The Accused, Harold R. Daniels [read out loud books txt] 📗

case—it was then Thursday—he tried to buy her off with three dollars again. She had indicated to Jimmy when she would pay; she would not have to worry about money, outside of change for cigarettes, for more than a week.

Since she had credit she might as well use it. After a time she approached Frank, the bookmaker. “I’m short for a while, Frank. Can you cuff me?” she asked.

Frank glanced from her to Jimmy. Jimmy said, “She’s all right, Frank. I’ll be good for it,” and the bookie nodded.

“Let me have the Armstrong,” she demanded. In the race that would later be broadcast, she picked an overwhelming favorite. “Give me five to win on Blue Glitter,” she said. Frank shrugged and wrote up the bet. Blue Glitter finished a poor third.

*

When Morlock came home on Friday, he made no mention of money. He was going in to the college on Saturday to conduct a make-up examination, he said.

When Louise arose on Saturday, he had already gone but he had left a ten-dollar bill on the kitchen table.

Since he was now buying the food, this money was obviously intended for her use as she saw fit. Just as obviously Morlock did not intend to give her any more.

She could, she knew, pay her tab as well as Frank the bookmaker’s five dollars with the ten and have a dollar or two left. But since she had credit for a week, why should she? Also, her luck was bound to turn.

Saturday afternoon she lost ten more on favorites. In desperation she picked an eight to one shot on Monday and lost another ten. When on Tuesday she walked toward Frank, he silently shook his head, indicating that he would take no more bets until her bill was paid.

She was drinking less now and sticking to beer. On Thursday she asked Jimmy, keeping her expression light, “What’s my tab, Jimmy? I’ve got to take care of you tomorrow.”

He took a slip of paper from the cash register and studied it. “Forty-two bucks, Louise, counting what you owe Frank.” He added anxiously, “Don’t be late with it, Louise. I’ve got to square up with Fagin.”

She had not the remotest chance of getting that much money from Morlock. He probably thought he was doing her a big favor by giving her ten dollars for a week. On Friday she did not go to Fagin’s directly after lunch. Instead she dressed carefully in the black taffeta and caught a bus going toward the college.

She had been to the college once or twice with Morlock. Once when their marriage was new and they were pretending that it was something that it was not, she had met him on a Friday afternoon after going to a movie. They had gone into a stucco office building set aside from the campus. There were a dozen girls inside the place. Morlock had gone to the counter that crossed in front of the door and one of the girls had come up to meet him. She was an ugly thing with mousy hair and no more breasts than a mackerel. Morlock had said, “Hello, Grace. This is my wife. Louise, this is Grace. She’s our best friend.”

Grace had simpered and handed Morlock an envelope containing his pay check.

Louise was aware of the danger involved in what she was about to do. She carefully balanced that risk against Morlock’s dislike of scenes and decided that the risk was slight—unless he had already called for his check. Actually, she decided, she had no choice. Against what might happen, what Morlock might do, was the certain knowledge of what Jimmy and Frank would do if they didn’t get their money.

Walking with great dignity and no hesitation, she entered the little stucco building and felt a tremendous surge of relief when the same girl came to the counter. She smiled. “Hello, Grace,” she said. “Remember me? Mrs. Morlock? I’m supposed to meet Alvin on the campus. He asked me to stop in and pick up his check.”

And all the worrying had been for nothing. Grace smiled and said, “Oh, sure, Mrs. Morlock. I’ll get it for you.”

With the check in her purse, Louise walked away from the office building. There was one more danger; she might run into Alvin. She didn’t. Off the campus again she caught a downtown bus. She cashed the check at a drugstore with no difficulty: the druggist merely read the face of it and scarcely glanced at her own scrawled endorsement—in Morlock’s name—on the reverse side. There was a bus station close to the drugstore. She walked in and bought a ticket for Providence. To hell with Morlock. To hell with Jimmy and Frank the bookmaker. While she waited for the bus, she went into a cocktail lounge and had two highballs.

Two hours after Louise left the office building, Morlock entered. He stood at the counter waiting for Grace, drumming with his fingers in nervous preoccupation, looking up at length to find Grace looking at him.

“Mr. Morlock,” she said. “Your wife picked up your check right after lunch.”

He could not believe it. He stammered, “What?” and even in his disbelief he sought wildly for some means of diverting this final shame.

Grace saved him. “She said she was supposed to meet you on the campus.”

Morlock struck his own brow in mock dismay and grinned at Grace. “So she was,” he said. “She’ll make me take her to dinner for this.” He strode away from the counter, as if in a hurry to keep his forgotten appointment, and headed for the campus in case Grace might still be watching. When he was out of sight of the office, he turned and hurried to catch a bus for Kosciusko Street.

She would not be there. He was certain of that; and yet he was dismayed when he found the tenement empty. He ransacked her closet. She had not taken her clothes. She could not, with seventy dollars, afford to replace them, and therefore she must have gone back to Federal Hill where she had dresses and other things. Morlock made a cup of coffee and sat back to think about it. He would be out of it cheaply if he never saw her again. He had no money. He would have to borrow from Dodson or someone else to keep going and he would have to stall the loan company and the other creditors. But little by little, given time, he would work his way out of debt.

On the following evening he was stopped in front of the tenement by a man who introduced himself as Jimmy.

“Jimmy Murphy, Mister Morlock. I’m the bartender at Fagin’s there. I hate to mention this but your wife owes quite a bill. We’ve got to have the money.”

“How much?”

“Forty-two bucks. I know it sounds like a lot but she was betting with the book on top of running a tab. We really got to have that money.”

“I’m not able to pay you right now,” Morlock said. “She took everything I had too, but I’ll get it for you just as soon as I can. I can give you some of it next Friday.” He started to say, “But don’t ever let her have credit again,” but remembered that she was gone now. More to himself in reassurance than to Jimmy, he said instead, “She won’t be around any more.”