The Cut of the Whip Read online

  They all sat, almost as if they were waiting. But then, why had Powell let him in, kept him there with an invitation to tea?

  Powell put down his cup and then he chuckled.

  “Why, Danny, I even forgot to ask you!” He got up and turned off the TV. The sudden quiet in the room made the wind sound stronger outside. “You came in and wanted to tell me something and never got the chance!”

  Powell grinned at Port, waiting.

  “Why’d you come back, Danny?” he said.

  Port had the answer to that one all ready. “You remember,” he said. “I was here with that little black book of mine? The notebook where I take down things on my rounds?”

  “You stuck that in your hip pocket when you went out the front door,” said Powell.

  It surprised Port that Powell should have observed this. Powell sipped tea again, not looking at Port.

  “I did?” said Port. “You mean I had it when I walked out of here? Maybe I dropped it on your walk.”

  “No. I would have found it sweeping up.”

  Port gave a puzzled laugh, looked from one to the other. They were looking back at him and nothing else.

  “Well,” said Port. “That’s why I came around.” He shrugged and got up. “Yours was the last house where I used the book and I thought maybe…”

  “You said you were going across the street,” said Powell. “Didn’t you use the book across the street, whatever you were checking there? You ought to have missed it then.” Powell made sense. He sat with his cup in his hand, watching Port, waiting to hear the answer.

  “That’s true,” said Port. “Except over there the utility survey was about appliances in the house. How many appliances. I use a different ledger for that, different book.” The lie had come easily. Port was aware of this suddenly, now that it was done, and felt the tension catch up with him. Under pressure, he knew, he always lied easily, did things with unthinking ease. Until this moment he had not been aware of the pressure which really existed.

  “Oh,” Powell was saying, and then he twisted in his seat to look out of the window.

  “What time is it?” Port asked. “I went to this restaurant down on Sumner and maybe the book fell put of my pocket when—”

  “Eight forty-five,” said Emmy Powell.

  Powell had turned back to the room and now he said, “It’s dark across the way. I figured if they were home you could just run across and see if your book was there. Or maybe they’re in bed.”

  A quarter to nine, thought Port, and young Heering should get here any time now…

  “How about you, Emmy,” Powell was saying. “Don’t you think you should go up now?”

  “I slept during the day, Herbie, I don’t think I could…”

  “You’re supposed to get your rest,” and then Powell turned towards Port. “She hasn’t been well.”

  “My liver,” said Mrs. Powell.

  “So maybe you’d better go up now.”

  “But it’s Thursday, Herbie. Hour of Life is on at nine.”

  “That’s right,” said Powell. “I forgot. She never misses that Life thing,” he told Port.

  So Mrs. Powell stayed in her chair, Howard Powell went for more tea, and Port was still standing.

  He did not want to leave. He did not know how dangerous any of this might be, what the Powells were doing besides watching TV and drinking their tea, and he had not been able to plan anything for the time when young Heering would come. He knew too little for that and the Powells behaved in an unknown pattern.

  Powell came back and brought more tea for himself. He brought none for his wife who was now filling her cup with the wine, and there was none for Port.

  “You were saying,” he said to Port, “about that restaurant.”

  “Yes. I thought if they’re still open—or I can go there tomorrow, there isn’t that much of a rush.”

  It was feeble, but necessary. Port had again lied himself into a position where his staying at the Powells’ house would look suspicious.

  “They’re open all night,” said Powell. “But if you’re in a rush about it, why don’t you call up?”

  It could mean they didn’t want Port to leave. It could mean that for a long time now nobody had thought Port was a utility man and that he, Port, was deep in the middle of the Heering affair.

  “It’s just about nine, now,” Emmy Powell said. “Would you turn the set on, Herbie?”

  She smiled and hitched herself around in her chair. She looked warm and comfortable.

  Powell went to the set and when he clicked it on he said, “What do you say, Danny, you want to go in the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen? I thought perhaps I’d better go…”

  “No, no. Let’s you and me go in the kitchen and have a visit. That is, unless you want to watch this here.”

