The Collection (87 page)

"Just so it gets results," I told him.

He stood there. He asked, "What's that smear on your
coat just under the lapel?"

"Blood," I said. "I tried to sponge it off
when I washed up in the subway station. It wouldn't all come out."

He stood there looking down at me for what must have been
ten seconds. Then he grunted, "Third act, huh?"

"Is there blood in the third act? I don't
remember."

"There will be. I'm going to tell Taggert to put some
in. It's a nice touch."

I said, "I've known nicer. But it's always
effective."

As he turned to walk toward the phone, I asked, making it
very casual, "Are you going to phone Taggert or the police?"

He glared at me and I grinned at him. Then without a word
he turned and walked to the phone booth at the back of the bar.

I sat there and sweated, wondering which call he was going
to make.

He came back and I knew by his face that it was all right.
Adrian Carr is two-thirds ham, yes, but he can't act. If he'd called the
police, if he'd really believed me at last, it would have stuck out all over
him.

He said, "Taggert's home and going to be there. He was
working on the third act. Said to come over any time."

"Good," I said. "Want to go right
away?"

"Let's have one more drink. I said we'd be there
around one, and he said fine, he'd have the rewrite on that third-act curtain
ready to show me. So we'll give him time to finish it."

I glanced at my watch; it was five minutes after twelve.

"If I'm going over there," he said, "there's
something I might as well take--some scene sketches I got today from Brachman.
He's going to design the settings for us. Taggert will want to see them."

"Nobody in the business works as closely with a
playwright as you do. You give him a real break, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Why not? Particularly in this case.
Taggert isn't just a writer; he's directed and acted and knows the stage inside
out. Besides, in a way he's got more to lose than I have."

"How?"

"If the play flops I'm out a piece of change; but I've
got more. But Taggert's broke and in a hole; the one chance out of ten of this
play's going over is his one chance out of ten of making a comeback. He's had
two flops in a row--and he isn't prolific."

"He gets his advance, anyway."

"He's had it and it's gone; he was in the hole more
than that. After me for more, but I'm not a philanthropist. You want to wait
here while I go the couple of blocks home and get those sketches? I'll bring my
car around, too; this is a bad neighborhood to catch taxis in."

"Okay," I said. I didn't want him to get
suspicious again and think I was sticking close to him to keep him from calling
copper. Give him every opportunity, and he'd figure it was all right not to.

He took the last sip of his martini and slid out of the
booth. He put on his top hat and tapped it down with a resonant thump. He said,
"Exit, throwing his cape about his shoulders," and exited, throwing
his cape about his shoulders.

The bartender came over to collect Carr's empty glass. He
asked, "Another for you?" and I shook my head.

He stood there looking down at me and I wished for that moment
that I'd gone with Adrian. Then, almost reluctantly, he walked away and went
behind the bar.

I kept thinking what a damned fool I was, wondering whether
it was worth it, what I was going through.

There were easier ways. There was Adrian Carr's two hundred
dollars--and almost a hundred of my own in my pocket--and the open road and a
job in a hamburger stand somewhere in Oklahoma or Oregon. Never again, of
course, to act.

And there was the gun in my pocket. But that was too easy.

I heard the heavy footsteps of the bartender walking toward
the back, toward the juke box. I heard the snick of the slide as a slug went
into the machine. I heard the soft whir of the mechanism starting, the needle
hitting the groove.

He'd said, "Say, there's one good record on there,
though. Trumpet solo and blue as they come.
Sleepy Time Gal.
"

It was.

I was set for it, but again something twisted inside me. I
couldn't take it, not tonight. The trumpet wasn't a solo at all; it was a
trumpet plus Lola's voice, singing inside my head. Once on our honeymoon
singing it to me and switching the words a little, running in a little patter:
"Sleepy
time gal
--you
don't like me to be one, do you, darling? Maybe some
day I'll fool you and stop
turning night into day. I'll learn to cook and to
sew; what's more, you'll love me, I know . . ."

Only she never had, and now she never would.

And all of a sudden the hell of a chance I was taking just
didn't matter any more at all, and I didn't want to hear any more of it. I
couldn't take any more of it. I stood up and walked--I kept myself from
running--back to that juke box. I wanted to smash my fist through the glass and
jerk the needle out of that groove, but I didn't let myself do that, either. I
merely jerked the cord that pulled the plug out of the wall.

Then there was sudden silence, a silence you could almost
hear, and the bright varicolored lights quit drifting across the glassed-in
bottom half of the juke box and it stood there, dark and silent and dead, as
though I'd killed it. Except that this time somebody could put the plug back
into the wall and it would come to life again. They should make people that
way. People should come with cords and plugs.

But now I'd done it. I hadn't liked the way that bartender
had looked at me before; what was he thinking now?

I took a deep breath before I turned around, and I strolled
up to the bar as casually as I could.

"Sorry as hell," I told him. "My nerves are
on edge tonight. I should have asked you to turn that off, but all of a sudden
I just couldn't take any more of it and--well, I took the quickest way before I
started screaming."

I knew it wasn't going to sell. If he'd looked angry, if
he'd glowered at me, then it would have been all right. But his face was quiet
and watchful; not even surprise showed on it.

I sat on one of the bar stools. I made another try. I said,
"Guess I can use another martini. Will you make me one?"

He came down behind the bar and stood opposite me.

He said, "Mister, I used to be a cop. I was on the
force eight years before I bought me this tavern."

I said, "Yes?" with what I tried to make sound
like polite disinterest. It was still his move.

