James Cain - The Magician's Wife

“But how could they charge you with that?”

“I was guilty of it, that’s how.”

“But you never lied in your life. Not once!”

“And I didn’t lie now — that’s where it gets good. But down underneath the fraction of truth I was telling, the whole truth was rumbling around, and they heard it! They didn’t buy what I said, especially not that jury. They knew something was wrong, even if they didn’t know what. And that Kuhn even came out and said it, that I lied under oath — and the cockeyed part was that the lying he thought I had done, I didn’t do, at all... Ah, why slice it so thin? I blew it, that’s all.”

“But how could you? Yesterday—”

“Oh, boy, yesterday! You should have heard me today!”

“Clay, will you calm down? What happened?”

“My alibi, remember? It ruined me.”

“But — it was supposed to be good.”

“And was, airtight, lawyer-proof, and copper-riveted, and that was the trouble with it. It exploded right in my face. Hoist by my own petard. What is a petard, if you know?”

“Why — a powder keg, I think.”

“And how! And how! ”

Disconnectedly, half-heartedly, he tried then to tell her what had happened, and did sketch out most of it. But then he broke off, pleading: “Don’t ask me to talk, Grace. If I had scored, I’d say so, don’t worry — no one’s as gabby as I am when I’ve stuff to brag about. The very fact I don’t want to tell it is the proof that there’s nothing to tell — at least, that you’d want to hear. And the worst of it is, I hurt the girl’s case instead of helping it.”

“Well, that, at least, I can bear.”

Her waspish tone caught his ear, and he pressed her to know what she meant. “I mean, it serves her right,” she told him virtuously.

“In what way serves her right?”

“Well, Clay! Look at what she did!”

“And what did she do, Grace?”

“Well! The life that she led with Alec!”

“She did no more with him than I did with Alec’s wife. And if that’s what serves her right, all I can say is—”

“ And trying to put it on Sally!”

“Grace, Sally did it!”

“But Sally was not even there!”

“Sally was in it up to the hilt. She planned it with me — she’s guilty, just as guilty as I am.”

“And I am, don’t forget!”

“... And let’s have an end of that! ”

He stared at the ceiling, went on: “Your wanting to share with me, your standing by me the way you have, is the one bright spot in this mess. But don’t let’s play games. No one’s here with us but God, and I don’t think we’re kidding Him. So let’s not kid ourselves. You share my pain, I know — and that warms me, fills me with hope, and gives me strength. You can’t share my guilt. Nobody can except—”

“My daughter?”

“Yes.”

He pulled her to him, unbuttoned her sweater, broke the strap of her bra, and nuzzled and kissed and inhaled.

That went on for three days, with interruptions only for the meals she cooked and brought him, and for her hourly trips outside, to buy papers as they came out. He took little interest, however, as she read him the rest of the testimony, Buster’s outbreak on the stand, arguments by the lawyers, and speculation as to the verdict while the jury was “out.” And his face was blank as she came in the fourth day, tossed him a paper, and said: “Well, it’s over — they convicted her. Of manslaughter, whatever that is. Less than murder apparently. So, she won’t go to the chair. So, you did what you could. So, do you mind? If we forget this dreadful girl? And talk about something else?”

“Forget her?” he said dully. “How could I?”

“Well, you’d better! She’s all but ruined your life!”

He glanced through the paper, learning that Mr. Pender had moved for a new trial and had served notice that, failing that, he would appeal, and that sentence would be passed on Monday. Then, almost as though in a stupor, he asked: “And why should I forget her? Or even try to forget her?”

“She has it coming, that’s why!”

“Has what coming, Grace?”

“ This! If she’d lived a decent life, if she’d let Alec alone, above all, if she hadn’t jumped in that car, just to plague him and act like a hussy, none of this would have happened — to say nothing of that other, the lie she told the police about seeing Sally’s car! Oh, yes! These chickens come home to roost! She has no one to thank but herself!”

“ She has no one to thank but me — and Sally .”

“Is there something between you and this girl?”

He didn’t answer, but got up in robe and pajamas, went into the bathroom, and shaved, bathed, and combed. When he came out the bed was made and his clothes were lying on it, his suit, underwear, and shirt, with three neckties to choose from; his shoes and stockings on the floor. Biting his lip, he dressed, then went to the living room, where she sat in her knitted suit, primly waiting. “Well?” she asked. “Is there? It said in the paper you kissed her and that ‘She kisses nice.’ ”

“She does — and there’s nothing between us.”

“Maybe not, but I’m sick of her just the same.”

“Grace, she’s convicted of something I did.”

“Oh, but there’s more to it than that!”

“There’s no more to it than that.”

“Oh, yes! Don’t forget! I did something too! ”

“ Grace! For God’s sake, knock it off! ”

She bounced up, as though on springs, at the crackle of his voice, and was rigid as his arms went around her and he began to talk in her ear: “Honey, what you did I’ll never forget — the money was just the beginning — your wanting to share — your standing by me like a rock — to me are nine-hundred-percent magnificent — looking at you, where you sit. But I don’t sit where you sit — the place where I sit is different. I’m guilty, you’re not. What you’ve done proves you love me, as God knows I love you.” He held her close and kissed her, then kissed her again and again, until she began to kiss back. Then, releasing her, he walked away until he faced the wrap-closet door. “But that’s all it proves,” he whispered.

Opening the closet, he took out his coat and hat and put them on. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out. In the park. Think.”

“You mean, you prefer to be alone?”

“I sit alone, I must think alone.”

But he didn’t stay in the park, beyond marching around a few minutes, to go through the visible motions in case he was being watched. When some bushes screened him from sight, he quickened his pace abruptly and walked to the Marlborough, letting himself in the back way. On entering the apartment, he drew a deep breath, as he did on entering a cold room, but for a different reason. Instead of testing, he was savoring: the familiar, deeply loved smell of a place that was neat as a pin, and yet lived in, warm, fragrant, and his own. He glanced at his pictures, then took off his things and went back to the “office,” removing the typewriter cover, sitting down, and settling himself to work. He didn’t type well, but he typed well enough, and now began to tap out the dreadful tale of his downfall. He wrote in sextuplicate, using sets Miss Helm had got him, of six sheets each with carbons between, with double spacing and ample margins, in case pen corrections would be necessary. He began at the beginning, telling his meeting with Sally, his suspicions of what she intended, her crime down at the beach, and his offer to do what she wanted. He told of the rehearsals on the road, his pouring of paint markers, “which should still show on the shoulder, susceptible of ready check”; of what happened that terrible night, of Buster’s scream, of the hubcap and what he had done with it, “another thing susceptible of check, and it’s still down in the slough.” He wound up: “I put on my lights just as Miss Conlon said, on the stand and to the police, and it all happened just as she said except for the license number, on which her instinct colored her vision — not saying her instinct was wrong.” He then typed a form of affidavit, swearing “the foregoing is true,” and under this typed: