Magician's Wife (15 page)

“... I'll think about it, Buster.”

“Will you? Sure enough?”

“Did—the overhead stuff get installed?”

“Yeah, but we needn't go into
that!
”

Her manner implied a long story, which was more than he bargained for, so he didn't pursue the subject. Instead, he glanced at his watch, said: “Got to be running along.”

“Me too—I'm due at the club. Put on my fish-net tights and handle props for him.” Then, with childish pride: “I look good in them!” She lifted her skirt quite high, to show soft, chubby legs, really quite pretty. She laughed when he looked away, put her arms around him again, said: “Listen, I go for you! How many times must I say it?”

“I—go for you too, Buster.”

“I'm in the book—ring me.”

“If I can make it, I'd like that.”

“I'm home in the daytime.”

“I'll remember.”

“And I'm free in the daytime, too.”

Suddenly she pulled him to her, gave him a long, wet kiss. He kissed back, not quite knowing why. It seemed the polite thing to do, and was also unexpectedly enjoyable.

“So he thinks he may take her back, and how do you know he won't? How do you know she won't? How do you know anything in connection with this dame? Because maybe you love her, but the extent to which she can be trusted is scarcely visible to the naked eye. You'd better get it done, get this thing over with—until you do, you're nowhere.”

He had raced home, changed, bathed, and doused himself with cologne, to be rid of every last trace of Buster's cloying perfume, in preparation for his 9:30 date with Sally. But the eyes that stared from the mirror were beginning to look a bit wild.

M
ONDAY, WHEN AT LAST
it came, was ushered in by a call from Grace. He had called her once or twice, to keep her “posted,” as he said—actually, to keep her from growing suspicious. He had been pleasant enough, saying how busy he'd been, what with Mankato affairs, “and what with Sally's affairs—I may as well tell the truth and own up I hauled in my horns, letting her handle things her own way, as this death changed the picture, in more ways than one, and I can't pretend that it didn't.” She had been understanding enough, seeming to believe all he said, and this morning was full of friendly, vibrant enthusiasm. “I just called to tell you,” she said, “how happy my daughter is making me and how happy you're making
her
—it must be you, it couldn't be anyone else.” She said Sally had asked her to dinner, “tonight, at the house, along with two other women, who live in the same block—it's a hen party, but what she ought to
have!
Clay, I've tried to impress on her that women, to women, are important—that toadying to Bunny Granlund isn't nearly enough. Men decide who's a sexpot—which may or may not be a help. Women decide who's a
lady,
and there's no appeal from their verdict.” Clay said that was funny, he had never quite seen it that way, it was an interesting point—and more things, quite as inane, feeling a queer impulse to string the call out—and string it out still more. At last she hung up, he telling her: “Let's keep in touch.”

He usually got his own breakfast, but this morning couldn't quite face the chore and so went out to the drugstore two blocks up Kennedy Drive, the druggist greeting him deferentially and keeping him company while he ate. Walking back, he got out the car and drove to the shop, conferring with Hal Daley and stopping to chat with Miss Helm, who was helping out in Accounting. Then it was time for lunch, and he drove to uptown Portico, where Sally was working that day, for a last-minute confab with her. She seated him, had a girl take his order, then came back and stood facing him, as she had the first day they met—though there was no discussion, this time, about the contours of her stomach. “Well?” he asked in a low voice. “Anything?”

“Yes,” she answered. “About tonight, and my alibi. I've asked Mother and two other crows to have dinner with me and—”

“They're not crows!” he snapped.

“
... What?
”

“They're the witnesses on whom your life can depend—so don't start saying crows or even thinking crows. If you're giving them dinner, they have to like your dinner and like you. So—”

“Well, thanks for the lesson in manners!”

“
They're not crows!
Anything else?”

“Yes—in regard to Alec.”

“O.K. What about him?”

“I told him, since I'd be up, if he'd skip the visit to Buster and get home in some kind of time, we could talk divorce. So he bit—he's coming straight home as soon as he winds up his show. He'll leave around one o'clock.”

“I see. Then—O.K.”

