Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  She could see a green tide rising and falling outside of the four windows, on two sides of the room. Not water, but trees swaying in the breeze. The upper halves of the panels were light-blue. The sun was somewhere straight overhead, she could tell that by the way it hardly came in past the sills. It wasn’t a bad lookout, even after a party. “It would be fun living in it,” she mourned to herself, “if the upkeep wasn’t so tough; if I didn’t have to be nice to eccentric old codgers, trying to get them to cough up. All to keep up appearances.”

  Gil came out of the shower alcove. He was partly dressed already—trousers and undershirt, but feet still bare—and mopping his hair with a towel. He threw it behind him onto the floor and came on in. Her eyes followed him halfway around the room with growing curiosity.

  “Well, how’d you make out?” she asked finally.

  He didn’t answer. She glanced at the adjoining bed, but it was only rumpled on top, the covers hadn’t been turned down. He must have just lain down on it without getting in.

  She didn’t speak again until she had come out of the shower in turn. He was all dressed now, standing looking out of the window, cigarette smoke working its way back around the bend of his neck. She snapped off her rubber bathing cap, remarked:

  “I guess Leona thinks we died in our sleep.”

  She wriggled into a yellow jersey that shot ten years to pieces—and she’d looked about twenty to begin with.

  “Is Burroughs still here,” she asked wearily, “or did he decide to go back to town anyway, after I left you two last night?”

  “He left,” he said shortly. He didn’t turn around. The smoke coming around the nape of his neck thickened almost to a fog, then thinned out again, as though he’d taken a whale of a drag just then.

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. But she didn’t act particularly disturbed. “Took the eight-o’clock train, I suppose.”

  He turned around. “Eight o’clock, hell!” he said. “He took the milk train!”

  She put down the comb and stopped what she was doing. “What?” Then she said. “How do you know?”

  “I drove him to the station, that’s how I know!” he snapped. His face was turned to her, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes focused a little too far to one side, then shifted over a little too far to the other, trying to dodge hers.

  “What got into him, to go at that unearthly hour? The milk train—that hits here at 4:30 A.M., doesn’t it?”

  He was looking down. “At 4:20,” he said. He was already lighting another cigarette, and it was a live one judging by the way it danced around before he could get it to stand still between his cupped hands.

  “Well, what were you doing up at that hour yourself?”

  “I hadn’t come up to bed yet at all. He decided to go, so I ran him in.”

  “You had a row with him,” she stated positively. “Why else should he leave—”

  “I did not!” He took a couple of quick steps toward the door, as though her barrage of questions was getting on his nerves, as though he wanted to escape from the room. Then he changed his mind, stayed in the new place, looking at her. “I got it out of him,” he said quietly. That special quietness of voice that made her an accomplice in his financial difficulties. No, every wife should be that. That special tone that seemed to make her his shill in a confidence game. That special tone that she was beginning to hate.

  “You don’t act very happy about it,” she remonstrated.

  He took a wallet out of his pocket, split it lengthwise, showing a pleating of currency edges. And it was so empty, most of the time!

  “Not the whole twenty-five hundred?”

  “The works.”

  “You mean he carries that much in ready cash around with him, when he just comes for a week end in the country! Why . . . why, I saw him go in to cash a twenty-five-dollar check Saturday afternoon in the village. So he could hold up his end when he went out to the inn that night. I was embarrassed, because he asked me if I thought you could oblige him; I not only knew you couldn’t, but I knew it was up to us as hosts to pay his way, and I didn’t know what to say. Luckily you weren’t around, so he couldn’t ask you; he finally went in to get it cashed himself.”

  “I know,” he said impatiently. “I met him out front and drove him in myself!”

  “You?”

  “I told him I was strapped, couldn’t help him out. Then after he’d cashed it himself and was putting it away, he explained that he had twenty. five hundred on him, but it was a deposit earmarked for the bank Monday morning. He hadn’t had time to put it in Friday afternoon before he came out here; our invitation had swept him off his feet so. He wanted this smaller amount just for expense money.”

  “But then he handed the twenty-five hundred over to you anyway?”

  “No, he didn’t,” he said, goaded. “At least, not at first. He had his check book on him, and when I finally broke down his resistance after you’d gone to bed last night, he wrote me out a check. Or started to. I suggested as long as he happened to have that exact amount in cash, he make the loan in cash; that I was overdrawn at my own bank, and if I tried to put his check through there they’d put a nick in it and I needed every penny. He finally agreed; I gave him a receipt, and he gave me the cash.”

  “But then why did he leave at that ungodly hour?”

  “Well, he did one of those slow burns, after it was all over and he’d come across. You know him when it comes to parting with money. It must have finally dawned on him that we’d only had him out here, among a lot of people so much younger than him, to put the bee on him. Anyway, he asked when the next train was, and I couldn’t induce him to stay over; he insisted on leaving then and there. So I drove him in. In one way, I was afraid if he didn’t go, he’d think it over and ask for his money back, so I didn’t urge him too much.”

  “But you’re sure you didn’t have words over it?”

  “He didn’t say a thing. But I could tell by the sour look on his face what he was thinking.”

