The Collection (86 page)

"Do
you think that will carry?"

"I
don't know. It's a hell of a gamble, to be honest with you.

But
I
like
it. I'm going to give it every break, including the best casting
I can do--and friendship ends there, Wayne. I'm sorry."

"I
understand that," I told him. "I don't want it unless you think I can
handle it. But it happens I can. I lied to you before. I have read the play.
Lola's a friend of Taggert; he lent her a carbon of it and I read it. I think
it needs a stronger third act, but I like the first two. The first is
definitely good: this mild-mannered guy, a little off the beam, trying to
convince people he's killed his wife and not being believed--I can handle that.
You still don't believe I killed Lola tonight, do you, Adrian?"

"Let's
drop the gag, boy. You've milked it, but it's wearing thin. What I don't think
you can do, and do right, is the second part of it--from the point in the
middle of the second act where the other characters--and the audience--begin to
wonder."

I
said, "This has just been the first act--of tonight. I can make you begin
to wonder."

"Look,
boy, I'd
like
to give you the part."

I
put my martini glass down on the bar, and turned a little on the stool to look
at him squarely. I waited until I caught his eye.

I
said, "Adrian, I
am
pulling your leg--about the part in your play.
I won't be able to take it."

"I'm
glad you feel that way about it, Wayne. Because--well, I did hate to turn you
down. Got another engagement?"

"I
may have," I said. "With a chair, Adrian. You see--I wasn't kidding
about the other thing.
I killed Lola tonight."

He
stared at me for what must have been ten seconds before his face changed and he
started to laugh, that hearty booming laughter that one always associates with
Adrian Carr.

He
clapped me on the shoulder again and I almost lost my precarious balance on the
bar stool.

He
called out "Mike!" and the bartender shambled toward us behind the
bar. Adrian said, "Two more martinis, Mike, and use that special vermouth
you've got. You didn't on those last two ones, did you?"

"Sorry, Mr. Carr, I forgot. Coming up."

"And have one with us, Mike, while you're mixing them.
Mike, I want you to meet a pretty good actor who's trying to pretend he's a
pretty bad actor. Wayne Dixon, Mike. He just killed his wife."

I reached across the bar to shake hands with Mike. I said,
"Glad to know you, Mike."

"Likewise, Mr. Dixon."

He put ice in the mixer glass and three jiggers of gin. He
said, "Always wanted to kill mine, Mr. Dixon. How'd you do it?"

"With a gun," I said. "You've got a nice place
here, Mike. I live only five or six blocks away. How come I never discovered
it?"

"Dunno. Been here three years. But then there are a
lot of bars in a radius of five or six blocks in New York. Yeah, we run a nice
place. Quiet tonight, though."

"Way I like it," I told him. "And if you
start that juke box I'll shoot you."

He looked back at it and frowned. "Me? No. Got to have
one for the customers who want it, but me, I never touch the thing. I like
music. Say, there's one good record on there, though, if you get in the mood.
An early Harry James, before he went commercial."

"Later, maybe. Which one?"

"That one he plays straight trumpet solo and blue as
they come.
Sleepy Time Gal
."

Something twisted inside me; I hadn't been set for it. It
had been Lola's favorite tune. I could still hear her humming it in that low
throaty voice. Mike put the glasses in front of us and filled them from the
mixer. He'd guessed short, but that didn't matter because he filled his own
last and a bartender always drinks them short.

He said, "Here's to crime."

I wanted to down mine at a gulp, but I took only a sip. I
had to stay sober. I thought, one or two more--that's my limit.

Adrian Carr said, "Mike, you've met Mrs. Dixon, Wayne's
wife. Been here with me--ah--two or three months ago. Remember, I introduced
her to you as the former Lola Harcourt, used to be with Billy Rose. Blonde and
svelte--you can translate that as gracefully slender, Mike--and still fairly
sober. . . ."

"Sure," Mike said. "Sure I remember her.
She's the best looker ever was in here. No kidding, Mr. Dixon, is that really
your wife?"

