Джеймс Кейн - Sinful Woman

Dreadful, hammering seconds went by before the door opened and Tony came in, faultless in his double-breasted black suit. Dmitri got up, forced a smile, lunged at what was intended for casualness. “Beg poddon, plizze. I’m looking for the proprietor.”

“I own this place.”

“You, Tony?”

“Tony Rico is my name.”

“Spiro mine. President Phoenix Pictures, big Hollywood company. Could I speak to you one minute?”

“What about?”

“I’m in a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Telling the truth I don’t know. I was not personally here. But nothing serious I give my word honor, epsolutely. Friend of mine, Baron Victor Adlerkreutz, fine fallow, fine family, one finest families in Europe — is hurt.”

“In what way?”

“I think — shot.”

“And what do you want of me?”

“Listen, Tony; listen, old fallow, listen to me, plizze. I want you to let me get the Baron out from here. I want we get him to a private hospital, get a doctor quick, fix it up what we say, so when the police come, and all those damn reporter, we don’t have any mess.”

“Afraid I couldn’t do that.”

“Tony, you don’t want no mess either!”

“Your friend’s dead.”

Tony motioned toward the desk and added: “Or so I think.” He glanced at the small mirror he had in his hand, polished it with his handkerchief, went behind the desk and knelt down.

In a moment he stood up and came over to Dmitri, holding up the mirror. “You see anything on that?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, jiggled the bar. Dmitri seemed to come out of the trance that had half enveloped him and jumped for the instrument. Tony stepped aside and motioned him back to his seat. But, Dmitri kept grabbing, until the phone was knocked off the desk and Tony had to let go or have the cord torn out by the roots. He swore hotly at Dmitri, who paid no attention. “Tony! Not yet! Don’t call the police till I talk to you!”

“Sorry, this is nothing I can talk about.”

“Yes, Tony.”

“Listen! I don’t know where the hell you come from, but in this state we got laws.”

“Tony! Don’t you get it? I’m a producer! If this mess comes out, it ruins me, ruins my life, ruins my company, ruins my star!”

“Once more: There’s nothing I can do for you!”

“Then do it for Sylvia!”

“You trying to tell me she shot him?”

“Who do you think?”

Tony stared incredulously at Dmitri, who seized the chance to pick up the phone, set it on the desk, and clap the receiver in place. At once it rang. He answered. “Hello. No, nobody called. Fell off the desk. Sorry, plizze.”

He set the receiver in place, held it with both hands. Sylvia came in, her bravado gone. She sat down. Tony, after looking at her, was no longer incredulous. He went over to her. “We’ve been having an argument, Miss Shoreham. About something that’s happened. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to report it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s none of my affair. But after what’s been going on, it don’t surprise me any. I want you to hear me say that, Miss Shoreham.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“A jury may feel the same way.”

“I’m not that far yet.”

To Dmitri, a little wearily, Tony said: “You needn’t hold on to that phone. There’s twenty-two extensions in the place, and I can call from any of them.”

Dmitri leaped for him, clamped arms around his neck as a drowning man might. “Tony, you don’t know what I say even. It’s not the jury. It’s Hays! So, jury say O. K., is swell, hey? Is like hell. Hays say, mess is mess and rub her out. Tony, I got one million pingo-pangoes tied up in this face! One million I swear, for Sugar Hill Sugar, first picture I make all my own money! If this mess comes out, I can’t release! It breaks me, breaks my company, breaks Sylvia—”

“It’s tough, but I can’t—”

“You want money? I’m rich, I—”

“So am I!”

“I buy your place, Tony! How much—”

“It’s not for sale!”

“Tony, give me ten minutes! Give me five minutes! I’ve got my production manager here! He can make it accident! He can make it—”

“Mr. Spiro, maybe you’ve been in the picture business so long you don’t know how the rest of the world is. I’m a gambler. To you, maybe that’s a low tout, somebody to be bought. In this state, a gambler is as good as anybody else. He pays most of the taxes, he runs a straight game, he’s a leading citizen. And if you think you can—”

“O. K., ruin me. I don’t care.”

Tony started for the casino, first unwinding Dmitri from his neck and flinging him to the floor. But for a moment, in this straight-shouldered march to rectitude, he hesitated, broke step. It didn’t seem possible that Dmitri, prone by the desk, could see. Possibly he heard. At any rate, he rolled over, jumped up. “What is it, Tony? Only say!”

“My little daughter.”

“Yes, your little daughter!”

Tony stood like a man of granite. Then, with even more emotion than Dmitri had shown, he went on: “My little girl Maxine, that’s got more talent than any actress that ever lived; that’s sent her picture to every scout for every agent in Hollywood, and that not never even got an answer to her letter; my little girl that’s crazy to get in pictures — could you make her a star?”

“Tony! Ask something hard, something that will show how I feel for you! If she’s not cross-eyed, I make her Garbo! If she is cross-eyed—”

“She’s not cross-eyed.”

Having leveled one mountain, Dmitri turned to the Everest that sat motionless in the chair.

But to his astonishment Sylvia looked up wearily and said: “Yes, Dimmy, it was an accident.”

The clock in the hotel lobby crept to 1:05, to 1:10, to 1:20. The tall man in the cow-puncher’s hat, who marched up and down, was a stranger to the clientele, the smart women who would get their divorces in a quiet, discreet way, then take their departures noisily, with orchids; and they regarded him somewhat humorously as they made their way to the dining room. There was nothing humorous, however, about the way the clerk regarded him. Sheriffs, in his scheme of things, were problems to be got rid of at once, if not sooner, and at the first inquiry for Miss Shoreham, he had begun paging that lady all over town. After each call he would give a report, with conjectural matter on where it would be advisable to try next. It was during one of these speeches that Inspector Cy Britten, of the city police, strolled up, set his elbows on the desk, and stood listening. Then he smiled in a sad sort of way, and said: “Parker, have you got a date with that picture actress?”

“That would be my business, I figure.”

“Are you by any chance taking her to lunch?”

“Are you by any chance bothered about it?”

“No, Parker, not that I know of, though I freely admit that when she sashays up the street every morning I generally peep out the window of my office and keep on peeping. It’s only that your office said you were here, and so it’s my duty to inform you that there’s been a shooting out at the Galloping Domino, and that it’s out past the city limits in the county, and that as a matter of fact a couple of your men have already left for there, and that it’s plainly your duty to go.”

“And that makes you happy?”

“Well, somebody’s got to take this girl to lunch—”

“And it might as well be you, hey?”

“As a matter of the courtesy of the police department, I just thought I’d wait here, and inform her of the unfortunate circumstances that have led to the disappearance of her luncheon pardner, and then, as the least that any gentleman could do, to—”