Lucky Stiff, Craig Rice [romantic books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Craig Rice
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This time Anna Marie said three words.
Warden Garrity’s eyebrows signaled to Jesse Conway, “We’re going to have trouble with her.” Jesse Conway’s shoulders signaled back, “Leave it to me.”
“My dear little girl,” Jesse Conway said, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “don’t you realize what this means? You’ll be able to leave here in a few days—”
“I’m leaving tonight,” Anna Marie said. “At midnight. Remember?”
The two men looked at each other. Anna Marie laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.
“How many people know about this,” Anna Marie said, “except we three?” her eyes flamed at them. “Answer me!”
Jesse Conway stalled long enough to light a cigar. “Not many. Not the great big world, if that’s what you mean. It hasn’t been given to the papers yet. Why? Why do you care, Anna Marie?”
She smiled at him. “I care plenty.” She rose and began walking gracefully up and down the long, narrow room, catlike. “How many people, Jesse Conway, know that you came here tonight? How many know that this Garrity bastard must have been informed?”
There was a small silence. Jesse Conway laid down his cigar and looked questioningly at the warden.
“Well—” Garrity said.
Anna Marie laughed nastily. “Were you informed, Mr. Garrity?”
“Naturally,” Garrity assured her, “only, you see—” He gulped, trapped. “Oh, hell.”
“Only,” Anna Marie said, “you had to get the straight dope before you were sure. Otherwise you’d have let me go to the chair.”
Jesse Conway laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come, come, my dear. You’re—well—overwrought. Take a sedative and get a good night’s sleep. Everything is going to seem very different in the morning.”
She spat at him, “I’ve been telling myself that for days now.”
“Now, Anna Marie.” The warden sighed and rose to his feet. “We have a lovely guest room in my house. You’ll be very comfortable there. And in a few days you can leave, and—”
“I’m leaving tonight,” Anna Marie repeated.
They stared at her. She stood, leaning against a gray-green filing case, a cigarette held loosely between her slender fingers, her eyes cold, not even angry.
“I’m leaving sometime after midnight tonight,” she said. “In a coffin. Remember?” Her glance raked the frightened men. Then she smiled.
“I was promised that there wouldn’t be an audience when I sat in the hot seat,” she began, slowly and deliberately. “No more than the necessary number of legal witnesses. You can fix it so they can be bribed. Fix the whole thing any way you like, so it’s convincing. And then tell your reporters that Anna Marie St. Clair died in the electric chair at one minute after midnight, or whatever the hell time it would be.”
Garrity said, “What!”
“If you don’t,” Anna Marie went on, paying no attention to him, “there’s going to be the damnedest suit for false arrest this state ever saw. And a lot of names are going to get dragged into the papers, in a very nasty way. Including you, and the D.A., and a lot of other people.” She dropped her cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “Don’t tell me you can’t work it, because you can.”
“It’s impossible,” Warden Garrity said weakly.
“Oh, no it isn’t,” Anna Marie said. “Not if you want to hang on to your job. Fix it up. Bribe your witnesses. Turn on the juice in an empty chair. Tell the reporters I died happy. Hell, you can even load a coffin with concrete and hold a swell funeral if you want to be fancy. And meanwhile, Jesse here will take me back to town.”
The warden and Jesse Conway looked at each other for a long moment. The warden shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“She’s got us,” he said, his voice flat. He turned to Anna Marie, appeal in his eyes. “Look, sister. What do you want to do it for? You can’t tell me that you just want”—his lip curled—“to bring a criminal to justice.”
“Hell, no,” Anna Marie said. “I don’t mess with other people’s business, just mine. But somebody’s going to pay for what happened to me.”
“Look here, Anna Marie,” Jesse Conway said. “After all, you didn’t die.”
“You think not?” Anna Marie St. Clair said. “I died twenty-four times a day, for seven weeks.”
She stretched herself to her full height, with an instinctive gesture, as though she were lifting a fur over her shoulder. Even in her drab prison clothes she was lovely, and dangerous.
Jesse Conway asked, “What are you going to do?”
She smiled at him. “Me? I’m dead. So what am I going to do? Guess. I’m going to haunt houses.”
“But, Jake,” Helene said, “You’ve got to do something. Somebody’s got to do something. It’s—” She looked at her ring watch and gulped. “Jake, it’s almost eleven o’clock now!” Jake Justus shoved his glass away and sighed. “Look, darling. Just because we met at the scene of a crime, just because we became involved, against my better judgment, in a few other crimes, does not mean that every time a convicted murderess is going to the chair—”
“She may be convicted,” Helene said firmly, “but she’s no murderess.”
“Have it your own way,” Jake Justus said, “but it’s none of our business.” He reached out for her lovely, slender hand. It was icy cold, and it drew away from him in about fifteen seconds and opened a cigarette case. Jake leaned back in his chair and lit his own cigarette.
He was, he reflected, the most fortunate man in the world. Other men might be presidents, millionaires, movie stars, heroes. He was married to Helene.
