Double Indemnity

by James M. Cain

  A little before nine the bell rang. I knew who it was as soon as I heard it. She was standing there in a raincoat and a little rubber swimming cap, with the raindrops shining over her freckles. When I got her peeled off she was in sweater and slacks, just a dumb Hollywood outfit, but it looked different on her. I brought her to the fire and she sat down. I sat down beside her.

  "How did you get my address?" It jumped out at me, even then, that I didn't want her calling my office asking questions about me.

  "Phone book."

  "Oh."

  "Surprised?"

  "No."

  "Well I like that. I never heard such conceit."

  "Your husband out?"

  "Long Beach. They're putting down a new well. Three shifts. He had to go down. So I hopped on a bus. I think you might say you're glad to see me."

  "Great place, Long Beach."

  "I told Lola I was going to a picture show."

  "Who's Lola?"

  "My stepdaughter."

  "Young?"

  "Nineteen. Well, are you glad to see me?"

  "Yeah, sure. Why—wasn't I expecting you?"

  We talked about how wet it was out, and how we hoped it didn't turn into a flood, like it did the night before New Year's, 1934, and how I would run her back in the car. Then she looked in the fire a while. "I lost my head this afternoon."

  "Not much."

  "A little."

  "You sorry?"

  "—A little. I've never done that before. Since I've been married. That's why I came down."

  "You act like something really happened."

  "Something did. I lost my head. Isn't that something?"

  "Well—so what?"

  "I just wanted to say—"

  "You didn't mean it."

  "No. I did mean it. If I hadn't meant it I wouldn't have had to come down. But I do want to say that I won't ever mean it again."

  "You sure?"

  "Quite sure."

  "We ought to try and see."

  "No—please...You see, I love my husband. More, here lately, than ever."

  I looked into the fire a while then. I ought to quit, while the quitting was good, I knew that. But that thing was in me, pushing me still closer to the edge. And then I could feel it again, that she wasn't saying what she meant. It was the same as it was that first afternoon I met her, that there was something else, besides what she was telling me. And I couldn't shake it off, that I had to call it on her.

  "Why 'here lately'?"

  "Oh—worry."

  "You mean that down in the oil fields, some rainy night, a crown block is going to fall on him?"

  "Please don't talk like that."

  "But that's the idea."

  "Yes."

  "I can understand that. Especially with this set-up."

  "...I don't quite know what you mean. What set-up?"

  "Why—a crown block will."

  "Will what?"

  "Fall on him."

  "Please, Mr. Huff, I asked you not to talk like that. It's not a laughing matter. It's got me worried sick...What makes you say that?"

  "You're going to drop a crown block on him."

  "I—what!"

  "Well, you know, maybe not a crown block. But something. Something that's accidentally-on-purpose going to fall on him, and then he'll be dead."

  It nailed her between the eyes and they flickered. It was a minute before she said anything. She had to put on an act, and she was caught by surprise, and she didn't know how to do it.

  "Are you—joking?"

  "No."

  "You must be. Or you must be crazy. Why—I never heard of such a thing in my life."

  "I'm not crazy, and I'm not joking, and you've heard of such a thing in your life, because it's all you've thought of since you met me, and it's what you came down here for tonight."

  "I'll not stay here and listen to such things."

  "O.K."

  "I'm going."

  "O.K."

  "I'm going this minute."

  "O.K."

  So I ran away from the edge, didn't I, and socked it into her so she knew what I meant, and left it so we could never go back to it again? I did not. That was what I tried to do. I never even got up when she left, I didn't help her on with her things, I didn't drive her back, I treated her like I would treat an alley cat. But all the time I knew it would be still raining the next night, that they would still be drilling at Long Beach, that I would light the fire and sit by it, that a little before nine the doorbell would ring: She didn't even speak to me when she came in. We sat by the fire at least five minutes before either one of us said anything. Then she started it. "How could you say such things as you said to me last night?"

  "Because they're true. That's what you're going to do."

  "Now? After what you've said?"

  "Yes, after what I've said."

  "But—Walter, that's what I've come for, again tonight. I've thought it over. I realize that there have been one or two things I've said that could give you a completely wrong impression. In a way, I'm glad you warned me about them, because I might have said them to somebody else without knowing the—construction that could be put upon them. But now that I do know, you must surely see that—anything of that sort must be out of my mind. Forever."

  That meant she had spent the whole day sweating blood for fear I would warn the husband, or start something, somehow. I kept on with it. "You called me Walter. What's your name?"

  "Phyllis."

  "Phyllis, you seem to think that because I can call it on you, you're not going to do it. You are going to do it, and I'm going to help you."

  "You!"

  "I."

  I caught her by surprise again, but she didn't even try to put on an act this time. "Why—I couldn't have anybody help me! It would be—impossible."

  "You couldn't have anybody help you? Well let me tell you something. You had better have somebody help you. It would be nice to pull it off yourself, all alone, so nobody knew anything about it, it sure would. The only trouble with that is, you can't. Not if you're going up against an insurance company, you can't. You've got to have help. And it had better be help that knows its stuff."

  "What would you do this for?"

  "You, for one thing."

  "What else?"

