Within minutes we had her seated on a low couch with the tape recorder in front of her. “There’s three reasons for this machine,” he told her. “My instincts tell me that you are a natural talent, it’s all there in the way you carry yourself. But I see the doubt in your eyes, the natural modesty of a beginner. So in ten minutes I’m gonna use this tape to prove to you that you’re as good as I think you are. Then tomorrow morning when I get off the plane I’m gonna use it to prove it to the shmucks in production, excuse my French, when they tell me I’m crazy to cast somebody with no track record in the industry. Then the third thing, I’m gonna keep the tape in my files, to refer to whenever something comes up that might be right for you.”
“Well, all right,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, naturally I don’t carry a script around with me when I scout locations, so we’re just going to have to improvise a little bit. You’re kidnapped, see? Douglas and Mitchum have a knife at your throat, and they’re talking to your husband—Burt Lancaster, by the way—on the phone about the ransom. You’re totally terrified, and they put you on the phone so Burt knows you’re still alive, get it? Carol, baby, do me something? You be Douglas: take this pen and hold it on Constance like it’s a knife, okay? Can I call you Constance? All right, let’s try it.” He prepared the tape recorder, took up tension on the reels. “This machine will only record your voice, but try to play it like there was a camera on you: it’ll come across on the tape. Remember now, these guys have scared the living crap out of you, excuse my French, and so you tell your husband you think they’re really gonna cut your throat, just for the fun of it. Scream and carry on a lot. Use your real husband’s name, whatever it is; it’ll sound natural.”
“I understand,” she said. I took the pen and stood next to her. “Let me see,” she said. “My hands would be tied, wouldn’t they?” She put them behind her.
The Professor shook his head admiringly. “What did I tell you? A natural. Carol will feed you your cues; just remember, she’s Kirk Douglas.”
“Just give me a moment,” she said. She closed her eyes, began to breathe faster, more agitatedly. “I’m ready!”
He started the recorder. “Rolling. Action!”
“All right, Mrs. Brentwood,” I snarled, doing Douglas. “See if you can’t convince your husband here we mean business!” I held the pen to her throat, and put an imaginary phone to her ear with my other hand. And she started to act.
And I started to hate this. And myself.
Because she wasn’t bad at all.
Somehow that made the whole thing sad and crumby. I know that’s not logical. A great deal depended on her performance being convincing. I should have been happy to find that, beneath her ridiculous exterior, this pampered rich woman actually harbored the imagination, insight, empathy and expressive skills to convincingly portray a terrified victim. But as I listened to Constance Willoughby screaming, I knew I was hearing a lonely, unloved woman, who wanted desperately to earn a small measure of fame, a morsel of recognition, by winning a bit part in a movie with Mitchum and Douglas. On the strength of her audition, she deserved to get it.
And what was she going to get? A kick in her neglected butt, that’s what. A brief moment in the sun as a national laughingstock, once the Professor had worked his scam and the truth came out. Plus whatever retribution it suited Mr. Willoughby to visit on her once the dust had settled.
Followed, in a matter of days or weeks, by the theft of her jewelry—of the only tangible thing she had gotten in return for her lifelong loyalty to that venal toad.
But we had to con her this way, we had no choice. If we didn’t, shortly the Professor and I were going to have to deal with an annoyed Tony Donuts…
“Winthrop, for God’s sake help me!” she cried. “Please, I think they’re really going to kill me, Winthrop! Whatever it is they want, do it—don’t let them kill me!” My hand twitched and the pen dug into her throat; she must have interpreted that as a cue, for she shrieked and began to babble brokenly. “Please, darling, I love you so, don’t let them take me from you—”
That did it for me. I released her and stepped back. I met the Professor’s eyes over her head, saw a mix of expressions on his face. I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. “I know it’s our ass…but I can’t.”
She must have been puzzled, but she struggled gamely on…until the Professor sighed and shut off the tape machine.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willoughby.”
