on the third finger.

She caught his glance. “Jeff and I are to be married next month,” she said.

Ramsey sighed. “That’s nice. All the best.” He turned and moved toward the door. Even without the engagement ring, he thought, she was out of his league and he was wasting his time.

She stepped quickly past him, closed the office door and stood facing him with her back to it, the same little smile playing about her lips. Beyond the door, in the outer office, Miss Whitney’s typing stopped for a shocked second. Then it began again, slowly.

Marcia Stockton said softly, “What’s your hurry, Rack? Did my name and the ring scare you?”

“I’m not scared.” He gazed at her steadily, waiting for her next move. He was interested but wary.

For the first time her gaze shifted from his. Black lashes lowered over white cheeks and she pressed her palms against the closed door. The invitation was unmistakable. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him roughly. A little sigh escaped her and her lips parted as they kissed. Then she pushed him away. Silently he reached for her again, but she shook her head and held him away. “No, not here.” She glanced at the door. “Remember Little Miss Snoopy out there.”

“To hell with her.”

She came against him. Minutes later they stood apart. Coolly she applied fresh paint to her lips. “Thanks, Rack. That helped.”

“Helped what?”

“The jitters I’ve got.”

“Always glad to be of service.” He grinned at her. He was sure of himself now, on familiar ground. Maybe she had ten million dollars, but she was still a woman. He said curiously, “What gave you the jitters?”

She shrugged carelessly. “Everything.”

“Maybe a drink would help?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Do you like me?”

“That’s a silly question.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

“I’m really not a very nice person.”

“Neither am I,” he said.

“Are you married?” she asked. “Not that it matters.”

“No.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully. “Now what?”

“I mentioned a drink.”

“All right. In a bar—or at my place?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Your place.”

“Good.” She smoothed the red scarf and touched her hair. “Do I look all right?”

“You look wonderful.”

She stepped close and with a scented handkerchief wiped a corner of his mouth. “My, my,” she said reprovingly. “I do believe you’ve been kissing someone.”

“Just an old flame,” he said, grinning. “Happened to meet her in a lawyer’s office.”

“New flame,” she said, and opened the door.

Miss Whitney gazed at them coldly and handed Ramsey the copies of the partnership agreement. He signed them below the signatures of Pete and Simpson. She folded them briskly, placed them in a long envelope, sealed it and tossed it into a wire basket on the desk. Ramsey saw the typewritten words on its face: Partnership Agreement—Simpson, Davos and Ramsey.

Marcia Stockton said sweetly, “Good night, Miss Whitney.”

Miss Whitney’s thin lips barely moved. “Good night, Miss Stockton.”

Marcia took Ramsey’s arm and they went down to the street. She had a yellow Packard convertible at the curb beside a No Parking sign. “You drive,” she said.

He got behind the wheel and they swung out into the late afternoon traffic. To Ramsey none of it seemed quite real; the yellow sunlight, the slanting shadows, the people on the streets, the cars they passed, the girl sitting quietly beside him.

“By the way,” she said. “What’s your last name?”

“Ramsey,” he said.

“Rack Ramsey—a nice name.” She moved on the seat until her thigh touched his.