Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly (43 page)

“That’s what
he
thinks.”

“Well?”

“You think I can treat him decent?”

“You can be reasonable.”

“Not with him I can’t, or with you, or with any of you. He wants his dough, and that’s all he wants. If he don’t get it—say, is Goose Groner around?”

“I haven’t seen him. Why?”

“I think I need a guard.”

“Bugs Lenhardt’s in town.”

“I don’t want Bugs. I could use Goose, though.… Do I look like a guy that would take it off women? Dumb girls that haven’t any more sense, or that maybe ran into some tough luck and got started on something they couldn’t stop? Or off parolees? Poor cons that are trying to get a fresh start, and only ask that the cops let them alone.”

“I told you already. Someone’s going to take it.”

“Would
you
take it?”

“Nobody’s asking me to.”

“Being a big operator, it’s not all gravy.”

“Pretty near all.”

“No, pal, no.”

Ben looked a little surprised when the clerk asked him to have a seat, and said Mr. Delany would be right down. The main lobby of the Lakeside Country Club, with men, women, and children scampering about, did seem like an odd sort of place to discuss a confidential matter of bookmaking. However, if that was the way Mr. Delany chose to do business, there wasn’t much help for it, so Ben sat down, lit a cigarette, and watched the animated scene at rear, where four pretty girls prepared to tee off the terrace that inaugurated the pleasant rolling golf course.

Before he could get up, a tall thin man dropped into the chair across the table from him, nodded briefly, and contemplated him with a hostile, lowering stare. It was not the first time Ben had seen Mr. Delany, but it was the first time he had met him, and he looked at him with considerable interest. He was, indeed, a curious type, as American in appearance as a streamlined hearse, as world-wide in distribution as the gambling on which he lived. He was an adventurer, and illustrated a frequently-forgotten principle: If a man but worship the great god horse, he may associate with whom he pleases, and few will inquire as to his morals, his honor, or his means of support. Mr. Delany chose to associate with the outdoor set of Lake City, where he was born, and since he was unmarried, to live at the Lakeside Club. He came of passable family, but gossip had it that his early life had been hard, and that he had improved his circumstances by paying attention to influential ladies, who had gained him entree into certain clubs. Then he had played polo. As he was even taller than Ben, who was over six feet, and thin, and a fine rider, he cut a figure at this, and acquired a rating. Then he bought horses and became a gentleman jockey. Then he began an association with bookmakers, though he promulgated the fiction that this was an amusing outgrowth of his equine activities, a matter of no importance. His associations developed into what are known as connections, particularly in Chicago, and eventually with Mr. Caspar. Now, at the age of forty, he was a lean, leathery man, who faced Ben in breeches, boots, and rough tweed coat, and spoke with a cavalryman’s voice: curt, clipped, and harsh, but with a touch of the grand manner.

After the moment in which he eyed Ben as sharply as Ben eyed him, he began with no word of greeting: “All right, Grace, what did you come here about?”

“I thought I told you over the phone: Business.”

“Then state it.”

“Some bookies are operating downtown. You and Caspar ran those boys, I believe—you because you had a hook-up with Chicago, and he because he was Mr. Big around town here, and
between the two of you it was a pretty good set-up. Well, Caspar’s not here any more now, and to some extent I’ve taken things over. The matter I wanted to take up with you is whether you’d like to come in with me, running those bookies, and we’d do it on pretty much the same arrangement as you had with Caspar.”

“No.”

“It would be unfortunate if those bookies got closed.”

“The answer is still no.”

“May I ask why?”

“You killed my brother.”

