The Grifters

by Jim Thompson

  Already, perhaps, he had pursued the line of brusqueness too far.

  He arrived at the restaurant a little before one. They ate at a small table in the rear of the place, and somehow the meeting went pretty much as the first one had. Somehow, and much to Roy’s annoyance, the feeling of empathy grew between them. Toward the end of the meal, Kaggs did a surprising thing—surprising, that is, for him. Reaching across the table, he gave Roy a shy slap on the shoulder.

  “Feeling lousy, aren’t you, boy? Like you could bite nails.”

  “What?” Roy looked at him startled. “What makes you think that?”

  “You’d just have to; I know I would. A man can idle around so long, and then it begins to drive him nuts. Why don’t you come back to the office with me for a while? Sort of look the setup over.”

  “Well, I—you’re busy, and—”

  “So I’ll put you to work, too.” Kaggs stood up, smiling. “I’m kidding, of course. You can just look around; take a gander at the salesmen’s file, if you like. Do what you want to, and pull out when you want to.”

  “Well…” Roy shrugged. “Why not?”

  The question was rhetorical; he could think of no valid reason to decline. Similarly, finding himself in Kaggs’ office at Sarber & Webb, he was forced to accept the file which Kaggs shoved in front of him. To show at least a semblance of interest in its various cards.

  Resentfully, he saw himself a victim of Kaggs’ highhandedness. Kaggs had taken charge of him again, as he had on that first day. But that wasn’t really true. More accurately, he was his own victim, his own slave. He had made personality a profession, created a career out of selling himself. And he could not stray far, or for long, from his self-made self.

  He riffled through the cards, unseeing.

  He began to see them, to read the meaning in them. They became people and money and life itself. And thoughtfully, one at a time, he took them out of the file and spread them out on the desk.

  He picked up a pencil, reached for a lined pad of scratch paper…

  As he worked, Kaggs gave him an occasional covert glance, and a smug smile tightened his thin lips. A couple of hours passed, and Kaggs arose and strolled over to his desk.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Sit down,” Roy said, and as the other man obeyed, “I think this record system is all wrong, Perk. I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, whoever set it up, but—”

  “Tread away. Nothing’s sacred around here.”

  “Well, it’s misleading, a waste of time. Take this man here. His gross sales for the week are six hundred and fifty dollars. His commission, over in this column, totals eighty-one dollars. What’s his percentage of the week’s sales?”

  “I’d have to figure it up. Roughly, eight per cent.”

  “Not necessarily. Depending on what he sold, he might have some twenty-five per cent stuff in there. The point is, just what the hell was it that he sold? How much of it was practically loss-leader stuff, items that we have to sell in order to compete?”

  Kaggs looked at him sharply; hesitated. “Well, of course, there’s his sales slips; that’s what his commissions were figured from.”

  “But where are the sales slips?”

  “Accounting gets a copy, inventory gets a copy, and of course the customer gets one at the time of purchase.”

  “Why does inventory need a copy? The stuff is checked off at the time it leaves the shop, isn’t it? Or at least it could be. You’ve got some duplicate effort if it isn’t. Where you need a copy is here in the salesman’s file.”

  “But—”

  “Not in a file like this, of course. There isn’t enough room. But it doesn’t have to be like this. We don’t have so many salesmen that we couldn’t set up a separate file on each one, give each man a section in one of the filing cabinets.”

  Kaggs scratched his head. “Hmm,” he said. “Well maybe.”

  “It ought to be done, Perk. It just about has to be if you’re going to have a clear picture of what’s going on. Tie the sales slips to the salesmen, and you know which men are selling and which are running a milk route. Ordertakers. You know what items are moving and which need pushing, and which should be dropped entirely. Of course, you’ll know all that eventually, anyway. But waiting can cost you a hell of a lot of money and—”

  Roy broke off abruptly, suddenly abashed by his tone and his words. He shook his head, dismayed, like a man coming into wakefulness.

