James Cain - The Baby in the Icebox and Other Short Fiction

She smiled quick at me, but gasped when she saw who I was talking to. “Mademoiselle!” she said, in the same accent as Zita’s. “ Mademoiselle! ” Then she bobbed up and down, bending her knees and straightening them, in what seemed to be meant for bows.

But if Zita minded her being there, she didn’t show it at all. She said something to her in Hungarian, and then turned back to me. In English, she said, “This is Maria, Mr. Hull — the girl with whom you have the date.”

“I have the — what? ”

“Your date is with Maria,” she said.

I stared at her, and then at Maria, and then at Zita again. If this was a joke, I didn’t feel like laughing.

“I heard Maria’s telephone conversation with you,” Zita said. “I did not know it was you then, of course, but I heard her repeat your room number.” She smiled again. “And I heard her say something about wine.”

“Listen—” I began.

“Wine...” she said. “How romantic.”

“I ordered the wine for you,” I told her. “My date was wit you, not with—”

“Yes, the wine,” she said. “Where was it to be served? On the plane perhaps? It leaves at two, you said, when you told me goodbye a little while ago. You made me feel quite sad. But at two o-clock, with a smile, comes Maria.”

I knew by then what had happened, and how important it is to get names straight before you phone — and to make sure of the person you’re talking to before you do any asking. It put quite a crimp in my pitch, and I guess I sounded weak when I go the blueprints out and tried to start all over again.

“Please,” Zita said. “Don’t apologize for the maid. She is very pretty, Mr. Hull. Very pretty.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn’t wait to hear it. She went off down the hall, switching her hips very haughtily. She didn’t stop for the elevator, but left by way of the stairs.

I looked at the blonde maid. “Come in, Maria,” I said. “We’ve got a little talking to do.”

I had some idea of a message, which Maria could deliver when the situation cooled down a bit. But by the time I’d closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I’d closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I’d come to the conclusion that a message was not such a good idea. So I got my wallet out, took out a ten, and handed it to Maria. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “that we had to have this mix-up. I think you see the reason. Over the telephone, to an American, one accent sounds pretty much like another. I hope your feelings aren’t hurt, and that this little present will help.”

Judging by her smile, it helped quite a lot. But as she started toward the door, something started to nag at me. “What a minute,” I said. “Sit down.”

She sat down on the edge of my sofa, crossing her slim legs while I cogitated, and trying to tug the short skirt down over her knees. It was quite a display of nylon, and it didn’t make it any easier for me to think. She was an extremely well-built girl, this Maria, and she had the legs to go with the short skirt. I looked the other way, and tried to figure out this point that had popped into my mind.

“There’s an angle I don’t get, Maria,” I said. “What was she doing here?”

“You mean Mademoiselle Zita?”

I turned around to face her. “What did she come here for?”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“Not a word. Listen, I can’t be mistaken. She knew romance was here — with wine ordered, who wouldn’t? But she didn’t know I was here. Until she saw me, I was just Mr. X. Why would she buzz Mr. X?”

I closed my eyes, working on my little mystery, and when I opened them Maria was no longer a maid making a tip. She was a ferret, watching me in a way that told me she knew the answer all right, and hoped to make it pay. That suited me fine. I got out another ten.

“Okay,” I said. “Give.”

She eyed my wallet.

She eyed my ten-spot.

She picked it up.

“It baffles me,” she said.

“Listen,” I told her. “I’m paying you.”

She walked to the door and opened it part way. She hesitated a moment, and then pushed the door shut again and walked back to where I was standing. She looked me straight in the eye, and now she was smiling. It wasn’t an especially pretty smile.

“Well?” I said.

The door buzzer sounded.

“Heavens!” Maria whispered. “I mustn’t be seen here I’d compromise you, Mr. Hull. I’ll wait in the bathroom.”

I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising you, Mr. Hull. I’ll wait in the bedroom.”

I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising was. But as I stepped into the foyer I was thinking about Zita. I was sure it was she, back to tell me some more.

I turned the knob, and then the door banged into my face. When the bells shook out of my ears, a guy was there. He stood in the middle of the living room floor, a big, think-shouldered character in Hollywood coat and slacks.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked him. “And what the hell do you want?”

“My wife’s all I want, Mister. Where is she?”

“Wife?”

“Quit acting dumb! Where is she?”

I heard the sharp sound of high heels on the floor behind me. “But, Bill!” Maria said. “What is this?”

I looked around at Maria — and got one of the biggest jolts of my life.

She didn’t have a stitch on, except those nylons and that little white cap on her head.

“You damned tramp!” Bill yelled, and made a lunge at her.

I took a seat by the window and watched them put on their act — he chasing her around, she backing away — and I woke up at last to what I’d got my foot into. When Maria had gone to the door and opened it part way, it had been a signal to this big bruiser. She couldn’t have been wearing anything under her maid’s uniform, or she couldn’t have gotten so naked so fast. And now I was the sucker in a badger game, caught like a rat in a trap. This pair had me, and unless I wanted he house detective, and maybe even the police, all I could do was grin and kick in when the bite was made.

When the ruckus began to slacken off a bit, I said, “Okay, Bill, I get it. I don’t have to be hit with a brick. What is it you’re after? Let’s hear your pitch.” I hadn’t seem any bulges on him as he circled around, and it seemed to me that a gun was the last thing he should have if his caper went slightly sour and he had to face some cops. I couldn’t be sure, of course, but by then I didn’t much give a damn.

But all he did was blink.

“What’re you after?” I asked him again.

“Dough, Mister. Just dough.”

“How much?”

“How much you got?”

I took out my wallet, squeezed it to show how thick it was, and began dealing out tens, dropping them on the cocktail table. When I’d let eight bills fall, I stopped. “That’ll do it,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “you got more.”

“I think you’ll settle for this.”

“And what gives you that idea?”

“Well,” I said, taking my time, “I figure you for tinhorn chiselers, a pair that’ll sell out cheap. It’s worth a hundred — this eighty and the twenty I already gave her, when I’m sure she’ll tell you about — to get you out of here. I’ll just charge it to lessons in life. But for more, I’d just as soon crack it open. You want this money or not?”

It wasn’t all just talk. From Maria’s eyes as she watched the bills, I knew that for some reason they worried her. She looked at them a second, and then said to me, “Will you please bring me my uniform, Mr. Hull? Like a nice fellow?”

I didn’t know why I was being got rid of, but when I went into the bedroom and had a peep through the crack in the door, Maria was down on her knees at the table, holding my tens to the light, looking for the punctures that are sometimes put on marked money. Bill was grumbling at her, but she grumbled back, and I heard her say, “Mademoiselle Zita.”