Magician's Wife (18 page)

“Boy, is that a joke, is that one for the book! Maybe Buster had the wrong pew, but was she in the right church. And the beautiful part is, your alibi is not only airtight, but snake-proof, one hundred percent. You have the phone calls, and not only them but the garage bill, to prove you never went out of this place. If she says different, it's malice. But what the hell? She won't open her mouth—she dare not. To drag you in, she has to drag in herself. You're in the clear—and she's not. Is that a laugh? Is it funny or isn't it?”

T
HE NEXT TWO OR
three days passed as though in a dream, the happy, sun-flecked dream that follows a dreadful nightmare. He called the shop each day, going through all the motions of a sharp president-elect; he lunched at the Chinquapin-Plaza, greeting many friends; he dined at the club, playing billiards with Mr. Garrett; he called Grace a number of times, noting her kittenish manner and wanting to see her. He read the papers, all editions, and was just a bit upset at the ease with which Sally proved her alibi, as this somewhat dampened the joke. But the funeral restored his spirits, as Buster showed up in deep mourning, her picture getting more space than Sally's. And when Sally beat a retreat, drove off to Cape May in her car to visit Mrs. Granlund and rejoin her little son, he read and reread the item, being able to laugh again. And then one morning Miss Helm called from the shop to say Miss Conlon was there—“you know, that girl Buster that was here with Mr. Alexis and got hurt when he was killed.” It seemed that “she wants to see you, Mr. Lockwood—but if you want to see
her,
that's what I thought I'd better find out. She looks better than she did—at least she's decently dressed. But—! Sir, do you want me to head her off or—what?”

“Tell her to come, Miss Helm.”

“Oh?” said Miss Helm, startled. “You want to see her?”

“I don't want to. I feel I should.”

“Then O.K.”

And, indeed, the girl who stepped from the elevator
was
different, not only in dress but also in manner, from the one who had hung on the rail, dangling her heels and kicking them. She was in black, a crepe outfit with black hat, bag, shoes, and gloves, that slimmed her curves quite a lot, without at all concealing them. She seemed glad to see him and grateful that he should see her, but her manner was reserved, and she made no such overtures as she had the last time they met, on the street up in Baltimore. Once in the apartment, she took the chair he offered, saying, “Oh, I'm all right,” to his somewhat nervous “How are you?” and then sat silently drawing off her gloves. Then, drawing a long breath: “
So,
Mr. Lockwood, I won't take up any more of your time than I absolutely have to, but so you'll understand what I've come
about,
I'll put it on the line, why I
had
to come. Mr. Lockwood, that woman's out to get me.”

“... What woman, Miss Conlon?”

“I told you, call me Buster.”

“Yes, Buster. Who are you talking about?”

“Her. Sally. That—Mrs. Alexis.”

“Oh.” He tried to ponder this, to get its full implication, but his mind was blank. Then: “In what way, get you?” he asked.

“She's trying to say I did it—killed Alec!”

“That you killed him? How could you have?”

“By grabbing the wheel or something—twisting it.”

“Buster, that makes no sense!”

“I didn't say it did.”

“But what makes you think she's trying to?”

“I don't think, I
know!
She called and told me so, right on my hospital phone! That she would get me if it was the last thing she did on earth, for what I did to her—giving her number in! When I saw it! Right in front of my eyes!”

“But the papers said that her car—”

“Was home! So she said, and her mother, and her friends. But I know what I saw, don't I?”

She gave an impassioned account of the accident, especially her companion's heroism in pushing her out to safety, though held himself by his seat belt. She wound up: “What brought me to, lying there on the bank, was a sound, of a car door being shut, and I made myself open my eyes. At that moment lights came on, and her number was looking at me.”

“But, Buster, wait a minute. At a time like that, there's such a thing as hallucination—people
think
they see things that they
don't
see!”

“And prevarication, as the cops are trying to say.”

“And— What was that, Buster?”

