Nightfall by David Goodis Page B

on him. He could hear them talking in the next room. All at once their voices dropped, and although he had his ear pressed against the door crack, he couldn't make it out. The low-toned conversation went on for quite a while. And then it faded and there was nothing and the nothing went on for a very long time and Vanning couldn't understand that.
      He stood at the door and said, “How long do you figure on keeping me here?”
      There was no answer.
      He said, “It's getting stuffy in here.”
      No answer.
      “At least,” he said, “you might let me have a cigarette.”
      Nothing.
      “Anyway,” he said, “a drink.”
      And there was no answer.
      And he said aloud, “Maybe you're not even there. Maybe you went out for a walk.”
      No answer.
      “All right,” he said. “I'll find out.”
      He opened the door and stood there looking at the empty room.
      The room was terribly empty. The door was closed. And the room was empty. It was good. And that was why it was bad. It was too good. What made it ridiculously good was the revolver that calmly gazed back at him as he stared at it where it rested, emphatically black against the white bedspread. He walked to the bed, picked up the revolver and put it in his coat pocket. For no good reason at all he walked to the window and looked out. He saw an alley, a dark sky and nothing else. He moved across the room and picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey and looked at it and put it down. He picked up a ravaged pack of cigarettes and put one of them in his mouth. He didn't quite know what to do. He told himself that a little calm reasoning ought to get him at the source of this. And he sat on the bed, looked at the floor and tried to reason calmly.
      What they should have done, if they were smart, was to get him alone somewhere, out in the woods or on a dark street, and then kill him in a hurry and take themselves out of Denver. That was the way to do it without complication. This business of walking out on him, leaving him here alone, leaving the revolver on the bed, it added up to an odd maneuver, and the only way to find the answer was to put himself in their place and think along the same lines as they would think. He told himself he ought to be intelligent enough to box with them, as long as they were in the mood for boxing. He told himself, despite the fact that he and John were in two widely separated fields of endeavor, he ought to be able to outwit John, anyway draw up even with John.
      Knowing that liquor wouldn't help, he decided to have a drink, regardless. He stood up, walked toward the dresser where the bottles and ice were assembled, and then he stopped dead, at first frowning, then widening his eyes until they hurt, and then frowning again. And he was staring at the top of the dresser, not staring at the bottles, but staring at the satchel.
      There it was, right there in front of him. The black satchel that John had taken out of the station wagon. A new satchel of finely grained leather. Whatever was in it was filling it, making it strain with bulging. He knew what was in it. He told himself he didn't know what was in it. He told himself to leave the satchel alone, put the gun back on the bed, get out of here and get out of Denver. And do it fast and get it started now. Hurry on to Chicago, go to work at the drawing board, meet a nice girl and start a home. Leave the satchel alone. Leave it alone.
      “Use your head,” he said aloud. “Leave it alone.”
      He rubbed his hands into his eyes. His teeth clicked and clacked. His head was lowered and then he was shaking his head.
      “Come on,” he said. “Come out of it.”
      And then he raised his head and looked at the satchel. It was there, fat and black and shiny and bulging. There was something luscious about it. It looked very