Three by Cain

by James M. Cain

  “With-me?”

  “You don’t have to snap my head off. I admitted it was silly. You can imagine what a ninny I felt when she popped out of the door a few minutes ago in her pajamas and all, and it was perfectly obvious she’d been asleep for hours.”

  “Well, it’s all news to me.”

  “You might tell me it was a nice party.”

  “One thing at a time. I’m still asleep.”

  “Well?”

  “Sure, it was swell.”

  “Good night, Ben.”

  “Good night.”

  He really was asleep the next time the phone rang, and he answered in a tone that was to remind June that enough was enough. But it wasn’t June. It was Lefty. “Well, what do you want?”

  “They got Caspar.”

  “You mean they rubbed him out? Who did?”

  “They got him. In Mexico. They’re bringing him back.”

  “… Who’s bringing him back?”

  “The U.S. government. For income tax violation.”

  “How do you know? Say, what is this, anyway? What time is it? And what’s the big idea calling me up at this time of morning anyhow?”

  “It’s five-thirty A.M., and I been passing the time with Joe Cantrell and he just had Mexico City on the long distance wire. They’re flying him back today. They’ve left for the airport already, the planes take off at six-thirty, he’ll be in Los Angeles tonight, and Lake City tomorrow. Here’s where it gets good, Ben: for income tax violation, they may give him bail.”

  “O.K., so he gets bail.”

  “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  C H A P T E R

  10

  Ben saw quite a little of Dorothy the next two or three days. He gave her a key to his apartment, and would find her waiting when he came in. She was insistent, however, that they find some other place to meet. “She knows, Ben. I fooled her the other night, but now she knows. We’ll have to go somewhere else. I can’t bear the idea of hurting her.”

  But Ben’s mind was on other things, particularly on the newspapers, which were reporting minutely the movements of Mr. Caspar. They carried his arrival at Mexicali, at Los Angeles, at St. Louis. At this point reporters from the Lake City papers met his plane, and rode with him on the Prairie Central to the local airport, interviewing him on the way, and giving copious space to his remarks. The general sense of them was that he had been crossed, but that he believed in being a good sport and taking it until his turn came again. At the big pictures of him, wearing the charro hat with bells on the brim that he had bought in Mexico City, Ben waxed thoughtful, and read the caption carefully, to make sure they had really been taken at the Post Office Building, in connection with the rites of booking, fingerprinting, and incarceration.

  That night, with Mr. Cantrell, the new and highly praised Chief of Police, he visited his attorney, Mr. Yates, the former partner of Mr. Bleeker, the city prosecutor. He and Mr. Cantrell arrived first, and tramped the halls of the Coolidge Building for some time before Mr. Yates pattered up, opened his office, and motioned to them. Inside, he turned on the desk light and began his report. “ ‘Well, I just left Ollie Bleeker, and we spent most of the afternoon on it, and I think now I can tell you how it’s going to break. Hovey Dunne, the United States Attorney, wasn’t there, but we had it out with him over the telephone and I’m sure we know what he’s going to do.”

  Mr. Cantrell fidgeted. “O.K., get to it.”

  “Caspar hasn’t got a chance. In the first place, they’ve got him on so many violations of the tax law that barring slip-ups he’ll be ten years serving his time.”

  “It’s slip-ups we’re worrying about.”

  “Chief, there can’t be any slip-ups, really. The only conceivable one is that they would make a deal. The Federal people, I mean. That some sort of deal would be made for payment of those taxes, whereby they’d agree not to prosecute. But where does that get him? Your warrant is on file over there, and before they release him they’ve got to turn him over to you. Then he goes on trial for murder. This was a simple case of who caught him first, the city police or the Feds. Well, they’ve got him, that’s all.”

  “Why don’t they turn him over to us?”

  “With their own charges untried?”

  “Our charge is a capital offense.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Plenty of difference, Yates. O.K., he serves ten years. He goes to Alcatraz, and he serves ten years. What then?”

