Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

He gave his head a slow shake.

Biting her lip, she considered. “But if I catch that plane, nothing at all will happen?”

“That’s right,” he said tonelessly. “You make your picture in France without a care in the world.”

“All right,” she decided. “Tell your people I’m on my way to France.”

His wooden expression momentarily relaxed into the barest suggestion of a relieved smile. “Thanks, Miss Calvert. That will keep both of us out of bad trouble.”

When the tall, pale man entered Max Fenner’s office, the fat, bald-headed producer eyed him worriedly.

“How’d it go, John?” he asked.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” the pale man said, sinking into a chair. “She’s catching the plane.”

“She didn’t suspect you were a phony?”

The pale man looked pained. “I told you I do the best gangster act in the business.”

“Yeah, but are you sure she didn’t recognize you?”

“Where would she see me? I’ve been ten years with the Cleveland Players. She doesn’t even catch off-Broadway shows, let alone out-of-towners. I tell you she swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.”

Max Fenner breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s a load off my mind. If she’d ever played those tape recordings for my wife—” He paused to shudder. “John, if you ever carry on an affair with an ambitious actress, make sure her apartment isn’t wired for sound.”

“How could anybody blackmail me?” the character actor inquired. “I can’t hand out parts in Broadway plays.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have the same problem,” the producer agreed. “You’re going to follow up by being at the airport to make sure she doesn’t change her mind, aren’t you?”

“Sure. You can phone me at my rooming house about nine P.M. I’ll be back from the airport by then.”

Max Fenner nodded. “I won’t forget this, John. The minute you tell me she’s on that plane, you’ve got a part in Make Believe. ”

When the character actor came to the phone, Fenner asked, “Did she make it?”

“Yeah,” Blake said. “She’s gone. I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“Good job,” Fenner said with relief. “Drop by tomorrow and we’ll draw up your contract.”

“What sort of message is it?” Fenner asked dubiously.

“I told you it has to be delivered personally,” the man said in a patient tone. “May I come up?”

“All right,” Fenner agreed. “You know the apartment?”

“Uh-huh. See you in five minutes, Mr. Fenner.”

When the doorbell rang five minutes later, Fenner found a plump, middle-aged man standing in the hall. The man had a round, pleasant face and a deferential manner.

“Mr. Fenner?” he inquired.

“Yes. You’re Howard Smith?”

The man nodded. Letting him in, Fenner closed the door behind him. Howard Smith glanced around the front room.

“You’re alone?” he asked.

“Yes. What is this message?”

The plump man smiled. “Miss Calvert resented what you did to her today, Mr. Fenner. She was really quite frightened.”

Fenner said coldly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hiring a professional killer to work on her, Mr. Fenner. She wasn’t sure whether the man actually was sincere when he said he couldn’t kill her because he admired her so, or was merely subtly warning her that he would kill her if she didn’t catch that plane. But she was too frightened to risk not catching it. I suppose you know she’s on her way to France.”

“You’re saying nothing which makes sense to me, Mr. Smith,” Fenner said in the same cold voice. “I haven’t hired any professional killer.”

“Of course you did, Mr. Fenner. But I won’t press the point. What Miss Calvert wanted me to tell you was that she has contacts too. You’ve heard of Vince Pigoletti, I suppose?”

“The racketeer?”

Howard Smith nodded. “He’s a great admirer of Miss Calvert. He is one of the numerous men with whom she has had — ah — romantic alliances, I understand. Mr. Pigoletti was kind enough to put her in touch with the organization I represent.”

Fenner frowned. “What organization is that?”

“We don’t advertise its name, Mr. Fenner. But it’s a competitor of the one you engaged. Miss Calvert resented your action so much that she decided to retaliate in kind. Ordinarily we don’t explain things like this, but she stipulated that she wanted you to understand exactly what was happening.”

Fenner’s face gradually paled. “I don’t think I follow you,” he said faintly.

“I think you do,” the plump man said.

He drew a silenced revolver from beneath his coat. Staring at him in fascination, Max Fenner realized that this was no character actor.

Myrna Calvert had hired the real thing.

The arrogance went first. The clanging of the death-cell door drove it out of Finlay the first day. Then he turned sullen, uncooperative, his young face taking on the protective coloration of the cement block that lined his prison. He wouldn’t eat, talk, or see the chaplain. He snarled at his own lawyer, muttered at the guards, and kept his own company. A week before the scheduled execution, he began to cry in his sleep. He was twenty-one years old, and with the aid of an accomplice, had mercilessly beaten and slain an aged storekeeper.

On the morning of the fifth day, he woke out of a nightmare in which he had been sentenced to die. Finding the dream sustained by reality, he began to scream and hurl himself against the steel bars. Two guards came into his cell and threatened him with mechanical restraints, but they failed to quiet him down. An hour later, the prison chaplain, a silver-haired, stocky man with the pained face of a colicky infant, looked in on him and said the same old things. This time, however, there was an air of pleading that made Finlay listen harder.

“Please,” the chaplain whispered. “Be a good fellow and let me come in. It’s important, really.”

“What’s important?” he said bitterly. “I don’t want you praying over me.”

“Please,” the chaplain said in a curious, begging tone. The boy in the cell wondered at it, and wearily gave his permission. Once the chaplain had been admitted, however, he regretted the decision. The silver-haired man took a small black book from his pocket.

“No!” Finlay yelled. “None of that! I don’t want no Bible reading!”

“Just look at it,” the chaplain said, his face reddening. “Here, take a look.”

Finlay took the small thick volume from the plump fingers. Outside the cell, a guard with a comfortable paunch stood profiled against the hall light. Finlay looked at the open page, marked Revelation, and then at the tiny slip of white paper that had been stuck into the binding of the book. The handwritten message read:

Trust me.

Finlay blinked at it rapidly, and then looked at the cherubic face of the man beside him. The round chin fitted the turnabout collar like an egg in an eggcup, and the expression on the baby features was impassive.

“Now can we talk?” the chaplain said cheerfully. “There’s so little time, my son.”

“Yes,” Finlay said vaguely. “Listen, what’s the—”

“Shush!” A chubby finger crossed the chaplain’s lips. “Let us not speak any longer, son. Let us pray.” He placed his palms together, and closed his eyes. Bewildered, Finlay mimicked him, and the chaplain droned on in a convincing monotone about salvation and redemption. When he was through, he beamed at the prisoner and took his leave.

Finlay didn’t see the chaplain again until late that evening. This time, there wasn’t any hesitation about admitting the chubby little man to his cell. As soon as he was inside, Finlay whispered hoarsely at him: