Three by Cain: Serenade/Love's Lovely Counterfeit/The Butterfly

by James M. Cain

  The newspapers shrieked the story of Caspar’s escape from the officers. They told how he had brought them to the Columbus, on the assurance that his wealth was stored in a vault there; how he had led them to a room, sat them down, and spun a knob in the wall; how a panel had then opened, and how he had stepped through it, while the officers watched; how the panel had rolled into place behind him, and they had sat there for a full minute before waking up to what had happened; how they had then spent the next ten minutes making their escape from a locked room, via the cornice that ran around the building; how Caspar had appeared in the lobby and calmly greeted his friends; how he had sauntered back to the storage garage, got into his armored car, lit a cigar, commented that it looked like snow, driven out to the street, and vanished.

  Details of the man-hunt that had been organized to capture him were published in succeeding editions. It was, according to the Pioneer, at least, the first man-hunt ever undertaken on a hemispherical scale, since all plane lines that ran north to Canada, or south to Mexico and Latin America, had agreed to cooperate. And all the time Sol’s metal coffin stood in view of thousands of people, looking like every other car on the street, smart, streamlined, shiny.

  On New Year’s Eve, June came up for an afternoon visit, and Ben talked pleasantly of her party, her mother, even of her sister, who he said was a very nice girl. But he was nervous, and toyed with his key holder, a neat leather contraption that kept each key in its place, on a little hook. He dropped it, and it popped open. He picked it up by one key that stuck out from the others, and jiggled it back and forth, so it clinked.

  “You do have so many keys, don’t you?”

  The juggling missed a beat, but only one. Ben then yawned, asked her if she would have a drink. She declined, and he said he thought he would have one. He went whistling to the pantribar, reappeared at once with the announcement he would have to open another bottle. Nonchalantly, he went into the bedroom, took his hat and coat from the closet, opened the door to the hall, looked out. Then quietly he walked to the elevator, pressed the button, stood looking at the entrance door of 1628. When the car stopped he was yawning, and remarked to the operator that these holiday parties sure didn’t give a guy much sleep. The operator said they sure didn’t. He asked for Hal. The operator said Hal must be sick, he’d been off for a couple of days. He said yeah, he’d missed him.

  “But, Ben, how could she know?”

  “She could know from Hal. She could know by trailing you, after not believing you were going to a picture show. She could know by hearing it at the City Hall. She could know plenty different ways, but you know what I think?”

  “What that?”

  “I think they found Caspar. I think they found him pretty soon, maybe that night. I think they found him and took him out and put something else under that robe, hoping we’d come back for something we forgot.”

  “What did we forget?”

  “Do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So we think.”

  “A remark about keys is not much to go on.”

  “With the look in her eye, it was plenty.”

  “Where do we go now?”

  “Honduras, maybe.”

  They were driving through the afternoon twilight, she at the wheel. They had taken a street that didn’t quite go through the center of town, but suddenly his ear caught something, and he had her drive over to one of the main intersections. There he bought a paper, and held it up to her so she could see the great black headline: CASPAR BODY FOUND. After reading a moment or two he gave an exclamation.

  “There it is.”

  “What is it?”

  “ ‘It is understood the police will arrest a big local racketeer, prominent since the Jansen administration took office, and probably a young college girl—’ ”

  “How could they?”

  “Never mind. Drive.”

  After a few miles, however, he gave another exclamation, took out his wallet, counted the contents. “Dorothy, do you have any money?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “I’ve got nine dollars.”

  He stared like a sleepwalker at the road ahead. “I’ve got money in the bank, thousands in the bank, and I don’t dare cash a check. I’ve got this car, and I don’t dare sell it. I’ve been just sitting around letting the grass grow under my feet. I was so sure we’d done a bang-up job that I thought they’d never guess it. I never once remembered I’d be the first man they’d think of, whether we did a bang-up job or not. And as for you, I’ve been with you morning, noon, and night—”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll need gas pretty soon.”