“Well, what's the matter, Clay?”

“I said O.K.!... Nothing's the matter, except that tonight of all nights, everything
should
be as usual, with nothing to draw attention—”

“Well, if that's all the thanks I get—”

“And I should have been consulted!”

“For trying to make things easy for you!”

“O.K., O.K., O.K.!... Anything else?”

For answer she flounced off and then hovered, her figure graceful, her eyes like glittering stones. Once she came up behind him and whispered: “Listen, if you have a case of cold feet—?”

“Do you have a case of cold feet?”

“No, Clay. But—”

“Then quit cracking at me!”

Neither of them, apparently, had meant to quarrel or wanted to, but their tempers were uncontrollably edgy.

He got in his car on the parking lot, then sat fingering the wheel, in thought, and then with a snap of his fingers seemed to remember something. He drove to Washington, parked on the outskirts, near a sidewalk phone booth, got out, and consulted the book inside, thumbing the yellow pages. He drove a few blocks, parked again, and entered a hardware store, buying three cans of white paint with a key to get them open. He drove then to Baltimore, heading south at the outskirts, and on to the stretch of condemned road. On the low part of it, where it passed the meadow, he parked. Then, opening one can of paint, he poured it out on the right-hand shoulder, where it would serve as his marker, to signal his speed-up beside the other car. Going on, he parked again and spilled a second can of paint, this time on the left-hand shoulder, to make a second circular spot, to signal his pull-up to parallel position. Going still further on, he parked again and spilled the third can of paint, so the spot would signal the blast on his horn. Each can, when he had emptied it, he tossed off to the side. When he drove over the bridge at last, it was well past four o'clock, and after driving around for an hour he arrived at the Chancit Garage, a place not far from home, for the first step in his alibi. “Roy,” he said when the manager came over, “I'm just about due, I think, for the works—wash, lube job, tire check, gas—the usual. Will you send over for it? In the morning, maybe?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Lockwood.”

“I'll leave it out on the street, give the keys in at the desk—the night girl will put 'em in my box.”

“No need, Mr. Lockwood. Your garage knows us and—”

“And I know them, Roy—specially this new bunch they have, with their conscientious ideas. I don't care to be waked up with their nice friendly question about is it O.K., and so on. If you don't mind—”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Your man knows the car?”

“But of course!”

“I'll leave it out on Spring Street.”

“We'll pick it up, that's for sure.”

He drove to the club for dinner.

At nine, after billiards with Mr. Garrett, he parked on Spring Street, locked up, and walked to the Marlborough, taking his mail from Doris, a blonde of uncertain years, a bit washed out, but with more than a trace of good looks. “My, but it's hot out there,” he said, glancing at his letters. “You should be thankful for this air conditioning in here.”

“Oh, I am!” she said quickly. “It's not really the best, but it helps quite a lot. Even a few degrees is
something
.”

“And another thing we can all be thankful for! This is Monday, and a week from today is Labor Day. That breaks the back of summer—then it's the fall of the year!”

“Oh, that's right!” she agreed eagerly. “I've noticed it often myself. After that, life's worth living again!”

He turned to the elevator and then, suddenly, as though just remembering, stopped and fished out his car keys. “Almost forgot,” he told her. “Will you put these in my box? In an envelope, if you have one? Mark it
Chancit Garage Will Call.
So Miss Homan knows.”

“I will, and I'll leave her a note.”

“Thanks, Doris. Good night.”

At once, from the apartment, he called Miss Helm at her home. “Will you do something for me?” he asked her. “I have time on my hands now, and I've just taken a notion to do something I've never done—see that beauty contest they have every year down at Atlantic City. I think it's the week after Labor Day, so if you'd take it over—?”

“Why, Mr. Lockwood, I'd be glad to!”

“I'd do it myself, but I have to call Pat Grant, and frankly that exhausts me more than I care to admit—”

“Oh, that I can understand!”

She laughed, and he went on: “I would imagine there'd be less pressure on suites, so if you'll ask for one right at the start, you may get quicker attention.” He gave her a half-dozen hotels, as his preferred list, and wound up: “Give me a half hour with Pat and then call me back, will you? Your charges, of course, are on me.”