She trailed off. “Was I that bad?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but her lower lip trembled.
I sat down beside her at once and put an arm around her. “You were wonderful,” I told her. “That’s the problem.”
“I…I’m afraid I don’t quite—”
“Professor?”
He looked sad. “You know how it goes against my grain to tell the truth. But I’m afraid I agree with you. I can’t sustain the necessary contempt. Go ahead.”
She stared at him, and then back at me.
I dropped my eyes and took my arm back. Then I forced myself to meet her eyes again, and took her hand in mine. “Constance, I’m very sorry. We’ve been lying to you ever since we met you.”
Her hand tensed in mine and her eyes widened.
“This man is a liar, and I’m a whore. I don’t mean we’re from Hollywood: he’s a professional confidence man and I’m a prostitute. We came here to bamboozle you into making this tape for us.”
I saw her start to get angry, waited for her to yank her hand from mine and spring up from the couch. She nearly did. But it was character that made her a good little actress. She controlled herself, relaxed her hand in mine, and looked from me to the Professor and back again. “Why?” she asked. “And what made you pick me?” she added before either of us could reply.
I swallowed. The die was cast. “Constance, I work in a house, here in Brooklyn. Your husband came there a few times.” She stiffened, but did not remove her hand. There was no way to soften this. I plunged on. “The owner finally kicked him out. He had the idea that since prostitutes are criminals, we’re evil. He kept asking the girls if…if they knew anyone who would be willing to murder you for a fee.”
I’d never seen someone actually shudder on receiving bad news before. It started as a violent headshake, then spread to her shoulders and down, her whole body saying what her mouth cried: “No!” Her fingers crushed my hand. She looked up to the high ceiling, then down at our hands. She began to cry.
So did I.
We sat there like that for a time. I’m sure the Professor felt just as lousy as I did. And then she did a splendid thing. She chopped off in mid-snuffle, held her head quizzically to one side for a moment, and then looked up at me.
And said, clearly and firmly, “That rotten son of a bitch.”
I looked into her eyes and came as close as I will ever come in this life to feeling sorry for Winthrop Willoughby.
“You’ve got that right, Mrs. Willoughby,” the Professor said quietly.
She turned away from me and closed her eyes for a while. I am proud that she did not release my hand. When she opened her eyes again and spoke, it was to the Professor.
“Am I to understand that you and your friend are moralists? You go about punishing the wicked?”
“Good Christ, no,” the Professor exclaimed. “Nothing so admirable. We’re thieves. I’m here because I suddenly developed an urgent need for a lot of money. It is my affectation that I’ll only swindle people I dislike, and your husband fit the bill; that’s all. Unfortunately, you don’t. You’re quite talented. You did just now what only real actors can do: you made the audience sympathize with you. I might have bulled on through sheer momentum—but my associate couldn’t stomach it. For which I salute her. Thank you, baby. God knows this town has no shortage of pigeons; we’ll simply—”
“Excuse me,” Constance Willoughby said.
“—find a—beg pardon?”
“I want to be
certain I understand this. You needed the recording we were making for your scheme?”
“Badly.”
“This…scheme: it would inconvenience Winthrop?”
He blinked. “Drastically,” he said slowly.
She thought about that. “You know,” she murmured, “I think Winthrop would actually rather be tortured and killed than lose a really large amount of his precious bank’s money…”
Now the Professor looked thoughtful, a momentary echo of the trance he’d undergone in my studio last night. “What would you say,” he asked in a faraway voice, “if, in addition to being robbed, Winthrop were to do hard time in Sing Sing?”
She frowned. “You could arrange that?”
His eyes refocused and locked on hers. “With your help.”
“How much time?”
“Let me see.” He performed mental addition. “I think I could guarantee fifteen years, Mrs. Willoughby.”
She smiled.
“Constance,” she said. “Shall we try another take?”
I squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek.
He grinned at her. “Atta girl, Connie! Uh…since you offer, sure, let’s do a backup. But we won’t need it: that first one was just terrific.”