  “Then the State tries him for murder.”

  “And convicts him, I suppose. A fat chance! After ten years, you couldn’t convict Hitler of murder. The witnesses have skipped, or died, or been seen, and besides the jury thinks if he served ten years he’s been punished enough. The way you fixed it, after ten years he’s out and it’s bad.”

  “I didn’t fix it.”

  “I’ll say you didn’t.”

  “He could be acquitted of murder, even now.”

  “O.K., then I got another murder. I got a million of them, and if the jury still won’t say murder, I got a little larceny and maybe a couple of mayhems and assaults with deadly weapons. Then, if he’s still acquitted, we got the Federal stuff to fall back on. But—get this, Yates—on murder he could burn. I don’t say would, I only say could. But he’d have a good outside chance, and if that crook ever squatted hot, that would be doing something for the country.”

  “And you, I imagine.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not, I’m happy to say, for me.”

  “Yeah, even you.”

  As Mr. Yates looked up in surprise, Mr. Cantrell gave a short, harsh laugh. “You’re right on the payroll of Ben’s little outfit, his cute association that stole its machines from Caspar, and if you think Solly’s going to be careful about it, and check it all up, to make sure you were told and all, why, you’re flattering him quite a lot. He’s not that conscientious. You’re on the spot, right now.”

  “You mean—they’re the same old machines?”

  “Sure, don’t you recognize them?”

  “Chief, I had no idea of this.”

  “Yates, you’re a liar.”

  Mr. Cantrell, after vainly pressing Mr. Yates for some other arrangement, was quite gloomy as they went out on the street, but Ben on the whole seemed relieved. He followed with interest the announcement, made late one afternoon, that Caspar had left the Post Office Building in company with F.B.I, agents, to lead them to the place he had hidden his bonds, so that he could make some sort of payment on the taxes that he owed. It was while he was dialing Mr. Cantrell, after dinner that night, to find out how this monkeyshine had turned out, that the house phone rang in the bedroom, and he went in to answer. “Ben?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Dorothy.”

  “Come on up.”

  “I’m not in the hotel. Ben, I have another place.”

  “Yeah? Where is it?”

  “You’ve been to June’s old apartment?”

  “Sure, I was there once or twice.”

  “I got the key for it today.”

  “You there now?”

  “No. The phone’s disconnected. I’m at the drug store.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s hers, for one thing.”

  “There’s not one single thing of hers in it. She’s taken everything out, and there’s nothing in it but the regular furniture. Besides, she only has it until January 1, and that’s only two or three days off, and so far as she’s concerned she’s forgotten about it. I mean, she’s out.”

  “Oh, come on over.”

  “Ben, I hate it there. I hear her out there, pounding on the door and crying. Ben, come on over, so I can put my arms around you in peace.”

  “Say, you sound friendly.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “O.K.”

  Her arms indeed went around him when he came in, and they stood for some moments i
n the shabby little foyer, holding each other tight, before they moved over to the sofa, and she snuggled into his arms, and they relaxed. “How in the world, Dorothy, did you find out about this place, anyway?”

  “Through a friend of mine.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Hal. Don’t you know him?”

  “Not by that name.”

  “He’s a bellboy over at the hotel. He’s on the late shift, the one that runs the elevator and gets you ice and does whatever you want done.”

  “How did he know about it?”

  “June sent him over here, to bring her things back. He made several trips at one time and another. He even had a key, that he forgot to give back to her. So—he lent it to me. For a consideration. For five dollars. Give me five dollars.”

  He fished out five dollars, folded it neatly, handed it over to her. She nodded, twisted her mouth kittenishly, dropped it into the neck of her dress. Then all the breath left her body, and a look of horror appeared on her face. For a second or two he talked to her, trying to find out what the trouble was. Then his blood turned to whey. The closet door was open, and Mr. Salvatore Gasparro, alias Solly Caspar, was standing there looking at them. “H’y, Benny.”

  “Hello, Sol.”

