Magician's Wife

by James M. Cain

  “She has it coming, that’s why!”

  “Has what coming, Grace?”

  “This! If she’d lived a decent life, if she’d let Alec alone, above all, if she hadn’t jumped in that car, just to plague him and act like a hussy, none of this would have happened—to say nothing of that other, the lie she told the police about seeing Sally’s car! Oh, yes! These chickens come home to roost! She has no one to thank but herself!”

  “She has no one to thank but me—and Sally.”

  “Is there something between you and this girl?”

  He didn’t answer, but got up in robe and pajamas, went into the bathroom, and shaved, bathed, and combed. When he came out the bed was made and his clothes were lying on it, his suit, underwear, and shirt, with three neckties to choose from; his shoes and stockings on the floor. Biting his lip, he dressed, then went to the living room, where she sat in her knitted suit, primly waiting. “Well?” she asked. “Is there? It said in the paper you kissed her and that ‘She kisses nice.’ ”

  “She does—and there’s nothing between us.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m sick of her just the same.”

  “Grace, she’s convicted of something I did.”

  “Oh, but there’s more to it than that!”

  “There’s no more to it than that.”

  “Oh, yes! Don’t forget! I did something too!”

  “Grace! For God’s sake, knock it off!”

  She bounced up, as though on springs, at the crackle of his voice, and was rigid as his arms went around her and he began to talk in her ear: “Honey, what you did I’ll never forget—the money was just the beginning—your wanting to share—your standing by me like a rock—to me are nine-hundred-percent magnificent—looking at you, where you sit. But I don’t sit where you sit—the place where I sit is different. I’m guilty, you’re not. What you’ve done proves you love me, as God knows I love you.” He held her close and kissed her, then kissed her again and again, until she began to kiss back. Then, releasing her, he walked away until he faced the wrap-closet door. “But that’s all it proves,” he whispered.

  Opening the closet, he took out his coat and hat and put them on. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Out. In the park. Think.”

  “You mean, you prefer to be alone?”

  “I sit alone, I must think alone.”

  But he didn’t stay in the park, beyond marching around a few minutes, to go through the visible motions in case he was being watched. When some bushes screened him from sight, he quickened his pace abruptly and walked to the Marlborough, letting himself in the back way. On entering the apartment, he drew a deep breath, as he did on entering a cold room, but for a different reason. Instead of testing, he was savoring: the familiar, deeply loved smell of a place that was neat as a pin, and yet lived in, warm, fragrant, and his own. He glanced at his pictures, then took off his things and went back to the “office,” removing the typewriter cover, sitting down, and settling himself to work. He didn’t type well, but he typed well enough, and now began to tap out the dreadful tale of his downfall. He wrote in sextuplicate, using sets Miss Helm had got him, of six sheets each with carbons between, with double spacing and ample margins, in case pen corrections would be necessary. He began at the beginning, telling his meeting with Sally, his suspicions of what she intended, her crime down at the beach, and his offer to do what she wanted. He told of the rehearsals on the road, his pouring of paint markers, “which should still show on the shoulder, susceptible of ready check”; of what happened that terrible night, of Buster’s scream, of the hubcap and what he had done with it, “another thing susceptible of check, and it’s still down in the slough.” He wound up: “I put on my lights just as Miss Conlon said, on the stand and to the police, and it all happened just as she said except for the license number, on which her instinct colored her vision— not saying her instinct was wrong.” He then typed a form of affidavit, swearing “the foregoing is true,” and under this typed:

  Copies to:

  Hon. Leonard Warfield, Judge of the Superior Court.

  Hon. John Kuhn, state’s attorney, Chinquapin County.

  Hon. John Pender, Law Building, Channel City, Md.

  Mrs. Alexander Gorsuch, the Chinquapin-Plaza Hotel.

  Mrs. Clay Lockwood, Rosemary Apartments, Channel City, Md.

  Around four he interrupted to call Miss Sophie Henning, who ran a small, one-room secretarial bureau down on the second floor, and who was a notary public, asking her to stand by for a visit around 5:30. He used her outside phone, looking her up in the book, instead of the inside phone, so as not to alert Miss Homan that he was in the apartment. He had scarcely hung up when his own outside phone rang, and he hesitated about answering. He decided not to and let it ring on while he went back to his typing, finishing up the statement and the envelopes he would need to send his copies out. He was careful with the addresses and with the stamps, but he left them open after putting the statements in. Then he sat down again and typed up a brief will, leaving all that he had to Grace, and putting it in her envelope. Then he penned her a brief note, telling her that he loved her, and put it in too.