“They're making a thing of it, that I knew whose number it was
before
they gave it out! O.K., maybe that was dumb, talking to those reporters there in the hospital room, and saying I already
knew
who the number belonged to. Well, I ought to know, oughtn't I? I picked up her plates for her when he asked me to, and she was too shiftless to do it—last March this was, and I stood in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles. What's the big deal in
that?
I saw her number, I tell you! There in the dark of the night!”

On this subject she was obviously somewhat unbalanced, and he didn't pursue it further. Uneasily he asked: “O.K., but where do I come in?”

“In regard to the number, you don't.”

She opened her bag and took out a paper, an insurance policy, he saw. Handing it over, she said: “This he took out for me, couple of years ago—could have been three, I'm not sure. It's life insurance, Mr. Lockwood, but a special kind, that's cheap. Term insurance it's called, and the idea of it was I would be protected, if something happened to him, until his father would die, and he would come into the money, so a new deal would come. He could settle with
her,
marry me, and not need this kind of insurance. So his father did die, with some help from her, as he thought, like I told you the other night—and a new deal came indeed. Because believe it or not, he turned around and became grateful for what she did—he began to wonder, Mr. Lockwood, if taking her back wasn't cheaper than making a settlement. At least I got that idea! Well, I said so before, didn't I? So that's what the row was about, out on the parking lot. But how this thing comes in, this policy you have in your hands: he meant to let it lapse, as it had no point any more. The premium's due in October, and she's trying to make out I had until then to kill him if I was going to cash in.
She
says I made him go up the ladder to check the stuff in the Lilac, the overhead rails they put in, so he'd fall and break his neck. So he did go up and he fell, but he didn't break his neck. An electrician caught him, and no harm was done. But then she says, when that didn't work, I went with him on that ride and—”

“Wait a minute! How do you know she says that?”

“Didn't you hear me? She told me so!”

“Over the phone? She said
that?
”

“She screamed at me a half hour, until I really had to wonder if she wasn't off her nut.”

“... O.K. And I?”

“It would help me if I could refer them to you, and you'd say you were the one, not I, who told him he had to climb up. And make sure those rails were level.”

“The police? Of course refer them to me.”

“You remember telling him that?”

“I certainly do. You can count on me to the limit.”

She thanked him, started pulling on her gloves. But he had opened the policy and now started reading it. And then suddenly he exclaimed: “But this thing is in
force!
You stand to collect twenty-five thousand bucks.”

“That's right—if I put in my claim.”

“
If
you put it in? You'd
better
put it in!
Not
putting it in would be tantamount to admitting you had some reason
not
to.” And then, suddenly rattled and licking his lips: “Or at least so I would think. Unfortunately I don't know—neither one of us knows. Buster, what you need is a lawyer.”

“Oh, sure—I'll get one, right away.” Her tone was ironical, and she continued pulling on the gloves.

“Hold everything.”

Every place has its ace criminal lawyer, and Channel City's was Nat Pender, whom Clay knew pleasantly enough, as a fellow club member. He rang him now and, after recalling himself, said: “Nat, a friend of mine's in trouble, and I'm wondering if I can send her to you.”

“Why, I think so. Who is she?”

“Name's Buster Conlon—that girl who—”

Oh, yeah, the one that was with Alexis. Say, she
is
in trouble, Clay—it could be, unless something is done. According to my grapevine, there's an insurance angle and—”

“Yes, that's why I called you, Nat.”

“Well, then, if you'll have her come in—?”

“This afternoon, maybe?”

“Yes, but let me look at my book.”

“O.K., Nat, but first things first, and before you do any looking, what's this going to cost? I mean, as a down payment, like?”

“Clay, with you I'd hardly ask—”

“Nat, I'm no different than anyone else.”

They backed and filled through the immemorial
politesse,
but presently Mr. Pender admitted that “in a case of this kind, where she's not actually charged and it's mainly a question of getting the cops off her back, I let you off light— I feel it rates a thousand-dollar retainer, but I don't take your shirt. That comes later.”

