She agreed, and they presently set the night for the Monday preceding Labor Day. However, one thing kept gnawing at him, which was Mr. Alexis’ driving habits. He knew the Alexis car, having seen it the day of the visit, and she gave him the license number so there could be no mistake. But there was still the question of potholes on the stretch of condemned road, and what Alexis did about them. If, to avoid them, he drove in the middle, the whole thing was in the soup, as Clay knew by that time that he could not pull up from behind on a car driven that way without landing himself in the ditch—not a happy prospect. But it was a question of fact, not to be settled by guesswork. So one evening, without telling Sally, he parked near the Harlow Theater, to watch his victim come out and follow him up to work, so he would know. It was around six, and he didn’t have long to wait. Mr. Alexis came out the front door, sauntering down the walk, while Sally trotted after him, still in her Portico dress, and backed his car from the garage. Then followed a scene that Clay hated to watch. From up the street came a whistle and then running feet, as eight to a dozen kids trooped up and began dancing up and down. Mr. Alexis, in black tie and Homburg, stared as though in surprise, then took a red ball from his pocket and passed it around. The children examined it closely, bounced it on the sidewalk, and presently handed it back. Mr. Alexis then made motions with it, up and down and crosswise, then gave an exclamation, as two balls were there in his hand. The miracle was greeted with squeals, and he handed the ball back, magnanimously letting them keep it. Then, patting each child on the head, he took lollipops from their ears, causing more squeals, even louder. “Goddam it, don’t go soft!” Clay told himself. “You’re in this thing, you’re in it!... She could have told me about it, though.”
He followed the Alexis car, a big maroon sedan, noting its speed, which stayed at an easy 35. On the stretch of condemned road it picked up a bit, but stayed in the right-hand lane, not veering to the middle. In south Baltimore Clay let it pull ahead, so it reached the Lilac Flamingo first. The club was on Redwood, just off the Little Ginza, which Baltimore calls The Block, and was in a remodeled building, originally perhaps a garage. It had a parking lot at one side, with entrance on Redwood and exit on the cross street. Clay stopped near the exit and, the hour being early, found space for his car at the curb. Mr. Alexis had already parked on the lot, in the space next to the attendant’s shack that Sally had said he used. After lighting a cigarette he sauntered to the club, going in by a rear door. But Clay wasn’t quite finished yet with his early-evening reconnaissance. There was still the question of Buster and how she affected the plan. Mr. Alexis, according to Sally, always walked her home after winding up at the club, and after visiting with her, walked back to his car for the drive to Channel City, “around two o’clock, as a rule.” But it seemed important to Clay, if he were to watch as planned, at the wheel of his parked car, to know all about that walk, especially its direction, so he would know which way to look. So he had looked up Buster in the Baltimore telephone book and now walked to her place, four or five blocks away. It was a small apartment house, with fire escapes showing, on a cross street north of The Block, near Fayette. He started to walk by, then changed his mind, bounded up the stairs, and entered the vestibule. Here, lighting a match, he peered at the names on the mailboxes. Sure enough, the card in one read EDITH CONLON. He blew out his match, stepped down to the sidewalk again, and went on to the corner of Fayette, where he stood for a moment, noting parking conditions, just in case. Then he turned and started back. And then, to his horror, who should come mincing out of the apartment house doorway but Buster, in another sleeveless dress, blue socklets instead of red, and tan shoes instead of white. Her eyes shone with delight when she saw him. “Why, Mr. Lockwood!” she cried.
“Miss Conlon,” he said gravely. “How do you do?”
“I told you, call me Buster,” she chided him. “Busty Buster, to my friends.” Casually, yet with a touch of pride, she bulged the why of her sobriquet, then went on: “But don’t worry, I’ll keep on calling you Mister—I don’t embarrass no one. And yet at the same time I’m surprised at seeing you here, in among the ginmills, hotspots, and iniquity dens! For some reason I wouldn’t have thought it of you.
“Buster, I sell these pirates meat.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot.”
“Their money’s as good as anyone’s.”
“And better in some ways—at least there’s plenty of it.” And then, leaning close: “Did you see that piece in the paper?”
“I did. Did you see the retraction, Buster?”
“Oh! That was your doing, then?”
“I hope to tell you it was.”
He wanted to shake her, yet couldn’t quite suppress the smugness of his growl or resist her reaction to it. She was ecstatic in admiration, her “Aw, aw” fairly pulsating with it. Then suddenly she whispered: “Listen!” And then, looking around, noting the passers-by, she pulled him into a doorway, the entrance of a dingy office building, dark in the gathering dusk. Then, mysteriously, her arm around his neck, her mouth pressed close, she breathed: “You know who put it in? The wife, that’s who!”
“Oh? You mean Mr. Alexis’ wife?”
“He has one. Didn’t you hear?”
“Well, I don’t know too much about him.”
“Oh, a bitch from Bitchenville, Delaware—trying to louse me up. And here’s where it gets good: maybe she did. Mr. Lockwood, I could be due for the gate.”