She turned and stared at me questioningly.
“That’s what made me confess,” I agreed. “I had reason to know that your marriage couldn’t, forgive me, be much of a love feast for you—so all that love in your voice had to be great acting.” Which had made me realize how badly she must yearn to have a marriage that really was that good.
“But you’ve got all you need? That was it? I mean to say: you could have just thanked me and left with it and gone ahead with your plans?”
The Professor grimaced. “If we could have, ma’am, I assure you we would have.”
She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, got up quickly and kissed the Professor’s forehead.
“Didn’t you say there was some other way I could help you?” she asked.
The Professor smiled. “Two. First, spend all of tomorrow morning here, on the phone with someone. Second, forget that we met. If the police should ask, forget that any of this ever took place.”
“That what ever took place? Heavens, what am I doing talking to myself like this? I really shouldn’t woolgather this way; so much to do…” She wandered to the stairway, ascended with stately grace. I watched her until she was halfway up, feeling oddly like saluting. Then I packed up the tape recorder and the Professor and I left.
The moment the door closed behind us, I set the machine down and kissed him emphatically.
A cab took us to the bank. As we settled back into the seat cushions I whispered, “Professor? Why didn’t we just play it like that from the beginning?”
“Too risky,” he murmured. “Who knew she’d have stuff? Besides, crookedness is a reflex with me.”
“Uh…it’s still risky, isn’t it? She’s an amateur, and stupid.”
“But she’s talented. And motivated.” He sighed. “Yes, Mo, it’s still risky.”
“I’m sorry,” I said bleakly. “I had no right to decide for you back there.”
“It turned out for the best, I guess. I’ll sleep well tonight, thanks to you.”
I started to tell him that he didn’t know the half of it, but something made me hold my tongue.
And within a matter of only a few blocks, I understood what it was.
The cabbie was willing to accept an expensive men’s watch for the ride, so the Professor gave him something that looked just like one. He would never forget what minute that deal took place: the watch would never show another time unless he changed it himself. It was the third cabdriver we’d burned that day, the Professor having also stung the one who’d taken us to Chez Willoughby. For the third time, I let it go by, because we were busy, but we were going to talk about this. And we were not going to make love tonight.
We stood before the Chemical Corn Exchange Bank and stared at it. It looked like the part of the Parthenon that got maintenance, massive and ugly and solid. It looked like a very tough place from which to take fifty thousand dollars.
The Professor was ignoring the building, scanning the passing pedestrians as he took off and pocketed his tie. He selected a very tough-looking guy in a brown imitation leather bomber’s jacket and sunglasses, and accosted him. “I’ll give you this sport coat for your jacket and specs,” he offered. The man examined the sport coat suspiciously, but it was excellent, in impeccable condition and worth three of his jackets; he went for it. As the Professor donned the jacket and shades, he became the former owner (who failed to notice and walked on). He was now a small-to-medium-time hood, a tough customer whose slacks and shoes showed social pretensions.
I had altered my own appearance subtly in the cab, at his direction. I still wore the same clothes, my hair was almost unchanged—but now I looked like a hooker trying to look respectable.
“Prof,” I said, “wouldn’t it be smarter to catch him on his way out the door? People are going to notice us in there.”
“You’re right. But I want a look at the physical layout. And the characters we’re playing would be that careless.”
“If he thinks we’re clever he might get the wind up him?”
“Right. You want me to give you your lines?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I think I know where you’re going. Let’s set the hook.”
We took our stage.
Prof went through a swinging gate and headed for a desk. Behind it sat a thin woman in a tweed suit and glasses with a hair-bun like the one I’d started with and a no-nonsense expression. She sized me up in about half a second, then devoted three times as long to a thoughtful study of the Professor. “How may I help you?” she asked dubiously.
“Which one of these offices belongs to Willoughby?” he asked.
“Have you an appointment?”
