Fredric Brown - Homicide Sanitarium

"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 his-trionics 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 mecha-nism 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.