Free The Transgressors by Jim Thompson Page B

eyes as Joyce pulled a robe over her body and silently opened the door of the room. She stood there a moment, pausing on the threshold while she studied him. Then, satisfied, certain that he was still knocked out, she went through the door and silently closed it again.
    Lord stared at it intently; turning the knob, in his imagination, as she had done. He focused on it, all else blotted out of it, and the door came open. Only for an inch or two, but definitely open.
    He remembered being very pleased with himself. He remembered telling himself that any accomplishment, regardless of its nominal impossibility, could be as readily achieved by concentration. That was all you had to do, just think and keep on thinking, and what you desired would be yours.
    Now, why didn’t I start doing this sooner? he thought. I’ll have to —
    He heard the voices then, Joyce grudgingly admitting the man at the front door. Without a sound, as though responding to an electric impulse, he came up off the bed, crossed the room, and peered out into the living room.
    He was in the dark, and they were in the light, sitting conspiratorially—but by no means amiably—close together on the lounge. They were facing him, keeping an eye on the bedroom door, yet obviously unaware that it was slightly open. He could see them perfectly, even to the movement of their lips. But their voices were so low that he had to strain to hear them; could hear them clearly only at brief intervals.
    “…so how…I know? Knocked out anyway, isn’t he?”
    “…the hell you want?”
    “You know what we want. Just what we paid for.”
    “…best I could. Every…I can with him.”
    “…not enough. Not…with McBride…Don’t mind him…but stink…lot of questions.…”
    “…think he did it?”
    “…reasons…Doesn’t matter, anyway…pin him for it.…tough egg. Won’t stop until.…”
    “…won’t do it! I can’t, damn you. I.…”
    “Then, get him away from here, and…let him come back. Move him or pin him. Or we…”
    His thick forefinger stabbed painfully into her breast. Joyce winced, biting her lip as she shrank back from him.
    “Well? Think you got the idea?”
    “…got it.”
    “Hang onto it. It’s the best one you’ll ever have.…”
    There were a few more words, all of them completely inaudible to Lord. They got up from the lounge, then, and Lord eased the door shut and lay down again.
    He was back in his stupor almost as soon as he touched the bed.

8
    G eorge Carrington, president and general manager of the Highlands Oil & Gas Company (a Delaware Corporation; business offices, Fort Worth, Texas) lingered in the hospital corridor while the nurse went on into 4-B, carrying his gifts of a dozen long-stemmed roses and a five-pound box of candy. He was a tall, perfectly turned out man, quick of eye and smile, distinguished, and capable-looking. Yet, for all his air of confidence and capability, there was something wistful about him; a silent pleading for understanding that was particularly attractive to women.
    It was probably the one genuine thing about George Carrington, or at least, the most nearly. About a thousand per cent more genuine than say, his British mannerisms and speech. For Carrington did need understanding (to equate the term with sympathy). He stood constantly in need of it. He liked it and appreciated it, wherever it derived from. But he needed it most, to state an axiomatic paradox, from those who consistently withheld it from him. And since they did, his need—and his air of wistfulness—was constant.
    The things truly important to George Carrington persistently went wrong for him. Even the relatively small things, the indirectly important.
    Now, as the nurse emerged from 4-B, he saw that still another had gone wrong. With diffident apology, she extended the candy and flowers, holding them out to him yet also hanging onto them.
    “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Carrington. Mrs. McBride doesn’t feel that…well, she