"Yeah," he said. "Look, that gag about your
killing your wife. You said you shot her?"

"I strangled her with a knife," I told him.
"What's the matter with your sense of humor, Mike? Don't you know all
actors are a little crazy?"

"A little crazy I don't mind. All Irishmen are a
little crazy. But a psycho--you've been making like a psycho, mister. You damn well
could
have killed someone tonight. I don't like it."

I leaned my elbows on the bar. I felt the pitch of my voice
trying to rise and I fought it down. I said, "Mike, get this straight
before you make a fool of yourself. Adrian Carr's got a role open for a
murderer. He thought I couldn't handle the part. I've been putting on an act
for him and I've got him sold. Ask him when he gets back. And how's about that
martini? I can stand one now."

"You were putting on an act then--or are you
now?"

I said, "Mike, I'd walk the hell out on you if it
wasn't that Adrian's coming back here to pick me up. But if you don't like my
company I can wait for him out front."

"Murder's nothing to joke about."

I let my voice get a little angry. I said, "Nobody was
joking about it. Can't you get it through your head I was acting a part? Is an
actor joking about murder when he plays the part of a murderer on stage--or at
a tryout for the part? Maybe you think it wasn't good taste; is that it?"

He looked a little puzzled; I had him on the defensive now.
He said, "You weren't acting for Mr. Carr when you jerked that juke box
plug."

"I told you my nerves were on edge. I apologize for
touching your damn juke box. Now let's settle it one way or the other--do I get
a drink or do I wait for Adrian outside?"

He wasn't quite sold, but I'd talked the sharp edge off his
suspicion. He reached for the gin bottle and the jigger. He put them on the
bar and then put ice in the mixer glass. He put a jigger of gin and brought up
the bottle of vermouth. But he moved slowly, still thinking it out.

He put the drink in front of me and leaned on the bar,
watching me as I took the first sip. He'd filled the glass fairly full but I
managed to drink without slopping any out, keeping my hand steady.

I was starting to say something foolish about the weather;
I had my mouth open to say it when I saw his face change.

He said, "What's that stain on your coat?"

I tried to grin; I don't know how the grin looked from
outside, but it didn't seem to fit quite right. I said, "Catsup. I tried
to sponge it off, but didn't do such a hot job. Don't worry, Mike, it isn't
blood. Not even mine."

He said, "Look, mister, I'm just a dumb ex-cop, but I
don't like the look of things. Is your wife home now?"

"She might be. I haven't been home this evening. Are
we going to start this all over again?"

"You're in the phone book?"

"No, it's through a switchboard. I can give you the
number, but why should I? Quit acting like a
dope."

I could see it didn't go over. Maybe it was the smear on my
coat, maybe it was the grin that hadn't fitted my face when I'd tried it, maybe
it was just everything put together.

Mike walked to the front end of the bar and around it.
Before I realized what he was going to do, he was at the front of the tavern, turning
a key in the door.

He came back, but on my side of the bar. He said,
"Stick around. I'm going to make sure. Maybe I'm making a dope out of
myself, but I'd rather do that than let a psycho loose out of here."

I made one more try. He was already walking toward the
phone. I said, "This is going to cost you money, pal."

It did stop him a second. Then he said, "No, it won't.
I heard you say you did a murder. That's reasonable grounds, even if you didn't
have a blood stain on you. Just sit tight."

Date With Death

If it hadn't been for that bright idea of his of locking
the door I could have walked out. I could have got away; he was twice my size
but I was faster, I think. But he hadn't left me that choice.

I did the only thing left to do. I took the revolver out of
my pocket. I said, "Don't go near that phone," and pulled back the
hammer. The click, which sounded almost as loud as a shot in that still room,
stopped him suddenly. He turned around slowly.

He
licked his lips again. "I can make you turn around," I suggested,
"and tap you with the butt of this. But I might hit too hard. I've never
sapped anyone before. And I'd be afraid of hitting too easy. Any better
ideas?"

He
hesitated, then said, "There's a closet off the back room. Key's on the
ring."

"Turn
around and walk there, slowly."

He
did and I followed him. He stepped inside and turned around facing me, his face
rigid and white. I don't think he expected to live through his experience. He
thought this was the payoff.

I
closed the door, found the right key, and locked it. I called through the
panel, "I'm going to stick around till Adrian gets back. It may be a long
time. Don't get the idea of hammering on that door for a long time or I'll put
bullets through it."

He
didn't answer and I went back to the front of the room. I unlocked the front
door and sat at the bar again. I drank the rest of my martini at a single gulp.
I caught sight of my face in the mirror back of the bar and realized I'd better
get calmed down and straightened out before Adrian came back, or before another
customer came in.

I
closed my eyes and took some deep breaths. Again I heard the far siren of a
police car, but it wasn't coming this way; it died out in the distance.

I
sat there and it seemed like a very long time. It seemed as though I'd been
sitting there for hours. I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve
thirty-five. Adrian had left half an hour ago. He lived only three blocks away;
he should be back before this unless he had misplaced the sketches he went back
to get. Or possibly he'd had to go somewhere for gasoline for his car. Or
something.

I
wanted another drink, but I didn't want to chance going behind the bar. Someone
might come in.

Someone
did. A man, about fiftyish, and a woman of about thirty-five in a mink stole. I
glanced at them as they came in, and then pretended to pay no attention to
them.

They
sat at the bar, the man two stools away from me and the woman on the other
side. After a minute the man asked me, "Where's Mike?"