The Cut of the Whip Read online

  Emmy Powell, and what she knew, would be no help. Port took a deep breath and then took out a cigarette.

  “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Oh, no. Go right ahead, Mr. Port. Herbie smokes. Herbie isn’t here, you know, but if you’d care to visit a spell—not that I expect Herbie tonight any more.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Powell.”

  “They left the same night, you know. Robert was so grateful—I’m not sure they should have left, but then they both said it was best.”

  Port wasn’t sure of anything. Emmy Powell was much too vague.

  “How was it, Mrs. Powell, finding your son again after all these years?”

  She looked at the wall again and said, “Well, it’s hard for me to say. But I had to cry…”

  Port saw she was smiling when she said this, though the meaning wasn’t clear.

  “But then,” she went on, looking at Port, “with all the time since the baby, and everything since then, he was mostly a young man to me. A very nice young man…” She reached for her wineglass and took a sip. “I don’t mean to shock you, Mr. Port. And he’s such a nice young man.”

  Port wasn’t shocked. He thought Emmy Powell’s admission was the first clearly sane thing she had said.

  “It couldn’t be any other way,” he said. “Though perhaps it shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Oh? But I loved having the baby. I remember that.”

  It was a cruel thing to see what had happened to the woman since then.

  “Mrs. Powell,” said Port. “This young man, Robert Heering. You keep calling him a very nice young man—”

  “Yes. Except I thought he was terribly shy, you know what I mean? And upset.”

  “Well, considering the circumstances…”

  “I mean altogether. Not just because of him and me meeting like this.”

  “Yes. Which is why I’ve come back, Mrs. Powell. Why I’ve come back to ask you a favor.”

  “I don’t think his father treated him right,” she said, half to herself. Then she took up her glass again and sipped.

  “You felt this, or Robert told you about it?”

  “Well now, he did tell about having this trouble, not getting along with his father. That’s why Herbie took the boy along, you know, to find him a place where he can get a rest and not be bothered by anything. But I felt it. If he hadn’t said so, I would still have felt it.” She sighed to herself and looked at the wall.

  Emmy Powell, Port thought, was very much the same woman she had been a long time ago; a warm, simple female, with feelings about people. Only the alcohol had been added.

  “Would you like to see Robert again?” Port asked her.

  “Again? Why, of course. He said he’d like to see me again.” It was shallow, thought Port, but what else could he do. At least it was genuine.

  “It would mean, Mrs. Powell, seeing Carl Heering again.” This was the point.

  This was the way it would have to be, to break the old Heering, or to break his he, and Robert would be there to see it.

  “You mean—Carl? After all these years?” And in a while she said, “I don’t know… Maybe he doesn’t even remember me.”

  “Carl Heering? Listen to me, Mrs. Powell—”

  “And I think I’m a little afraid of him.”

  “Carl Heering,” said Port, “is afraid of you.”

  It was close to an hour now, and Port kept listening for sounds from outside, hoping that Jane would come soon.

  “Afraid of me?” said Emmy Powell.

  Port considered the woman and how much he could tell her without confusing the issue. He told her how Robert had lived, how the old Heering had taken it out on the son, and that Robert was close to the end of his rope. Port left out the part Herbert Powell was playing, to stay with one thing at a time.

  “It means so little to you, Mrs. Powell. It just means something to Robert Heering. And he’s a nice young man—”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do, Mr. Port.”

  “Nothing. Just be there, Mrs. Powell,” and Port thought of the contrast she would make, sitting there in a chair and Carl Heering opposite.

  A car drove by outside and Port looked at his watch. An hour had passed.

  “I don’t think,” she said, “Carl would like it. After all these years gone by…”

  Time was pushing him, and more so the failure; how to move this woman, budge her through the fog.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m talking to you because I have two reasons for pushing. One’s my own. Frankly, I don’t like Mister Heering. I started with that one. It’s the reason that got me in. But the other one’s growing on me. I’m not saying I like Robert, I hardly know him. But he’s down and out. And that means something to me.” Port felt better now. “And that part, I mean Robert, can mean a great deal more to you—”

  “Is there someone outside?” said Emmy Powell.

  Port hadn’t heard anything, but Emmy Powell was more used to the noises of the house and the wind outside. Port got up, turned the light off in the hall, then opened the door. It pushed into his hand, because of the wind, and then he heard the sound from the corner, a high-powered roar, and the convertible shot into the street. It slowed then and came along the street in low gear.

  Port knew the car. He stepped out on the street and waved at it till the girl behind the wheel saw him. Jane stopped where Port was and got out of the car.

  “Dan—” Then she looked at the house behind him. “Is that where she is?”

  “Yes. You must have driven like a demon,” he said. “I thought you would get a plane.”

  Jane paid no attention to the remark. Instead she asked, “Does she know yet, about coming along?”

  “She knows, but I don’t know if she’s willing.”

  “But her own son!”

  They walked across the street and went into the house. Emmy Powell stood in the arch and smiled when the two people came in. She looked from Port to the girl and waited.

