Swell-Looking Babe, A by Thompson Jim

Author:Thompson, Jim [Thompson, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Fiction, Noir, Novel
ISBN: 9780679733119
Publisher: Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company
Published: 1954-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

11

Strangely, during the time intervening between his meeting with Tug and the morning of the robbery, he felt quite calm, quite at peace with himself. Only when he tried to examine his feelings—studied their nominal strangeness—was there any rift in the peace. And even then his qualms were faint and of brief duration. There was simply nothing for them to feed upon.

His handsome, olive-skinned face was as unfurrowed, as openly honest, as ever. The wide-set eyes remained clear and unworried. His voice, his manner, the manifold minutiae which comprised personality—they were all normal. For, for the first time in his memory, all his self-doubts were gone and he felt sure of himself. He was about to be made whole. He knew it, and the inner knowledge was reflected in the outer man.

Despite Tug’s ambiguity, the robbery would be successful. He knew it and it was all he needed to know. More important, most important, he would have Marcia Hillis. Despite Tug’s intentions, good or bad, he would have her. He felt it, knew it, and it was all he needed to know.

In his new-found sureness, he was unusually patient with Mr. Rhodes. He was quietly pleasant and polite to Bascom—a Bascom who had become drawn-faced, shifty-eyed, moodily silent unless he was forced to speak. It was easy to be patient now, easy to be pleasant and polite. Feeling as he did—unconquerable and unfearful—he could not be any other way.

The sureness grew. It remained with him, strong and unwavering, during the most acid of tests—his meeting with I. Kossmeyer, attorney at law.

The second day after his fateful talk with Tug Trowbridge, the day bell captain handed Dusty a note when he came on duty. It was from Kossmeyer, a curt scrawl on one of the attorney’s letterheads. It said, simply, Rhodes: Think would be advisable for you to drop into my office tomorrow morning.

Dusty shredded the note, and its enclosing envelope, into a wastebasket. He did not call at Kossmeyer’s office. He didn’t like the little attorney, and he had—he told himself—better things to do with his time.

Two mornings later, as he was leaving the hotel, Kossmeyer met him at the service entrance.

“Want to talk to you, Rhodes,” he said, brusquely. “What about some coffee?”

“Certainly,” Dusty nodded. “Wherever you say, Mr. Kossmeyer.”

They took a booth in a nearby restaurant. Dusty sipped at his coffee, set it down and looked up. And for the first time in days he felt a ruffling of his calm.

Not that he was afraid. He certainly wasn’t afraid of this little pipsqueak of a man. But he was extremely irritated, almost angered. He stared across the table, his irritation mounting, a red flush spreading over his face.

The attorney’s eyes had become preternaturally wide, brimmed with an exaggerated sincerity that made mock of the term. He had tightened the skin of his face, smoothing away its habitual wrinkles, leaving it bland and untroubled. His lips were curled with serenity—a preposterous caricature of it—and his chin was slightly outthrust, posed at an angle of quiet defiance.

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