Chapter 10

"WHEN I think of the small fortune your goldbricking has cost us," Sandra said as she and Beth drove to the motel, "I could scream."

"I refuse to put on sackcloth and wash my face in ashes," Beth replied, out of sorts, too. "I'm meeting this character, Harold, right now, so what are you complaining about?"

"It's a double date. He's bringing someone for me."

"Oh?"

The car pulled to a halt for a traffic light. "We'll go our separate ways after we've had a drink together." Sandra took a pocket mirror from her handbag and looked at herself quickly before starting off again when the light turned green. "Don't mind me, Beth. I honestly don't mean to be so bitchy, but Harold's pal wouldn't meet me alone on a single date, and Harold refused to have anybody but you. I could have used the money last week, when you were sick, so I got nastier than usual."

Sandra so rarely apologized that Beth softened and actually felt somewhat sorry for her. "You'll make up the difference in a few days."

"Oh, sure. It's just that I'd have saved myself some horrible scenes with Bob."

Beth could not understand how the two subjects were related.

"I bought myself a lot of things on credit, and I was supposed to pay fifty percent last week. When I didn't, the store called Bob at his office. So he put me through an inquisition over the weekend. He wanted to know if I were robbing a bank. You know, all the usual."

"What did you tell him?" I was fortunate, Beth thought, that Charlie didn't like Bob Winterton. If the two men ever met to compare notes, Beth might have her hands full, too.

"I double-talked him like fury, sweetie. And when that didn't work, I retreated behind the iron curtain of an outraged wife." Sandra laughed unhappily. "I have no idea what the goon believes, and I don't care. He can go to hell." She swung into the Stamen's parking lot and switched off the engine.

Both girls applied fresh lipstick and powdered their noses before going inside. Beth's attempt to cheer herself by wearing her expensive new dress with the bolero jacket had failed miserably, and her heart felt like lead. The better part of a week had passed since she had climaxed her date with Dave by going on a shopping spree and getting drunk on Charlie's one hundred proof bourbon, but now she was back in the racket again and felt inconsolable.

Within the next hour she would be mauled and manhandled by someone named Harold, whom she had never met, and would then give herself to him in bed. The prospect was sickening.

But she forced herself to smile brightly and walk with a dainty tread as she and Sandra stepped into the barroom and took a table for four. Business was booming after the Johns had been forced to spend the weekend with their wives, she thought sardonically. Carolyn was sitting with someone across the room, Patsy was nearby and the redhead was engaged in an intimate conversation with a man. Apparently Sandra had found a way to recruit the redhead, but it was typical of her to have said nothing.

This was neither the time nor the place to mention the matter, however, so Beth kept quiet as they sat down. She lighted a cigarette, Sandra did the same and they settled back in their chairs. They did not have long to wait. Almost immediately two middle-aged men, both well groomed and expensively dressed, approached the table, beaming. One was tall and heavy-set, the other much shorter and bespectacled. It afforded Beth a glimmer of ironic amusement to discover that the man with the glasses was Harold.

He did most of the talking, and his friend, George, who was noticeably shy, added almost nothing to the conversation. Sandra did her best to put him at ease, but was only partly successful, and after everyone finished the first drinks, she abruptly suggested that they leave.

"You two have another," she told Beth and Harold. "We don't want to make things too obvious by going into the other wing at the same time."

Harold beckoned the waiter as soon as the other couple had gone, then turned to Beth. "You've toned down quite a bit since I saw you here the other day," he said.

"Yes, I went overboard that day." The memory made her uncomfortable.

"I liked the way you looked," he said and grinned at her intimately.

Suddenly she saw a familiar, burly figure in the entrance and gasped. Bob Winterton was looking straight at her.

He approached the table directly, and there was no escape.

Harold realized that Beth was frightened but had no idea what was wrong.

"Where's Sandra?" Bob demanded as he approached.

"I don't know," Beth answered in a small voice.