"She was," I said.

"Oh. Divorced?"

I said flatly, "Dead. I killed her tonight.
Remember?"

He grinned. "Oh, sure."

Carr glanced at me. "Did Lola mention running into me
that night, Wayne? First time I'd seen her in a year or so. I was sitting in my
car waiting for a green light, to cross Fifth Avenue, and she saw me from the
sidewalk and came over and got in beside me. I bought her a couple of drinks
here and then dropped her off at your place. She said you weren't home so I
didn't drop up."

I laughed a little. "That sounds like a lot of
explanation for something so innocent, Adrian. But yes, as a matter of fact she
did mention it. That's when I first heard about the Bluebeard play. It was
later that she borrowed a copy of the script from Taggert. How's he doing, by
the way?"

"Not too well, I'm afraid. He was so head over heels
in the hole that the advance I gave him on this play didn't do him too much
good. Of course if it goes over, he'll be all right. But you know how that is.
One play out of ten really makes any money. And even if this one has a fairly
good run, I have a hunch it won't ever hit the movies. The theme, you know. The
movies don't like to be flippant about murder."

"Having read it," I said, "I think you're
right, Adrian. It'll run a few months, though. And it'll mean a lot of prestige
to the actors with the fat roles."

He
nodded thoughtfully. He said, "Wayne, I've just been thinking, seriously.
I want to talk to you. Let's go over and sit in a booth, eh?"

"About
Lola or about the role?"

"Both."

"Okay,"
I said.

We
crossed over and Adrian Carr hung his opera cape and top hat beside one of the
booths and we sat down across from one another. Under the cape, Adrian was in
impeccable full dress; his shirt front gleamed immaculately white, adorned by
chastely small star sapphire studs.

He
called out "Mike!" and I caught Mike's eyes as he looked toward us.
"Just one, Mike," I said. "I'll skip this round."

Then
I looked across at Adrian. I said, "Let me talk first, will you? Let me
say for you what you were going to say about Lola. If
I
say it for
you--well, that's going to be different than if you do. Can you understand what
I mean, Adrian?"

"I
can, Wayne. Maybe it's better that way."

"You
were going to tell me I should leave Lola, divorce her. That she's no good for
me. That her thoughtlessness and her extravagance and her drinking and running around
have held me down, have spoiled my chances on the stage--or anywhere
else."

He
nodded slowly, not quite looking at me.

I
said, "You were going to tell me she is both petty and vicious."

"And,
Wayne, I don't know which is the worse of those two."

"I
do," I said. "I know now. I used to wonder."

Trouble, On the House

I
stopped talking as Mike brought Adrian Carr's martini. Adrian said,
"You're sure you won't have another, Wayne?" and when I said I was
sure, Mike went away.

I
said, "You were also going to tell me that she isn't faithful to me. Maybe
you were going to tell me she's in love with someone else. Were you?"

"I'm
not sure of that last, Wayne. Her being in love with someone else. But--"

"Let's
skip it, Adrian. I've said it all for you and saved you from being a Dutch
uncle. And there are two things wrong with it. First, I know it all already and
I loved her anyway. Call it chemistry or call it insanity or call it what you
like, but I loved her in spite of all that."

"Loved?"

"She's
dead, Adrian. I killed her tonight, remember? That's the other thing that's
wrong with all the things you were going to say--the tenses. I used the present
tense because I was quoting you, what you would have said. You still don't
believe that I killed her, do you?"

"Damn
it, boy, I wish you'd quit that line. You're beginning to give me the creeps.
Keep it up much longer and I'm going to phone Lola and ask her to join us, just
to be sure."

He
stared at me for a long moment. He asked quietly, "You
are
acting,
aren't you. It
is
a
gag, isn't it?"

I
laughed and I could see the tension go out of his face. I said, "I did
make you wonder, Adrian."

He
took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You did, at that. Just made me
wonder. You didn't convince me."

"I
don't want to convince you," I told him. "This is only the second
act, for one thing. And for another--well, skip that. I didn't really want to
convince you."