“From the—act?”
“Call it that—it’s a very nice way to put it. Because things have changed lately. His father died, you know, in a most unfortunate way. By accident, so it was said. But maybe not, if you know what I mean. Maybe he got some help, just the least little push. And is Sonny Boy sore about that? Don’t make me laugh, Mr. Lockwood. He was sore, but then he began to be glad. He’s grateful to that dame—look at the dough she made him. He’s thinking of taking her back. Now, how do you like that?”
“It’s a free country, Buster.”
“Yeah, for cashew nuts—and all kinds.”
She kept studying him, then gave him a pull and pointed. “You see that place?” she asked. “The one I just now came out of? That’s where I live, Mr. Lockwood. Why don’t you come-up-’n-simmy-some-time?”
He laughed at the Mae West imitation, said: “Well, I’m sure I’d enjoy it at that.”
“You might surprise yourself!”
She pulled him back in the murk again, circled his neck again with her arm, whispered: “You’re going West, the papers said. You might need someone out there—that calls you Mr. Lockwood—that wouldn’t make any trouble—that would kind of look out for you—in a nice little place she would have—where you could relax and have fun.”
“... I’ll think about it, Buster.”
“Will you? Sure enough?”
“Did—the overhead stuff get installed?”
“Yeah, but we needn’t go into that!”
Her manner implied a long story, which was more than he bargained for, so he didn’t pursue the subject. Instead, he glanced at his watch, said: “Got to be running along.”
“Me too—I’m due at the club. Put on my fish-net tights and handle props for him.” Then, with childish pride: “I look good in them!” She lifted her skirt quite high, to show soft, chubby legs, really quite pretty. She laughed when he looked away, put her arms around him again, said: “Listen, I go for you! How many times must I say it?”
“I—go for you too, Buster.”
“I’m in the book—ring me.”
“If I can make it, I’d like that.”
“I’m home in the daytime.”
“I’ll remember.”
“And I’m free in the daytime, too.”
Suddenly she pulled him to her, gave him a long, wet kiss. He kissed back, not quite knowing why. It seemed the polite thing to do, and was also unexpectedly enjoyable.
“So he thinks he may take her back, and how do you know he won’t? How do you k
now she won’t? How do you know anything in connection with this dame? Because maybe you love her, but the extent to which she can be trusted is scarcely visible to the naked eye. You’d better get it done, get this thing over with—until you do, you’re nowhere.”
He had raced home, changed, bathed, and doused himself with cologne, to be rid of every last trace of Buster’s cloying perfume, in preparation for his 9:30 date with Sally. But the eyes that stared from the mirror were beginning to look a bit wild.
15
MONDAY, WHEN AT LAST it came, was ushered in by a call from Grace. He had called her once or twice, to keep her “posted,” as he said—actually, to keep her from growing suspicious. He had been pleasant enough, saying how busy he’d been, what with Mankato affairs, “and what with Sally’s affairs—I may as well tell the truth and own up I hauled in my horns, letting her handle things her own way, as this death changed the picture, in more ways than one, and I can’t pretend that it didn’t.” She had been understanding enough, seeming to believe all he said, and this morning was full of friendly, vibrant enthusiasm. “I just called to tell you,” she said, “how happy my daughter is making me and how happy you’re making her—it must be you, it couldn’t be anyone else.” She said Sally had asked her to dinner, “tonight, at the house, along with two other women, who live in the same block—it’s a hen party, but what she ought to have! Clay, I’ve tried to impress on her that women, to women, are important—that toadying to Bunny Granlund isn’t nearly enough. Men decide who’s a sexpot—which may or may not be a help. Women decide who’s a lady, and there’s no appeal from their verdict.” Clay said that was funny, he had never quite seen it that way, it was an interesting point—and more things, quite as inane, feeling a queer impulse to string the call out—and string it out still more. At last she hung up, he telling her: “Let’s keep in touch.”
He usually got his own breakfast, but this morning couldn’t quite face the chore and so went out to the drugstore two blocks up Kennedy Drive, the druggist greeting him deferentially and keeping him company while he ate. Walking back, he got out the car and drove to the shop, conferring with Hal Daley and stopping to chat with Miss Helm, who was helping out in Accounting. Then it was time for lunch, and he drove to uptown Portico, where Sally was working that day, for a last-minute confab with her. She seated him, had a girl take his order, then came back and stood facing him, as she had the first day they met—though there was no discussion, this time, about the contours of her stomach. “Well?” he asked in a low voice. “Anything?”
“Yes,” she answered. “About tonight, and my alibi. I’ve asked Mother and two other crows to have dinner with me and—”
“They’re not crows!” he snapped.
“... What?”
“They’re the witnesses on whom your life can depend—so don’t start saying crows or even thinking crows. If you’re giving them dinner, they have to like your dinner and like you. So—”
“Well, thanks for the lesson in manners!”
“They’re not crows! Anything else?”
“Yes—in regard to Alec.”
“O.K. What about him?”