  Port said that was real friendly of Powell and he’d rather go into the kitchen than watch the program. Watching the program, Port did not feel he would learn anything. It would be best to sit in the back with Powell and talk, have a visit, the way he had put it.

  Powell poured his tea into the sink and looked at Port over his shoulder. Then he winked.

  “I figure you and me deserve better than tea. I just never drink in the front parlor,” and he took a bottle of bourbon out of a cupboard.

  They both pulled up stools and sat down by the sink, Port at one end, Powell at the other. Port could see the back door, the arch to the corridor, and the black windows. He could see nothing on the other side of the windows.

  “I must tell you,” said Port, “that I really appreciate your hospitality. Here we are, hardly knowing each other, and having a friendly drink. I really appreciate that, Herbie.”

  “Glad to hear it, Dan, mighty glad.”

  “You do that often, take in strays like you did me?”

  “Hell, no,” said Powell. “I’m a suspicious man, way down. You just naturally struck me the right kind of person. I’m a sharp judge of character. I can tell.”

  “Tell what, Herbie?”

  “I can tell you’re people like me. We work hard, we look out for number one, but we’re nice about it, huh, Danny?”

  “Sure, Herbie.”

  “Now you’re with the utility people. What do you make, maybe fifty a week, sixty-five?”

  “Sixty-five, seventy-eight.”

  “Ah. You see, I can tell. With that kind of income, you got a feeling for money. I knew that.”

  Port waited. Whatever Powell might say would most likely be a lie—unless by some weird chance Port had gone into the wrong house—but as long as Powell kept talking Port could see more of the man. He saw already that Powell was also sly.

  “That’s why I feel free to ask you, Danny, and no hard feelings. Want me to freshen that drink?”

  “No thanks. But go ahead.”

  “Sure, Danny. Now here’s what I mean. You utility people got different rates. I mean rates for households, for industry, for different equipment. I know that a man who comes around checking wires and looking at appliances is the man that makes recommendations to the men in the office, telling them what kind of establishment he’s been inspecting.”

  For all Port knew this might be correct. And for all he knew at this point Powell was a retired farmer who had moved to the city, or an international spy in remarkable disguise, or just a grinning fool building up to a touch.

  “Now, what would it be worth to you, Danny, to go back to your office and tell those people there I’m running all my appliances here in an establishment like a rest home, or a hospital even, seeing I’m taking care of a sick wife all day long, and have them change my rates to a lower category?”

  Port picked up his glass and took a slow drink. He had heard right, of course, and Herbert Powell was no mystery in this matter. He probably got a big kick out of the thousand ways a man can scrounge an illegitimate penny: protesting over the right change, skipping out of a hotel, stuffing a grocery bag after it has been weighed—
<
br />   “Did you ever get your change for a buck from a cashier and then raised a stink you gave her a five and where’s the rest of your change?”

  Powell stared for a moment and then he started to laugh, sounding surprised.

  “Hey—sure I did! You know, that reminds me of that one time—why did you ask?” and he looked puzzled.

  Port had just asked him on impulse and having gotten his answer—the one he had expected—he was no longer interested.

  “Funny my asking that, isn’t it? I was just thinking of something else.” Port coughed and put down his glass. “About this rate business, the electrical rates, I think, Herbie, I may be able to do something for you.”

  “You mean it?” and Powell’s face lit up as if he were five years old and had just gotten a new toy. “You think you can? I’ll pay you for it, Danny, I’ll make it up—”

  “No. Forget it. Your friendship, Herbie, is all—” and the rest got lost in mumbles and little laughs as the two men shrugged at each other and made a show of being embarrassed.

  “Tell me this, though, Herbie,” said Port. “How come a man, successful like you and retired, has to watch his pennies like that?”

  “Don’t have to, Danny, don’t have to at all. Just habit. The same habit that got me where I am.” He grinned smugly and saluted with his glass.