  He used the freight car to go down to Miss Henning’s, finding her a neat little gray-haired woman in a pink embroidered smock. She didn’t look at his statement, but got out her notary stamp, clamped it on all six copies, and penned her signature in after smilingly asking him to raise his hand and swear. But when she came to the will, she said: “Oh, that takes two witnesses, Mr. Lockwood. If you’d written it longhand, holograph, I mean, it wouldn’t take any at all, but typed up it needs two other persons to sign.” She called a girl, an extra typist she had, and with her signed the will. Clay, after paying the fifty-cent notary fee for each of the six statements, and the one-dollar witness fees for the will, passed out his usual five-dollar bills, murmured his thanks, and left, sealing his envelopes and tucking them into his pocket.

  He walked the one flight down, using the back stairs again, stood on Kennedy Drive, caught a cab, and drove to the Chinquapin-Plaza. At the room clerk’s window a strange girl gave him Sally’s suite numbers, 1942A, 1942B, and 1942C. “But when you call,” she admonished him, “be sure and ask for 1942A, or there’ll be a mix-up. B is the nursery and C the maid’s room, and ringing the phone in those rooms just causes running around.” He didn’t call, though the house phones were just a few steps away. Instead, he went to the flower shop and asked for lilies, “you know, like Easter.” Since it wasn’t Easter, the clerk seemed puzzled, saying: “Well—we do keep some in stock, for funerals mostly. But we usually make them up in wreaths or blankets or basket. If that’s what you have in mind—?” Clay said: “Something simple—you know, like a bunch, with a ribbon tied around.” The clerk then concluded he wanted them to “put on a grave,” and Clay, rather quickly, said: “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the idea, of course.” Presently the girl brought them, tied up with a white satin ribbon, and Clay nodded as he sniffed their necrotic smell. She did them up in a box, a white one with another white satin ribbon. He paid, went out in the lobby again, and entered the express elevator. “Nineteen,” he told the operator, who pressed a button that lit a red light in a panel.

  25

  “HEY, STUPID, COULDN’T YOU listen just once to your wife? She’s not so dumb, and she’s not even going to respect it, this grand caper of yours that you’re getting ready to cut. Listen: Suppose the girl was convicted, who says she’ll stay that way? Nat may get her off. And even if he doesn’t, manslaughter isn’t so bad—a year in jail, if that. Wake up, get with it, what’s waiting for you now! A beautiful woman that loves you, a job to dream about, money, position, probably kids pretty soon, everything! Don’t throw it away by this stunt! All you need do is nothing, and you’re sitting on top of the world!”

  Clay’s lips were moving as he stepped from the car, and when the door had banged behind him he stood for some moments alone in front of the mail chute, his eyes closed,
his mouth still making a mumble. Then his teeth clenched and he took out the envelopes, shuffling them onto the box as he checked all the addresses. The one addressed to Sally he put back in his pocket. The others, one by one, he slipped into the chute. When the last one had gone flashing down the glass, he turned and walked down a corridor, peering at the numbers on the doors. Reaching a small entrance hall, he saw Sally’s number beside it. Stepping in, he touched the buzzer of 1942A. A maid opened, a pretty girl in black uniform, white apron, cuffs, and cap. When Clay asked for “Mrs. Alexis,” she made him knicks, and said, with a Swedish accent, she would “see if madame is in.”

  Then Sally appeared, in plain black wool dress. “Oh, Clay!” she said, as though not much surprised. “Come in.” Then, to the maid: “Will you take charge of him now? When he’s ready for bed, bring him in to be kissed good night.” Then, laughing up at Clay, in red rompers suit, with gray eyes exactly like Grace’s, a little boy appeared and stood touching his mother. The maid took him into 1942B. Motioning Clay inside, Sally noticed the box, said: “If those are Mother’s flowers, she’s on her way up. She’s been looking all over for you—there’s been some sort of call from Mankato.”

  “Yeah—I’m fired, no doubt.”

  “No—you’re president now, it seems. Mr. Svenson, if that’s the name, has had a stroke or something—and you’re to report right away— No, I’m not spoiling Mother’s surprise—she told me to tell you, begged me to tell you, as soon as you came, if you came!”

