“Sherry had worked the game up for you, had done everything possible to draw suspicion on himself, and then, the day before the murder, had run off to build himself an alibi. There couldn’t be any other answer to it: he had to be working with you. There it was, but I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t prove it till you were trapped by the thing that made the whole game possible—your wife’s love for you set her to hire me to protect you. Isn’t that one of the things they call ironies of life?” Ringgo smiled ruefully and said:
“They should call it that. You know what Sherry was trying on me, don’t you?”
“I can guess. That’s why he insisted on standing trial.”
“Exactly. The scheme was for him to dig out and keep going, with his alibi ready in case he was picked up, but staying uncaught as long as possible. The more time they wasted hunting him, the less likely they were to look elsewhere, and the colder the trail would be when they found he wasn’t their man. He tricked me there. He had himself picked up, and his lawyer hired that Weeks fellow to egg the district attorney into not dropping the case. Sherry wanted to be tried and acquitted, so he’d be in the clear. Then he had me by the neck. He was legally cleared forever. I wasn’t. He had me. He was supposed to get a hundred thousand dollars for his part. Kavalov had left Miriam something more than three million dollars. Sherry demanded one-half of it. Otherwise, he said, he’d go to the district attorney and make a complete confession. They couldn’t do anything to him. He’d been acquitted. They’d hang me. That was sweet.”
“You’d have been wise at that to have given it to him,” I said.
“Maybe. Anyway I suppose I would have given it to him if Miriam hadn’t upset things. There’d have been nothing else to do. But after she came back from hiring you she went to see Sherry, thinking she could talk him into going away. And he lets something drop that made her suspect I had a hand in her father’s death, though she doesn’t even now actually believe that I cut his throat.
“She said you were coming down the next day. There was nothing for me to do but go down to Sherry’s for a showdown that night, and have the whole thing settled before you came poking around. Well, that’s what I did, though I didn’t tell Miriam I was going. The showdown wasn’t going along very well, too much tension, and when Sherry heard you outside he thought I had brought friends, and—fireworks.”
“What ever got you into a game like that in the first place?” I asked. “You were sitting pretty enough as Kavalov’s son-in-law, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but it was tiresome being cooped up in that hole with him. He was young enough to live a long time. And he wasn’t always easy to get along with. I’d no guarantee that he wouldn’t get up on his ear and kick me out, or change his will, or anything of the sort.
“Then I ran across Sherry in San Francisco, and we got to talking it over, and this plan came out of it. Sherry had brains. On the deal back in Cairo that you know about, both he and I made plenty that Kavalov didn’t know about. Well, I was a chump. But don’t think I’m sorry that I killed Kavalov. I’m sorry I got caught. I’d done his dirty work since he picked me up as a kid of twenty, and all I’d got out of it was damned little except the hopes that since I’d married his daughter I’d probably get his money when he died—if he didn’t do something else with it.”
They hanged him.
ON THE WAY
A Brief Cinematic Interlude Enacted under Western Skies
He lowered his newspaper and turned his browned lean face toward her. His smile showed white, even teeth between hard lips. “Click?” His voice was metallic, but not unpleasant.
“Clicked,” she said triumphantly and took her hat off with a flourish and threw it at the green sofa. Her eyes were enlarged, glowing. “Two fifty a week for the first six months, with options.”
“That’s swell.” He opened his arms to her, the newspaper dangling by a corner from one of his hands. “Up the ladder for you now, huh?”
She sat on his knees, wriggled back against his body, thrust her face up at his. Her face was happy. Her voice, after they had kissed, was grave, saying: “For both of us. You’re as much a part of it as I am. You gave me something that—”
His eyes did not avoid hers, though they seemed about to. He patted her shoulder with his empty hand and said awkwardly, “Nonsense. You always had things—just a little trouble knowing what to do with them.”
She squirmed in his lap, leaning back a little to peer more directly into his eyes. The slight puzzled drawing together of her brows did not lessen the happiness in her face. “Are you trying to back out?” she demanded with mock severity.