  But the air in the room had changed and Port knew that Powell didn’t want to talk any more. He’d asked his question, had arranged his deal. He was through now.

  As if reading Port’s mind, Powell said, “Emmy’s just about done with her program. That’s mostly the time we go to bed in this house…”

  Port got up. There was nothing else to do.

  “You going to let me know about that rate business, Danny?” and Powell went to the short hallway, then waited there for Port to come through.

  Yes, he would let him know.

  “Any time,” said Powell. “Come over any time, you hear?”

  Any time except after ten P.M. this evening. Port got off his stool and put the glass in the sink. What would the Powells do if he refused to go? And why had they kept him till now in the first place? Because Powell thought Port was a utility man, no question about that.

  “You going to drop in on that restaurant, for your book?” Powell was saying, “or do you want to use the phone? Might save you a trip.”

  Port left the sink and when he came up to Powell, who was standing there waiting, Port told him, “I’m a little tired myself. I think I’ll check the restaurant tomorrow.”

  Powell had nothing to say to that and turned into the small hallway. Port flipped off the light in the kitchen, making a click, and then there was a click from the front room where Emmy Powell had turned off the TV; the silence was sudden.

  The bell rang, like a shot.

  Port saw the man in front of him as a black silhouette but could tell how Powell stopped, startled, and turned quickly to look at Port. The opposite light from the living room made it hard for Port to see Powell’s expression; then Powell turned, went straight to the front door. There was no sound from the living room and nothing from Powell. Only his steps, going to the door.

  Before he got there the bell rang once more.

  Port stayed in the dark hall and his hands were up by the belt. He would draw either way, fast.

  “Yes?” said Powell, not friendly.

  The man from outside stepped into the light so that Port was sure.

  Robert Heering.

  “Excuse me, does Mrs.—Miss Semmerling live here?”

  Chapter V

  “DOES WHO?” said Powell and did nothing when Robert Heering came in.

  “Miss Semmerling,” Heering said again, and his awkwardness in the delivery looked remarkably genuine.

  Port hadn’t had a good look at the young man before. There was some resemblance to his sister Jane, mostly the large eyes, except with Robert the largeness was not beautiful but made him look bewildered. And there was the same kind of intensity which showed in his father’s face, aimless in this case, as if hunted, and without the hardness of the elder Heering. Robert was blond and a little stooped, but that might have been part of the haste he felt at the moment.

  “I forgot,” he was saying. “She has a different name now. Are you Mr. Powell?”

  “I am. And who would you be, young man?”

  But Heering didn’t get to answer.

  “Herbert!” came from the living room, and Port, in the dark hall wondered at Emmy Powell’s voice. “Did someone, did someone ask for Semmerling?” and her chair moved heavily when she got up.

  It was the first time that Port had seen her stand. She had crossed to the archway that led into the hall and she was standing there, leaning forward. Her pose reminded Port of a fat little chicken, a very curious one.

  “Did you say Miss Semmerling?” she asked, looking at Robert.

  But at that moment Robert Heering was the one who drew Port’s attention. Powell meant nothing right then, and Powell’s wife meant nothing, except for being a little bit strange, but Robert Heering drew all of Port’s attention.

  His face became loose jointed and even though he actually did not move there was a flutteriness about him. Only his big eyes held very still, looking at Emmy Powell.

  Port kept in mind what the elder Heering had said, that his son was unbalanced.

  The young man reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out a rectangular packet. It was tightly wrapped with brown paper and a white string around that.

  “You’re Mrs. Powell, aren’t you?” said Robert Heering. “I don’t think you know…”

  He stopped, swiveling his head, because Port had made his move. It was very simple. He stepped out of the dark corridor, and the gun, with one hand around it, was now in the right jacket pocket.

  “That’s all,” said Port. “Toss it here and that’s all.”

  Emmy Powell cocked her head, frowning, and Herbert looked at Port’s jacket with his mouth hanging open. His whole face seemed to hang, making him look very old.