Bob glared at her, glancing only briefly at her companion. "That's a lie." Bob loomed over her menacingly.

Harold felt he should protect Beth but did not know what to say or do.

"Why would I lie?" Beth asked weakly.

"I don't know, but I intend to find out." Bob was white around the mouth. "I was following you two in my car. I lost you in traffic, but I finally figured from the way you were headed that you were coming here. Now-where is Sandra?"

"I tell you, I don't know," Beth replied breathlessly. "She was here a little while ago. And then," she added lamely, "she left."

Bob glowered at her again, briefly, then turned on his heel and stalked out.

Beth lost no time gathering her handbag and gloves. "That," she told the bewildered Harold, "is Sandra's husband. I'm going home."

The color drained from his face and he made no attempt to halt her as she hurried out to the taxi stand. He was anxious to leave, too, and frantically summoned the waiter for the bill.

Beth, afraid she would faint, noted that Carolyn and Patsy had seen Bob, but did not pause to find out their reactions. As she climbed into the taxi, she caught a glimpse of Bob through the plate glass windows of the motel. He was headed toward the wing where the bedrooms were located, followed by an anguished assistant manager. She closed her eyes and, as the taxi pulled away, began to think of an alibi that might satisfy Charlie.

Meanwhile, Bob walked rapidly down the carpeted corridor. "You can't convince me you don't know her or remember what she looked like," he said in a deceptively calm, tight voice. "She's a tall girl in a bright pink dress and long gold earrings. She stops traffic, mister, and when you say you haven't seen her, you're a two-bit liar." He swung around, caught the man by his lapels and held a fist close to his face. "If you don't want your teeth pushed down the back of your throat, start talking."

The assistant manager tried to bluster. "You can't come in here making wild accusations and upsetting the decorum of a respectable place, sir. I'll call the police."

Bob's laugh sounded more like a snarl. "Don't bother. "I've already called them, and a squad car ought to be here any second. So-start talking"

The man wilted and told Bob the-room number. Bob released the assistant manager so suddenly that the man fell back against the wall. Then the furious husband raced to the room in question and tapped at the door. "This is the manager," he called, disguising his voice. "Sorry to disturb you, but I'm afraid I've got to move you to another room."

There was a pause and then the door opened and a man peered out.

Bob stuck his foot in the opening, then pushed vigorously. The door flew open and the man, fully dressed, stood rubbing his arm.

Sandra, who had removed her pink dress, stood on the far side of the room in her bra and panties. For an instant she seemed paralyzed when she saw her husband. Then she screamed.

Bob glanced briefly at her companion. "Get out."

The man needed no urging and ran from the room.

Bob slammed the door.

"Sweetie, I know it looks bad, but I want you to listen to me," Sandra said, talking rapidly.

"Shut up." Bob crossed the room to her, measured her and slapped her hard across the face.

She screamed again, more loudly.

"That won't do you any good. Nothing will." He slapped her with still greater force across the other cheek.

Sandra knew she was cornered and, trying to protect herself, retreated and picked up an ash tray.

Bob caught hold of her wrist before she could throw it at him. He squeezed hard, and she dropped the ash tray.

"You lousy, goddamned whore."

In her terror Sandra found the courage to laugh at him. "Do you know why I did it? Because you're no good in bed."

He lost his temper completely and, lashing out at her with his fist, caught her full in the mouth.

A trickle of blood streamed down her chin, but Sandra refused to humble herself. "That's right," she said. "Hit a woman."

He came toward her once more, fists flailing, and beat her with a swift succession of lefts and rights.

Sandra clawed and kicked and scratched but to no avail. Her long hair fell loose and, as it tumbled down her back, several strands swept across her face, momentarily blinding her.

In the distance the siren of a police car wailed.

Bob was unaware of anything but the presence of the woman who had cuckolded and disgraced him. He continued to punch her, fists drubbing with the steady rhythm of a trained boxer until Sandra, unable to tolerate any more, slumped to the floor at his feet and lost consciousness.

