The girl at the telephone is now talking about hats, while Nora fidgets with increasing impatience.
In his room, Robert is finishing packing a bag, with occasional glances at the bathroom that connects his room with Selma’s. He does not make much noise, but is still too drunk to be completely silent. He has changed his clothes.
Selma turns in bed and makes a faint moaning noise, but does not open her eyes.
In another room a bedside light goes on, and Aunt Katherine sits up in bed, listening. Grim-faced, she unhurriedly gets out of bed and reaches for her slippers.
His bag packed, Robert puts it out in the hall, then turns out the lights and tiptoes through the connecting bathroom into Selma’s room, going to a dressing table, pulling a drawer open, and taking out a jewel case. He has transferred part of its contents to his pocket when Selma suddenly sits up in bed and screams: “Robert!” He turns, pushing the case back into the drawer as she snaps on the light.
Robert, with taunting mildness: “Hello, Selma, how are you?”
She runs toward him, crying: “Oh, where have you been? Oh, why do you do these things?”
He takes her in his arms, says: “There, there, darling.”
For a moment she relaxes in his arms, then she puts her hands on his chest, pushing herself free, and cries: “No, I won’t this time. I won’t forgive you. I won’t let you make a fool of me again.”
Robert, as if to an unreasonable child: “All right, all right, darling. As a matter of fact, I only stopped in for a minute, anyhow, to change my clothes.”
Selma: “Where are you going?”
Robert: “A trip, a little trip.”
Selma: “You’re not. I won’t have it. I won’t.”
Robert, smiling: “Oh, won’t you?” He takes a step toward the door, then stops to ask: “Want to kiss me goodbye?” She flies at him in insane rage. He catches her wrists, kisses her lightly on the mouth, says: “Thanks, darling,” releases her wrists, and goes out. She stands staring after him with wild eyes, scrubbing her lips with the back of one hand, then runs into his room and pulls a table drawer open.
FLASHES: Robert, smiling, bag in hand, going out the front door into the foggy street.
Polly standing in a small store doorway, straining her eyes trying to see through the fog.
Phil, at the entrance of a narrow alley, his collar up, his right hand under his coat near his left armpit.
Dancer at the wheel of a black coupe, his eyes searching the street.
Lum Kee in a car driven by a Chinese chauffeur.
On a street corner a policeman is hunkered down on his heels scratching the back of a gaunt alley cat. He hears a pistol shot—not too loud—straightens up, and starts across the street.
Robert lies on his back on the sidewalk, his head and one shoulder propped up a little by the wall he has fallen against—dead. Selma stands looking down at him. Her face is a blank, dazed mask. In her right hand, hanging down at her side, is a pistol. Brakes scream and a car comes to a jarring halt at the curb. She does not move. David jumps out of the car and runs over to her, exclaiming: “Selma!” She does not move until he turns her to face him and even then her face does not change. He shakes her, cries: “Selma! What—” He sees the pistol and takes it from her, stepping back a little. As he does so, her eyes lose their blankness and she looks at the pistol.
In a monotone she says: “He was going away. I took that from his room—to try to stop him.” She begins to tremble and her face works convulsively—she is about to go to pieces.
David has put the pistol in his pocket. He glances quickly up and down the foggy street, then takes her by the shoulders and shakes her again, putting his face close to hers, speaking very clearly, as if to one who understood English poorly: “Listen, Selma. You’re going back to the house. You never had a pistol. Hear me? You haven’t been out of the house. Understand? You know nothing about this. Understand?” She nods woodenly. With an arm around her, he leads her quickly to the corner, only a few steps away. There he says: “Now hurry! Back in the house. Up to your room. You know nothing about this. Run!” Automatically obeying his command, she runs blindly back toward her front door. David dashes back to his car, jumps in, and drives off with reckless speed.
In the Li-Chee, the girl at the telephone is now talking about shoes. Besides Nora, half a dozen other people are waiting to use the phone. Nora goes up to the girl and says: “Please, it’s awfully important that I—”
The girl, dropping another nickel into the slot: “I can’t help it if there’s only one phone here. Why don’t you carry around one of them portable shortwave sets if you got so many important things to call people about.” She goes on with her phone conversation.