  “We’re O.K. on that. We got the credit card—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We don’t dare use it.”

  “It’s all right. We have each other.”

  “We don’t even dare get married.”

  They drove some miles through the gathering dusk, aimlessly, aware that they were going nowhere. He looked at her then, and she turned her head, and for a moment they were staring at each other.

  “Dorothy, we got one chance.”

  “What is it, Ben?”

  “One crazy chance.”

  “I don’t care if it’s crazy.”

  “I always carry a little notebook.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed it.”

  “There’s something in there I don’t understand. It’s a flock of numbers. I don’t know how they got in there, I don’t remember copying them down any time, I don’t place what they are. Maybe I never knew what they are. I copy a lot of things down, just in case. But the other day, when I rented a bigger box at the bank, I tumbled to what they are. They’re a safe combination.”

  “Yes? Go on, Ben. Hurry up.”

  “Caspar, he hid his dough somewhere.”

  “Ben, I don’t think it’s crazy!”

  “As to where he hid it, I think I know. I kept noticing we were out Memorial Boulevard oftener than there seemed any reason for us to be. And there’s that toolshed out there, right in the middle of a vacant lot, that just don’t make sense. Are you game to go there with me tonight? Will you—”

  “Ben, I’ll simply love it”

  “Got a cigarette?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  It was dark when they got back to Lake City, after buying gasoline, for cash. She threaded her way through the traffic area, and he bought another paper. It was a green one, the day’s final, and his picture was in it, as well as hers. He was bitter against Cantrell, for giving him no warning, and against June, who he was sure was the only one that could have furnished both pictures. She made no comment, except that June had always been good to her. They drove out Memorial, to the place where Lefty had appeared screaming the night Dick Delany had been murdered. Here they turned into the side road. Cautiously, they kept on until they came to the toolshed that he and June had noticed, the morning they started checking up. Here they stopped. He took the flashlight with which the car was provided, and they got out.

  Approaching the toolshed they peeped into it, through one of its small windows. Visible were picks, shovels, a wheelbarrow a trough for mixing mortar. “Don’t look very promising.”

  He sounded glum, but she was staring straight in front of her nose. “This window is barred on the inside. That doesn’t look like an ordinary toolshed.”

  Leaving him to watch for cars, she took the flashlight and made the rounds of the little building, presently calling him. Shooting the light under the roof, she pointed to a metal contrivance and asked if he knew what it was. He whistled. “I’ll say I do. It’s the switch of a burglar alarm, and it’s exactly like the one at his beach shack, over by the lake.” Reaching up, he threw the switch off. “Now I know we’re getting warm.”

  They went around to the door now, and shot the flash at it. It was of heavy planking, and fastened with a modern lock. She stood thi
nking, then ran over to the car. When she came back she had a tire iron and the tow line. With the tire iron she had him force up the cheap little window. The tow cable she fastened to the bars inside. “Now when I back up you hook this on the rear axle.” In a moment she was in the car, backing it unlighted into the lot, up to the shack. When she stopped he looped the cable around the axle and made it fast with the hook. She started the car. The cable tightened, then began to deliver all the incredible power of a modern automobile. The shack shook and made creaking noises. Then, to Ben’s astonishment but evidently not to hers, it teetered for a moment and came crashing over on its side. She jumped out, and then stood watching to see if the noise had attracted somebody’s attention. Traffic went by on Memorial as indifferently as it had before. She looked at him, excited, exultant. “I told you. I can go though walls.”

  Freeing the cable and putting it back in the car, so they could leave in an instant if they had to, they next gave their attention to what the shack had covered. But they no sooner shot the flash into the pile of tools now exposed to the night than she gave a little scream. He patted her arm, said it was nothing but a rat, said scat. Then the hair rose on his neck at what the rat had been carrying. It was a hand. Then he knew that here, some place, was all that was left of Arch Rossi, the boy who simply disappeared. She recovered before he did, and pointed to a ring in the boards. He put his finger into it, lifted, and a trapdoor came up. Under it was a hole, with a ladder leading into it, and concrete on one side. Guiding himself with the torch, he crept down the ladder, looked around. On three sides of the hole was raw earth. But on the fourth side, built into the concrete, was a steel door, and in the middle of it the shiny knob of a safe dial. “O.K., come on down.”

