Abrams addresses Nick: “You didn’t tell ’em about Pedro being killed?”
Nick: “This is my wife’s family. They’d think I did it.”
Abrams: “I see what you mean. My wife’s got relations, too.”
The butler appears in the doorway and says: “Mr. David Graham to see Mrs. Landis.” Selma starts up from her chair.
Aunt Katherine says: “I think it better that we be home to no one but members of the family this evening.”
Selma protests: “I want to see David. Ask him to come in, Henry.”
The butler remains in the doorway, looking at Aunt Katherine, who says: “Selma, I don’t want to have to—”
Before she has finished this threat, David comes in hurriedly, going straight to Selma and asking: “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Aunt Katherine replies coldly: “That is exactly what we’d like to know. Something is said about a gardener being killed and Selma becomes hysterical.”
David: “A gardener? What’s that got to do with Selma?”
Lieutenant Abrams: “Excuse me, but that’s what we’re trying to find out. This man is killed coming to see Mr. and Mrs. Charles and a little while later Mrs. Landis phones all excited and talking about killing herself and—”
David, angrily: “And on the strength of that you come here to annoy her?”
Abrams, patiently: “Not only that. Mrs. Charles said she”—indicating Selma—“knew him, and how are we going to get anywhere if we don’t talk to the people that knew him?”
Nora says: “I didn’t say she knew him. I said she might remember him.” She turns to David: “It was Pedro who used to work for Papa when we had the place in Ross.”
David: “Oh, yes. I remember him, a tall man with a long gray mustache. But what—”
Abrams: “So you knew him, too. Well, what do you know about him?”
David: “Nothing. I merely saw him when I was a visitor there, and I’ve never seen him since.”
Abrams: “And you, Mrs. Landis?”
Selma: “I may have seen him, but I don’t remember him at all.”
Abrams: “And how about the rest of you?”
None of the Forrests admits knowing Pedro.
Abrams: “Mrs. Charles says Mrs. Landis’s husband might know him. Is he here?”
Selma: “No—he—he’ll be in later, but I don’t think he’ll remember the man any better than I do.”
Abrams: “Did you ever go by the name of Selma Young?”
Selma: “Certainly not!”
Abrams: “Anybody here know Selma Young?”
Nobody does.
Abrams: “Now I got to ask you again about that telephone talk of yours with Mrs. Charles.”
Selma says: “Please, it had nothing to do with this. It was—was a purely personal thing.”
Abrams: “You mean something to do with your husband?”
Aunt Katherine says: “Mr.—ah—Abraham, you are being impertinent. Furthermore, my niece is under a doctor’s care, and—”
Abrams, stolidly: “What doctor?”
Aunt Katherine: “Dr. Frederic Kammer.”
Abrams nods: “I know of him.” Preparing to leave, he says resignedly: “I can’t help it if people don’t like me. I got my work to do. Good night.” He goes out.
David leaves the house with Nick and Nora, parting from them in the foggy street.
When Nick and Nora leave, he asks Harold, the chauffeur: “Where’s a good place to get the stink of respectability out of our noses?”
Harold, grinning and chewing his gum, says: “I get it. Well, there’s Tim McCrumb’s and there’s the Li-Chee and there’s the Tin Dipper. None of them three ain’t apt to be cluttered up with schoolteachers.”
Nick: “Suppose we try the Li-Chee.”
Harold says: “That’s a good pick,” while Nora looks at Nick from the corners of her eyes. As they get into the car she says: “You are going to find Robert?”
Nick: “I didn’t lose him.”
Nora: “It would put you in right with the family.”
Nick: “And that’s what I’m afraid of.”
In Dancer’s apartment at the Li-Chee Club, Robert—drunk and looking as if he has been drunk for several days—is lying back in a chair, holding a drink. Polly is sitting on the arm of his chair, running her fingers through his hair. He is saying: “Comes tomorrow and we’ll be out of this town for good—no more wife squawking at me, no more of her family egging her on, no more of this”—waving his glass around the place—“just you and me off someplace together.” He pulls her down into his lap and asks: “Good, baby?”