Nora goes back to Nick, who is engaged in rearing on his table one of those old-fashioned towers of bottles, salt shakers, oranges, forks, etc., all carefully balanced atop one another. Waiters and customers stand around with bated breath watching him admiringly. He is getting along fine until Nora comes up and says: “Nick!” Then the whole pile comes crashing down on the table. The audience applauds.
Nick bows, then turns to Nora and says: “The divorce is Wednesday.” She doesn’t laugh.
She says: “Nick, I can’t get to the phone. One of the hatcheck girls has been talking for hours.”
Nick: “You’ve come to the right place. Old Find-a-Phone Nick, the boys around the drugstore used to call me.” He offers her his arm and they go across the floor and out of the restaurant. As they pass the pay phone—where the hatcheck girl is now talking about underwear and a dozen customers are angrily waiting—Nick says loftily: “Mere amateur phone-finding!” He opens a door, shakes his head, and shuts it. He starts to open the next door, but stops when he sees it is labeled LADIES. The third door opens into Dancer’s apartment. He bows Nora in, ushers her to the sofa, hands her the book Lum Kee had been reading, goes to the phone, and calls Selma’s number.
The door opens and Dancer, in hat and coat, comes in.
Nick: “Hello, Dancer. Nice men’s room you have.” He waves a hand to indicate the room and the rather elaborate bath that can be seen through an open door, then suddenly frowns at Nora and asks: “What are you doing in here?”
Dancer stands inside the open door looking at Nick with cold eyes, and when he speaks his voice is cold and level: “Once a gum-heel always a gum-heel, huh? I don’t like gum-heels, but I thought you’d quit it when you married a pot of money and—”
Nora, indignantly: “Did he call me a pot?”
Nick pays no attention to either of them; Aunt Katherine is on the other end of the wire. She says: “You’d better come over, Nicholas. Robert has been killed.”
Nick’s expression does not change as he says: “I will,” and slowly hangs up.
Dancer, jerking a thumb at the open door behind him: “Well, now, if you’re through in here.”
Nick, leaning back comfortably in his chair: “Still foggy out?”
Dancer, very deliberately: “Have you ever been thrown out of a place, Mr. Charles?”
Nick, to Nora: “How many places was it up to yesterday, Mrs. Charles?”
Nora: “How many places have you been in, Mr. Charles?”
Dancer: “Look here!”
Nick, raising a hand: “Wait, wait! As I was about to say, it’s not for me to tell any man how to run his business—though I could give you a few hints—but just the same it doesn’t look right for you and your partner and your chief entertainer and one of your best customers all to go out at about the same time. It gives the place a—a—a quite vacant look. Did you notice it, Mrs. Charles?”
Nora: “Oh, decidedly, Mr. Charles. Quite barnlike.”
Nick: “Thank you, Mrs. Charles. Now there’s another thing. If Mr. Robert Landis came here with a lady who left a cigarette case, you shouldn’t have sent it to his wife. You know what a fellow Mr. Landis was.”
Dancer: “That wasn’t me. Lum didn’t know.”
Nora lean
s toward Nick, her face strained: “Did you say ‘was’?” Nick nods slowly, his face serious now. Nora, softly: “Poor Selma.”
Dancer, angrily: “I’ve had enough of this. I—” He breaks off as through the open door comes the sound of Polly’s singing.
Nick: “Ah! Another of our travelers has returned. Now if only—no sooner said than done,” he says as Lum Kee comes in. Nick looks from one to the other of them and says thoughtfully: “I wonder which of you would be most frightened if Robert Landis walked in now.” Neither man says anything. Nick: “But you know there’s no chance of that, don’t you, Dancer?”
Dancer: I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care.” He advances threateningly. “Get out!”
Nick smiles, shakes his head, says: “You said that before and it’s foolish. We’re not going to get out—we’re going to have more people come in.”
He picks up the phone. Dancer, grabbing at the phone: “Give me that phone!”
Nick: “Certainly.”
He raps Dancer on the jaw with it. Dancer staggers back, holding his jaw.
Nora, proud of Nick, says to Dancer: “See?”
