Magician's Wife (27 page)

“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.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1965 by James M. Cain

cover design by Mimi Bark

978-1-4532-9160-3

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