She says: “Swell.” Then: “You’re sure this—what’s his name?—Graham—will come through all right?”
Robert: “Sure. He’s nuts about Selma. He fell all over himself when I put it to him. The only thing is, maybe I was a sucker not to ask him for twice as much for clearing out. Don’t worry about the money; he’ll have it ready in the morning just as he promised.”
Polly, reassured, asks thoughtfully: “Does she know about it?”
Robert, scornfully: “Of course not. He couldn’t tell her. She’s batty as a pet cuckoo. She’d blow up and make him call off the whole thing.”
Polly: “Then suppose she finds out about it afterwards and won’t marry him.”
Robert: “Listen. This guy’s a sap and he’s in love with her. He wants to marry her all right, but even if he knew there was no chance of that, he’d still pay me to clear out. He thinks I’m bad for her and he lo-o-ves her and wants her to be ha-a-ppy.”
Polly laughs and kisses him, says: “If you want to hear me sing, you’d better come on out and find a table. I go on in a few minutes.”
Outside the door, Phil has been listening. He turns away from the door not quite quickly enough, as Dancer comes up behind him. Dancer says casually: “Catch a good earful?”
Phil says: “I wanted to see Polly, but I didn’t want to butt in if she was busy.”
Dancer links an arm through Phil’s and starts leading him away from the door toward the stairs, saying: “She’s busy. She’ll be busy all evening.”
Phil hangs back, saying: “I got to see her for a minute.”
Dancer jerks him along, says, still casually: “Not this evening. You shake her down for too much dough, Phil, even if she is your sister. Lay off her a while.”
Phil pulls his arm free, says: “That’s no skin off your face. If she wants to help me out a little, that’s her business. Why shouldn’t she? I know things that are going on around here that—”
Dancer reaches out, grabs him by the necktie, and pulls him close, saying softly: “Smart boy. You know things. When are you going to start shaking me down?”
Phil says: “When I want to shake you down, I’ll—”
Dancer stops him this time by slapping his face once, not especially hard. Dancer: “I don’t like you, but I’ve put up with having you around because you’re Polly’s brother, and she’s a nice kid, but don’t think you can ride too far on that ticket.” He puts his open hand over Phil’s face, and pushes him backwards down the stairs, saying: “Now stay away for a couple of days.”
Phil tumbles backwards into the arms of Nick, who, with Nora, is coming up the stairs. Nick says: “Mmmm! Big confetti they throw here.”
Dancer exclaims: “Ah, Mr. Charles! I’m sorry!” and starts down the stairs.
Phil snarls at Nick: “Why don’t you look where you’re going, you big clown?”—twists himself out of Nick’s arms and goes downstairs out of the place.
Dancer is apologizing again.
Nick says: “Hello, Dancer. This your place? A neat way you have of getting rid of the customers.”
Dancer smiles professionally: “Just a kid that hangs around because his sister works here. I get tired of him sponging on Polly sometimes.”
Nick: “I felt a gun under his left arm when I caught him.”
Dancer, contemptuously: “Just breaking it in for
a friend, I guess.” He ushers them upstairs.
Outside the Li-Chee, Phil finds a dark doorway from which the Club can be watched, and plants himself there. Nick’s car is parked near the doorway. Both Harold and a taxi-driver, who is talking to him, see Phil, but neither pays much attention to the boy. Harold is chewing gum and listening with a bored air to the taxi-driver.
“And I said to him, ‘You ain’t going to give me a ticket, you big flatfoot, and you know it,’ I said. I said, ‘I got a right to turn there, and you know it,’ I said, ‘and I ain’t got all night to be sitting here gassing, so go polish your buttons and leave me be on my way, you fat palooka,’ I said.”
Harold, wearily: “I know, and then you busted out crying.”
Upstairs in the Li-Chee, Nick is checking his hat and coat while Nora looks interestedly around the place. Suddenly she grabs Nick’s arm, says: “There’s Robert!”
Robert and Polly are going into the restaurant.
Nick says: “The night’s bulging with your family.”
Nora starts to pull him toward Robert, saying: “Come on.”
Dancer to Nick: “Is Mr. Landis a friend of yours?”
