II

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."

"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."