He grinned, said, “No, not that, but—” and cleared his throat.
She stood up slowly and stepped back from his arms curving out to enclose her. Playfulness went out of her face, leaving it solemn around dark questioning eyes. She stood in front of the man and looked down at him and uneasiness flickered behind his grin.
“Kipper,” she said softly, then touched her lower lip with the end of her tongue and was silent while her gaze ran down from his eyes to his naked ankles—he was a long, raw-boned man in brown silk pajamas under a brown-striped silk robe—and up again.
He, somewhat embarrassed, chuckled and recrossed his legs. The movement of the newspaper in his hand caught her attention and she saw the “Shipping News” folded outside.
She looked levelly at him and asked levelly, “Getting restless?”
He replied slowly, “Well, you can get along all right now you’ve got a foot on the ladder and—”
She interrupted him sharply, “How much money have you got left?”
He smiled up at her, shook his head from side to side in answer to the question behind her question, and said, “I’ve got a grubstake.”
She was speaking again before he had finished. Her words tumbled out rapidly, her tone was indignant. “If it’s money, you’re insulting me. You know that, don’t you? You carried me long enough. We can get along on two hundred and fifty a week till you get something. You know yourself both F-G-B and Peerless have sea pictures coming up and you’re a cinch for a technical job on—”
He smiled again and shook his head again. “Cross my heart it’s not money, Gladys.” He crossed his heart with a long forefinger.
She stared thoughtfully at him for several seconds before asking in a small flat voice, “Tired of me, Kipper?”
He said, “No,” harshly and held out a hand. He scowled at the hem of her blue skirt. He looked up at her a bit shamefacedly, moved his shoulders, muttered, “You know what I am.”
Presently she took his hand. “I know what you are,” she said and let him draw her into his lap again. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and looked sleepily at the radio. She spoke as if to herself: “This has been coming up for a couple of weeks, hasn’t it?”
He changed his position a little to make her more comfortable, but did not reply to her question. For a while the only sounds in the room came up ten stories from the automobile park below. Then he said: “Morrie’s throwing a party tonight. Want to go?”
“If you do.”
“We don’t have to stay if we don’t like it.” He yawned silently over her head. “Let’s go down to the Grove for dinner and dance a little first. I haven’t been out of this joint all day.”
“All right.”
He stood up, lifting her in his arms.
In the Cocoanut Grove they stopped following a waiter down the edge of the dance-floor when a thick-chested, florid man in dinner clothes rose from his seat at a table and called, “Hey, people!”
They turned their faces in unison toward the thick-chested man, but Gladys’s eyes jerked sidewise to focus on Kipper’s profile before she smiled. Kipper was nodding and saying, “Hello, Tom.”
Tom came between two tables to them. There was a prophecy of unsteadiness in his gait. “Well, well, here’s the angel herself,” he said, smiling hugely at Gladys, hugging her hand in both of his. The chan
ge in his eyes was barely perceptible as he turned his smile on the tall man. “How are you, Kipper? You people alone? Come on eat with us. I got Paula.”
Gladys looked questioningly at Kipper, who said, “Sure. But it’s our celebration. Gladys got a contract from Fischer today.”
“Grand!” Tom exclaimed, squeezing the girl’s hand again. “He putting you in Laughing Masks?” When she had nodded he repeated, “Grand!” and began to drag her toward his table. Kipper followed them.
Paula was a pale girl who extended beautiful slim arms toward Gladys and Kipper and asked, “How are you, darlings?” while they were saying together, “Hello, darling.”
Chairs were brought to the table, places were rearranged, and they sat down. Tom had finished pouring whisky from a black and gold flask when the orchestra began. He rose and addressed Gladys, “We dance.”
Kipper bowed them away from the table, sat down again, poured mineral water into his whisky, and asked, “Working hard?”
Paula was staring somberly at Gladys and Tom, not yet hidden by intervening dancers. “You’re going to lose your girl to that bird if you don’t watch him,” she said unemotionally.