She was still there when two policemen burst into the room and found Bob standing over her, fists still clenched, weeping silently.

The lightning of a photographer's flashbulb restored him to his senses. "I'm Bob Winterton, the guy who called Captain O'Brien," he said to the policeman who gripped his shoulder and arm. "I'll go to headquarters with you, so don't worry about me. There are plenty of other cheating broads in this place. Go round them up."

Eyewitnesses later declared they had never seen anything like the frantic scenes that took place in the next quarter of an hour. Another squad car arrived and police officers combed the entire motel, methodically knocking on every door. Three girls were placed under arrest, and their escorts held as material witnesses. An ambulance pulled up at the entrance, its siren howling and, as two policemen started to carry the unconscious Sandra to it on a stretcher, someone had the sense to throw a blanket over her half-nude body. Bob Winterton seemed more like the director of the operation than a man under arrest and conferred quietly with the police sergeant who stood in the lobby.

A crowd of curious people gathered behind a hastily erected barrier, and a fresh sensation was provided when the assistant manager, loudly protesting his innocence, appeared handcuffed to a policeman. Bob stepped up to him, asked that the handcuffs be removed and then, not saying another word, felled the man with a single blow. Not one of the half-dozen police officers in the motel lobby interfered.

"It was like a movie, but better," an elderly Owendale matron was quoted as saying by one of the newspapers.

It was deathly quiet in the Hubbard house, and one small light burned in a living room lamp. Beth huddled in a chair, listening to the clock on the mande chime twelve, and for the thousandth time wondered where Charlie had gone after receiving a phone call that had interrupted them at dinner. He had left the better part of his meal uneaten and had dashed out to his car, saying only that he didn't know when he would return.

The evening, like the afternoon that had preceded it, had been an endless horror.

The worst was knowing that a great deal had happened and that still more was happening. Denied all detailed information, Beth had spent hours in a void, her ignorance increasing her already aroused fears and exciting her imagination. After arriving home from the motel and recovering from her own immediate sense of shock, Beth had made repeated and futile attempts to call her friends. No one had answered the phone at the Winterton house. Carolyn and Jim Anderson's house had been deserted, too. A baby-sitter at the Blair's had said that Patsy had not returned from a luncheon engagement but had been unable to give her any further information.

Shortly before Charlie had arrived home for dinner, a brief announcement on a radio news program had provided Beth with the first definite clue that all hell had broken loose at the Stamen. "A prostitution ring," the commentator had said, "has been broken up in fashionable Owendale. A number of arrests have been made, and the authorities are confident that the ring has been smashed. For the present, no names are being made public.

What had happened to Sandra? Beth wondered. Were Carolyn and Patsy safe? And what about the redhead?

Beth simply did not know, and the phone calls she had tried to make since Charlie's departure had been fruitless.

She was chiefly concerned for her own safety and future, of course. Bob Winterton could cause Beth plenty of trouble by revealing that he had found her sitting with a strange man in the motel taproom, but his testimony would not be conclusive evidence that Beth was a prostitute. She was prepared to deny the charge vehemently, and there was at least an outside chance that she could make her story stick.

Provided that Sandra did not talk, Beth thought. Or Patsy. Or Carolyn. If they implicated Beth, her denials would be meaningless. It was possible, too, that the authorities, whoever they were, might obtain a list of Johns. Bruce, if questioned, might admit having had relations with Beth. Certainly Dave couldn't be trusted and would tell everything he knew if the heat were applied. Harold, to be sure, could only say he had met Beth for an assignation but that circumstances had made it impossible for him to carry out his intention. Even that, however, would be enough to condemn her.

Beth switched on the radio for the late news roundup, and her feelings of frustration and terror increased when she heard nothing more than virtually a repeat of the original bulletin.