  “Just listen to me,” he said. “I come in here for the first time, and I start kicking your system to pieces.”

  “So kick it some more. Kick the crap out of it!” Kaggs beamed at him. “How are you feeling, anyway? Getting tired? Want to knock off for the day?”

  “No, I’m okay. But—”

  “Well, let’s see, then.” Kaggs skidded his chair closer, and reached for a pencil. “What would you say to…”

  An hour went by.

  Two hours.

  In the outer offices, one of the clerks turned a startled stare on her neighbor. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. “He was laughing! Old Picklepuss Kaggs laughed out loud!”

  “I heard,” said the other girl, grimly, “but I don’t believe it. That guy never learned how to laugh!”

  At five-thirty that evening, the telephone operator plugged in her night numbers and closed her board. The outer offices darkened and became silent, as the last of the office employees filed out. And at six, the downstairs workers departing to the muted clanging of the time-clock, the silence and the dimness became absolute.

  At eight o’clock—

  Perk Kaggs removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, blinking absently, and a bewildered look spread over his face. With an amazed curse, he jumped to his feet.

  “My God! Look at the time! Where the hell did the day go to?”

  “What?” Roy frowned. “What’s the matter, Perk?”

  “Come on, you’re getting out of here! Right this minute, damnit! My God—” Kaggs swore again. “I ask you to drop in for a few minutes and you put in a day’s work!”

  They had a late dinner together.

  As they said good night, Kaggs gave him a sharp searching glance. “Level with me, Roy,” he said quietly. “You do want this job, don’t you? You want to be sales manager?”

  “Well…” Roy hesitated for a flicker of a second.

  There it was. Here was his chance to refuse. And he knew suddenly that he could refuse, without apology or explanation. He could say simply no, that he didn’t want it, and that would be that. He could go back to his old life where he had left it. For something had happened between him and Kaggs, something that made them friends. And friends do not question each other’s motives.

  “Why, of course, I want it,” he said firmly. “What gave you the idea that I didn’t?”

  “Nothing. I just thought that—nothing.” Kaggs returned to his usual briskness. “To hell with it. To hell with you. Go home and get some sleep, and don’t show up at the shop again until the doctor says you’re ready!”

  “You’re the boss,” Roy grinned. “’Night, Perk.”

  Driving back to the hotel, he started to rationalize his decision, to find some devious reason for doing what he had done. But that passed very quickly. Why shouldn’t he take a job that he wanted to take? Why shouldn’t a man want a friend, a real friend, when he has never before had one?

  He put the car away and entered the hotel. The elderly night clerk hailed him.

  “You had a phone call this morning, Mr. Dillon. Your mother.”

  “My mother?” Roy paused. “Why didn’t you leave word for me where I work?”

  “I was going to, sir, but she said not to bother. Didn’t have time to wait, I guess.”

  Roy picked up a house phone, put in a call to Lilly’s apartment. He hung up a moment or two later, puzzled, uneasy.

  Lilly was gone. She had checked out of her apartment this morning, leaving no forwarding address.r />
  He went upstairs. Frowning, he shucked out of his clothes and lay down on the bed. He tossed and turned for a while, worrying. Then, gradually, he relaxed and began to doze.

  Lilly could take care of herself. There could be—must be—an innocent reason for her sudden move.

  Del Mar…She might have moved there for the race meet. Or she might have found a more desirable apartment here in town that had to be taken immediately. Or perhaps Bobo Justus had suddenly recalled her to Baltimore.

  He fell asleep.

  After what seemed only an instant, he came awake.

  Sunlight flooded the room. It was late in the morning. He was conscious that the phone had been ringing for a very long time. It was now silent, but its din was still in his ears. He started to reach for it, his senses dull, not fully free of the stupor of sleep, and there was a knock on the door, a steady knocking.

  He crossed to it, opened it enough to look out. He blinked at the man there; then, the man identifying himself, stating his business with professional regret—apologizing for the errand that had brought him here—Roy let the door open wide.

