Deep is the Pit Read online

  Dotty was staggered by the sum and was about to throw her arms about Marty in gratitude, but paused in the act. There was a cold and calculating light in his eyes that warned her. He was not being magnanimous. He was telling her to be on her way and was simply making it possible. She walked quickly to the door and opened it, then looked back at him over her shoulder.

  “Keep out of trouble, Red. Please.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Look, darling, I’m from the wrong side of the tracks, too. I know some of the answers. Wearing gloves on a day like this. You had a gun under your coat when you came in here. And that red hair of yours. We’ve been too close for me not to know it’s phony. Doesn’t that all add up to something pretty obvious?”

  Marty jumped for her and tightened his fingers about her arms in a grip of steel. His features were suddenly ugly, cruel, and vicious. “Maybe you’ve been adding up a little too much.”

  She gritted her teeth to hold back the pain in her arms, but her eyes never wavered from his. “Not too much, Red. Just enough to know you’re not selling magazines to work your way through college. But you can’t do anything about that. All you can do is trust me. Funny, isn’t it? You’re the one giving me the brush-off and walking out, yet I’m the one you have to trust. Do you think you can?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can. Believe me.” She started to laugh. “Anyway, you have to.” She leaned toward him and brushed his lips. “Good-by, darling.”

  Marty stared into her eyes. Gradually his hands relaxed their grip, then dropped from her arms. She rubbed her hands over her arms, stepped through the door, and closed it after her. The scent of her perfume remained in the room, tingling strong in Marty’s nostrils. The black rage faded from his eyes and a smile tugged at his lips. Dotty was all right. Nothing to worry about there. Good gal. Besides, she would shortly be on her way to New York. That made everything perfect.

  He turned away from the door and hurried to get out of his clothes. As soon as he was naked he stepped into the bathroom and switched on the light. He opened his mouth wide and took out a long piece of sponge rubber from between his lower lip and jaw. He took another piece from behind his upper lip and flushed the two of them down the bowl. When he faced the mirror his appearance had already been considerably altered. The puffy look was gone from about his mouth, his chin came more into prominence, and his features seemed thinner, more finely etched.

  Marty cut the mustache away with a pair of scissors, lathered his face, and proceeded to shave. He went over his upper lip carefully with the razor, then attacked the sideburns, raising them about a half inch higher than they had been. After he had washed he blended a hair tint in a bowl, dipped in a new toothbrush, and worked the tint into his hair. He went about the job with patience and skill. Twenty minutes later he rinsed his hair and gave it a vigorous shampoo. He was no longer Red Martin, or George “Red” Brown, the alias he was using in the rooming house.

  After a quick shower he again dressed, but in other clothes from the suitcase. He stood before the bureau mirror and narrowly appraised himself. Marty Lee, the image he was facing, would never have spoken to a person like Red Martin. Marty Lee looked successful, arrogant, rather vain, and definitely expensive. His hair was brown, a dark brown, its natural color, which blended well with cold blue eyes that had always appeared green whenever his hair had been red, which had been often. He was a study in brown and matching shades; brown shoes of the moccasin type, a yellow and tan hand-knit tie, a custom-made shirt, a sandy linen handkerchief, and a beautifully tailored dark tan gabardine suit.

  Marty smiled with pleasure. Now he belonged to the Top o’ the Mark crowd, the theatre hour and expensively gowned women. Now he belonged wherever he chose to place himself. He was more than satisfied with his reflection.

  He snapped another and more expensive watch over his wrist and glanced at the time. Almost one o’clock. He would have to stay in the room until at least one-fifteen, as the landlady rarely left until that time. It would not do to have her see an apparent stranger leaving the place with luggage. Marty did not believe in taking even small chances.

