Love's Lovely Counterfeit

by James M. Cain

  "You mean—they're the same old machines?"

  "Sure, don't you recognize them?"

  "Chief, I had no idea of this."

  "Yates, you're a liar."

  Mr. Cantrell, after vainly pressing Mr. Yates for some other arrangement, was quite gloomy as they went out on the street, but Ben on the whole seemed relieved. He followed with interest the announcement, made late one afternoon, that Caspar had left the Post Office Building in company with F.B.I., agents, to lead them to the place he had hidden his bonds, so that he could make some sort of payment on the taxes that he owed. It was while he was dialing Mr. Cantrell, after dinner that night, to find out how this monkeyshine had turned out, that the house phone rang in the bedroom, and he went in to answer. "Ben?"

  "Speaking."

  "Dorothy."

  "Come on up."

  "I'm not in the hotel. Ben, I have another place."

  "Yeah? Where is it?"

  "You've been to June's old apartment?"

  "Sure, I was there once or twice."

  "I got the key for it today."

  "You there now?"

  "No. The phone's disconnected. I'm at the drug store."

  "I don't like it."

  "Why not?"

  "It's hers, for one thing."

  "There's not one single thing of hers in it. She's taken everything out, and there's nothing in it but the regular furniture. Besides, she only has it until January 1, and that's only two or three days off, and so far as she's concerned she's forgotten about it. I mean, she's out."

  "Oh, come on over."

  "Ben, I hate it there. I hear her out there, pounding on the door and crying. Ben, come on over, so I can put my arms around you in peace."

  "Say, you sound friendly."

  "I'll be waiting."

  "O.K."

  Her arms indeed went around him when he came in, and they stood for some moments in the shabby little foyer, holding each other tight, before they moved over to the sofa, and she snuggled into his arms, and they relaxed. "How in the world, Dorothy, did you find out about this place, anyway?"

  "Through a friend of mine."

  "Who's that?"

  "Hal. Don't you know him?"

  "Not by that name."

  "He's a bellboy over at the hotel. He's on the late shift, the one that runs the elevator and gets you ice and does whatever you want done."

  "How did he know about it?"

  "June sent him over here, to bring her things back. He made several trips at one time and another. He even had a key, that he forgot to give back to her. So—he lent it to me. For a consideration. For five dollars. Give me five dollars."

  He fished out five dollars, folded it neatly, handed it over to her. She nodded, twisted her mouth kittenishly, dropped it into the neck of her dress. Then all the breath left her body, and a look of horror appeared on her face. For a second or two he talked to her, trying to find out what the trouble was. Then his blood turned to whey. The closet door was open, and Mr. Salvatore Gasparro, alias Solly Caspar, was standing there looking at them. "H'y, Benny."

  "Hello, Sol."

  Sol came over, sat down in the small battered arm chair, lit a cigar. "Sure, Hal's a friend of mine, too. Great kid. Don't you remember him, Ben?"

  "Not right now I don't."

  "He run a poolroom for me, quite a while back. That was the trouble with you, Ben. You thought you was too good for your work. You was always high-hatting my organization."

  "I'm sorry, Sol."

  "It's O.K."

  Benignly Sol puffed out smoke before he went on: "It don't really make no difference any more, because I'm going to kill you, Ben. Fact of the matter that's what I want to talk about. I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to kind of amuse myself with her."

  It was perhaps five feet from Ben's feet to Sol's feet, and mentally Ben measured the distance, so as to be accurate with the feint, the spring, and the blow. But Sol was telepathic in these matters. An automatic appeared in his hand, and he told Ben to keep his eyes front and his hands in sight. Then, laying the cigar in an ashtray, he said: "Sister, you move over here to one side, so I can keep an eye on you while I'm killing Ben." Dorothy, as if in a trance, moved as directed, and obeyed when he told her to sit down in the wooden chair that stood against the wall. Ben, at a command, stood up. "That's good, Ben, just like you are now. Now I want you to walk backwards, slow so you don't stumble over nothing, and when you get to the bathroom I'll tell you to stop and you stop. Then you feel around back of you for the knob and open the door. Then when I tell you to start moving again I want you to back in there and climb in the tub and lay down. I'm going to kill you in the tub, so I can close the door and not hear no blood dripping while I'm playing around with her. I don't like to hear blood. And besides, when I shoot in the bathroom they're not so liable to hear it outside. You ready?"

  "...I guess so, Sol."

  "Then get going!"

  Slowly, on jerky, shaking legs Ben began backing toward the bathroom. Slowly, his eyes fixed in a marble stare, his lips parted in a dreadful grin, the gun held in one hand while the other steadied it, Sol followed. He followed with a sort of creep, and whispered as he came, filthy, obscene things about Dorothy. When Ben reached the door, Sol breathed the command to halt, and Ben fumbled for the knob. Presently he found it, opened the door, resumed his backward progress. Sol resumed his creep.