Nick, as Nora drags him off: “On the contrary, a relation.”
Dancer stares thoughtfully after them.
By the time Nick and Nora reach Robert, he and Polly are sitting at a small table near the orchestra. Nora holds out a hand to Robert, saying: “Hello, Robert,” with a great show of cordiality. He rises drunkenly, mumbling: “Hello, Nora; hello, Nick,” and shaking their hands. Then he introduces Polly: “Miss Byrnes, Mr. and Mrs. Charles.” Nick immediately sits down and begins to talk to Polly, giving Nora a chance to speak aside to Robert.
Nora, in a low voice to Robert: “You oughtn’t to stay away like this.”
Robert: “I know, but Selma’s not easy to get along with, and sometimes I simply have to break loose.”
Nora: “But you should let her know that you’re all right.”
Robert: “You’re right, of course. But sit down. You can talk in front of Polly. She knows about Selma.”
Polly, aside to Nick: “Tell Mrs. Charles not to worry about him—I’ll see that he gets home tonight.” She puts her foot under the table and touches Robert’s. He starts to laugh, then covers his mouth with his hand, and asks:
“Is—is Selma all right?”
Nora, indignantly: “You know she’s not, and now with the police bothering her—”
Robert: “The police?” He and Polly both look alarmed.
Nora: “Yes, the idiots. A gardener we used to have was killed. Remember Pedro Dominges?”
Before Robert can reply, Polly exclaims: “Killed? Why, he’s—” She breaks off with a hand to her mouth.
Nick prompts her: “He’s what?”
Polly, to Nora: “What was his name?”
Nora: “Pedro Dominges.”
Polly: “Oh! I thought you said Peter Dominger—a fellow I used to know.”
Nick looks at her skeptically. Robert asks:
“What’s that got to do with Selma?”
Nick: “Ask the police—they don’t know. I wonder if our table’s ready.” He stands up.
Polly whispers: “I’ll see he gets home all right.”
Nick: “Thanks. Pleased to have metten up with you.” He and Nora move off to where Dancer is beckoning them.
Polly leans over to Robert, speaking swiftly: “Honey, could you get hold of that guy Graham and see if you can get the money right away?”
Robert: “Maybe. Why?”
Polly: “I was thinking there’s no sense in waiting until tomorrow. I’ll tell Dancer I don’t feel well and get the night off and we’ll blow town right away. Would you like that?”
A waiter comes up with fresh drinks as Robert says: “I’ll try him on the phone now.”
Nick and Nora come up to the table. Dancer stands, holding Nora’s chair for her.
Nick: “Thanks.” He sits down. A Chinese waiter comes to his side, hovering over him.
Dancer: “This all right?”
Nick: “Fine.” Then to the waiter, who is handing him his napkin: “Never mind about that. Bring me two Scotch highballs quick.” The waiter starts away, but Nick stops him. “No. Better make it three. One for the wife.”
Waiter: “Yes, sir.”
Dancer leans over toward Nick, adjusting the forks and utensils on the table as he speaks: “You once sent a friend of mine up . . . Lum Ying.”
Nick: “Oh, I remember him. He spread a tong war out to include sticking up a bank.”
Dancer: “His brother’s here now . . . one of my partners.”
Nick, with a smile: “Is he a gunman, too?”
Dancer: “No. But you can’t tell how close brothers are. Thought you might like to know.”
Nick: “Maybe you’d better point him out.”
Dancer: “I’ll call him over. Lum Kee!”
Lum Kee is a plump, middle-aged Chinese man with a round merry face. He is dressed in American clothes.
Dancer: “Come here.”
Lum Kee: “You bet you!”
Nick is looking interestedly at Lum Kee, as he comes up to the table.
Dancer, introducing him to Nick: “I want you to meet a friend of mine . . . Lum Kee.”
Lum Kee grins, ducking his head.
Lum Kee: “I’m your friend, you bet you.”
Dancer to Lum Kee: “This is Nick Charles.”
Lum Kee: “I hear about you, Mr. Charles. Number one detective.”
Nick: “Thanks. So you’re Lum Ying’s brother.”