  "Money."

  "You mean you would—betray your company, and help me do this, for me, and the money we could get out of it?"

  "I mean just that. And you better say what you mean, because when I start, I'm going to put it through, straight down the line, and there won't be any slips. But I've got to know. Where I stand. You can't fool—with this."

  She closed her eyes, and after a while she began to cry. I put my arm around her and patted her. It seemed funny, after what we had been talking about, that I was treating her like some child that had lost a penny. "Please, Walter, don't let me do this. We can't. It's simply—insane."

  "Yes, it's insane."

  "We're going to do it. I can feel it."

  "I too."

  "I haven't any reason. He treats me as well as a man can treat a woman. I don't love him, but he's never done anything to me."

  "But you're going to do it."

  "Yes, God help me, I'm going to do it."

  She stopped crying, and lay in my arms for a while without saying anything. Then she began to talk almost in a whisper.

  "He's not happy. He'll be better off—dead."

  "Yeah?"

  "That's not true, is it?"

  "Not from where he sits, I don't think."

  "I know it's not true. I tell myself it's not true. But there's something in me, I don't know what. Maybe I'm crazy. But there's something in me that loves Death. I think of myself as Death, sometimes. In a scarlet shroud, floating through the night. I'm so beautiful, then. And sad. And hungry to make the whole world happy, by taking them out where I am, into the night, away from all trouble, all unhappiness...Walter, this is the awful part. I know this is terribl
e. I tell myself it's terrible. But to me, it doesn't seem terrible. It seems as though I'm doing something—that's really best for him, if he only knew it. Do you understand me, 'Walter?"

  "No."

  "Nobody could."

  "But we're going to do it."

  "Yes, we're going to do it."

  "Straight down the line."

  "Straight down the line."

  A night or two later, we talked about it just as casually as if it was a little trip to the mountains. I had to find out what she had been figuring on, and whether she had gummed it up with some bad move of her own. "Have you said anything to him about this, Phyllis? About this policy?"

  "No."

  "Absolutely nothing?"

  "Not a thing."

  "All right, how are you going to do it?"

  "I was going to take out the policy first—"

  "Without him knowing?"

  "Yes."

  "Holy smoke, they'd have crucified you. It's the first thing they look for. Well—anyway that's out. What else?"

  "He's going to build a swimming pool. In the spring. Out in the patio."

  "And?"

  "I thought it could be made to look as though he hit his head diving or something."

  "That's out. That's still worse."

  "Why? People do, don't they?"

  "It's no good. In the first place, some fool in the insurance business, five or six years ago, put out a newspaper story that most accidents happen in people's own bathtubs, and since then bathtubs, swimming pools, and fishponds are the first thing they think of. When they're trying to pull something, I mean. There's two cases like that out here in California right now. Neither one of them are on the up-and-up, and if there'd been an insurance angle those people would wind up on the gallows. Then it's a daytime job, and you never can tell who's peeping at you from the next hill. Then a swimming pool is like a tennis court, you no sooner have one than it's a community affair, and you don't know who might come popping in on you at any minute. And then it's one of those things where you've got to watch for your chance, and you can't plan it in advance, and know where you're going to come out to the last decimal point. Get this, Phyllis. There's three essential elements to a successful murder."

  That word was out before I knew it. I looked at her quick. I thought she'd wince under it. She didn't. She leaned forward. The firelight was reflected in her eyes like she was some kind of leopard. "Go on. I'm listening."

  "The first is, help. One person can't get away with it, that is unless they're going to admit it and plead the unwritten law or something. It takes more than one. The second is, the time, the place, the way, all known in advance—to us, but not to him. The third is, audacity. That's the one that all amateur murderers forget. They know the first two, sometimes. But that third, only a professional knows. There comes a time in any murder when the only thing that can see you through is audacity, and I can't tell you why. You know the perfect murder? You think it's this swimming pool job, and you're going to do it so slick nobody would ever guess it. They'd guess it in two seconds, flat. In three seconds, flat, they'd prove it, and in four seconds, flat, you'd confess it. No, that's not it. The perfect murder is the gangster that goes on the spot. You know what they do? First they get a finger on him. They get that girl that he lives with. Along about six o'clock they get a phone call from her. She goes out to a drugstore to buy some lipstick, and she calls. They're going to see a picture tonight, he and she, and it's at such and such a theatre. They'll get there around nine o'clock. All right, there's the first two elements. They got help, and they fixed the time and the place in advance. All right, now watch the third. They go there in a car. They park across the street. They keep the motor running. They put a sentry out. He loafs up an alley, and pretty soon he drops a handkerchief and picks it up. That means he's coming. They get out of the car. They drift up to the theatre. They close in on him. And right there, in the glare of the lights, with a couple hundred people looking on, they let him have it. He hasn't got a chance. Twenty bullets hit him, from four or five automatics. He falls, they scram for the car, they drive off—and then you try to convict them. You just try to convict them. They've got their alibis ready in advance, all airtight, they were only seen for a second, by people who were so scared they didn't know what they were looking at—and there isn't a chance to convict them. The police know who they are, of course. They round them up, give them the water cure—and then they're habeas corpused into court and turned loose. Those guys don't get convicted. They get put on the spot by other gangsters. Oh yeah, they know their stuff, all right. And if we want to get away with it, we've got to do it the way they do it, and not the way some punk up near San Francisco does it, that's had two trials already, and still he's not free."