  He settled himself in a chair by the windows and tried to interest himself in a magazine. He could not concentrate on it. He threw it aside and stared out the window. He hoped that Hank and Joe were able to get away without trouble, but was not too worried even if they should be picked up, which, inevitably, would happen sooner or later. They knew nothing about him and so could tell the police nothing. Marty was nationally famous in the underworld, but only as Red Martin. None of his many partners in crime had ever known him as Marty Lee, and always, between jobs, he had reverted to his natural self. Always, too, as Marty Lee, he had gone to work in hotels throughout the country, either as clerk or assistant manager. He was known in the hotel business as an excellent man, but a drifter. No one he knew could tie in his legitimate background with criminal activities.

  He dismissed Hank and Joe from his mind. They would undoubtedly spend most of their years in penitentiaries, but that was not for him to worry about.

  Marty left the chair and restlessly paced the floor. There was a glow of intensity in his eyes fed from an inner spring of mounting excitement. Now, at last, after all the dangerous years, he had the stake he needed to start operating on the scale he had always dreamed about. No more cheap rooming houses, or having to clerk in minor hotels, or making chameleon changes of appearance, or walking into a bank with a sawed-off shotgun under his arm and a hard knot of cold fear in the pit of his stomach. Now he could walk into a bank as a respected citizen, a successful man.

  He paused in his pacing and chuckled quietly. A successful man? By almost any financial standards he was already a success. He had more than a quarter of a million dollars scattered throughout the country in various banks and another $55,200 in the brief case. He could retire on that and take it easy the rest of his life. But Marty was only thirty-two years old, and taking it easy had never been part of his dream. Three hundred thousand or more, in his planning, was peanuts.

  He resumed his pacing and thought, Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I should just coast and enjoy myself. But no, by God. I’ve risked my life for this dough and I’ve killed for it. Spending it would be stupidity. It has to be used. Stick to your plan. Use it.

  There was a woman in Chicago crippled for life by a shotgun blast. She had screamed at the wrong time. There was a dead policeman in Toledo. Sixteen of his former confederates, to his knowledge, were serving long sentences behind bars. Three others had wound up on slabs in the morgue. In New York there was a Mrs. Martin waiting on tables in a cheap restaurant, wondering if Red would ever come back to her. In Miami there was another Mrs. Martin serving time for having driven the getaway car. She had talked when she realized Red was gone for good. And in New Orleans a third Mrs. Martin was in a hospital recovering from a beating for having doubted that Red was all he claimed to be, which was simply Red Martin, armed robber.

  Spending the money, after all that, would be worse than stupid. The only sensible thing was to stick to the plan, the long plan put together in the jungles of South Pacific islands, on trains and ships, in the concrete canyons of the cities, and in the long, long hours of sleepless nights. He had what he wanted. Now he could take that final step that would be a springboard into the big time.

  Marty stopped before the bureau mirror and again appraised himself. He had it. He had it all. It was in his chin and his eyes and the clothes he wore and the set of his shoulders. His doubts faded as he winked at himself.

  “Marty Lee,” he laughed, “business executive. How do you like that?”

  His image seemed to like it.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS midafternoon when Marty stepped out of a taxicab in front of the old Stannard Hotel on Powell Street. He glanced up at the façade of the huge gray building with the gleam of ownership in his eyes. If all went well, if he had planned right and could sell that plan to the right p
arties, the hotel would soon be his.

  He went into the cool, dim lobby, quiet and conservative, rather stuffy and very much out of fashion. A bellboy followed with his suitcase, portable radio, and brief case. Marty waved him on to the desk and paused to look about the great lobby with a sharp, eager expression. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany and studded with old-fashioned baroque carvings. There was a number of supporting marble columns along one side of the room and a free use of ornamental marble elsewhere. Even the desk and cigar counters were of marble. The lounges were overly large and built for comfort, the dozens of leather chairs scattered about were also much too large and cumbersome, and an orderly row of writing desks along one wall had the appearance of a deserted schoolroom. Most of the guests in the lobby, either waiting for someone or just killing time, were elderly. They were the key to the whole atmosphere of the hotel — elderly.