  In the bathroom, Sol became less cautious with his voice, and screamed at Ben, with appropriate curses, to get in the tub and lie down, and be quick about it. Sol was framed in the doorway, and Ben, in the dark bathroom, moved to obey. Then the place filled with light, and with the crash of a gun. Ben staggered, whimpered, clutched his belly. Then, to his astonishment, Caspar curled up and rolled over on his side.

  He stepped over Caspar into the living room. She was still there, a gun in her lap, staring at the body, her face lovely. When she looked up her eyes were dancing, as though the two bright points of light in them were controlled by an electric switch. "I've always carried it. I've carried it since I was fifteen years old. In my handbag. This is the first time I've used it."

  "O.K."

  "I didn't miss."

  "We got work to do, but one thing first."

  "Yes, Ben."

  "I'm nuts about you. You're the first woman I ever cared about, and you'll be the last. I'm nuts about you, and I want to tell you so. Now. While he's still warm."

  "I love you, Ben."

  "O.K., that's what I mean."

  "I meant to kill him, and I did. Who was he?"

  "A gangster."

  "He's dead."

  "Yes."

  Suddenly himself again, Ben stooped down and kissed her, and went into the bathroom to look. Caspar was lying as he had fallen, looking small and queer.

  "You got a mirror?"

  "Yes, right here."

  He held the little mirror she gave him in front of Sol's mouth, then in front of his nostrils. Nodding grimly, he handed the mirror back. Striding again into the living room, he took a quick look around. Sol's hat and coat he found in the closet, and carefully laid them on a chair. The cigar, still burning in the ashtray, he got rid of in the bathroom. "The next question is, how did he get here?"

  "How do you mean, Ben?"

  "Did he come alone?"

  "Oh my, is there somebody waiting for him?"

  "I don't think so. I've known this bird from way back. This is the celebrated Mr. Caspar you've been reading about in the newspapers, if you've been reading them. How he made his break from the Feds I don't know, but he wouldn't be taking anybody along, on a job like this, not even that bellboy. If it was somebody he could trust, he'd have had them knock me off in the first place. So—"

  "What do we do with him? I'm known to be here."

  "You mind waiting here a few minutes?"

  "I'm not afraid, if that's what you mean."

  "O.K., I'll tap three times when I get back."

  "How long will you
be?"

  "Not long. Better turn out the lights."

  "All right."

  They turned out all lights, and he studied every window that looked down on the rear areaway. Then he tiptoed to the door, peeped out. Then, running lightly down the stairs, he emerged on the street, turned, and walked briskly away. As he went his eyes kept shooting from right to left. He had gone but a few steps past his own car before he came to what he was half hoping to find. It was Sol's old familiar armored car, that he had driven a thousand times, parked just above the little apartment house. He didn't stop by it, however. He walked past, staring at every tree, every car.

  Then he quickly crossed the street and came down, doing the same thing on the other side. He couldn't be sure whether Sol had slipped into the storage shed back of the Columbus and got the car himself, or had phoned somebody to bring it around. He was taking no chances that a pair of eyes were on him somewhere, watching what he did.

  The street, however, was deserted. He crossed over to the car, found it locked. Taking his keys from his pocket, he fingered them, found the one he had used daily, before, when he was driving for Sol. He unlocked the car, got in, put the key in the ignition. Starting, he threw on the lights and rolled silently down to the corner. This was a little neighborhood boulevard, and he was cautious about turning into it. He drove the half block beside the apartment house, then turned into the alley behind it, cutting his lights as he did so. He drove to the entrance of the rear areaway, stopped within a few inches of it, set his brake, got out without slamming the door. Then he hurried around to the front of the apartment house again, ran up the stairs, tapped on the door. Dorothy let him in. "O.K., now we got a chance."

  Rapidly, in whispers, he explained what they had to do. Soon, in the areaway below, a girl stood motionless, watching. There was a sound of something heavy, dropping. She scanned the windows. When no face appeared, she gave a little cough. From the shadows a man came staggering under a heavy load. When he reached the alley, and no face appeared at a window, the girl flitted after him. Reaching the car, she jumped in and helped him wrestle his burden to the floor space in front of the back seat. Then she got out and disappeared. The man got in, backed into the street, put on his lights, waited. Soon another car came around the corner, stopped, winked its lights. The man winked his lights. Then he started, and the other car started, and this tandem procession wound its way through the streets of the city until it came to a short street, quite deserted, in the downtown shopping center. Here the man pulled over and stopped. Then he snapped down all locks. Then he took his keys. Then he got out and slammed everything shut. Then he walked back to the other car, which was just now coming to a stop. Then he got in and the girl at the wheel drove off.

  "What now, Ben?"

  "Alibi. Where did you tell June you were going?"

  "Picture show."

  "Then you'd better go to one. Get a program. Talk to an usher, or the manager, or somebody, to establish the date—"

  "I know."

  "Here's a buck."

  "I love this car."

  "It's yours."

  "You mean it?"

  "Yes."

  "...You're mine, too."

  "O.K."

  Chapter 11

  For two days Ben and Dorothy took turns walking past the car on the downtown street, at hourly, and even half-hourly intervals. It remained there exactly as they had left it, until they thought they would go insane.

  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.