A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

‘I gather their domestic life hasn’t been particularly happy?’

‘Of course it hasn’t. But that’s no reason a man should go around making a lot of false statements about the woman he’s sworn to love and protect — sometimes men make me sick.’

‘Let’s go back to the reason for your interest in Mrs. Cool’s marital venture.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I thought you took an unusual interest in it.’

‘It was interesting.’

‘Doubly interesting to one who is contemplating marriage.’

‘Or running away from marriage,’ she said, smiling up at me.

‘Is that what you’re doing?’

She nodded.

‘Want to tell me about it?’

She hesitated a moment, then said, ‘No, Donald, I’d rather not — not right now, anyway.’

‘From Kansas City?’ I asked.

‘Yes. One of those crazy, insanely jealous men who are always looking for an excuse to get drunk and smash things.’

‘Don’t waste time on him,’ I said. ‘I know the breed. They’re all the same. They have a fierce, possessive desire to own a woman, body and soul. He probably tried to tell you that his jealousy is only because he really doesn’t have the legal right to love and cherish you the way he wants, that if you were only his wife, he wouldn’t mind, that if you’d marry him, things would all be hunky-dory; and whenever you refuse, he goes out and gets drunk. He comes back and makes a scene, smashes glassware, and—’

‘You sound as though you knew him,’ she interrupted.

‘I do, not as an individual, but as a type.’

‘And your advice is to lay off?’

‘Absolutely. Any time a man can’t show his strength of character by beating down his own faults, and then tries to get his self-respect back by smashing a dish, you want to lay off of him.’

‘His particular yen is smashing glasses in a bar,’ she said.

‘You’re not going to marry him?’

‘No.’

‘He’s in Kansas City?’

‘Yes — that is, he was when I left. If he knew where I was, he’d follow.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know, smash some dishes perhaps.’

‘Those men are poison,’ I said. ‘They’ll pay any price for the opportunity to assert themselves.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You read about them every day in the papers, the men who track down estranged wives, shoot them, and then commit suicide — the final gesture of futility — I hate it, and I’m afraid of it.’

I looked at her sharply. ‘And is it because of that you want the gun?’

She met my eyes then, and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to buy one?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You have the money?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s going to take about twenty-five dollars,’ I said.

She opened her purse, took out two tens and a five, and gave them to me.

‘I can’t get it right now,’ I told her, ‘because we’re going to have to watch for that Durke girl to come out. I wonder why Bleatie was so positive she’d go somewhere to get in touch with Morgan Birks. You’d think she’d use the telephone.’

‘Probably her line’s tapped,’ Alma said.

‘No, the police don’t know anything about her. If they did, they’d shadow her.’

‘Well, she probably thinks the telephone’s tapped, or perhaps Morgan thinks so.’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said, ‘but then in real life things seldom do make— There she comes!’

Sally Durke walked out of the apartment house with an overnight bag in her hand. She was tailored up to the minute in a blue skirt and jacket. The skirt was cut short, and her ankles were enough to make any man turn around. She wore a close-fitting blue hat tilted at an angle with a rakish little bow of blue velvet. Her flaxen hair, peeking out from under the hat, showed up soft and golden against the blue.

‘What makes you think she’s peroxide?’ Alma Hunter asked, as she started the motor.

‘I don’t know. Something about the color of her hair. It’s—’

‘She looks like a natural blonde from here — looks pretty.’

‘Far be it from me to argue about feminine beauty with an expert,’ I said. ‘Careful not to crowd too close. She’s headed for the boulevard. Let her get enough of a lead so she won’t look back and see us crawling along. That’ll make her suspicious.’

‘I thought I’d run out into the street and then stop until we can see what she does.’

‘Okay, good girl. Want me to drive?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like it a lot. I’m nervous.’

I said, ‘All right. Come out from behind the wheel, and I’ll slide under.’

She moved over from behind the wheel, raised herself, and I slid under. I slipped the gears into mesh, then kicked out the clutch, and let the machine inch along close to the curb.

Sally Durke walked to the corner and flagged a passing taxicab. I speeded the car and made the turn into the boulevard not over fifty feet behind the cab. Then I gradually dropped behind, waiting to see if she looked back.

She didn’t. Her head showed through the rear window in the cab, her eyes apparently fixed straight ahead.

‘Looks like a cinch,’ I said, and closed the distance between the car and the cab.

The cab rolled smoothly along, made no attempt to shake off pursuit, turned to the left when it got to Sixteenth Street and went to the Perkins Hotel. There wasn’t any parking place in sight. I said to Alma. ‘This is where you have to pinch-hit. Get in behind the wheel and keep driving around the block. I want to get in there right after she registers and see what room she gets. I’ll give her time enough to get out of the lobby and that’s all.’

Alma Hunter said, ‘Look here. I want to be in on this thing.’

‘You’re in on it,’ I said.

‘No, not that way. I want to be in at the finish. What are you going to do?’

‘Find out what room she has, and get a room directly across from it if possible.’

‘I want to stay with you.’

‘No chance,’ I said. ‘Sorry, but that’s out. The better-class hotels get snooty when a man starts entertaining women in his room. The bellboys try to work a little blackmail, and—’

‘Oh shucks,’ she said, ‘don’t be like that! Go register as man and wife. What name are you going to use?’

‘Donald Helforth.’

‘All right, I’ll be Mrs. Helforth. I’ll come in later and join you. Get started.’

I went across to the hotel. Sally Durke wasn’t in sight. I told the bellboy to get me the bell captain, and took the captain off into the executive session. ‘A blonde in a blue outfit came in about two minutes ago,’ I said. ‘I want to know what name she registered under, where she’s registered, and what rooms near her are vacant. I’d like to get one across the corridor from her if I can.’

‘What’s the idea?’ he asked.

I took a five-dollar bill from my pocket, folded it, twisted it around my fingers, and said, ‘I’m a committee of one, working on behalf of the government, trying to get deserving bellboys into the higher income brackets so we can collect more tax.’

‘I always co-operate with the government,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just a minute.’

I waited in the lobby until he came back with the information. She was Mrs. B. F. Morgan and was in 618. She expected her husband to join her shortly. The only vacant room anywhere in that part of the hotel was 620, and Mrs. Morgan, it seemed, had reserved 618 earlier in the day by telephone, said she might want 620 as well, and had asked the management to hold that. When she registered, she said she’d changed her mind about 620 and would only want 618.

‘I’m Donald Helforth,’ I said. ‘My wife, about twenty-five, with chestnut hair and brown eyes, will be coming in within five or ten minutes. Keep an eye out for her, and show her up to my room, will you?’