He gave her a Jimmy Cagney grin. “Look, sis, why don’t you just tell him Sally’s niece Sherry is here? See what he says.”
She hesitated for a long time. He kept grinning. She studied us both. Finally she said, “Sally’s niece Sherry,” in a well-this-will-probably-be-entertaining sort of voice, and rose from her desk. She had great legs under the tweed. “Why don’t you both have a seat for a moment?” She clicked away.
I could feel him look at me from his office doorway. Miss Tweed returned. “Will you step this way, please?” She looked like she would be smiling if she knew how. She clearly believed we were here to try and blackmail her boss for his erotic indiscretions, and I sensed that she approved of the idea.
We went through a doorway and down a short corridor. Past the door at which we stopped, I could see the vault face, behind massive bars, its mighty door ajar and two clerks working inside. An armed guard stood on our side of the bars watching them. I looked around for exits and saw none. Miss Tweed knocked and ushered us into Willoughby’s sanctum, closing the door behind us.
The office was huge and overfurnished, heavy with the scent of very good cigars and very bad digestion. He sat behind a small altar, a grim look on his face. I saw him recognize me. I smiled pleasantly. He glared.
He was a long, lean man with a small pot belly which, I was in a position to know, got bigger when he undressed. Why does a man try to comb hair over a bald spot? Is he afraid you’ll fail to notice he’s a jerk? Seeing his pursed lips reminded me of his teeth, which reminded me of his breath. Don’t ever think my profession is not hard work sometimes.
He waited for us to open the conversation. We sat in uncomfortable chairs at the foot of the altar. Prof sprawled back lazily in his. “Before we go any further,” he said, “let me start by sayin’ we didn’t come here to work no cheap blackmail angle, OK?”
Willoughby did not lose his sour look. He sat back on his throne and hooked his thumbs in his vest. “You’d better not have, by God,” he rumbled. “What the hell do you think you are doing here then?”
Prof let me take it.
“I waited and waited for you to come back, Mr. Brady,” I said, deliberately using his House pseudonym, “but you never did. I see a lot of guys, and you kinda…” I lowered my eyes, “…stuck in my mind, you know?” I looked at him through lowered lashes and smiled.
Take it from me. Any man is willing to believe that he was the best you’ve ever had. He knew it all the time.
He wanted to smile, but frowning came more naturally. “I, ah, had no complaints myself, my dear. But that does not give you the right to—”
“And I remembered how you told me what a drip your wife was—”
One eyebrow rose. “Yes?”
“And I thought maybe if you din’t have her bein’ a gallstone around your neck, maybe you’d have more time on your hands, you know? One of the other girls said you were talking about that. And my friend Slick here, he fixes little problems like that sometimes.”
He turned to stare at the Professor. His frown was nearly gone now. “And exactly how do you fix such problems?”
The Professor stared up at the ceiling. “I saw this movie once. This guy’s wife got taken dead. And the way it happened, he came out a tragic hero, completely above suspicion. And it didn’t take a cent outa his own pocket. What would you say to a deal like that, bud?”
He actually glanced around his own office, as though to surprise some careless policeman. “I would probably be skeptical,” he said at last. “In such a hypothetical case, I should probably ask something like, what is in it for you?”
“All right,” Prof said, “I’ll tell you a sad story. There was this guy, ran a bank, see? And one day a coupla people come into his office, and they stuck him up.”
“Preposterous. A teller could give you more money than I…than a bank manager could. No one would be permitted to accompany him into the vault, and once out from under your guns, he would naturally have to call for help.”
“Ah, but these guys in my story was real brained up. They give this guy a good reason to cooperate. They had him call home. And his wife answered the phone and said, darling, bad men are here and they’ll croak me if you don’t do like they want. So what choice did the poor guy have? He drifts into the vault and comes out with fifty grand, and he gives it to them and they blow. And he’s so concerned for his poor wife that he lets like half an hour go by before he calls the bulls.”
Callahan's Lady Page 18