  The Stannard, though damaged, had survived the fire and earthquake of 1906 and had at one time been known as the most luxurious hotel in California. Presidents and governors had stopped there and entertained, and dining in the Oak Room had once been counted a social privilege. But the only change in the hotel since its reconstruction in 1908 had been the recent addition of modern, high-speed elevators. Otherwise it still had the appearance of catering to the carriage trade. One almost expected to see hoop skirts swirling through the lobby. It was entirely in keeping with the cable cars that passed before it up and down Powell Street, but the modern life of the city had passed it by. Though San Franciscans enjoyed the atmosphere and traditions of the Stannard, they were nevertheless staying away in great numbers. There was a serious rumor that the hotel was to be torn down and replaced by an office building or garage.

  Marty hoped that the rumor was true.

  He crossed to the reservations counter and gave the clerk his name. The dignified old gentleman bumbled about among his files, was sidetracked for a while by something else that caught his attention, but at last came up with Marty’s name on a reservation card. He handed a key to the bellboy and said pleasantly, “Seven-o-eight, Mr. Lee. A corner suite, as you requested.” He drummed his fingers on the counter and blinked into space, trying to remember something. A smile of gratification and triumph appeared in his eyes. “I do believe you sent some luggage ahead. Did you not, sir?”

  Marty rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile. “Yes. A trunk and some suitcases. Will you have the porter send them up?”

  “Immediately, sir.” He looked down at the reservation card, then back at Marty. “I see you are from Los Angeles. If you don’t mind my saying so, we San Franciscans are not supposed to admit that Los Angeles exists, but I find it rather nice down there. Especially Long Beach, of course. The soft weather. Yes. Very nice indeed.” He added wistfully, “I am looking forward to retiring there one of these days.”

  Marty thought, It may be sooner than you think.

  He followed the bellboy across the lobby to the elevators. There they had to wait a moment, so Marty turned and glanced idly about the room just as a man and woman entered the lobby from the barroom. Marty dismissed the man with a brief glance, but his eyes fastened on the woman and a slow fire burned in their depths. She had the lithe grace and well-rounded firmness of youth and the rare natural beauty that comes from within to glow in every cell and affect every movement. Her carefully tended jet-black hair highlighted milky-white skin, the dress she wore was obviously a Paris original, and she had the poise of unshakable assurance that could be acquired only at birth. To Marty, however, she represented everything he hated about a woman.

  As a sometime clerk in the better hotels he had had to face such women, being obsequious and humble, knowing that to them he simply did not exist. They talked at him, but not to him. They looked at him, but did not see him. They asked his opinion on minor matters and were surprised that he had one. When they wanted something they stated their desires, but never asked. Sometimes they flirted with him — for a thrill. It was their idea of slumming. Their politeness drove him mad. Their indifference urged him to kill. They lived in a world where he could never belong. Marty could accept the men of that class, but never the women. His nature was too dominant ever to accept the women at their own value. The women he hated.

  He watched her cross the lobby and noticed the attention she received, the elderly men glancing up and smiling at her, the bellboy rushing before her, the desk clerk bowing and smiling, and the doorman rushing in to open the door for her with a great flourish. She disappeared, but left a ripple of excitement in her wake. It was as if a small summer storm had swept gently through a field of ripening grain.

  Marty turned back to the elevators and found that his hands were clenched into fists. He swore under his breath and opened his fingers. Someday, he thought — by God, someday …

  Marty watched the bellboy as they took an elevator up to the seventh floor and entered 708. He could almost tell the exact condition of any hotel by watching the bellboys. This one was in keeping with the tired atmosphere of the Stannard. He was young, but he was not experienced, he was not alert, and he lacked the sharply shrewd features that came from working in a busy hotel. Marty tipped him a dollar, pleased with the boy’s astonished reaction.

  As he was leaving, Marty said, “Just a minute, boy.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Any chance of having a girl sent up?”