  Sol came over, sat down in the small battered arm chair, lit a cigar. “Sure, Hal’s a friend of mine, too. Great kid. Don’t you remember him, Ben?”

  “Not right now I don’t.”

  “He run a poolroom for me, quite a while back. That was the trouble with you, Ben. You thought you was too good for your work. You was always high-hatting my organization.”

  “I’m sorry, Sol.”

  “It’s O.K.”

  Benignly Sol puffed out smoke before he went on: “It don’t really make no difference any more, because I’m going to kill you, Ben. Fact of the matter that’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to kind of amuse myself with her.”

  It was perhaps five feet from Ben’s feet to Sol’s feet, and mentally Ben measured the distance, so as to be accurate with the feint, the spring, and the blow. But Sol was telepathic in these matters. An automatic appeared in his hand, and he told Ben to keep his eyes front and his hands in sight. Then, laying the cigar in an ashtray, he said: “Sister, you move over here to one side, so I can keep an eye on you while I’m killing Ben.” Dorothy, as if in a trance, moved as directed, and obeyed when he told her to sit down in the wooden chair that stood against the wall. Ben, at a command, stood up. “That’s good, Ben, just like you are now. Now I want you to walk backwards, slow so you don’t stumble over nothing, and when you get to the bathroom I’ll tell you to stop and you stop. Then you feel around back of you for the knob and open the door. Then when I tell you to start moving again I want you to back in there and climb in the tub and lay down. I’m going to kill you in the tub, so I can close the door and not hear no blood dripping while I’m playing around with her. I don’t like to hear blood. And besides, when I shoot in the bathroom they’re not so liable to hear it outside. You ready?”

  “… I guess so, Sol.”

  “Then get going!”

  Slowly, on jerky, shaking legs Ben began backing toward the bathroom. Slowly, his eyes fixed in a marble stare, his lips parted in a dreadful grin, the gun held in one hand while the other steadied it, Sol followed. He followed with a sort of creep, and whispered as he came, filthy, obscene things about Dorothy. When Ben reached the door, Sol breathed the command to halt, and Ben fumbled for the knob. Presently he found it, opened the door, resumed his backward progress. Sol resumed his creep.

  In the bathroom, Sol became less cautious with his voice, and screamed at Ben, with appropriate curses, to get in the tub and lie down, and be quick about it. Sol was framed in the doorway, and Ben, in the dark bathroom, moved to obey. Then the place filled with light, and with the crash of a gun. Ben staggered, whimpered, clutched his belly. Then, to his astonishment, Caspar curled up and rolled over on his side.

  He stepped over Caspar into the living room. She was still there, a gun in her lap, staring at the body, her face lovely. When she looked up her eyes were dancing, as though the two bright points of light in them were controlled by an electric switch. “I’ve always carried it. I’ve carried it since I was fifteen years old. In my handbag. This is the first time I’ve used it.”

  “O.K.”

  “I didn’t miss.”

  “We got work to do, but one thing first.”

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “I’m nuts about you. You’re the first woman I ever cared about, and you’ll be the last. I’m nuts about you, and I want to tell you so. Now. While he’s still warm.”

  “I love you, Ben.”

  “O.K., that’s what I mean.”

  “I meant to kill him, and I did. Who was he?”

  “A gangster.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly himself again, Ben stooped down and kissed her, and went into the bathroom to look. Caspar was lying as he had fallen, looking small and queer.

  “You got a mirror?”

  “Yes, right here.”

  He held the little mirror she gave him in front of Sol’s mouth, then in front of his nostrils. Nodding grimly, he handed the mirror back. Striding again into the living room, he took a quick look around. Sol’s hat and coat he found in the closet, and carefully laid them on a chair. The cigar, still burning in the ashtray, he got rid of in the bathroom. “The next question is, how did he get here?”

  “How do you mean, Ben?”

  “Did he come alone?”