“She'll have the check in her hand. Now look at your book and let's set it up—what she does and what you do.”

When Mr. Pender had looked at his book, his manner was somewhat different, he obviously meaning to give value for value received. He said: “Clay, I have an hour I can give her, by shifting some things around, if she'll be here promptly at two. And what I'll do is have my girl call headquarters and leave word for the men assigned to this case that if they want to talk to her then, she'll be here to answer their questions—in my presence, and I'll decide which ones. But, Clay, for your information, and so she cooperates, I've found it's smart at this stage of the game to have her answer them
all.
They know, as they've dealt with me many and many's the time, that after that she clams—they'll have to come to me. That brings on a new phase. But I've also found that it's smart to have the reporters come, so after the cops are done they have a go at her, and perhaps are given a statement. Then, Clay, I hope you get the point: That's it! Unless she's charged, there isn't any more, because they can't stay on her back and just twiddle their thumbs. Do you get it, Clay? And will you explain it to her? So she doesn't think I'm playing the deuces wild? When it's not bottled up any more, it can't explode in her face!”

“I do get it, and I'll see that she does.”

Going down the hall to the “office,” he wrote the $1,000 check and put it in an envelope, which he marked: “Mr. Pender, Kindness of Miss Conlon.” Then he sealed it and went back to the living room, where he sat down with her and explained Mr. Pender's plan. She seemed to get the point, and then he handed over the envelope, telling her: “First of all, give this to Mr. Pender.”

She took it, glanced at it, said: “You're supposed to leave it open when you say ‘Kindness of Miss Conlon.' Sealing it's not polite.”

“Unless Miss Conlon is nosy.”

“How much is this check; Mr. Lockwood?”

“It—sweetens the pot, that's all.”

“I want to know. If I do make a claim and it's paid, I can pay you back—and I want to. Now say: How much?”

“Buster, you mind your own business.”

She came over and sat in his lap, patting his cheek and kissing him. “You don't know what it means,” she whispered, “having a friend like you.”

“I don't like it, you being kicked around.”

“Mr. Lockwood, you make me want to cry.”

“Now! There's nothing to cry about!”

“Oh, yes, there is. We've been so busy, talking them first things first, I haven't told you all. If things
should
start breaking for me, thanks to you, Mr. Lockwood, it would be heaven right on this earth. Like if I get the money, I could do things for my folks, up in Havre de Grace, like taking the mortgage up that's hanging over their heads. And I got job offers too, now that my picture's been in and everyone's talking about me—even Mike will put me on. I used to strip, Mr. Lockwood, and I can go back to that trade. If I do say it myself, I look good in my G string. Wait! I'll show you—”

“No, please! Not now, and not here!”

“O.K., but when I start ecdizzying around— Mr. Lockwood, there's a word and a half, ecdysiast. Who invented that? Do you know?”

“Mr. Mencken, I think.”

“Who's he?”

“Writer. Dead now.”

“Well, he did something for our business. Because you play around with it, it's a laugh—oh, I've used it often. Two of them, specially—you leave off the T and—”

“Never mind, I can imagine!”

“It comes out—”

“No!”

“Funny!”

She laughed as she flirted with him, playful as a puppy. But then suddenly she wrapped an arm on his head, held his face up to hers, and said: “I'm making it up to you—this check you wrote, I mean. But there's one thing I'd like understood: I loved that guy—Alec, I'm talking about. Maybe I wasn't a saint, the way I treated him, but in my heart I loved him. And he loved me, Mr. Lockwood. O.K., the money was there, and sometimes it went to his head, so foolish ideas got in it. But he loved me. Well? What do you call that? Pushing me out that night—”

“Greater love hath no man—!”

“That's right! And he did lay down his life!” She waited a long moment, then reverently whispered: “For me!”

“... Are we done?”

“Did you hear me? I'll make it up to you.”