Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“That’s an electric sewing-machine,” I said quickly. “I make my own clothes. Tommy, come here a minute, I want to show you something.” He came over and my lungs went back to work for me again. “Isn’t this a keen little dressing room?” He misunderstood and made a reach. “Oh, no, no, put on the brakes!” I said. “Come on, let’s go in and sit down and talk quietly.”

We sat down side by side and I parked my drink on the floor, an inch or two away from the cable connecting with the machine. “Why do you keep saying you don’t like this place?” I remarked cagily. “Why do you get so shivery each time you come here? This morning you got all white when you looked out of the window—”

“Let’s talk about you,” he said.

“But I want to know. You promised you’d give me the lowdown.” But it wasn’t going to be as easy as all that. “God, you’re a sweet number, you’re tops, kid,” he said soft and low, “you’ve got me off my base, this isn’t just a one-night stand, I want to marry you.” He slipped his arm around me and leaned his head against me, so I knew I had him branded. I was on the inside track with him now. My hand dipped down toward the floor in the dark and felt the corded cable lying there. “You’ll marry in hell, you punk!” I thought savagely.

“You’re a chaser,” I stalled. I groped along the cable, gathering it up in my fingers until I got to the end and felt the plunger in my hand. “You used to know someone in this very apartment, you said the same thing to her I bet.”

“That rat,” he said sourly, “she was no good.”

“Who was she anyway?” I waited.

“You musta read about it in the papers,” he said. “That Pascal woman that got bumped.”

I reared up on my elbow and pushed the plunger. I raised my voice a little, spaced each word. “Why, Tommy Vaillant,” I said, and I went double on it for purposes of identification. “Tommy Vaillant, did you know her, Bernice Pascal, that girl that was found dead right here in this very building?”

“Did I know her? We were like this!” He held up two fingers to show me. The record would muff that, so I quickly put in: “As thick as all that? How’d you feel when she got it in the neck?”

“I gave three cheers.”

“Why, what’d you have against her?”

“She was a mutt,” he said. “Her racket was blackmail. She accidentally found out something about me that wouldn’t have looked good on the books. It was good for a Federal stretch. A shooting back in Detroit, in the old Prohibition days. I warned her, if she ever opened her trap, her number was up. I had her colored maid fixed and she tipped me off Pascal was all set to blow to Montreal with this Reardon guy. I knew what that meant. The first time she ran short of cash, off would come the lid — up there where I couldn’t stop her!”

“What’d you do about it?”

“I came over here to the apartment to stop her. And with a dame like her, there was only one way to do that.”

“You came here intending to kill her?”

“Yeah,” he said, “she had it coming to her.”

I suddenly cut the motor. My hand seemed to act without my telling it to. Don’t ask me how I knew what he was going to say next, I wasn’t taking any chances.

“She was dead when I found her,” he said. “Somebody beat me to it. She was lying on the floor, cold already. First I thought she was just drunk. Then when I saw different I tipped my hat to whoever done it and closed the door again. I got out of there in a hurry.”

I turned it on again between “again” and “I.”

“What’s that whirring noise?” he said. “Is there a mosquito in here?”

“That’s the frigidaire,” I said. “The motor goes on and off.” Westman would know enough to erase this before he had the wax record copied in hard rubber.

“I shouldn’t be telling you all this,” he said. “But you’re not like her.” I nestled a little closer to him to give him confidence, but not enough to start the fireworks up again. “What was the first thing you did after that?” I purred.

“I threw the key to her place down the sewer. Then I got a taxi on the next corner and drove over to the club and fixed myself a good alibi. Next day I went around to where the day doorman lived and paid his way back to Ireland — just to be on the safe side. He’d seen me with her too much for my own good.”

“What about the night doorman?”

“He was new on the job, didn’t know me by sight, didn’t know which apartment I’d come into or gone out of.” So he hadn’t been greased, was just dumb.

“What about the colored maid, didn’t she worry you?”

“That was taken care of,” he said, “she had an accident.” I could tell by the tone of his voice that it must have been really an accident, that he hadn’t had anything to do with it, but I fixed that. I gave a loud boisterous laugh as though he’d meant it in a different way. “You think of everything!” I said, and switched the thing off.

It was a risky thing to say, but he wasn’t noticing, let me get away with it. “What’s funny about it?” he droned sleepily.

The phone rang all of a sudden. It was for him. They wanted him at the club on account of a raid was coming up. He’d left word where they could reach him. Just when I wanted him out of the way, too. Who said there was no Santa Claus?

“See you tomorrow night, Angel Face.”

He grabbed his hat, grabbed a kiss, and breezed.

It was getting light out, and I was all in. Some night’s work. And all on one record. I let the cord that had done all the dirty work slip out of my hand. I looked at it and shook my head and thought, “That poor slob.” I guess I was too tired by then, myself, to feel joyful about it. Maybe that was why I didn’t.

When I opened my eyes, the record was still on the turntable. You’d think the first thing I’d do would be to take a look under the lid and make sure. But I didn’t go near it for a long time, and when I finally did I didn’t feel much like crowing. I stood there holding it in my hand. Such a fragile thing! All I had to do was just let it fall, just let it slip out of my fingers and — goodbye. I thought of Jackie, then I put it down and ran to the phone as if I was scared of my life. Ran isn’t the word — flew. I got Westman at his office, told him I had what he needed.

“Swell, bring it down,” he tried to tell me.

“I can’t, you’d better come up and get it! Quick, right now! Jump in a cab, don’t give me time to think it over. Hurry, will you, hurry, before I—”

He came all right. He stripped off a pillowcase and slipped the record in that. “I’ll get Albany on the wire,” he promised. “I’ll have a stay of execution for you before the day’s over!” Then he wanted to know: “What’re you looking so down in the mouth about? Is this a time for—”

“Go on, Westman,” I said, “don’t stand here chinning, get that thing out of my sight.”

After awhile I went back to the phone again and called Tommy Vaillant. “Tom,” I said, “how quickly can you blow town?”

“Why, in five minutes if I have to,” he said. “Why? What’s up?”

“You better see that you do then. I just got a hot tip — they’re going to reopen the Pascal case.”

“Where do I figure?” he asked. “I’m in the clear.”

“Take my advice and don’t hang around arguing about it. Goodbye, Tom,” I sobbed. “Can you beat an extradition rap?”

“With one hand tied behind my back. What’re you crying about?” he asked.

“I— I sort of liked you, Tom,” I said, and I hung up.

This morning when I opened my eyes Jackie was sitting up on one elbow looking at me in a worried sort of way. “Oh, my head,” I groaned. “Never again!”