Nick dials a number, says: “Nick Charles speaking. I want to get hold of Lieutenant Abrams of the Homicide Detail. If he’s not on duty, will you give me his residence number?”
Lum Kee crosses to the closet and carefully puts his hat away.
On a dark and seemingly deserted part of the waterfront, David gets out of his car, walks to the edge of a small pier, and throws Selma’s pistol as far out into the water as he can.
Through the fog comes a man’s voice shouting: “Hey, what are you doing there?” followed by the sound of feet running toward David. David races back to his car and drives off.
In Dancer’s apartment, Nick is saying into the phone: “Sure, I’ll wait for you, Abrams. . . . Well, I’ll ask them to wait, but sometimes I think they don’t like me well enough to do me favors. . . . Yes. I’ll tell them.” He puts down the phone and tells Lum Kee and Dancer: “The Lieutenant said something about boiling you in oil if you budged before he gets here. The fellow probably exaggerates.”
Polly has finished her song: the sound of applause comes through the door. Dancer turns on his heel and goes out.
A still larger and angrier group of customers is waiting to use the phone. The hatcheck girl is talking about pajamas. Dancer takes the receiver roughly from her and slams it on the hook, snarling: “Get back to work. What are you going to do? Spend the whole night here?” He goes on toward the restaurant.
In Dancer’s apartment, Lum Kee says: “Dancer not mean anything, please, Mr. Charles. Good man—only excited. Sometime make a little trouble—not mean anything.” He smiles cheerfully at Nick and Nora, as if he had explained everything, and says: “Now we have little drink, you bet you.”
Nora rises, saying to Nick: “I ought to go to Selma’s. She’ll need somebody.”
Nick: “Right. I’ll put you in the car.” To Lum Kee: “Hold everything.” Nick and Nora go downstairs.
Harold is sound asleep now. The taxi-driver is saying: “So I said to these two gobs, I said, ‘Maybe you boys are tough stuff back on Uncle Sam’s battle-wagon, but you ain’t there now,’ I said, ‘you’re on land,’ I said, ‘and you’re either gonna pay that fare or I’m going to take it out of your—’” He breaks off as Nick and Nora come to the car, and opens the door for them. Harold wakes up.
As Nora gets in, Nick asks Harold: “Did you see Robert Landis leave?”
Harold: “No, I would’ve only—” He breaks off, leans past Nick to push the taxi-driver violently with one hand, saying angrily to him: “Putting me to sleep with them yarns about where you told everybody to get off at! I ought to—” He jerks his cap off and turns to Nora, saying earnestly: “Aw, gee, I’m sorry, Mrs. Charles!”
Nick: “Did you see anybody you knew?”
Harold: “Nope, I didn’t notice nobody coming out particular—except there was a kid come out right after you went in, and I only noticed him because he was kind of hanging around”—he indicates the doorway Phil stood in—“for a little while. Why? Something up?”
Nick: “What did the kid look like?”
Harold gives a rough description of Phil, adding: “Why?”
Nick: “What happened to him?”
Harold: “I don’t know.” He calls to the taxi-driver, who is standing back against a wall, looking resentfully at them: “Hey, Screwy! What happened to the kid that was hanging around here?”
The Taxi-Driver: “I don’t know. I guess he went down the street half hour ago.”
Harold warns Nick: “Maybe he never even seen him. What’s up, Nick?”
Nick: “Plenty. Drive Mrs. Charles back to her aunt’s,” then to Nora: “Going to stay all night?”
Nora: “I think I ought to.”
He nods, says: “I’ll stop over in the morning.” He stands at the curb staring thoughtfully after the car as it drives away.
Upstairs in the Li-Chee, Dancer meets Polly as she leaves the floor and asks her: “What are you doing back here?”
Polly: “It wasn’t my fault, Dancer. You know how drunks are. We got outside and he insisted on going home—his home—and I couldn’t talk him out of it. I couldn’t strong-arm him, could I? So I thought I’d better come back and tell you. I couldn’t stop him.”
Dancer: “Okay, sister, dress your dolls the way you want to.”
Polly: “I don’t understand what you mean, Dancer.”