  “Somebody ought to stand guard.”

  “I’ll need you.”

  “All right.”

  She was beside him in a few seconds. He handed her his little red book, after finding a page and turning it down. “Read me those numbers, one at a time, then soon as you read one, shoot the light on the dial.”

  “R six.”

  “Right six it is.”

  “L twenty-two.”

  “Left twenty-two.”

  There were six numbers in all, and as she read them he manipulated the dial. After the last spin, there came a faint click and he pulled. The door swung open and he grabbed the flash, shooting it inside. Visible were several large canvas sacks.“Ha, he had the right idea, but they were too fast for him, just like they were for me. O.K. Now I’m going to climb halfway up the ladder and you hand me the sacks. Set the light on the floor, up-ended.”

  She could drag the sacks out of the vault but she couldn’t lift them, and he had to come clear down the ladder, shoulder one, creep up, and buck it out onto the grass. Even so, it was only a few minutes before they were all out of the hole and in the car. He piled them on the floor of the coupe, so there was hardly room for his legs, and she took the wheel, and they scooted. He slid the clasps, got a sack open. “What is it, Ben?”

  “I don’t know, looks like bonds.”

  “They can be sold, can’t they?”

  “I think so.”

  He got another sack open, gave a quick, startled cry. “Dorothy! It’s money! It’s dough! Fives! Packs and packs and packs of them.”

  “Oh my, let me see.”

  “Look.”

  “And tens, Ben—and twenties!”

  “Now, thank God, we got a chance.”

  “In twenty-four hours, by taking turns driving, we can be in Mexico. We won’t get any sleep, but we can do it.”

  “… Mexico’s out.”

  “We can’t stay here.”

  “We’re going to Canada. We’re going to Canada, and we’re going to join up for the war. Maybe we got to use other names, but we’re going to join up. Then, when it’s over, we can settle there, or somewhere. We’ll have all the dough we need. And if we do get caught and brought back, we still got a chance. If you went in the war, you always got a chance.”

  “Will they take you?”

  “You mean this hernia? That can be fixed. It’s a simple operation. It takes ten days.”

  “Why the war, Ben? The real why, I mean.”

  “I want to. I want to do something I’m not ashamed of.”

  “It’s not to get rid of me?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? You’re going to join up too. If we work it right, we can get into outfits that’ll let us see a lot of each other. Then when we got it lined up, we can get married. Even if it’s under phoney names, we’ll know it’s legal.”

  “Then I want to, too. Kiss me, Ben.”

  “… I got to have a smoke.”

  “Me too. Here’s a store. You hop off and get some, three or four packs, and I’ll drive around the block.”

  He went into the drug store, bought four packages of cigarettes, dropped three of them into his overcoat pocket. Then he went outside, clawing the fourth package open with trembling fingers. Then he looked up and saw it happen, a perfect slow movie: her approach to the curb, just a few feet from the drug store; her obvious failure to see the fireplug; the toot of the traffic officer’s whistle, and his slow, angry cross to the car; his comments to Dorothy, heated, no doubt, by the peevishness that comes from directing New Year’s Eve traffic. For some seconds Ben stood, so close he could hear what the officer said. Then, all of a sudden the officer stopped, stared hard at Dorothy. By that Ben knew he recognized her from the picture in the paper. He started over, with some idea of getting close, of using some football trick, of disabling the officer somehow, so they could make their getaway with all the money in the world.

  When the officer looked up he recognized him, too, and drew his gun. Ben opened his mouth to tell him to go easy with it, but he probably didn’t picture to himself the size of his shoulders, the ominous resolution of his approach. The officer fired, and he felt a terrifying impact.

