James Cain - The Institute

We had gone through the tunnel under Baltimore Harbor before she brought up the call, and when she did, she made it quick: “I simply couldn’t say that I had changed my mind. It would have sounded so phoney. I said that you had hinted that you had some idea — an inspiration, you called it, that you would tell him and, of course, me — which would make me change my mind, or at least, so you thought. Then I spent half the night trying to think what your idea was — or is. Whatever. Anyway, I called him at home just now to say that curiosity was killing the cat, that I would bring you back with me to let us hear it in person. Now all you have to do is think up an idea. But if you can’t, it’s all right with me. You can just get out, thumb a ride back, and forget the whole thing.”

“Afraid I couldn’t do that.”

“I did, it so happens, come up with something myself.”

“I’m holding my breath.”

“You could name this thing after me.”

“Well, of course; I love that idea.”

“Then I could realize it would make me a pretty big frog in a puddle not too small — and that would be that.”

“I would say that’s it; we’ve got it.”

“Stop we-ing me.”

“I wouldn’t mind, at that.”

She stomped on the brake, brought the car to a sudden stop in the breakdown lane, and hauled off and gave me a slap that stung for ten minutes. Then she started again. “That may be it,” she said. “The question is not what it is, but whether he believes it.”

We drove on, two people miles apart. At the river she stared straight ahead, paying it no attention. When we crossed the Delaware line she pulled over and stopped. “Now,” she began in a stilted, self-conscious voice; “we’re within twenty minutes of Wilmington, and I’ve stopped here to plead with you to give up this idea of yours, if you still have it, that I recommend to my husband that he accept your proposal that he endow some institute with you in charge. Dr. Palmer, I assure you that if you force me to do this, it can only lead to disaster. What do you say?”

“Give me a minute to think.”

“Take as long as you want.”

So I thought, or I suppose I did, but as I remember, nothing much went through my head. At last I said: “The idea’s not mine; it’s yours.”

“You’re wrong. The idea is yours.”

“Have it your way. I won’t argue. But it’s you, don’t forget, who’s afraid. And it’s you who’s trying to cap that fear, stuff it back in the pipe by neutralizing me. Whatever I say to you now, whatever I promise to do, will leave you still afraid, except for this one thing you thought of first, that I be bought off with the institute. I want him to start. Well, so be it. Drive on.”

“Rat is flattery.”

“Self-deception is worse.”

She was to take me to his office, so we drove to a building in downtown Wilmington, which had ARMALCO chiselled over the entrance. She had barely stopped when a doorman in a maroon uniform was opening the door for her. He bowed and smiled and called her by name. I got out, but by the time I’d walked around, he had handed her down and was saying “Yes’m” when she told him to lock up because her coats and bag were inside. I followed her into the lobby, into a big elevator, then into a reception room where the girl at the desk jumped up and said a bit breathlessly: “Mrs. Garrett, Mr. Garrett’s expecting you” — and with a glance at a card — “and Dr. Palmer.”

Hortense answered her pleasantly. Then a secretary came out and spoke to her and ushered us into an office. It was an office such as I had never seen — large, with a handsome desk at one end and a fireplace at the other, cocktail table, an oriental rug, copper ashtrays, and gigantic, leather-upholstered sofas in between. But the main items in the room weren’t in it, strictly speaking; they were around it, on the walls. They were covered with shelves, of redwood, apparently with indirect lighting to illuminate scores of exhibits, scale models of the products ARMALCO made. There were motorbikes, trucks, tractors, trailers, mowers, radios, TVs — and boats. Boats and more boats. Most of the boats — the cruisers, sloops and skiffs — were no more than twelve inches long; but three of them, of regular ships, were six feet long and possibly more, exact to the smallest fitting. I went around peering at them, gasping in astonishment, while Hortense, stretched out on a sofa, listened.

Presently she explained: “My husband has a passion for things, as he calls them. The Nutting stuff in the apartment is just the beginning. He says this is what’s made him rich. He imagines himself a psychic.”

“Some of my best friends are.”

“Do you know what psychic means?”

“So? What?”

“It means you know the truth without knowing how you know it. There’s still time, before he comes in, to pull back from this Rubicon.”

“Can’t let Caesar skunk me.”

I struck a pose, my fingers in my lapel. She winced. “Oh for God’s sake, Lloyd, that’s Napoleon, not Caesar!”

“Can’t let Boney skunk me either.”

I didn’t notice at first that she had used my given name, the first time all morning. Under my coat my fingers suddenly touched the keys I’d put on the ring for her, which I’d dropped into my shirt pocket. I took them out and offered them to her.

“What’s that?”

“Keys. One to the back door of the building, one to my apartment. So the next time you come—”

“The next time I come! As funny as you are, you should be on television. Do you seriously think there will be a next time for me after the way you’ve—”

“We said we were hit by a truck, and the truck I was hit by has no reverse gear. All I know is, God willing, I’ll hope for a next time. And perhaps—”

I reached over and dropped the keys down the front of her blouse, into the V below her neck. Her hand slapped to stop them from slipping down, but in spite of her slapping and grabbing, they slipped down anyway. Suddenly she stopped trying to fumble them out, and lay there staring at me.

“Lloyd,” she whispered, “when you said what you did just now, about the truck with no reverse, your eyes didn’t lie to me.”

“I hope to tell you, they didn’t.”

“It gives me an idea!”

“Well, Hortense, please — not here!”

“Why not?”

“Because, if it’s the idea I have—”

“My sweet, there can be only one idea — one real idea.” She smiled. “It all depends on the way it’s put into effect.” Her eyes narrowed until they were slits, glittering as though hornets were crawling on them.

What those hornets meant I found out soon enough. Mr. Garrett came in a few minutes later, wearing slacks and lounge coat this time. He nodded amiably to me and bowed in a courtly manner to Hortense.

“Hello,” she crooned in a low voice, waving him closer. He went over to her and sat down as she moved to give him room, responding when she pulled him down for a kiss. “... and hello,” he growled, obviously shaken.

Suddenly I knew what it felt like to suffer.

“Be with you in a minute,” he flung over his shoulder to me, bending over her again. I walked to the window and stared out at Wilmington — which isn’t much to look at when viewed under such circumstances.

“Now,” he said. When I turned, he was sitting beside her, holding her hand and patting it. “My wife,” he went on, “says you have an idea, something you think will change her mind. I’m listening.”

“Well,” I said, trying to regain my wits, “I had no idea before — when I was here yesterday, I mean — why she felt as she did—”