“I told him, since I’d be up, if he’d skip the visit to Buster and get home in some kind of time, we could talk divorce. So he bit—he’s coming straight home as soon as he winds up his show. He’ll leave around one o’clock.”
“I see. Then—O.K.”
“Well, what’s the matter, Clay?”
“I said O.K.!... Nothing’s the matter, except that tonight of all nights, everything should be as usual, with nothing to draw attention—”
“Well, if that’s all the thanks I get—”
“And I should have been consulted!”
“For trying to make things easy for you!”
“O.K., O.K., O.K.!... Anything else?”
For answer she flounced off and then hovered, her figure graceful, her eyes like glittering stones. Once she came up behind him and whispered: “Listen, if you have a case of cold feet—?”
“Do you have a case of cold feet?”
“No, Clay. But—”
“Then quit cracking at me!”
Neither of them, apparently, had meant to quarrel or wanted to, but their tempers were uncontrollably edgy.
He got in his car on the parking lot, then sat fingering the wheel, in thought, and then with a snap of his fingers seemed to remember something. He drove to Washington, parked on the outskirts, near a sidewalk phone booth, got out, and consulted the book inside, thumbing the yellow pages. He drove a few blocks, parked again, and entered a hardware store, buying three cans of white paint with a key to get them open. He drove then to Baltimore, heading south at the outskirts, and on to the stretch of condemned road. On the low part of it, where it passed the meadow, he parked. Then, opening one can of paint, he poured it out on the right-hand shoulder, where it would serve as his marker, to signal his speed-up beside the other car. Going on, he parked again and spilled a second can of paint, this time on the left-hand shoulder, to make a second circular spot, to signal his pull-up to parallel position. Going still further on, he parked again and spilled the third can of paint, so the spot would signal the blast on his horn. Each can, when he had emptied it, he tossed off to the side. When he drove over the bridge at last, it was well past four o’clock, and after driving around for an hour he arrived at the Chancit Garage, a place not far from home, for the first step in his alibi. “Roy,” he said when the manager came over, “I’m just about due, I think, for the works—wash, lube job, tire check, gas—the usual. Will you send over for it? In the morning, maybe?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Lockwood.”
“I’ll leave it out on the street, give the keys in at the desk—the night girl will put ’em in my box.”
“No need, Mr. Lockwood. Your garage knows us and—”
“And I know them, Roy—specially this new bunch they have, with their conscientious ideas. I don’t care to be waked up with their nice friendly question about is it O.K., and so on. If you don’t mind—”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Your man knows the car?”
“But of course!”
“I’ll leave it out on Spring Street.”
“We’ll pick it up, that’s for sure.”
He drove to the club for dinner.
At nine, after billiards with Mr. Garrett, he parked on Spring Street, locked up, and walked to the Marlborough, taking his mail from Doris, a blonde of uncertain years, a bit washed out, but with more than a trace of good looks. “My, but it’s hot out there,” he said, glancing at his letters. “You should be thankful for this air conditioning in here.”
“Oh, I am!” she said quickly. “It’s not really the best, but it helps quite a lot. Even a few degrees is something.”
“And another thing we can all be thankful for! This is Monday, and a week from today is Labor Day. That breaks the back of summer—then it’s the fall of the year!”
“Oh, that’s right!” she agreed eagerly. “I’ve noticed it often myself. After that, life’s worth living again!”
He turned to the elevator and then, suddenly, as though just remembering, stopped and fished out his car keys. “Almost forgot,” he told her. “Will you put these in my box? In an envelope, if you have one? Mark it Chancit Garage Will Call. So Miss Homan knows.”
“I will, and I’ll leave her a note.”
“Thanks, Doris. Good night.”
At once, from the apartment, he called Miss Helm at her home. “Will you do something for me?” he asked her. “I have time on my hands now, and I’ve just taken a notion to do something I’ve never done—see that beauty contest they have every year down at Atlantic City. I think it’s the week after Labor Day, so if you’d take it over—?”
“Why, Mr. Lockwood, I’d be glad to!”
“I’d do it myself, but I have to call Pat Grant, and frankly that exhausts me more than I care to admit—”
�
�Oh, that I can understand!”
She laughed, and he went on: “I would imagine there’d be less pressure on suites, so if you’ll ask for one right at the start, you may get quicker attention.” He gave her a half-dozen hotels, as his preferred list, and wound up: “Give me a half hour with Pat and then call me back, will you? Your charges, of course, are on me.”
He called Pat, with an idea for precooked picnic hams, “packaged and ready to go, addressed to the teenage trade, and promoted that way. Just an idea, keep it under your hat, but it may turn out we can do something with it.” He sat by the window and waited, and presently Miss Helm called, with news that the hotel of his first choice “has a nice suite for you—if you want it, Mr. Lockwood! But hold onto your hat, what it’s going to cost!”
“O.K., say it.”
“It’s forty dollars a day.”
“Ouch! But—once in a lifetime!”
“You want me to take it, then?”
The Magician's Wife Page 11