  And he stood shaking his head as the man came inside.

  No, he shouted silently. It wasn’t true! It was some stupid mistake! Lilly wouldn’t be in Tucson! Why—why—

  He said it aloud, glaring at his visitor. The latter pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “You didn’t know she was in Arizona, Mr. Dillon? She didn’t tell you she was going?”

  “Of course, she didn’t! Because she didn’t go! I—I—” He hesitated, some of his caution asserting itself. “I mean, my mother and I weren’t very close. We went our own ways. I hadn’t seen her for almost eight years until she came here a few weeks ago, but—”

  “I understand,” the man nodded. “That jibes with our information, such as it is.”

  “Well, you’re wrong, anyway,” Roy said doggedly. “It’s someone else. My mother wouldn’t—”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Dillon. It was her own gun, registered to her. The proprietor of the tourist court remembers that she was very distraught. Of course, it does seem a little odd that she’d use a gun with a silencer on it for…for something like that. But—”

  “And she didn’t! It doesn’t make sense!”

  “It never does, Mr. Dillon. It never makes sense when a person commits suicide…”

  22

  The man was slightly bald, heavy-set, with a plump, honest face. His name was Chadwick, and he was a Treasury Department agent. Obviously, he felt a little awkward about being here at such a time. But it was his job, distasteful though it might be, and he meant to do it. He did, however, lead into his business circuitously.

  “You understand why I came rather than the local police, Mr. Dillon. It really isn’t their affair, at least at this point. I’m afraid there may be some unpleasant publicity later on, when the circumstances of your mother’s death are revealed. An attractive widow with so much money in her possession. But—”

  “I see,” said Roy. “The money.”

  “More than a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, Mr. Dillon. Hidden in the trunk of her car. I’m very much afraid—” delicately. “I’m afraid she hadn’t paid taxes on it. She’d been falsifying her returns for years.”

  Roy gave him a wry look. “The body was discovered this morning; about eight o’clock, right? You seem to have been a very busy little man.”

  Chadwick agreed simply that he had been. “Our office here hasn’t had time to make a thorough investigation, but the evidence is indisputable. Your mother couldn’t have saved that much out of her reported income. She was a tax evader.”

  “How terrible! Too bad you can’t put her in jail.”

  “Please!” Chadwick winced. “I know how you feel, but—”

  “I’m sorry,” Roy said quietly. “That wasn’t very fair. Just what do you want me to do, Mr. Chadwick?”

  “Well…I’m required to ask if you intend to lay claim to the money. If you care to say, that is. Possibly you’d rather consult a lawyer before you decide.”

  “No,” Roy said. “I won’t lay any claim to the money. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, very much. Now, I wonder if you can give me any information as to the source of your mother’s income. It seems obvious, you know, that there must have been tax evasions on the part of others, and—”

  Roy shook his head. “I imagine you know as much about my mother’s associates as I do, Mr. Chadwick. Probably,” he added, with a tiredly crooked grin, “you know a hell of a lot more.”

  Chadwick nodded gravely, and stood up. Hesitating, hat in hand, he glanced around the room. And there was approval in his eyes, and a quiet concern.

  Lilly’s money had had to be impounded, he murmured; her car, everything she owned. But Roy mustn’t think that the government was heartless in these matters. Any sum necessary for her burial would be released.

  “You’ll want to see to the arrangements personally, I imagine. But if there’s anything I can do to help…” He took a business card from his wallet and laid it on the table. “If you can tell me when you might care to leave for Tucson, if you are going, that is, I’ll notify the local authorities and—”

  “I’d like to go now. Just as soon as I can get a plane.”

  “Let me help you,” Chadwick said.

  He picked up the phone, and called the airport. He spoke briskly, reciting a government code number. He glanced at Roy. “Get you out in an hour, Mr. Dillon. Or if that’s too soon—”

  “I’ll make it. I’ll be there,” Roy said, and he began flinging on his clothes.

