Fritz Leiber - The Sinful Ones

Crossing the Michigan Bridge, he looked around idly fro the black motor-barge, but it was nowhere in sight. Far on the lake was dazzling. Next to the bridge, deck-hands were washing an excursion steamer. The skyscrapers rose up clean and gray. Cities could be lovely places at times. To crown it, he decided he’d drop into one of the big department stores and make some totally unnecessary purchase. Necktie, perhaps. Say, a new blue.

Inside the store the crowd was thicker. Pausing by the door to spy out the proper counter, Carr had the faintest feeling of oppressiveness.

So low as not to attract general attention, but distinctly audible, came a buzz. Three buzzes, close together. Then three more. Carr felt suddenly on the alert, now knowing why.

A large man began to move toward the nearest door, not with obvious haste but not losing any time. Two aisles over another large man was heading in the same direction.

Between them, a well-dressed gray-haired woman was making for the same door with steps a bit faster than seemed appropriate for her bulky figure.

They converged on her. She hurried. They caught up with her at the door.

Superficially, it might have been an aunt being accosted by two polite, solicitous nephews. No one else in the store seemed to realize that anything out of the ordinary was happening.

But Carr noted the hand on the wrist, the gentle prod—it might have been a nephew’s love tap—the indignant look and the threat to start a scene on her part, the gentle “It’ll be a lot simpler if you don’t make a fuss” eyebrow-raising on theirs, the business of escorting her toward the mezzanine stairs—as if the nephews had persuaded their rather flustered aunt to have lunch with them.

Suddenly Carr didn’t feel hungry any more. Any thoughts of subtle pleasures to be derived from idle shopping vanished from his mind. He wanted to get to his place at the office.

It wasn’t the incident itself. Nothing extraordinary about that. Just two house detectives picking up a shoplifter when the alarm signal sounded.

It was in what the thing suggested.

It had app happened too inconspicuously. It made you distrustful of crows and any security you might have thought rested in them.

Outside, the city was noisier, pushier, less friendly.

When Carr got to the office he was annoyed to notice that his heart was pounding and that he was hurrying guiltily. He forced himself to slow down and it turned out that everyone was so busy that no one had time to look up at him or say hello. As he settled down with an exaggerated feeling of relief, his phone buzzed. His heart sank, he didn’t know why.

“Morning, Carr.”

“Morning.” His lips worked. “Marcia, I’m sorry—”

“Head still on?”

“Uh?” Carr’s mind fumbled wildly at the remark. It might be sarcasm, but he couldn’t figure what sort. Of course he had “lost his head” last night but—

“Well, mine isn’t,” Marcia continued briskly. “I had a wonderful evening though, in case you’re interested.”

That cut. Marcia lost no time in punishing people, all right. Still he had it coming to him. “Marcia, I acted like a fool,” he began.

“Simply wonderful. Never know the food to be better at Kungsholm.”

She said it in the pleasantest sort of voice. No suggestion that she was trying to hurt him.

“And afterwards—that was marvelous too.”

Carr winced. The easy confidence he’d felt toward Marcia earlier in the morning evaporated. He felt altogether jealous and miserable.

“Listen, Marcia, I told you I acted like a fool—”

“What I wanted to call you about,” she interrupted, “was that I’m glad you’ve decided to change your mind about Keaton Fisher.”

The phone was silent. Carr got to the point, or thought he did. She’d forgive him, if he’d go after the Fisher job. Well, that was all right, he’d come around to that way of thinking himself. But he hated to let her believe she’d forced him into it. Still—

“I have changed my mind, Marcia,” he said.

“And I want you to make a really good impression on him Friday night.”

“I’ll try.”

“I know you will. Goodbye, darling.”

He replaced the receiver. Well, that was that. He’d committed himself. Probably for his own good.

Might have known Marcia would get her way in the end. He wondered what man she’d gone out with last night, decided he ought to put that question out of his mind.

“Coming?”

He looked up. People had their hats on and were going to lunch. Tom Elvested was standing beside his desk.

“Sure, sure,” Carr said hurriedly. “Be right with you.”

Going over to the Italian’s, his mood brightened. After all, he’d made his peace with Marcia, even though at a price. Something of the calm elation he’d felt earlier in the morning returned to him. He was half of a mind to tell Tom about last night, yet felt a queer reticence. Plenty of reason for feeling that way, though, he told himself. For one thing, he didn’t want it to get back to Marcia. For another, if he described it to Tom, it would seem just silly. Finally, there was his persistent impression that Jane knew Tom, was connected with him in some way, and right now he didn’t want to know any more about her or get involved with her in any way.

So when they’d found a table at the Italian’s and decided that the veal cutlet parmigiana looked the best, and Tom asked, “How was your date with Marcia?” Carr merely said, “Swell.” He hurried on to ask in turn, “And how did you get along with Midge and he girlfriend?”

“Her friend didn’t come. We couldn’t scare up another date for her at short notice. Midge tried to persuade her to come anyway, but I guess she was afraid of spoiling our twosome.”

“I’m sorry,” said Carr. “If it hadn’t been for my date with Marcia…and of course, you did ask me at the last minute.”

“Sure,” said Tom, tearing off bits of French bread and dropping them in his cup of minestrone. “Still, I’d like you to meet her some day. I think you and she have a lot in common.”

“What way?” Carr asked.

Tom fished up a spoonful of sopping bits of bread. “Oh, your more submerged qualities,” he said.

Carr looked at him for a moment, decided not to follow that one up. Might as well begin working up enthusiasm about his new future, it occurred to him. “Say, you know, Marcia’s got on to something very interesting,” he began, and while they were finishing their soup, he outlined Keaton Fisher’s plan for an editorial counseling service. The cutlets came and they were both busy for a while. Then, when Tom was wiping up the last of the tomato sauce with a fragment of break on his fork, Carr asked, “Well, what did you think of it?”

Tom chewed his bread before replying. Then he countered uninspiredly, “Are you sure it’s the sort of job you’d like?”

“Oh, hell,” Carr said, “you know that we probably wouldn’t be employment men if we were certain of the job we wanted.”

Tom grinned. “I grant you that. Just as the psychiatrist is apt to be a little crazy. But I’ve got an angle about you. I don’t think you like people.”

“Really?”

“No. Now me, I may be no great shakes at personnel work, but still I like people. I like to speculate about them. I even like to relax with them. I’m uneasy if they’re not around. But you—I think people get on your nerves. You conceal it pretty well, but I’ve caught you looking at people as if they irritated the hell out of you. It’s almost as if you felt they were queer little machines that were bothering you.”

“Oh, hell,” Carr said.

“Maybe, but all the same there’s something eating you.”