"You
talk strangely tonight, Wayne. How much have you been drinking today?"

"Two
highballs this afternoon, hours ago. And two martinis with you, just now.
That's all. I'm sober. I think I'm soberer than I've ever been in my life.
Maybe that's why I'm talking too much. . . .You're still wondering a little,
aren't you, Adrian?"

He
chuckled. "I guess I am, a little. You wore me down. The old Nazi and
Communist technique--tell a lie often enough and people will begin to believe
it, no matter how obvious a lie it is. Tell me about ten more times and I'll
probably call the police."

"Would
you, really?"

"I
don't . . . know. Look, boy, if by any one chance out of ten million you were
telling the truth, you're being a damn fool. You shouldn't sit around telling
people you did it and waiting for the police to come and get you. Look, boy,
if
you did and it is a--what's the phrase I want?--a rap you can't beat, you'd
better get out of town fast. Head for--well I wouldn't suggest where and I
wouldn't want to know where. And if you're broke, I've got a little over two
hundred dollars with me. You're welcome to it and you can send it back some
day, if and when."

I
leaned across the table and tapped his arm. I said, "Adrian, you're a good
joe. But I don't want or need any money. Tell me, do you really think by now
that I killed Lola?"

"Of
course not. But on the thousandth chance --"

"A
minute ago it was one chance in ten million; you're coming down. I know you'd
like it better if I recanted, but I'm going to be cussed about it. That's my
story and I'll stick to it a while. I killed Lola tonight. Now what are the
odds? One in a hundred?"

"Cut
it out, Wayne." His voice was sharp.

"All
right," I said amiably. "I won't say it again, but I won't recant it
either. Settle for that? And now--about this part in your Bluebeard play. Can I
handle it?"

I
saw him sigh with relief. Then he smiled. "That's just as good as
recanting, isn't it? I mean, you wouldn't be interested in that if--"

"Not
unless I had a special reason. But let's skip that. Yes, I want the part. You
haven't actually signed anyone else for it, have you?"

"No.
Taggert wants Roger Deane. What do you think of Deane?"

I
said, "He's good. He could do it nicely."

Adrian
Carr chuckled. "Won't even run down a rival. You'd make a hell of a
criminal. You won't even say Deane's getting old. He is, you know."

"Across
the footlights, with make-up, he can look thirty."

Carr
gestured helplessly. "So you think I should get Deane?"

"I
didn't say that. I say he's good, because he
is
good. I want you to
think I'm better. I'm sweating blood to make you think I'm better. Listen,
Adrian, I know you won't give me a yes here and now, because I know you always
give your playwright and director a say in things. If Taggert wants Deane for
his play, you wouldn't hire me without giving him a chance to argue you down
first. And Taggert
is
going to direct this thing for you, as well as
having written it, isn't he?"

"Yes,
Taggert's going to direct, too. I'll take you to see him tomorrow--or have you
both over at my place. Mind you, I'm not saying yes myself. It's just
that--well, I'm willing to consider you. I'd like you to read a few of the
lines--the high points--for me and Taggert. Okay?"

"Almost,"
I said. "I want to see Taggert tonight. Sure, it's almost midnight but
he's a night-owl. Goes to bed at dawn and sleeps till after noon."

"What's
the rush?"

I
said, "You're not saying yes, but I've got you sold. Right now. Tomorrow
you might weaken. You might forget the beautiful histrionics I put on for you.
You might forget you just offered me two hundred bucks to help me skip to
Mexico. Besides, I'm an impatient guy; I hate to wait."

He
laughed. "Also you're the highest-handed buccaneer who ever hit me for a
role. What makes you think he might be home?"

"Maybe
he isn't. A nickel finds out. I've got one. I'd
you
phoned him, though, Adrian. I know the guy only slightly."

Carr sighed and slid out of the booth. "I'll phone
him," he said. "God knows why I let you bulldoze me like this, Wayne.
Maybe you've got me a little scared of you."