Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

Jones’ face was the color of wet cement. He stood up, shaking all over. He clenched a fist and pounded it against his forehead.

“I didn’t do it,” he said hollowly. He pounded again, and then a third time. “I didn’t do it.”

The other man spread his hand open.

“Tell them,” he said coldly. “That’s all you’ve got to do. I don’t care whether you did or not, I just work for them.”

Jones sat down again, his arms loose now, like ropes dangling toward the floor.

“I wasn’t even there. I’ve never been in the place. I was born in Chicago—”

The man didn’t consult anything. Any memorandum or anything.

“Sure. At Twenty-three-eleven Paige Street, in the back room on the fifth floor. At eleven at night, March eighteenth, Nineteen-Fifteen. Certificate issued by Doctor Sam Rollini—”

“Cut it out,” Jones panted.

“The double murder in Liberty was committed by an Eddie Jones. And the baby born in Chicago was baptized Edward Jones. But there was a middle initial: M. The mother’s name had been Edith Maxwell.” The man grinned bleakly. “What did you do with the ‘Ed’? Drop it in the middle of the ocean on your way over?”

“There’s a hundred thousand Joneses,” Jones said desperately.

The other man shook his head smilingly. “Not over here. Then why didn’t you stay where there are a hundred thousand other Joneses? You would have been safer. That was a fool play on your part.” He chuckled grimly. “And up in lights, yet, blazing away into the night. Maxi Jones, King of the Saxophones . “He shook his head again, marveling at it. “You were doing all right over here, weren’t you?”

Jones began wringing his hands nervously. A faraway, wistful look came into his eyes, as if he were contemplating something that was already over, beyond recall.

“We packed ’em in in Paris,” he faltered, as if he were pleading some sort of a case.

“You’ll pack them in back there, too,” the man promised.

“We were the biggest thing that hit the town since Josephine Baker brought over the Charleston.”

“You’ll be the biggest thing to hit Tennessee since the Darrow Case.”

“We were held over six weeks in Cannes.”

“You’ll be held over about three weeks back home. That’s about the usual time it takes them to get ready after sentence has been passed.”

Jones’ head went down; the other man could only see the top of it for a minute.

The man hoisted an elbow and looked at his watch. “Okay. Start packing.”

Jones’ head came up again, with a sort of final defiance.

“This is Spanish soil. You can’t touch me.”

The man tapped his own chest. “I’ve got an extradition warrant in here that says yes. I’ve got these—” He took out a pair of handcuffs, twirled them once, put them away again “—that say sure thing. And I’ve got this—” He showed him a gun for a minute, put that away again too “—that says ‘You bet your sweet life.’ So let’s get started.”

Jones stood up slowly.

“Where will the — the arraignment be held? Nashville?”

The other man shook his head. “Liberty. It’s got to be held in the county in which the crime took place.”

Jones tottered, and acted as though he were going to fall for a minute. He took hold of the back of the chair and held onto that.

“You’re not taking me back to be tried for my life. You’re taking me back to certain death. I’m dead already, standing here in front of you. There won’t even be any trial; there won’t be time for it to get started. I’ll be torn to pieces first.”

The other man eyed him without blinking. “They’re dead, too, both of them,” he said. “Everyone has to die sometime.”

“But not at thirty-two, with flaming gasoline poured over you.”

“They won’t do that,” the other man said. Not very strenuously.

“Are you from there?” was all Jones answered.

“I happen to be from upper New York State, myself. But that doesn’t matter.”

“I thought so,” was all Jones said. He went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stood looking out.

The other man watched him.

“Don’t go out on the balcony,” he said. “This is three floors up.” He stayed where he was. “Say good-by to it.” He gave Jones time. Finally he said: “Ready now?”

Jones turned around.

“All right, I’m ready,” he said. “I guess I always knew the number would end like this. Well, I’m over my stage-fright now. I’m all set. You won’t have any trouble with me. Only—” He glanced around once more, longingly, at the powdery, lighted scene down below, outside the windows.

“Only what?” said the other man.

“Only, when a man’s in the death-pen, they give him one last meal.”

“You just got through. What was that, in there?”

“Give me one more night. Just one more night here in Barcelona.”

“That’s what you’re going to have. The ship doesn’t leave until tomorrow after sundown. The planes are booked solid, so I’ve got to take you back the slow way.”

“I don’t mean that,” Jones said. “Let me play one last date at the club. Let me stand up there and say good-by with my fingers on the sax-keys. Let me see the crowds and the lights, and hear ’em howl for more. It’s going to be awfully dark and quiet where you’re putting me. Just a plain pine box without room to turn over in. Let me have just one more night, a farewell round.”

“Do you think I’m crazy? And what am I supposed to be doing? Sitting here in the hotel room waiting for you with a lamp burning in the window?”

“I didn’t mean alone. I meant in your custody. You’ll be right with me. I won’t be out of your sight. You’ve got the cuff-links, you’ve got the gat. What chance are you taking?”

“None,” the man said flatly. “Because I won’t be doing it.”

“Not even if I gave you my word?”

“What is this? I’ll give you mine instead. A short ‘No.’ How’s that?”

“That’s that, I guess,” Jones admitted mournfully.

“What’re you so leary about, anyway? You’ll get a fair trial.”

“Take a good look at me, mister, and then say that.”

The man took the look, but he didn’t say it.

“Yeah,” Jones agreed softly, at the unspoken admission.

The man got a little sore.

“Ah, don’t look at me like that!” he said. “That’s the way they always look at you, all of them! It reminds me of a—” He didn’t finish it.

“What?” Jones prompted.

“None of your business!” The man scowled. But then he went ahead and finished it anyway. “Of a dog I picked up in the street one day, right after it had been run over. I had to use my gun. Just before I did, it rolled its eyes up at me and gave me that same kind of look.”

“They like to live, too,” Jones agreed. “All of us do. Only, the dogs get off lucky. Other dogs don’t set fire to them.”

“Why do you keep harping on that?” the man said.

“Because they were roasted to death in a cabin, Claybourne and Amy Dwyer. And because Sheriff Carney swore that if he ever got his hands on the man that did it, he’d barbecue him alive.”

“Then you were there in the town,” the man said quickly. “To know that and to hear it. That was just an outburst of grief. Carney didn’t really mean it.”

“It was an unspoken promise, a pledge, that every man in the town will help him keep when the day comes,” Jones said. “I can tell you’re not from down around there, or you’d understand.”

The man didn’t say anything. He kept staring at the band leader with an odd intensity.

Jones nodded.

“Yes, I was there in the town when it happened,” he said. “And I’m ready to take it; I made up my mind over there by the window a few minutes ago. I’m ready to die. I’m willing to go back with you without lifting a finger. But that isn’t what I asked you for before. I only wanted one last night, just because it is so certain. And you won’t give it to me—”