  "Be bold?"

  "Be bold. It's the only way."

  "If we shoot him it wouldn't be accident."

  "That's right. We don't shoot him, but I want you to get the principle through your head. Be bold. It's the only chance to get away with it."

  "Then how?"

  "I'm coming to that. Another trouble with your swimming pool idea is that there's no money in it."

  "They'd have to pay—"

  "They'd have to pay, but this is a question of how much they'd have to pay. All the big money on an accident policy comes from railroad accidents. They found out pretty quick, when they began to write accident insurance, that the apparent danger spots, the spots that people think are danger spots, aren't danger spots at all. I mean, people always think a railroad train is a pretty dangerous place to be, or they did, anyway, before the novelty wore off, but the figures show not many people get killed, or even hurt, on railroad trains. So on accident policies, they put in a feature that sounds pretty good to the man that buys it, because he's a little worried about train trips, but it doesn't cost the company much, because it knows he's pretty sure to get there safely. They pay double indemnity for railroad accidents. That's just where we cash in. You've been thinking about some piker job, maybe, and a fat chance I'd be taking a chance like this for that. When we get done, we cash a $50,000 bet, and if we do it right, we're going to cash it, don't make any mistake about that."

  "Fifty thousand dollars?"

  "Nice?"

  "My!"

  "Say, this is a beauty, if I do say it myself. I didn't spend all this time in this business for nothing, did I? Listen, he knows all about this policy, and yet he don't know a thing about it. He applies for it, in writing, and yet he don't apply for it. He pays me for it with his own check, and yet he don't pay me. He has an accident happen to him and yet he don't have an accident happen to him. He gets on the train, and yet he don't get on it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You'll find out. The first thing is, we've got to fix him up with that policy. I sell it to him, do you get that?—except that I don't sell him. Not quite. I give him the works, the same as I give any other prospect. And I've got to have witnesses. Get that. There's got to be somebody that heard me go right after him. I show him that he's covered on everything that might hurt the automobile, but hasn't got a thing that covers personal injury to himself. I put it up to him whether a man isn't worth more than his car. I—"

  "Suppose he buys?"

  "Well—suppose he does? He won't. I can bring him within one inch of the line and hold him there, don't you think I can't. I'm a salesman, if I'm nothing else. But—I've got to have witnesses. Anyway, one witness."

  "I'll have somebody."

  "Maybe you better oppose it."

  "All right."

  "You're all for the automobile stuff, when I start in on that, but this accident thing gives you the shivers."

  "I'll remember."

  "You better make a date pretty quick. Give me a ring."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Confirm by phone. Remember, you need a witness."

  "I'll have one."

  "Tomorrow, then. Subject to call."

  "Walter—I'm so ex
cited. It does terrible things to me."

  "I too."

  "Kiss me."

  You think I'm nuts? All right, maybe I am. But you spend fifteen years in the business I'm in, maybe you'll go nuts yourself. You think it's a business, don't you, just like your business, and maybe a little better than that, because it's the friend of the widow, the orphan, and the needy in time of trouble? It's not. It's the biggest gambling wheel in the world. It don't look like it, but it is, from the way they figure the percentage on the oo to the look on their face when they cash your chips. You bet that your house will burn down, they bet it won't, that's all. What fools you is that you didn't want your house to burn down when you made the bet, and so you forget it's a bet. That don't fool them. To them a bet is a bet, and a hedge bet don't look any different than any other bet. But there comes a time, maybe, when you do want your house to burn down, when the money is worth more than the house. And right there is where the trouble starts. They know there's just so many people out there that are out to crook that wheel, and that's when they get tough. They've got their spotters out there, they know every crooked trick there is, and if you want to beat them you had better be good. So long as you're honest, they'll pay you with a smile, and you may even go home thinking it was all in a spirit of good clean fun. But start something, and then you'll find out.

  All right, I'm an agent. I'm a croupier in that game. I know all their tricks, I lie awake nights thinking up tricks, so I'll be ready for them when they come at me. And then one night I think up a trick, and get to thinking I could crook the wheel myself if I could only put a plant out there to put down my bet. That's all. When I met Phyllis I met my plant. If that seems funny to you, that I would kill a man just to pick up a stack of chips, it might not seem so funny if you were back of that wheel, instead of out front. I had seen so many houses burned down, so many cars wrecked, so many corpses with blue holes in their temples, so many awful things that people had pulled to crook the wheel, that that stuff didn't seem real to me any more. If you don't understand that, go to Monte Carlo or some other place where there's a big casino, sit at a table, and watch the face of the man that spins the little ivory ball. After you've watched it a while, ask yourself how much he would care if you went out and plugged yourself in the head. His eyes might drop when he heard the shot, but it wouldn't be from worry whether you lived or died. It would be to make sure you didn't leave a bet on the table, that he would have to cash for your estate. No, he wouldn't care. Not that baby.