For the moment he slid his worries off his mind and looked across the table at Helene. Smooth, shining, ash-blond hair. Delicate, lovely face, with that pale skin looking as though soft lights showed through it. The light green of her chiffon dress was like an ocean wave breaking over her white shoulders. And under the table there were those long, slender, beautiful legs.
This was their wedding anniversary. He couldn’t even remember which one. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the waking up every morning and seeing her long, silky hair spread out on the pillow, and her face, childlike in sleep, nestled in her arm. Coffee in the sunroom in the morning, Helene in her violet chiffon negligee, or her fluffy white robe, or her bandanna sunsuit, or, on special occasions, the blue satin house pajamas she’d been wearing the first time they met.
“Helene,” he said, “every time I look at you I feel as if someone had just given my heart a hot-foot.”
Her eyes warmed. “Darling,” she whispered, “I didn’t know you were a poet!” This time her hand reached out for his, and it wasn’t icy cold.
Jake Justus, ex-reporter, express agent, and, as he occasionally reminded himself, definitely ex-amateur detective, sighed again. Happily, this time. That unpleasant knot of anxiety in his stomach went away for a moment. After all, why should he worry? He was married to Helene, and he owned the Casino.
Across the table, Helene looked at him thoughtfully over the rim of her glass. There was a Look Jake got on his face when something bothered him. She could tell. He ran his fingers through his sandy red hair and twisted it into knots. He scowled. He wrinkled his nose. He lit cigarette after cigarette, and crushed each one out after a few puffs. He looked at something millions of miles away, and said, “Yes?” in an absent-minded voice when you asked him a question.
Her fingers tightened on his. She whispered, “Jake. Darling.”
Jake blinked and said, “Yes?” And then, “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Helene said.
She knew from experience it wasn’t any use saying, “What’s the matter?” She’d only get a vague smile and a perfectly worthless assurance that nothing was the matter. After all, she reminded herself, she shouldn’t worry. She had everything in the world to make her happy, including— especially—Jake. Just to look at his pleasant, homely, freckled face made her spine feel like a marimba in a rhumba band.
But she wasn’t happy. Perhaps it was because a girl she’d never met, never even seen except in newspaper pictures, was going to the electric chair at midnight.
“Dance?” Jake said. He might have been speaking to a casual acquaintance, to an extra woman at a big and boring party.
“No, thanks,” Helene said, in the same tone.
Jake lit another cigarette. He didn’t really feel like dancing. Not with the thought that kept coming back into his mind in spite of the sight of Helene and the touch of her fingers. It would have been like—yes, like dancing on a new grave.
Forget it, he told himself grimly. You probably couldn’t have done anything, anyway. Think about your wedding anniversary, think about Helene, think about the Casino. Think about everything else in the world.
The Casino. That was something worth thinking about. Jake looked around the big, softly lighted room; at the tables, the bar, the dance floor, the stage. The Casino had seen a lot of changes in its lifetime. First, a swank gambling joint, with the barest pretense of a night club for window dressing. Next, an exclusive night club with a dance floor the size of a prize ring, special entertainment in the bar, and the gambling discreetly moved upstairs. Then Jake had won it on a bet. Now the Casino, considerably remodeled, boasted the biggest dance floor in the Middle West, the best bands, the best entertainers, and was a place where a guy could bring his girl and have one whale of a good time for under five bucks, including taxi fare. It was making money, too.
He remembered the opening night of the new Casino. There had been worries on his mind then, too, but not like this one. A simple little matter of owing a lot of money, due on a day when he couldn’t possibly pay it. That worry seemed pretty silly right now. And opening night had been some thing special, the place jammed with customers and crawling with celebrities of one sort or another. Big Joe Childers had had the table right over there, next to the dance floor, with his gorgeous girl friend Anna Marie—
Forget it!
For a moment Jake was afraid he’d said it out loud. He hoped that he’d only felt the shudder that racked his long, lean body, that he’d only imagined the cold sweat on his forehead. Most of all he hoped that Helene hadn’t noticed anything.
“Jake, darling,” Helene said. “There must be something you can do.”
He looked at her and tried to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about.
“It’s after eleven,” Helene said. “Jake, telephone somebody. Get the mayor. Get the governor. Get Malone.”
“Too late,” Jake said.
“There’s nearly forty minutes,” Helene said. The skin around her lips was white.
“The mayor couldn’t do any good,” Jake said. “I don’t know the governor. And I haven’t the faintest idea where Malone is.” He was talking as calmly as he could, in spite of that feeling in his stomach, as though someone had left a tray of ice cubes in it.
“Don’t you care?”
“Stop being sentimental,” Jake said coldly.
“I’m very sorry,” Helene said, even more coldly.
Music ended, dancers stood still on the floor clapping wildly for more music. The beating of their hands sounded like rainfall. The band leader shook his head, smiling, and the pianist struck off a few chords. The floor emptied, and the lights changed.
“How can anyone dance, now, tonight?” Helene whispered.
Jake pretended he didn’t hear.
There were a few minutes of quiet before the floor show started, just long enough for the waiters
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