  C H A P T E R

  12

  For the second consecutive day, Ben stared at Mr. Cantrell with calm, baleful malevolence, and insulted him. Less bitterly, he insulted Mr. Bleeker, the prosecutor, who sat across from Dr. Ronde, the young intern, and Miss Houston, the rather pretty nurse. Mr. Bleeker let Mr. Cantrell do the talking this time, advisedly, perhaps, because he had let his temper run away with him yesterday, and made things difficult. Mr. Cantrell began with the statement that they had news today. The girl, Dorothy Lyons, had practically confessed, and her gun had been found. Also, evidence had been found in the bathroom of her sister’s apartment, quite a few things of interest. Also, the sacks of money had furnished a motive. To all this, Ben replied that Mr. Cantrell was a dirty liar; that both he and Mr. Bleeker were a pair of heels to boot, as they had been on his payroll, and now they had turned on him. To this, Mr. Cantrell returned a grin and the assurance that Ben didn’t mean it. And just as a friend, he added that he wished Ben would make a clean breast of the whole thing, agree to a plea, and then be left in peace to regain his strength. For his own part, he wouldn’t be surprised if Ben would be let off with a suspended sentence, especially in view of what the girl had to say.

  To this, Ben replied that he wouldn’t be surprised that Mr. Cantrell had had something to do with the death of Arch Rossi, and that he had better look out, now that the body had been found. Dr. Ronde protested against the whole proceeding, saying that every minute it lasted was just that much more drain on the patient’s vitality, and declining to be responsible for what might happen if it kept up.

  When they were gone, Ben lay back wearily on the pillow and said to the uniformed patrolman who sat in the corner reading magazines: “Why can’t they let you alone? When they see you’re not going to talk, what’s the idea of coming in here and just hammering at you.”

  “Oh, you’ll talk.”

  “I don’t think you know me.”

  “I don’t think you know what you got.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Peritonitis, Grace. Oh, they
sewed up all those holes in your intestines, and it don’t hurt any, we all know that. I got shot once, myself. But that’s just the start of it. After that comes the peritonitis, and then your temp goes up. It’s 101 now, see? It’ll go to 104, and maybe 105. O.K., the higher it goes the more you can’t keep your mouth shut. You get wacky enough, you’ll spill it, and the police department stenographer, he’s right outside.”

  “I get it now.”

  “She killed him, didn’t she?”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  “O.K.”

  The nurse brought an ice pack, and around noon Lefty came in. Ben motioned him over, and they went into a long, whispered consultation, while the officer read his magazine. Lefty departed, and the nurse brought more ice.

  The long afternoon wore on, with Ben fighting his tongue, trying to make it shut up. Presently he asked: “What time is it?”

  “Four-thirty-five.”

  “O.K., I’m ready to talk.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “O.K. I’ll get the stenographer.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, not so fast. The pothook guy, he’s all right, but I’m not telling it here. I got my own ideas on it.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not telling it here?”

  “I’m telling it at Caspar’s shack.”

  “What shack?”

  “His shack by the lake, stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s where it happened.”

  “Hey, what is this?”

  “I tell you I’m ready to talk, and I demand to be taken out where the crime was committed so I can show you and not waste any more juice than I have to. You heard what the doctor said. If I keep this up I’m going to die. You got to take me out to that shack. You got to have this girl there, Dorothy Lyons, and I want her sister there, and my lawyer, Yates. And I want Lefty there. You don’t have to do anything about him. He’s coming here and riding out with me. He’s bringing some stuff I’ll want to show you.”

  This strange harangue brought Cantrell over a half hour later, more than skeptical. He was quite sure, he said, that the crime had been committed in the sister’s apartment. Then why this nonsense about going to the shack? “It’s O.K. by me if we don’t go there, Joe. You want me to talk and I’m willing, on my own terms. Well, nuts, if you don’t think we were there go have a look at the cigarettes we were smoking while we sat around waiting. And our candle, stuck to the floor.”