  “I suppose he’s off me, too,” she sighed.

  “So what? You don’t need an extra grandfather.”

  They had come out of the bedroom and started down the upper hail toward the stairs. She silenced him at sight of an open door ahead, with sunlight streaming out of it. “Don’t say anything about it in front of Leona. She’ll expect to get paid right away.”

  An angular Negress with a dust cloth in her hand looked out at them as they reached the open door. “Mawnin’. I about gib you two up. Coffee’s been on and off ‘bout three times. I can’t drink no more of it myself; make me bilious. I done fix the old gentleman’s room up while I was waitin’.”

  “Oh, you didn’t have to bother,” Jacqueline Blaine assured her happily, almost gayly; “we’re not having any more guests for a while, thank—”

  “He still here, ain’t he?” asked Leona, peering surprisedly.

  This time it was Gil who answered. “No. Why?”

  “He done lef’ his bag in there—one of ’em, anyway. He want it sent to the station after him?”

  Jacqueline looked in surprise from the maid to her husband. The blinding sunlight flashing through the doorway made his face seem whiter than it actually was. It was hard on the eyes, too, made him shift about, as in their bedroom before.

  “He must’ve overlooked it in his hurry, gone off without it,” he murmured. “I didn’t know how many he’d brought with him so I never noticed.”

  Jacqueline turned out the palms of her hands. “How could he do that, when he only brought two in the first place, and”—she glanced into the guest room—“this one’s the larger of the two?”

  “It was in the clothes closet; maybe he didn’t see it himself,” offered Leona, “and forgit he hab it with him. I slide it out just now.” She hurried down the stairs to prepare their delayed breakfast.

  Jacqueline lowered her voice, with a precautionary glance after her, and asked him: “You didn’t get him drunk, did you? Is
that how you got it out of him? He’s liable to make trouble for us as soon as he—”

  “He was cold sober,” he growled. “Try to get him to drink!” So he had tried, she thought to herself, and hadn’t succeeded.

  “Well, then, I don’t see how on earth anyone could go off and leave a bag that size, when they only brought one other one out with them in the first place.”

  He was obviously irritable, nerves on edge; anyone would have been after being up the greater part of the night. He cut the discussion short by taking an angry step over, grasping the doorknob, and pulling the door shut. Since he seemed to take such a trifling thing that seriously, she refrained from dwelling on it any longer just then. He’d feel better after he’d had some coffee.

  They sat down in a sun-drenched porch, open glass on three sides. Leona brought in two glasses of orange juice, with the pulp shreds all settled at the bottom from standing too long.

  “Wabbie ’em around a little,” she suggested cheerily; “dat makes it clear up.”

  Jackie Blaine believed in letting servants express their individualities. When you’re a good deal behind on their wages, you can’t very well object, anyway.

  Gil’s face looked even more drawn down here than it had in the lesser sunlight upstairs. Haggard. But his mood had cleared a little. “Before long, we’ll sit breakfasting in the South American way—and will I be glad of a change of scene!”

  “There won’t be much left to travel on, if you take care of our debts.”

  “If,” he said half audibly.

  The phone rang.

  “That must be Burroughs, asking us to forward his bag.” Jackie Blaine got up and went in to answer it.

  It wasn’t Burroughs, it was his wife.

  “Oh, hello,” Jackie said cordially. “We were awfully sorry to hear you were laid up like that and couldn’t come out with Mr. Burroughs. Feeling any better?”

  Mrs. Burroughs’ voice sounded cranky, put out. “I think it’s awfully inconsiderate of Homer not to let me know he was staying over another day. He knew I wasn’t well when he left! I think the least he might have done was phone me or send a wire if he wasn’t coming, and you can tell him I said so.”

  Jackie Blaine tightened her hold on the telephone. “But, hold on, Mrs. Burroughs. He isn’t here any more; he did leave, early this morning.”

  There was a startled stillness at the other end. Then: “Early this morning! Well, why hasn’t he gotten here? What train did he take?”

  Jackie swiveled toward her husband, telephone and all. She could see him sitting out there from where she was. “Didn’t you say Mr. Burroughs took the milk train, Gil?”

  She could see the gnarled lump of his Adam’s apple go all the way up, then ebb down again. Something made him swallow, though why he should swallow at that particular point—his cup wasn’t anywhere near his lips. Unless maybe there was some coffee left in his mouth from before, that he’d forgotten to swallow till now. He didn’t move at all. Not even his lips. It was like a statue speaking—a statue of gleaming white marble. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Somehow there wasn’t very much color left in her own face. “What time would that bring him in, Gil?” She always used the car herself.

  “Before eight.” She relayed it.

  “Well, where is he then?” The voice was beginning to fray a little around the edges.

  “He may have gone direct to his office from the train, Mrs. Burroughs; he may have had something important to attend to before he went home.”

  Still more of the self-control in the other woman’s voice unraveled. “But he didn’t, I know he didn’t! That’s why I’m calling you; his office phoned a little while ago to ask me if I knew whether or not he’d be in today.”

  “Oh.” The exclamation was soundless, a mental flash on Jackie’s part.