  Chadwick accompanied him to his car, shook hands with him warmly as Roy opened the door.

  “Good luck to you, Mr. Dillon. I wish we could have met under happier circumstances.”

  “You’ve been fine,” Roy told him. “And I’m glad we met, regardless.”

  He had never seen the traffic worse than it was that day. It took all his concentration to get through it, and he was glad for the respite from thinking about Lilly. He got to the airport with ten minutes to spare. Picking up his ticket, he hurried toward the gate to his plane. And then, moved by a sudden hunch, he swerved into a telephone booth.

  A minute or two later he emerged from it. Grim-faced, a cold rage in his heart, he went onto his plane.

  It was a propeller job since his trip was a relatively short one, a mere five hundred and eighty miles. As it circled the field and winged south, a stewardess began serving the pre-luncheon drinks. Roy took a double bourbon. Sipping it, he settled back in his seat and gazed out the window. But the drink was tasteless and he gazed at nothing.

  Lilly. Poor Lilly…

  She hadn’t killed herself. She’d been murdered.

  For Moira Langtry was also gone from her apartment. Moira also had checked out yesterday morning, leaving no forwarding address.

  There was one thing about playing the angles. If you played them long enough, you knew the other guy’s as well as you knew your own. Most of the time it was like you were looking out the same window. Given a certain set of circumstances, you knew just about what he would do or what he had done.

  So, without actually knowing what had happened, just how and why Lilly had been brought to her death, Roy knew enough. He could make a guess which came astonishingly close to the truth.

  Moira had a contact in Baltimore. Moira knew that Lilly would be carrying heavy—that, like any successful operator, she would have accumulated a great deal of money which would never be very far from her. As to just how far, just where it might be hidden, Moira didn’t know. She might look forever without finding it. Thus Lilly had had to be put on the run; for, running, she would take the loot with her, necessarily narrowing its possible whereabouts to her immediate vicinity.

  How to make her run? No problem there. For a fearful shadow lies constantly over the residents of Uneasy Street. It casts itself through the ostensibly friendly ha
ndshake, or the gorgeously wrapped package. It beams out from the baby’s carriage, the barber’s chair, the beauty parlor. Every neighbor is suspect, every outsider, everyone period; even one’s own husband or wife or sweetheart. There is no ease on Uneasy Street. The longer one’s tenancy, the more untenable it becomes.

  You didn’t need to frighten Lilly. Only to frighten her a little more. And if you had a contact at her home base, someone to give her a “friendly warning” by telephone…

  Roy finished his drink.

  He ate the lunch which the stewardess served him.

  She took the tray away and he smoked a cigarette, and the plane dropped lower over the desert and came into the Tucson glide pattern.

  A police car was waiting for him at the airport. It carried him swiftly into the city, and a police captain took him into a private office and gave him such facts as he could.

  “…checked into the motor court around ten last night, Mr. Dillon. It’s that big place with the two swimming pools; you passed it on the way into town. The night clerk says she seemed pretty jumpy, but I don’t know that you can put much stock in that. People always remember that other people acted or looked or talked funny after something’s happened to ‘em. Anyway, your mother left a seven-thirty call, and when she didn’t answer her phone one of the maids finally got around to looking in on her…”

  Lilly was dead. She was lying in bed in her nightclothes. The gun was on the floor at the side of the bed. Judging by her appearance—Roy winced—she’d put the muzzle in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

  There was no disarray in the room, no sign of a struggle, no suicide note. “That’s about all we know, Mr. Dillon,” the captain concluded, and he added with casual pointedness, “Unless you can tell us something.”

  Roy said that he couldn’t and that was true. He could only say what he suspected, and such guilty suspicions would only damage him while proving nothing at all against Moira. It might make a little trouble for her, cause her to be picked up and questioned, but it would accomplish no more than that.

  “I don’t know what I could tell you,” he said. “I’ve got an idea that she traveled with a pretty fast crowd, but I’m sure you’re already aware of that.”