She had no idea where to reach Charlie. She was tempted to call the local police station but was afraid of becoming involved beyond her ability to extricate herself if an inquisitive policeman started asking the reasons for her interest. It was urgent that she protect herself, yet she was being deprived of even the basic grounds of self-defense. The situation was intolerable, but she was completely helpless.

Stepping out into the front yard, Beth stood in the balmy night, unaware of the weather or the stars winking in a blue-black sky overhead. Every house in sight was dark, with the exception of the Cape Cod down the block owned by an elderly couple who would know nothing of sensational developments that had been taking place under their noses. Fighting back the hysteria that threatened to engulf her, Beth returned to the house.

She desperately wanted a drink, but forced herself to abstain, knowing that tonight, of all times in her life, she needed to keep her mind and senses alert. Her pack of cigarettes was empty, so she opened another. Eventually, she thought wearily, the night would pass. Eventually she would learn something.

The clock chimed one o'clock, and she heard a car pulling into the driveway. Peering cautiously out of the side window of the living room, she saw first that it was not Charlie's car. Then she made out the silhouette of a woman at the wheel, and hurried outside.

The engine was still running, and Beth recognized the redhead with whom Beth had never really had the opportunity to become friendly.

"Here are the early editions of tomorrow's tabloids," the girl said without preamble, thrusting newspapers at Beth. "They'll tell you everything I can, and faster." White with fatigue, she seemed anxious to leave quickly. "Yeah, they snagged me," the redhead continued. "But to hell with them, to hell with my husband and to hell with this lousy town. I'm out on bail, and I'm going to travel so far from here they'll never find me."

Fear paralyzed Beth. "What-"

"You'll see it all in the newspapers. Just don't worry, kid. Nobody has blabbed about you and the others who weren't caught, and nobody will." The automobile engine protested when the redhead slammed into reverse and drove away.

Beth dashed back into the house, and caught her breath when she saw a front-page photo of a battered Sandra stretched out at the feet of a Bob Winterton.

Beth read rapidly and soon gleaned all the facts.

Bob had caught Sandra with a man, and had given her a bad beating. She was in a room at the Owendale Hospital, where her condition was reported as fair. As she had been identified both as a prostitute and as an arranger of rendezvous, a policeman was stationed outside her room, and she would be taken to the town jail as soon as her condition improved sufficiently for her to be moved.

Bob Winterton was being held in jail on charges of assault and battery. No bail had yet been set for him.

Carolyn Anderson and Patsy Blair had been caught at the motel, as had the redhead, whose name was Vera Calbie. All three had confessed that they met men at the motel regularly. They had been booked as professional prostitutes.

The assistant manager of the Stamen was in jail, too, on charges of having acted as a procurer.

The motel itself had been closed, under a seldom-invoked town ordinance, on the grounds that it had been an establishment used for immoral purposes.

One paragraph in particular caught Beth's eye and, when she recovered her equilibrium sufficiently, she read it again and again: "Captain Charles O'Brien of the Owendale police admits that no progress has been made in attempts to learn the identities of other housewives said to be part of the vice ring. He promises, however, that no efforts will be spared to find these women."

So far, at least, Beth was safe. And she took comfort in the redhead's reassuring words: "Nobody has blabbed, and nobody will."

In spite of her shock, Beth felt a relief greater than she had known since the awful moment when she had seen Bob staring at her across the Stamen bar.

For a few minutes, she sat very still, then read the newspapers again, wincing when she saw the battered Sandra, cringing when she saw photos of Carolyn and Patsy and the redhead.

Finally Beth knew that she should act quickly before Charlie returned and wanted to know who had brought her the newspapers. Folding them carefully, she took them to the fireplace and burned them, then stirred the ashes to make certain that Charlie would not even recognize them as charred newspapers. Then she went upstairs and changed out of her expensive cotton dress into her nightgown. Her best defense would be to feign complete innocence, so she climbed into bed and turned off the light.

Exhausted by the strains of the blackest day she had ever known, she soon drifted off into a light, troubled sleep.