  The voice had degenerated to a pitiful plea for assistance, all social stiffness gone now. It was the frightened whimper of a pampered invalid wife who suddenly has the tables turned on her. “But what’s become of him, Mrs. Blaine?”

  Jackie said in a voice that sounded a little hollow in her own ears: “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Burroughs; I’m sure he’s just unavoidably detained somewhere in town.” But somehow she caught herself swallowing in her turn now, as Gil had before. It was such a straight line from here-or rather from the station out here—to his home, how could anything possibly happen to anyone traveling it?

  “He was feeling all right when you saw him off, wasn’t he, Gil?”

  He started up from his chair, moved over to one of the glass panels, stood staring out, boiling smoke.

  “Leave me out of it for two minutes, will you?” His voice came back to her muffiedly.

  That “Leave me out of it” blurred the rest of the conversation as far as she was concerned. The voice she was listening to disintegrated into sobs and incoherent remarks. She heard herself saying vaguely: “Please don’t worry . . . I feel terrible . . . Will you call me back and let me know?” But what was there she could do? And she knew, oh, she knew that she didn’t want to hear from this woman again.

  She hung up. She was strangely unable to turn around and look toward where Gil was standing. It was a physical incapacity. She felt almost rigid. She had remained standing during the entire conversation. She sat down now. She lighted a cigarette, but it went right out again because she didn’t keep it going. She let her head fall slowly as of its own weight forward into her upcurved hand, so that it was planted between her eyes and partly shut them out.

  She didn’t want any more breakfast.

  She saw the man get out of the car and come up to the house. She knew him by sight. He’d been here before. This was about three that afternoon, that Monday afternoon, the day Burroughs had—gone. He had a cheap car. The sound of it driving up and stopping was what had made her get up off the bed and go over to the window to look. She’d stopped crying by then anyway. You can’t cry all day long; there isn’t that much crying in you.

  Then when she saw who it was—oh, that wasn’t anything. This was such a minor matter—now. And of course it could be taken care of easily enough—now. She stayed there by the window, waiting to see him walk out to his car and drive off again, within five minutes at the most—with the money he’d come for. Because Gil was down there; he could attend to it and get rid of him for good—now. Then there’d be one fewer to hound the two of them.

  But the five minutes were up, and the man didn’t come right out again the way she’d expected him to. He seemed to be staying as long as those other times, when all he got was a drink and a lot of build-up. Angry voices filtered up to her-one angry voice, anyway, and one subdued, placative one.

  She went outside to the head of the stairs and listened tautly. Not that this was new to her, but it had a new, a terrible significance now.

  The angry voice, that of the man who had come in the car, was barking: “How long does this keep up, Blaine? You gimme that same run-around each time! You think all I gotta do is come out here? Look at this house you live in! Look at the front you put up! You mean you haven’t got that much, a guy like you?”

  And Gil’s voice, whining plaintively: “I tell you I haven’t got it this minute! What am I going to do, take it out of my blood? You’re going to get it; just give me time.”

  The angry voice rose to a roar, but at least it shifted toward the front door. “I’m warning you for the last time, you better get it and no more of this funny business! My boss has been mighty patient with you! There are other ways of handling welshers, and don’t forget it!”

  The door slammed and the car outside racketed up and dwindled off in the distance.

  Jackie Blaine crept down the stairs a step at a time toward where Gil was shakily pouring himself a drink. Her face was white, as white as his had been that noon when they first got up. But not because of what she had just heard. Still because of its implication.

  “Who was it?” she said hoarsely.


  “Verona’s stooge. Still that same lousy personal loan he once made me.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Six hundred odd.”

  She knew all these things; she wanted to hear it from him. She spoke in a frightened whisper: “Then why didn’t you give it to him? You have twenty-five hundred on you.”

  He went ahead with his drink.

  “Why? Gil, look at me. Why?”

  He wouldn’t answer.

  She reeled over to him, like someone about to pass out; her head fell against his chest. “D’you love me?”

  “That’s the one thing in my life that’s on the level.”

  “Then you’ve got to tell me. I’ve got to know. Did you do anything to him last night?”

  She buried her face against him, waiting. Silence.

  “I can take it. I’ll stick with you. I’ll string along. But I’ve got to know, one way or the other.” She looked up. She began to shake him despairingly by the shoulders. “Gil, why don’t you answer me? Don’t stand there—That’s why you didn’t pay Verona’s debt, isn’t it? Because you’re afraid to have it known now that you have money on you—after he was here.”

  “Yes, I am afraid,” he breathed almost inaudibly.

  “Then you—” She sagged against him; he had to catch her under the arms or she would have gone down.

  “No, wait. Pull yourself together a minute. Here, swallow this. Now . . . steady, hold onto the table. Yes, I did do something. I know what you’re thinking. No, not that. It’s bad enough, though. I’m worried. Stick with me, Jackie. I don’t want to get in trouble. I met him coming out of the house Saturday, wanting to cash that pin-money check, and I drove him in, like I told you. The bank was closed for the half day, of course, and I suggested getting it cashed at the hotel. I told him they knew me and I could get it done easier than he could, so I took it in for him and he waited outside in the car.