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Authors: James M. Cain
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with him for a ‘small fun,’ he kept calling it. Can you imagine that? It’s not any of my business what was done. Just the same I do think she ought to make it worth my while. Don’t you think that’s only right?”
“I do indeed.”
“You’d think she’d want to do something like that.”
“I guarantee she wants to.”
“So if you want to take me up there—”
“Not so fast, not so fast. Taking you up there would be simple, some other time, but, as you can easily imagine, she’s got her own reasons for not seeing anybody today, not even me. Don’t worry though, it’ll be handled. Does she know you saw it? Were you there?”
“In the door there’s a slot, with bars in front and a steel door behind. The door was open a little bit. I peeped in.”
“And you saw something, is that it?”
“I seen him killed.”
“By her?”
“If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do, wouldn’t you? Suppose you do some talking now. And talk nice. About money.”
“To spill it or skip it?”
“To skip it, I would rather imagine.”
“She’ll be interested to hear that.”
“What do I do now?”
“Let me think. Where’s Spiro?”
“Out at the Domino.”
“I think he’s the guy, not Shoreham.”
“I would have gone to him, but he and Tony are so thick all of a sudden I was afraid. I work for Tony and I didn’t know how he’d take it.”
“I’m awfully glad you came here first. Now here’s what you do. Have a buck off me and see yourself a nice picture. Around seven o’clock or so, come back here and wait to be paged. Don’t go back to the Domino till you hear from me.”
When Mr. Layton entered the Domino, Tony was being pointedly disagreeable to some schoolgirls, telling them Miss Shoreham was not there, that he had no idea when she might come there, and that they certainly could not leave their autograph books for her to sign. It didn’t seem a propitious time for inquiry, so Mr. Layton bought $1 worth of 10c chips and began playing roulette. But soon the phone girl came through, her plug bouncing against her knees, calling his name. Tony said he might take the call in the office. It was Miss Jennifer, whom he had informed of his movements, with a telegram from Mr. Gans, evidently his last testament before explaining. It was full of exhortations like: “Cannot impress on you too strongly importance prompt energetic aggressive action your part or refrain calling your attention Southwest General will expect same cooperation you she expects gets every man her organization.”
Mr. Layton listened as Miss Jennifer read this to him over the phone, then, two or three times, he heard something that was quite familiar to him, on account of Miss Jennifer’s habits. It was the sound of a key being lifted. As he hung up, a short, round, flat-headed little man came into the office, and began peering at a road map that hung on the wall. Suddenly, fitting Tony’s surprising courtesy, the key, and the little man together, Mr. Layton knew his call had been tapped, and he felt a hot, salt taste in his mouth, for he needed nobody to tell him that the pure in heart do not plug in on other people’s lines.
Thus he who had been paralyzed by officialdom, by ignorance of the ropes he was trying to handle, by a conviction that he was afoot on an absurd and monstrous errand, had now become a different man, and an incomparably dangerous one. For bland cheek was an integral part of his daily life; he not only had a gift for it, but believed in it, as the sign of an up-and-at-’em-tude, and studied it avidly under the district manager, other agents, and such experts in salesmanship. He was a virtuoso at keeping the other fellow guessing, at never giving him a chance to take charge of the interview, of feinting him into the path of the argument held in reserve. He could dissemble, he could laugh, he could tell a little joke. He could be stern, he could plead. He could wink. And he could defeat, by
“I do indeed.”
“You’d think she’d want to do something like that.”
“I guarantee she wants to.”
“So if you want to take me up there—”
“Not so fast, not so fast. Taking you up there would be simple, some other time, but, as you can easily imagine, she’s got her own reasons for not seeing anybody today, not even me. Don’t worry though, it’ll be handled. Does she know you saw it? Were you there?”
“In the door there’s a slot, with bars in front and a steel door behind. The door was open a little bit. I peeped in.”
“And you saw something, is that it?”
“I seen him killed.”
“By her?”
“If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do, wouldn’t you? Suppose you do some talking now. And talk nice. About money.”
“To spill it or skip it?”
“To skip it, I would rather imagine.”
“She’ll be interested to hear that.”
“What do I do now?”
“Let me think. Where’s Spiro?”
“Out at the Domino.”
“I think he’s the guy, not Shoreham.”
“I would have gone to him, but he and Tony are so thick all of a sudden I was afraid. I work for Tony and I didn’t know how he’d take it.”
“I’m awfully glad you came here first. Now here’s what you do. Have a buck off me and see yourself a nice picture. Around seven o’clock or so, come back here and wait to be paged. Don’t go back to the Domino till you hear from me.”
When Mr. Layton entered the Domino, Tony was being pointedly disagreeable to some schoolgirls, telling them Miss Shoreham was not there, that he had no idea when she might come there, and that they certainly could not leave their autograph books for her to sign. It didn’t seem a propitious time for inquiry, so Mr. Layton bought $1 worth of 10c chips and began playing roulette. But soon the phone girl came through, her plug bouncing against her knees, calling his name. Tony said he might take the call in the office. It was Miss Jennifer, whom he had informed of his movements, with a telegram from Mr. Gans, evidently his last testament before explaining. It was full of exhortations like: “Cannot impress on you too strongly importance prompt energetic aggressive action your part or refrain calling your attention Southwest General will expect same cooperation you she expects gets every man her organization.”
Mr. Layton listened as Miss Jennifer read this to him over the phone, then, two or three times, he heard something that was quite familiar to him, on account of Miss Jennifer’s habits. It was the sound of a key being lifted. As he hung up, a short, round, flat-headed little man came into the office, and began peering at a road map that hung on the wall. Suddenly, fitting Tony’s surprising courtesy, the key, and the little man together, Mr. Layton knew his call had been tapped, and he felt a hot, salt taste in his mouth, for he needed nobody to tell him that the pure in heart do not plug in on other people’s lines.
Thus he who had been paralyzed by officialdom, by ignorance of the ropes he was trying to handle, by a conviction that he was afoot on an absurd and monstrous errand, had now become a different man, and an incomparably dangerous one. For bland cheek was an integral part of his daily life; he not only had a gift for it, but believed in it, as the sign of an up-and-at-’em-tude, and studied it avidly under the district manager, other agents, and such experts in salesmanship. He was a virtuoso at keeping the other fellow guessing, at never giving him a chance to take charge of the interview, of feinting him into the path of the argument held in reserve. He could dissemble, he could laugh, he could tell a little joke. He could be stern, he could plead. He could wink. And he could defeat, by
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