Kipper smiled. “Everybody likes Gladys,” he explained. He stirred his drink very gently with a long spoon.
Paula looked gloomily at him. “You mean I do?”
“Why not?” He tasted his drink, set it down on the table, and, after a reflective pause, added, “I don’t think she wants Tom.”
A pair of dancers freed hands to wave at them from the floor. Paula waved back at the dancers. Kipper nodded and smiled.
Paula said wearily, “She’s like the rest of us: she’s trying to get somewhere in pictures.”
He moved his shoulders a little. “Tom’s not all Hollywood,” he said indifferently: then, “She got a term contract out of Fischer today.”
Paula said, “I’m glad,” and with more emphasis, “I really am glad, Kipper. She earned it.” She put an apologetic hand on his forearm and her voice lost spirit. “Don’t pay too much attention to me tonight. I’m out on my feet. We worked till midnight and were back at it at nine this morning on retakes.”
He patted her hand and they sat silent until Gladys and Tom returned from the floor and dinners had to be ordered.
At half-past eleven Gladys asked Kipper what time it was. He told her and suggested, “Shall we drift?”
“I think we’d better,” she said.
“Where you going?” Tom asked, putting his face—now moist and more florid—close to hers.
“Down to Morrie’s,” she replied slowly while Kipper was holding a beckoning finger up at a waiter.
“We’ll all go down to Morrie’s,” Tom decided loudly and put an arm around Gladys. “I don’t like him and never did, but we’ll go down there.”
Paula said, “I’m dead tired, Tom. I—”
Tom released Gladys and leaned toward Paula to put his other arm around her. “Aw, come on, baby. The ride’ll do you good. We won’t stay long. You can—” He saw the waiter putting the check in front of Kipper, leaned across the table, pushed Kipper’s hand aside, and snatched the check. “What makes you think I’d let you pay it?” he asked argumentatively.
Kipper said nothing. He put his billfold back in his pocket.
They rode to Santa Monica in Tom’s car, a cream phaeton that he drove expertly. Kipper sat with Gladys in the rear. They sat close together and did not talk much. Once she asked, “When are you going?”
“I’m in no hurry, honey,” he said. “Next week, the week after, any time.” He drew her closer—one of his arms was around her. “Get me right on this. I’m not—”
“I know,” she told him gently. “I know you, Kipper—at least I think I do.” A little later she said, “You’ve been sweet tonight—I mean about him.”
He clucked depreciatively. “He’s not so bad.”
They left the phaeton on the road-side by a white board fence, passed through a small wooden gate, and went in darkness down a narrow boardwalk between another fence and some buildings to a screened doorway through which light and noise came.
Tom opened the screen-door. There was a bright room with twenty or thirty people in it. A gangling dark-haired man wearing black-rimmed spectacles stopped scratching a dachshund’s head and came over to them with welcoming words and gestures. They called him Morrie and went in.
Kipper moved around the room, speaking—at least nodding—to every one. The only one to whom he needed an introduction was a small blonde girl named Vale. She told him she had just arrived from England. He talked to her for a few minutes and then went downstairs to the bar.
The bar occupied one side of a small room in which there was a table, some stools and chairs, and a piano. Half a dozen people were there. Kipper shook all their hands, then leaned against the bar beside a pudgy gray-faced man he called Hank, and asked for a whisky-sour.
Hank said thickly, “It’s a hell of a drink.”
Kipper asked, “How’s the picture coming?”
Hank said thickly, “It’s a hell of a picture.”
Kipper grinned, asked, “Where’s Fischer tonight?”
Hank said thickly, “Fischer’s a hell of a guy to work for.” He asked the man behind the bar for some Scotch.
Kipper and Hank stood at the bar and drank steadily without haste for nearly an hour. People came in and went out. Paula came in with a big-shouldered blond youth who carried their drinks to the far end of the table and sat beside her talking incessantly in a low secretive voice. She sat with elbow on table, chin in hand, and stared gloomily at the table.