  “What made her think I would come? Did she say?”

  “Well, she doesn’t know where you are!”

  When she said, “Take off your things,” he put his hat and coat on a chair, the flowers on a table, then looked stunned when she said: “Pity about Buster, isn’t it? I mean, that she got off so light. But at least it’ll teach her a lesson.”

  “... Yeah? What lesson is that?”

  “That crime doesn’t pay—like slander.”

  “Against you, for instance?”

  “That’s it, Clay. It annoys me.”

  “Could be a point, at that.”

  Their tone, though he still looked incredulous, was airy to the point of vacuity, and she was utterly casual as she asked: “But before Mother gets here, was there something you wanted of me?”

  “Yes—this. I thought you should see it.”

  He got her envelope out, going through a long rigmarole of apology, that it was sealed and addressed for the mails. “Protocol,” he smiled, “you know, that stuff that you taught in the charm school, says it ought to be open, with ‘By hand’ typed on, or ‘Kindness of Clay Lockwood,’ or something of that sort. But I sealed it by mistake and stamped it before I realized. I hope you’ll overlook it. Here, I’ll open it for you—”

  “It’s quite all right. I can do it.”

  Now sitting on the big sofa of this brocade and satin suite, she took a paper cutter from the low table in front of her and slit the envelope’s flap. Then she took out the statement and started to read. Then, jumping up, she snarled: “What is this, Clay? A joke?”

  “No! It tells what happened, that’s all.”

  She tried to read on, but couldn’t. She skipped to the second page, to the third, fourth, and last. There she saw the notary seal, the signature, and those listed for copies. “But Clay,” she quavered, her mouth covered with spittle, “don’t you know what this can mean?”

  “Why, sure—it’ll get the thing out in the open. That’s what it says: ‘To Whom It May Concern.’ It means everyone—the whole wide world and its brother-in-law.”

  “You’d better damned well not mail it!”

  “I did mail it.”

  “You—? But it could mean the electric chair! For both of us. Were you insane? For you! For me!”

  “It could, but fortunately it won’t.”

  “What do you mean, it won’t?”

  “Open your flowers. They’re for you, not Grace.”

  He got up and brought her the box, and with jerky fingers, her eyes still searching his face, she worked the ribbon off and got the top off the box. “...Why,” she exclaimed, “they’re funeral lilies!”

  “That’s right, and the funeral is now.”

  Still searching his face, she saw eyes that met hers with the unseeing stare of a corpse. She drew breath to scream, but he seemed ready for that. His hand was at her throat, his thumb on her larynx, pressing it down. As she struggled she slipped to the floor, but he didn’t relax his grip. When she was dead, he lifted her to the sofa again, closing her bulging eyes and smoothing down her dress. From a table he took a bright tapestry scarf, a thing four to five feet long and twelve inches or so wide. He spread it over her, to cover face, body, and legs. Then he folded her hands over it, put the lilies on her chest. Then, putting ribbon, paper, etc., back in the box and pressing the top on, he dropped it into a wastebasket and sat down in a chair to wait.

  After an eternity the buzzer sounded, and when he opened the maid was there, the little boy in her arms, both faces aglow with expectancy. “Ah—could you give us a few minutes more?” he said with a death’s-head smile. “We’re not quite finished yet—we’ll let you know.” The maid, looking baffled, said: “So, good, ja,” and took her burden back to 1942B. He had barely returned to the chair when the phone rang, but in another room. Sure it was Grace, he felt he had to answer and opened a door across from the sofa. It was the bedroom, and on the night table the phone was ringing, but a man sat on the bed, whom Clay had never seen—in bathrobe and slippers, his face turned toward the door, as though expecting Sally to answer. He stiffened, but Clay paid no attention, striding past him and answering the phone. “Clay?” said Grace. “At last!” He told her to “come on up, and get a move on.” Then he went back to the sitting room, closing the door after him without speaking to the man or the man’s speaking to him. He opened the outer door and stood in the entrance hall waiting for Grace. In a minute or two she came, and inanely he said: “Hello.”

  “Clay!” she said, kissing him. “Thank God!”

  “Yeah?” he said dully. “For what?”