  The boy blinked at him and gulped audibly. “A girl, sir?”

  “Sure. A call girl. She’d have to be young, though, definitely a blonde, and — ”

  “Oh, no, sir.” The boy backed quickly out of the door, horrified by the idea. “Indeed not, sir.” He slammed the door slightly harder than necessary.

  Marty burst into loud laughter. He knew all he had to know about the bellboy staff of the hotel.

  He wandered through the suite of sitting room, bedroom, and service pantry, and liked what he saw. The rooms were large and airy, the ceilings high, and the furnishings, though old, were comfortable, suggesting an original expensive investment. There was a spaciousness about the rooms no longer found in modern hotels. Marty had little difficulty imagining what they would be like with the added splash of much color and the baroque appointments exaggerated to cuteness. Women would sigh over them and men settle down comfortably with pipe and slippers. And it could be done so easily, with so few changes.

  His luggage, which he had sent on from Los Angeles the month before, arrived while he was still inspecting the rooms. The porter was so old that Marty had to help him with the trunk. Marty unpacked as soon as the man left. It was not just a matter of taking out his suits and hanging them in a closet. He unpacked thoroughly, everything he owned. When the porter took the luggage back down for storage it was empty. Marty was counting on a long stay.

  He looked up the name of Frank Stannard in the telephone book, found the Montgomery Street office number, and had the hotel operator call it for him. He talked with an operator at the other end and in a moment was talking with Stannard’s secretary. When he explained who he was she said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Lee. Mr. Stannard received your letter about a month ago. You say you are in town now?”

  “I’m stopping at the Stannard Hotel.”

  “I see. You requested an appointment. Ah, let me see…. Oh, here it is. Yes. Mr. Stannard will see you tomorrow at three, if that is convenient.”

  “Very good. I’ll be there at three.”

  “Incidentally, Mr. Lee, Mr. Stannard is always prompt with his appointments himself.”

  “I’ll be there at three sharp.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Marty hung up, shook hands with himself, and again laughed out loud. He was feeling very good. The first step had been taken and he was on his way. He thought of the men he had fought with, lying in foxholes on stinking Pacific islands, dreaming aloud about what they were going to do after the war, all of them doubting, wondering, more than a little anxious and fearful about it. But Marty had never had a doubt and had fr
eely expounded his philosophy to anyone who would listen:

  “The important thing is to get a stake. Always keep that in mind. That comes before anything. It makes no difference how you get it, but get it, and get a big one while you’re at it. When you have that you can go places. Without it you’re nothing. You’re a faceless jerk who’ll beat his brains in for the other guy’s benefit and get nowhere. You might as well start paying rent at Bellevue. But with a good stake you got a chance. That’s the works. That’s the whole problem wrapped up in a nutshell.”

  Marty had his stake.

  When he went down to dinner in the Oak Room, dimly lit with crystal chandeliers, he felt even better. While he ate an excellent and hearty meal he read of the daring bank robbery in the evening papers. As usual, most of the so-called facts from the eyewitnesses were all wrong. The bank manager claimed that three men had entered the bank and the vice-president said the number had been four, though others stoutly maintained it had been two men only. Two sidewalk witnesses said that three men had gone inside while one remained on the sidewalk with a machine gun, in addition to the man driving the car. Marty chuckled. A machine gun, of all things. No professional bank robber in his right mind would get anywhere near a machine gun. Besides the possibility of jamming, the range of a machine gun was too great. It was not accurate when used under pressure, and too many people could be killed in such close quarters. They were after money, not a massacre. Nothing ever invented could beat the old reliable sawed-off shotgun for that kind of work.

  The rest of the account also was mostly in error. Hank had been described as a young man over six feet tall, with blond hair and a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. Hank was actually in his forties, of medium height, almost entirely bald, and had never used a handkerchief. Witnesses evidently loved their movie embroidery. Joe was not described at all.