Dancer: “A cluck, huh? All right. I’ll tell you so you can understand. Somebody cooled off Landis tonight, and the heat’s on plenty—right here. You’re in it with me, and you’re going to be in it with me, because the first time you step out of line—get the idea?”
Polly: “You don’t have to try to scare me.” (But she is scared.) “I’m shooting square with you.”
Dancer, sneering: “You mean starting now? That’ll help some. Where’s the paper?”
Polly: “In my bag. Shall I tear it up?”
Dancer: “Maybe you are as dumb as you act sometimes. Listen. Try to understand what I’m telling you. Landis is killed—dead. Maybe we’re going to need that paper bad. So you don’t let anything happen to it—be sure you don’t.”
Polly: “All right, but I still don’t get it. I don’t know what you—”
Dancer: “Shut up and do what you’re told.”
At this point, as they move toward Dancer’s apartment, they pass the head of the stairs and are joined by Nick, returning from the street.
Nick: “Now let’s have that little drink Lum Kee was talking about.”
Dancer: “Swell! And, Mr. Charles, I want to apologize for losing my temper like that.”
Nick, linking arms with them: “Don’t give it a second thought. Some people lose one thing, some lose another, but they all like a drink afterwards.”
To Polly, sympathetically: “Tough you couldn’t do a better job of seeing Landis got home all right.”
Polly, sullenly: “It wasn’t my fault. I did the best I could.”
Nick says: “I’m sure you did,” as they go into Dancer’s apartment.
Lum Kee is at the telephone saying: “Better you come right away . . . You bet you.” He hangs up, explaining blandly to Nick: “Mr. Caspar. He our lawyer. Sometimes good thing when you have trouble.”
Nick: “You bet you.”
Dancer: “Maybe, but I think you’re going to a lot of trouble over nothing. It’s a cinch none of us shot Landis—so what do we need a lawyer for?”
Nick: “Maybe to help you explain how you know he was shot.”
Dancer: “Well, whatever way he was killed, it’s still a cinch we didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Nick yawns, says: “A cinch is no defense in the eyes of the law,” and makes himself comfortable on the sofa.
Dancer smiles ingratiatingly at Nick and says: “I don’t blame you for thinking maybe we’re tied up in this somehow. It�
��s our own fault for starting off with you on the wrong foot, but—let’s have that drink first and talk things over. We can show you we’re in the clear.” He pushes a button for a waiter.
Nick, indifferently, lying back and looking at the ceiling: “Don’t worry about me. Talk it over with the police.”
Dancer catches Polly’s eye and jerks his head a little toward Nick. She nods and moves as if aimlessly over to the sofa. Lum Kee looks from Dancer to Polly, then goes over and sits on a chair not far from the sofa, but behind Nick.
Dancer calls: “Come in,” as the waiter knocks, and moves over so that he is between Nick and the door. (None of these movements should be definitely threatening, though it should seem to the audience that Nick is being surrounded.)
Dancer, to Nick: “What’ll you have?”
Nick: “Scotch.”
Polly and Lum Kee say: “Same.”
Dancer: “And a glass of milk.”
The waiter goes out. Polly sits down on the sofa beside Nick and says: “Do you suppose that David Graham could have killed Robert?”
Nick blinks in surprise, then says: “I’m no good at supposing. What do you know about David Graham?”
Dancer is regarding the girl with a puzzled look.
Polly: Only what Robert told me—that he was in love with his wife.”
Nick: “Oh.”
Polly, putting a hand on one of Nick’s as if unconsciously: “Wasn’t he?”
Nick: “Everybody’s in love with somebody’s wife—I guess.”
Polly, moving a little closer to him on the sofa: “Are you?”
Nick, still looking at the ceiling, takes his hand out of Polly’s and puts his arm around her, making himself more comfortable. He says: “Everybody doesn’t admit it.”
Polly, bending over him a little, smiles and says admiringly: “I bet you could admit a lot—if you wanted to.”
The waiter comes in with drinks, but halts in the doorway at a signal from Dancer. Nick pats Polly’s shoulder and says lightly: “My dear, for a girl who’s had so much practice giving men the works for Dancer, your technique is remarkably—ah—unpolished.”
Return of the Thin Man: Two never-before-published novellas featuring Nick & Nora Charles Page 7