  “Mrs. Powell,” said Port, “this is Jane Heering. She—”

  “Oh yes!” and Emmy Powell held out her hand. “You’re my son’s half-sister. He mentioned you,” and then she waved them into the room. “You look a little bit like him,” she said when Jane passed her.

  Neither Port nor the girl said anything right away. Emmy Powell—and they both had heard it—had called Robert her son.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Emmy Powell, “if I don’t have to go alone, I’d like to do what you said, Mr. Port.”

  If it had been any other times they would have sat down now and talked, some tea maybe, and some of Emmy Powell’s wine. But Port didn’t think that Joe Flynn would let this go by, knowing about Emmy Powell, and the threats Port had made. He got up, looked out of the window, came back.

  “You won’t be alone,” he said. “Jane is here, to go along, and I’ll come with Robert. And while you’re with Jane, she’ll explain more to you. I’m afraid there isn’t time now—”

  Neither of the two women knew why he was rushing them. They looked up at him and Port had to spend time explaining more. Flynn or his man could have been here half an hour ago. Port walked back and forth, making it urgent. He told Mrs. Powell that they had to leave now, that the old Heering didn’t want any of this to happen and he might send someone to stop Jane from taking her. He didn’t think he had to make too much sense for Emmy Powell, that the sense of pressure would be enough to convince her. And Port counted on Jane to take the cue. She knew, since his phone call, what had happened to Robert and what had happened in Galveston.

  “I can’t believe…” Emmy Powell was saying, when the taxi drove past the house for the second time.

  Port stepped away from the window and the change in his voice was enough.

  “Is there a hotel in this town?” he said to Jane.

  “Well, there’s the Jefferson. It’s not the best—”

  “Never mind that now. I want you to take Mrs. Powell and go there imm
ediately. If you can’t get a room—”

  “I can get a room,” she said, which reminded Port that Heering owned a good part of Galveston and probably more of Lubbock.

  The taxi was gone, not that it meant anything. While Emmy Powell and Jane got into the car, Port kept looking around. Maybe the cab had stopped before disappearing, and left off a fare—

  Two headlights swung into the street, came slowly closer.

  “Don’t go yet,” said Port. “Hold it,” and he put his hand on the steering wheel of Jane’s car.

  The headlights kept Port from seeing too well, so he didn’t know that the car was a taxi until it was almost up to him.

  And then the taxi stopped abreast.

  It was empty, except for the driver.

  “My mistake,” said the driver. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “Your fare?” said Port.

  “Uh-huh,” said the cabby. “I guess I keep cruising.” But when he started up Port leaned into the window and the cabby had to stop.

  “Your fare coming from that house?”

  “Yeah. He still in there?”

  “He’ll be right out,” said Port. “Why don’t you pull up to the curb,” and when the taxi had moved Port turned to Jane.

  “Just do what I say now. Drive off slowly and allow the taxi to follow you. Circle around and bring him back here. Don’t let him catch up! Just make him follow and stop here again, got that?”

  “I—all right,” she said.

  “First, put up your top.”

  Emmy Heering understood very little of this, and Jane didn’t understand very much more. But she did what Port said. While the convertible top hummed up and over the car Port walked away. He didn’t go fast, not wanting too much distance between himself and the car, or it would mean his man might make a rush. But Port kept walking, hand on his gun, and then Jane’s car took off in the opposite direction.

  Port was in the shadow enough to risk turning around. Jane’s convertible was halfway to the end of the street, the taxi was standing, when the man came running across. Port couldn’t see who it was, but he came from the back of a house, Emmy Powell’s house, maybe, and jumped into the cab. The cab followed Jane’s car.

  Port pressed himself flat against the side of Powell’s house and waited…

  Chapter XII

  FIRST ONE PAIR of headlights swung into the street and then the other. The two cars were not far apart. The first car, the convertible, started to slow, and for a moment it looked like the taxi was going to pass it. But now the first car was pulling over, meaning to stop, so the taxi stayed behind, quite close now, and just followed suit.

  Port waited. He felt himself shiver, knowing it had nothing to do with the cold.

  The convertible stopped, but the headlights were still on. He should have told Jane to turn off her lights once she stopped. A door opened, the door of the taxi, and Jane’s headlights were still on.

  The taxi door slammed.

  “Just hold still, lady…”

  The headlights went off.

  “I’d just as soon break the window and drag you out, lady. And that wouldn’t be all—”

  Port sprinted.

  He didn’t know if the man had a gun and he didn’t care. He heard the convertible rock on its springs and then heard the door fly open. The man sounded angry.

  “And just for that, lady, I’m gonna give—” when the word became a hoarse push of air coming out of his mouth, with the Luger barrel knifing his kidneys and Port’s arm choking his neck, yanking the head up in the air.

  “Drive!” said Port. “Come on, you know where to go! For heaven’s sake, Jane, jump to it!”

  She roared off, finally, closing the door while under way and forgetting to put on the headlights till she turned the far corner.

  The man wasn’t Flynn—not fat enough. Port let go suddenly and with a fast trip at one shin helped him fall down.

  “Tully!”

  Tully stayed on the pavement, not moving, because he saw the gun and he knew about Port in general.