Gladys came in with Tom at her shoulder. There was a suggestion of timidity in her eyes, but it vanished as soon as Kipper grinned at her. She went over to him, ran an arm around his waist, and asked: “Is this professional drinking or can anybody get in it?”
Hank said, “’Lo, darling, I hear you made the riffle.”
She gave him her free hand. “Yes, and thanks a lot, Hank.”
He grimaced. “I didn’t have much to do with it.” He set his drink down on the bar and his bloodshot eyes brightened. “Listen,” he said, “I got a new one.”
Gladys squeezed Kipper’s waist, smiled up at him, took her arm away from him, and followed Hank to the piano.
Kipper, turning to face the bar again, found himself shoulder to shoulder with Tom. He said, “This rye of Morrie’s isn’t any too good tonight.”
Tom said low in his throat, “You’re a heel, Kipper.”
The corners of Kipper’s mouth twitched. “You’re a director, Tom,” he said. He turned his head then to glance carelessly at the florid face beside him.
Tom was looking fixedly at the whisky glass he held on the bar with both hands. He spoke from the side of his mouth, “I’m damned near the director.”
Kipper laughed, said, “That’s one for Variety.” He picked up his glass and turned away from the bar, going toward the outer door.
Morrie, coming in, stopped him and asked as if he actually wanted to know, “What’s the matter with that guy?” He nodded at Tom’s back.
Kipper shrugged. “Maybe he’s not much worse than the rest of us.”
Morrie looked sharply at him, growled, “Yes he ain’t,” and walked over to the piano.
Hank was playing the piano. Gladys was sitting on the bench beside him. Others were gathering around them. Paula and the blond youth had disappeared.
Kipper changed his course and started toward the group around the piano. Tom came up to him and said, exactly as before, “You’re a heel, Kipper.”
Kipper said, “I remember you. You’re the fellow that said that a couple of minutes ago.” The bantering light went out of his eyes, though he did not raise his voice. “What do you want, Tom?”
Tom said through his teeth, “I don’t like you.”
Kipper said, “I guessed that, but don’t let me worry you too much, little man: I’m leaving town in a few days.”
A forked
vein began to come out in Tom’s forehead. “Do you think I give a damn whether you go or stay?” he demanded. “Do you think you could get in my way?”
“Anyway, I thought you might like to know I’m going,” Kipper said indifferently.
Tom drew his lips back and said, “A swell chance of you going away, now that your girl’s working regular.”
Every one else in the room, except the negro behind the bar, was grouped around the piano at the other end. The negro was washing glasses. Kipper glanced at the group hiding the piano, at the negro, and then down again at the angry face in front of him. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. His voice was wearily contemptuous. “Is this going to be one of those things where the guy that talks the loudest wins?”
Tom replied so rapidly he sputtered, “I can give you one of those things where the guy that hits hardest wins.”
Kipper pursed his lips, nodded slowly, said, “Nice beach.”
They went out together, up half a dozen steps to a paved walk, along it to a low gate and through the gateway and down six concrete steps to the clinging soft footing of the beach. There were stars, but no moon. The Pacific rustled sluggishly.
Kipper, walking beside Tom, turned suddenly to him and as he turned swung a fist from his hip to Tom’s face. The blow flung Tom a couple of yards to the sand, where he lay outstretched and still. Kipper bent over him for a moment, looking, listening, then straightened up, turned, and went unhurriedly back to Morrie’s house.
Hank had finished playing the piano and was at the bar again with Gladys. Kipper had a drink with them, then asked Gladys, “Want to go?”
She glanced curiously at him, nodding, saying, “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Going to stay awhile, Hank?”
“Until this guy locks up his bar. Or do you know a better place to go?”
“Borrow your car to get home? We’ll send it right back.”
Hank waved a hand. “Help yourself.”
Kipper said, “Thanks. Be seeing you.”
Upstairs he found Morrie, drew him aside, and told him, “I left Tom out on the beach. Give him a little while.”
Crime Stories Page 82