He called Pat, with an idea for precooked picnic hams, “packaged and ready to go, addressed to the teenage trade, and promoted that way. Just an idea, keep it under your hat, but it may turn out we can do something with it.” He sat by the window and waited, and presently Miss Helm called, with news that the hotel of his first choice “has a nice suite for you—if you want it, Mr. Lockwood! But hold onto your hat, what it's going to cost!”

“O.K., say it.”

“It's forty dollars a day.”

“Ouch! But—once in a lifetime!”

“You want me to take it, then?”

“Well,
didn't
you?”

“Well, kind of. But now I'll make it firm.”

“Do. And thanks, Miss Helm.”

He didn't ask for her charges, but went back in the “office,” made out a check for twenty dollars, addressed it to her at home, went out in the hall, and dropped it in the mail slot.

“O.K., you have it all lined up: Chancit will pick up the car in the morning, Doris will remember it's the Monday before Labor Day, the call to Mankato is on record with the time, and Helm's call to you found you home, at a time she'd remember, and perhaps even made note of.”

He changed to dark coat, dark slacks, and dark blue shirt, and put on shoes with crepe soles. He studied himself in the mirror, then suddenly turned off the light and caught the sheen of his yellow hair. He rummaged around, found a dark cloth hat. He went to the living room and, without putting on any lights, sat down by the window. His watch said 10:25, and he made himself sit for an hour, being then all but a wreck. But when the time came to leave, he was himself again, acting with quick decision and no slightest sign of fear. He opened the door on a crack, peered out, and on seeing the coast was clear, stepped out into the hall, closing the door quietly. He tiptoed down the hall, the crepe soles making no noise. He didn't bring up the freight car, but opened the door beside it and tiptoed down the stairs. On the ground floor he stepped into the hall again, opened the outside door on a crack. After peeping he stepped out, slipped down the alley, and walked up the street to the car. Unlocking, he got in and drove off, noting he could probably get in later to park in the same spot, for in view of the late hour, no more cars should be due. He used the condemned road, to check on his white spots, finding them easily visible, even in the dark, when he tried cutting his lights. It was around 12:30 when he pulled up by the Lilac Flamingo lot, and he gave an exclamation of satisfaction at seeing a place to park. He had feared the curb would be full, and it was, almost, but a few feet were clear, and he backed in, pulled up, cut his wheels, and then was snugly parked.

At once he locked up and got out, for another thing he feared was the conscientious policeman having a look around, and sure to be suspicious, at this hour, in this place, of a man in a parked car. He strolled down toward Pratt, stood staring at the ships tied up at their piers, then went strolling back. From the club came bursts of laughter, so he judged the show still went on. Then came a burst of hand-clapping, and he moved to the car, to be ready. Sure enough, after a moment Mr. Alexis came out of the rear door, and a parking attendant, in white smock, popped out of the shack. Mr. Alexis, who was in the same costume he had worn the previous night except for a pink tarboosh in place of the Homburg, handed something over, apparently car keys, and the attendant trotted to the maroon sedan. But then, also from the rear door, there came boiling out a preposterous apparition, in bolero with gold braid along its edges, feathered headdress, fish-net tights, and red shoes. It was Buster, looking pretty, shapely, and cheap, and obviously loaded for bear. “So O.K.!” she screamed at Mr. Alexis! “Go back to her! Who do you think gives a damn?”

Mr. Alexis said something Clay couldn't hear, apparently to calm her down, but without noticeable success. “Divorce! Is that a laugh!” she went on, at the top of her voice. “It's just a come-on, I tell you! She don't mean divorce, she means you!”

But about that time the attendant backed out the car, to the illuminated space in the middle, and Mr. Alexis started for it. But when Buster grabbed him, Clay didn't wait for more. Unlocking, he got in and drove off, heading for the condemned road, and in twenty minutes or so reached it, pulling to one side, stopping, and cutting his lights, but letting his motor run.