  “Finding you, for one thing! But that’s not all. Darling, I’m bursting with news! Pat called, he’d been trying to reach you all day, and finally the office remembered me and put him through. He wants you out there right away. Mr. Svenson has had a stroke, and you’re to take over at once. There’s more, but—I’ll tell you about it later. I’d no sooner talked to him than I called that man Nat Pender, and when I agreed to foot the bill, two hundred and fifty dollars, he said he could get her out—that Buster—on bail! I went over at once with my check, to his office, and there she was, out! I met her, there by his desk. Darling, if you could kiss her, you do have a strong stomach—that’s all that I say about that. But there’s still more! By finagling the appeal somehow—by hinting he may not file one if her sentence is not too severe—he thinks the judge will be tempted to suspend it so she goes free. So! It was much ado about nothing! She’s practically in the clear! Now what do you think of your Little-Miss-Fix-It-me?”

  “I’m proud of you, as always.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He kissed her. Then: “She’ll be quite clear tomorrow.”

  “... Quite clear? How?”

  “I’ve confessed. ... Mailed a sworn statement to the judge and everyone. Booted the beans into the fire—told the truth at last.”

  “Oh, Clay—no!”

  “Yes.”

  “Clay, she’s not worth saving! You are!”

  “She’s a human being.”

  “Not too damned human, though. My, what a cheap, horrible trollop! It means nothing to her at all—she was there cracking jokes, anything for a laugh, she kept saying. And making passes at Pender—successfully: he means to take her! And I say he could pay for her bail!”

  “Then, stop payment on your check.”

  “... Clay, what do we do now?”

  “We don’t do anything. From here on out, it’s you. Grace
, listen to me now: this child, little Elly, is going to be brought in to kiss Sally good night. It mustn’t happen. You must see to that.”

  “But, Clay, she’s his mother!”

  “... Was. She’s dead.”

  “God have mercy, what have you done?”

  “I’ve killed her. But there’s more, Grace.”

  “... What?”

  “The ugliest thing came to light after—after it happened. There’s a man there in her bed, in bathrobe, slippers, and not much else that I saw. Waiting for her, apparently. He means nothing to me and, I imagine, less than that to you. Nevertheless, you must see that he’s cleared of this crime. You must—”

  “I can’t take any more! I can’t! I cant!”

  She reeled against the doorjamb, and he caught her, holding her close, murmuring into her ear, kissing her. The door of 1942B opened on a crack and, after an eye peeped out, closed again. Regaining her strength a little, she asked: “Why can’t you see that he’s cleared?”

  “I have something else to do.”

  Her eyes showed that she knew what he meant, and once more they stared at each other as though across bellowing chasms. She whispered: “Then—I’ll see—that he’s cleared— I’ll see—to everything.”

  “Will you kiss me?”

  Grandeur touched her as she gave him this last seal of devotion, warmly, compassionately, comprehendingly, then turned and entered the suite.

  He was halfway up the corridor before he realized he had forgotten his coat as well as his hat, but dourly observed: “Where you’re going you won’t need them—either one.” He pulled open the glass door beside the mail chute and began stumbling up slick metal stairs. There were several flights, and he was out of breath when he came to the top and pushed open an iron door. Then he stopped out on top of the world, into the jumble of chimneys and ventilators and fire-escape tops and TV antennae and sunbathers’ recliners that clutters a hotel roof. It was a crisp, clear autumn night, with the stars above all aglitter, and the lights below all ashimmer, in red, yellow, green, orange, and blue. For some moments he paused to look. And then this man who had done so much, who loved applause so well, who never took no for an answer, and had only now tasted defeat, mumbled incoherences heard only by God and strode to the parapet. After a glance at the ground, to make sure no one was there, he vaulted and went hurtling down on the parking lot, twenty-two stories below. In 1942A, half an hour or so later or so, a woman of stone sat while police, press, and hotel men milled around, a terrified child in her lap, a sobbing maid at her feet, and answered the dreadful questions a detective kept putting to her. They concerned what was there on the sofa, and “that body we found on the ramp,” as well as the cowering figure, in bathrobe and nightshirt and slippers, who stood in the bedroom door and pleaded for leave to dress. At last though, it was over, and the detective said “O.K.” to the stretcher bearers, “O.K.” to the cowering man, and “O.K., thanks, ma’am, you been great,” to her. Then Grace, the child held close, the maid following behind with clothing, blankets, toys, and a mammoth teddy bear, went stalking exaltedly out, into the night, into the world, into what was left of her life.