  But all this was new to the cabby and unexpected. He came out of the cab and started to holler, but he could see the gun well enough and shut his mouth when the muzzle turned his way.

  “Come here.” Port had stepped back to watch both men.

  The man came closer, like a doll on a string.

  “Hop in your cab,” said Port, “and drive like hell.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And I’m taking your number. Any cops show up here, or anything like that, and you’ll be too dead tomorrow to do anything else.”

  Port heard feet scrambling, door thumping shut, and the cab taking off like a streak.

  “Get up, Tully.”

  Tully did. Port grabbed his arm, and together they made their way up the steps and into the Powell house. Port snapped on a light in the living room, drew the shades, and told Tully to lean against the wall. In Tully’s clothes he found one gun, one spring knife, a sap, nylon cord, and a wad of cotton which could be used as a gag.

  “Sit down, Tully. In the couch there.”

  It was a very soft couch and Tully sank into it. He rubbed the sweat in his palms and glared at Port.

  “How come you’re in on this, Tully? I thought Flynn was keeping the help out of this thing.”

  “Noo Yorker,” said Tully after a while, which was the worst insult he could think of at the moment.

  Port sat down on the hassock and started to toss the Luger from one hand into the other. “Where’s Flynn?” he asked suddenly.

  The question caught Tully unawares, and all he said was “Huh?” Port asked him again and this time hit the man over the nose.

  But it didn’t make Tully talk. The slap had startled him and then he sat rigid while the slow wave of pain traveled all through him. It left him exhausted and even his impulse to jump and hit back wasn’t there any more.

  “Where’s Flynn?” Port asked again, but Tully just sat there, hunched over. His fear of Flynn was still greater than his fear of Port.

  “Look, Tully,” Port said, and now he was caressing the Luger, rubbing it gently between his palms, “I need information. If you won’t give with it, you’re no good to me. And if you’re no good to me, then from my point of view, you’re better off dead.” With this, Port raised the Luger in his hand, sighted right between Tully’s eyes, and said, “Well, might as well get it over—”

  That did it.

  “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you! But Jeez, put that thing down!” and Tully’s face was frightened now.

  Port lowered the hand with the Luger, sat down on the hassock. “Okay, Tully. Let’s start with question number one. Where’s Flynn?”

  “He said he was going up to Amarillo some place. Honest!”

  “I believe you, Tully.”

  “He isn’t going to Amarillo itself. I thought you know he was picking up Powell up there.”

  “Yes,” said Port. Then it occurred to him. “You know where, outside of Amarillo?”

  “Place called Margarita. That’s where Powell is staying.”

  “Not Dry Waters?”

  “That’s where he wanted to go but Flynn told him nix. I wasn’t there when Powell phoned. I didn’t even know from nothing ’til just today.”

  Port thought this over. First of all Flynn had lied to him, bothering to lie over a little thing like Dry Waters versus Margarita. Not so little. Margarita was closer to Amarillo, much closer probably, and then Flynn had said he’d be two days.

  “When’s Flynn coming back with Powell and company?” Tully wiped his mouth and sat back.

  “Tomorrow. The canal place was to be ready tomorrow.”

  Port sat on the hassock and lowered his head. That way Tully couldn’t see his expression. Port was cursing himself for the near-slip, and the new pressure. Tomorrow!

  “Now, listen, Port. I been square with you, haven’t I? Wouldn’t you say—”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

&nbs
p; “What I mean is, if, you’re done now, no more questions or anything, why not call it quits here and now? You know, I been square with you, and now you just forget about meeting me—I won’t say a word—and let me go, huh, Port? I’ll just blow—”

  The question now was what to do with Tully.

  “Come on,” said Port and went to the front door.

  Tully jumped up from the couch. He was even smiling. He ran over to where Port was waiting and meant to open the door for Port. One good turn—

  Port clipped him over the ear with the Luger and watched him sag to the floor. He was going to have a long sleep…

  Chapter XIII

  JANE ANSWERED the phone almost immediately, and Port could feel the hysterical edge in her voice. She asked if he were all right, if she’d done all right, if it were safe now, and Port said yes each time she asked a question, letting her talk it off for a while. The strain on her, Port knew, would get worse.

  “Now, Jane. Listen to me.”

  “Yes, Dan, yes.”

  “How is Mrs. Powell?”

  “Fine, fine. She’s gone to bed, Dan. I bought her some wine and she had some of that and went to bed a little while ago.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yes. I can hear her. You know—”

  “Jane. Listen to me.”

  “Yes, Dan. What?”

  “Is the Jefferson Hotel large enough to have a nurse in attendance?”

  “Well, I imagine they can call someone in from the hospital…”

  “Then get a nurse or somebody to stay with Mrs. Powell, Jane, and come back here. You understand?”

  “To that street?”

  “Yes. I’m here. I need your car and I need you to come with me.”

  She hung up in the middle of saying good-bye, much too excited, and Port smoked three cigarettes while he waited for her in the front hall. Tully was on the floor. Port had taken the man’s jacket off and draped it over him. On top of that he had put a blanket.

  When Jane had stopped at the curb she ran up to the house. Port held the door open for her and she came into the hall. The first thing she saw was Tully on the floor.