  Robert Heering hadn’t moved except to tighten his hand on the packet. His forehead screwed up in painful wrinkles and his eyes started to blink.

  Then he turned fast and ran.

  For a moment Port was too startled to move. Then he started to curse and kept cursing all the way down the street, running, while the taillights of the big Benz nodded at him and got smaller. Then the car turned at the corner and then the motor roar disappeared too.

  The car had turned on Sumner, which was good. It had turned left, which was even better, because that’s the way Port’s car was facing on Sumner. Port could again see the Benz, tearing off in the distance, but by the time he had slammed his door the Benz was gone.

  Port had the car in gear when the motor caught and shot off with a high squeal. The sound seemed to sharpen his anger. Port was boiling inside, not knowing quite why and with no time to think about it.

  The longer the Benz stayed in the city the better Port’s chance. The big car was slow on pickup, a handicap as long as there was some traffic, but wouldn’t be easy to beat on an open straightaway. Port went past the first three intersections without letting up on the gas. He had still seen the Benz further on. It had disappeared where Sumner jogged to the right and then cut by two small streets which Port remembered from his trip during the day.

  If Robert Heering was leaving town he would do best to take either of the two side streets because both joined the big road out of town; if he didn’t know about that he could go on with Sumner and join the outgoing road by going through downtown. In that case Port could be on the highway, waiting for the Benz, before Heering would be there. But Heering would also take Sumner if he meant to stay in town and double back.

  Port took Sumner, hoping there’d be no police cruisers around.

  There were stoplights along Sumner now, all the way into downtown, and after the first one Port saw the Mercedes’ taillights ahead. It went bright and then dim, because
Heering had stopped for a light. The traffic was much thicker up ahead and Port lost sight of the Benz for a moment, then saw it again. The big car was traveling a straight line, making no effort to pass other cars.

  Robert Heering didn’t think he was being followed! He had seen Port run after the Benz, but he had never seen Port get into a car of his own. And not knowing that Port was driving, or what Port was driving, some inconspicuous maneuvering should get Port close to Heering without making the man speed up.

  For a chase the drive soon became more like dancing a waltz to a loud rock-and-roll beat. The Benz didn’t go fast, so Port didn’t go fast.

  The Benz swung off Sumner, away from the road that went out of town, and Port swung off right behind him.

  Apparently he meant to cruise around for a while, an hour, let’s say, and then double back.

  A few more turns—Port wasn’t closing in because he could have done very little; there were bars now, and theaters letting out—and the Benz started slowing towards the curb. The bastard was going to stop, go into the drug store on the other side of the street, make a phone call, have some coffee and kill time. The big car hadn’t stopped yet when Port shot ahead and pulled close. He made no effort to stop, but leaned over to the right window so that Heering could see him.

  Heering did. Port couldn’t tell what went on in his face but the Benz made an unnatural leap, bucked a few times, but made it. The car accelerated with a clumsy nodding of the big body and Port let it go. He stayed close behind.

  Robert Heering wasn’t clever at this. He headed straight out of town, leaving the lights and the people, pressing the car ahead with no calculation except to get out. Port didn’t know whether Heering wasn’t smart enough to do any better, or whether he was just frozen at the controls. It came to the same thing. But later it would make a difference, because the man, Port reminded himself, wasn’t completely sane.

  A short way out on the highway, Port hit the gas hard. It was time. Any more straightaway and the big car could walk away from him. He came up on the left, forcing Heering to jerk away and waste time in getting his car under control. Port sat right next to the Benz now and studied its side. Both cars were gunning now, and the racket beat hard at Port, making the air excited—when the Benz swung off. It meant a sharp drop in noise, a bare pavement rushing along where the black car used to be, and then Port hit the brakes. He had his head out the window in time to see the Benz careen off the highway. There was a small, rocky road, a wind-stunted tree, and a sharp rise on either side of the road.