  “Oh my, is there somebody waiting for him?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve known this bird from way back. This is the celebrated Mr. Caspar you’ve been reading about in the newspapers, if you’ve been reading them. How he made his break from the Feds I don’t know, but he wouldn’t be taking anybody along, on a job like this, not even that bellboy. If it was somebody he could trust, he’d have had them knock me off in the first place. So—”

  “What do we do with him? I’m known to be here.”

  “You mind waiting here a few minutes?”

  “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean.”

  “O.K., I’ll tap three times when I get back.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “Not long. Better turn out the lights.”

  “All right.”

  They turned out all lights, and he studied every window that looked down on the rear areaway. Then he tiptoed to the door, peeped out. Then, running lightly down the stairs, he emerged on the street, turned, and walked briskly away. As he went his eyes kept shooting from right to left. He had gone but a few steps past his own car before he came to what he was half hoping to find. It was Sol’s old familiar armored car, that he had driven a thousand times, parked just above the little apartment house. He didn’t stop by it, however. He walked past, staring at every tree, every car.

  Then he quickly crossed the street and came down, doing the same thing on the other side. He couldn’t be sure whether Sol had slipped into the storage shed back of the Columbus and got the car himself, or had phoned somebody to bring it around. He was taking no chances that a pair of eyes were on him somewhere, watching what he did.

  The street, however, was deserted. He crossed over to the car, found it locked. Taking his keys from his pocket, he fingered them, found the one he had used daily, before, when he was driving for Sol. He unlocked the car, got in, put the key in the ignition. Starting, he threw on the lights and rolled silently down to the corner. This was a little neighborhood boulevard, and he was cautious about turning into it. He drove the half block beside the apartment house, then turned into the alley behind it, cutting his lights as he did so. He drove to the entrance of the rear areaway, stopped within a few inches of it, set his brake, got out without slamming the door. Then he hurried around to the front of the apartment house again, ran up the stairs, tapped on the door. Dorothy let
him in. “O.K., now we got a chance.”

  Rapidly, in whispers, he explained what they had to do. Soon, in the areaway below, a girl stood motionless, watching. There was a sound of something heavy, dropping. She scanned the windows. When no face appeared, she gave a little cough. From the shadows a man came staggering under a heavy load. When he reached the alley, and no face appeared at a window, the girl flitted after him. Reaching the car, she jumped in and helped him wrestle his burden to the floor space in front of the back seat. Then she got out and disappeared. The man got in, backed into the street, put on his lights, waited. Soon another car came around the corner, stopped, winked its lights. The man winked his lights. Then he started, and the other car started, and this tandem procession wound its way through the streets of the city until it came to a short street, quite deserted, in the downtown shopping center. Here the man pulled over and stopped. Then he snapped down all locks. Then he took his keys. Then he got out and slammed everything shut. Then he walked back to the other car, which was just now coming to a stop. Then he got in and the girl at the wheel drove off.

  “What now, Ben?”

  “Alibi. Where did you tell June you were going?”

  “Picture show.”

  “Then you’d better go to one. Get a program. Talk to an usher, or the manager, or somebody, to establish the date—”

  “I know.”

  “Here’s a buck.”

  “I love this car.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “… You’re mine, too.”

  “O.K.”

  C H A P T E R

  11

  For two days Ben and Dorothy took turns walking past the car on the downtown street, at hourly, and even half-hourly intervals. It remained there exactly as they had left it, until they thought they would go insane.

  The newspapers shrieked the story of Caspar’s escape from the officers. They told how he had brought them to the Columbus, on the assurance that his wealth was stored in a vault there; how he had led them to a room, sat them down, and spun a knob in the wall; how a panel had then opened, and how he had stepped through it, while the officers watched; how the panel had rolled into place behind him, and they had sat there for a full minute before waking up to what had happened; how they had then spent the next ten minutes making their escape from a locked room, via the cornice that ran around the building; how Caspar had appeared in the lobby and calmly greeted his friends; how he had sauntered back to the storage garage, got into his armored car, lit a cigar, commented that it looked like snow, driven out to the street, and vanished.