Lum Kee, still grinning: “You bet you—you catch ’em my brother seven years ago. You play trick on him. You bet you.”
Nick, nodding solemnly: “No play trick on ’em, no catch ’em. You bet you.” Lum Kee laughs merrily. “He still in?”
Lum Kee: “You bet you. Four . . . five years more.” He ducks his head politely at Dancer, Nick, and Nora and goes off. Dancer looks meditatively after him.
Dancer, as if casually, to Nick: “That’s a good guy to have liking you.” He turns and walks away. As the implication of Dancer’s casual words dawns on him, Nick looks after Dancer with humorous dismay.
Dancer goes to the table where Polly is now sitting alone and asks: “What’s the setup?”
Polly: “They’re Bobbie’s cousins by marriage and think he ought to go home to his wife.”
Dancer purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then says: “It’s all to the good, them seeing him here plastered, but I guess we can’t take a chance on them tipping off the wife and having her bang in. Give the customers one song and knock off for the night. Take him up to your place.”
Polly: “I’m getting kind of tired of him.”
Dancer: “It’s only till tomorrow night. You can turn him loose then. Put a pill in his drink when you get him home, so he’ll be sure to stay safe asleep while you run out to do that little errand in the morning.” He pats her shoulder.
Polly, without enthusiasm: “All right.” She gets up to sing.
Robert at the telephone talking to David. Robert: “That money you promised me tomorrow—give it to me tonight and I’ll be half across the country by daylight.”
David: “I told you I couldn’t raise it till tomorrow.”
Robert, snarling: “How’d you like it if I changed my mind between now and tomorrow?”
David: “But, Robert, I—” He breaks off as he thinks of something, then says: “I’ve got the bonds I was going to raise the money on—if you’ll take them.”
Robert: “They’re negotiable? There’s no foolishness about them?”
David: “Certainly they’re negotiable! Do you think I’d—?”
Robert: “I don’t think anything about you. How soon can you turn them over?”
David: “As soon as you can get here.”
Robert: “I won’t come there for them.”
David: “All right. Where are you?”
Robert:
“At the Li-Chee.”
David: “Then I can meet you at the corner of . . . and . . . in ten minutes.”
Robert: “Okay, but don’t keep me waiting, or I might change my mind.”
David: “And you’ll give me your word you’ll—”
Robert: “I’ve got to go home and pack a bag, but I won’t bother your sainted Selma. I won’t even see her if I can get out of it.” He slams the receiver on the hook, says: “Boy Scout!” at it, and returns to his table.
(Throughout this scene, waiters, etc. have been passing and repassing Robert at the phone, but none seems to have paid any attention to his conversation.)
Nick and Nora at their table listening to Polly singing. Dancer, intent now on keeping them comfortable until Polly and Robert are safely away, comes to the table and asks: “Everything all right, Mr. Charles?”
Nick, shuddering at the first taste of his drink and frowning at the glass: “It’s all something.”
Dancer laughs with professional heartiness and addresses the waiter: “Ling, no check for this table. Anything they want is on the house.”
Nick: “I can’t let you do that.”
Dancer: “But I insist. You must be my guest—”
Nick, at this point seeing the approach of a group of thugs he knows, and realizing that somebody’s going to be stuck for a lot of drinks, says quickly: “We accept with thanks. That’s mighty white of you, Dancer.” He shakes Dancer’s hand as the thugs arrive, and says: “Meet the rest of my party.”
Eddie: “We don’t want to meet him. He’s a crumb.”
Nick: “But he’s giving the party. It’s all on the house.”
Eddie: “Well, I’ll—well—well!” He turns to his companions, saying enthusiastically: “Boys! Champagny!”
Nick: “Certainly champagne.”
Dancer tries to smile as if he likes it. The others crowd him back out of the way as they make room for themselves around the table.
Men: “Say, this is all right.”
“Hi’yer, Nick.”
“Hello, Nick.”
Eddie, a bull-like thug, looks gallantly at Nora. “You certainly can pick ’em, Nick.”
He turns to Nora: “I never seen such a guy. Every time I meet him, he’s got another good-looking gal.”
Crime Stories Page 108