For the first time Ben realized that the eyes that glowered across the table at him held hate, not merely ill-humor. He licked his lips, blinked, heard himself say: “I—I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Not alone. Caspar instigated it, if that’s what you mean. But you were in it. You were one of those rats and you helped dispose of his body.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Delany. I was not in on it. I drove Caspar the night it was done, and I knew something was afoot. But that often happened with Sol, as you may imagine, and I give you my word I knew nothing about your brother until two days later, when they lifted him out of Koquabit Narrows. I thought it was Arch Rossi they had got, if you have to know what I thought. And you may be interested to know that it was I, working with Miss Lyons, who made the discovery of that body. You didn’t know that, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then— ”

“I knew it, and I think you played it both ways. I think you helped kill my brother, and then I think you crossed Caspar, and showed June Lyons where the body was. Now get this, Grace. I didn’t want to see you at all. But for the last week you’ve been calling me and sending me messages, and I thought it best to settle this with you, once and for all. In the first place if I see you again, I’m going to kill you, and I advise you to stay out of my way. In the second place, I decided to see you
today in a public place, where there’d be twenty witnesses to what happened, if anything. I’m unarmed, and I have three men, within twenty feet of me as I sit here, who’ll grab me if I start anything. But get this: if you don’t keep out of my way you’re playing with death, and nothing can save you. Now get out.”

The muscles in Mr. Delany’s brown, leathery cheeks began to work, and his hands gripped the arms of his chair. Ben, his eyes flickering, got up, turned, started for the door. He walked with unhurried calm, and yet his heels seemed to lift a little, just a little too quickly as he neared the door. A man, sitting near a pillar with a golf club in his hand, watched him with a fish-faced stare.

Once more the sirens were screeching in Lake City, and this time they led the trucks to the six bookmaking establishments that Ben had visited the day he first saw June. Once more equipment was carted off: blackboards, with certain electrical attachments, and many boxes of tickets, with stub-books. And once more there was a hearing in Mr. Himmelhaber’s court, with heavy fines being levied this time, and once more there were photographers at the old Ninth Street station house, taking pictures of equipment being destroyed in accordance with court orders. But on this occasion Ben wasn’t present, and the next day actual fires were visible on the Reservoir Street dump.

About a week later, on Market Street, near the center of town, a place opened for business. It was a regulation store front, but lettered on the window was the legend:

MERCURY MESSENGER SERVICE

Above was the trademark of the firm, a winged Mercury holding lightly to the tailskid of an airplane, and below was a group of horses, running under a blanket, their jockeys swinging whips. Quite a crowd gathered the day of the opening, and to these Ben made a little speech, or rather a series of speeches, for he kept saying the same thing over and over, in a sort of mechanical sing-song:

“This is a messenger service, not a bookmaking establishment. We don’t post odds, and for information about horses, jockeys, or track conditions you will have to consult the daily papers which are posted on the board at right. If you wish us to do so, we shall transmit any money you give us to S. Cartogensis & Son at Castleton, in a sealed envelope, whose perforated stub you will retain. Any instructions for use of the money you can place inside the envelope using the printed cards on the table at my left if you like. Any remittances to you from Cartogensis we shall be glad to transmit, and the perforated stub which you retain will be sufficient evidence of identity. The charge will be two and one half percent—five cents for every two-dollar remittance which we accept. The plane will leave every hour on the hour—first at noon, in time for the placing of remittances on horses running on Eastern tracks, then every hour thereafter until four, when the final trip will be flown. This is a messenger service, not a bookmaking establishment …”

The sirens led the way to this place, too, and quickly, for they arrived the very afternoon it opened, and Ben was ceremoniously driven to headquarters in the newest and shiniest patrol truck. Mr. Cantrell was worried as they sat in the captain’s office, just before they started for Magistrate Himmelhaber’s court. “This is no way to do, Ben. If you had to do it, if there was no way to get out of the pinch, then O.K. But nobody but a cluck would go out of his way to get pulled on a thing like this.”

“You ever been to Washington, Joe?”

“Once, when I was married.”

“Did you hock something?”

“No, we bought round-trip tickets.”

“I don’t know how it is now, but hock shops used to be illegal in the District of Columbia. The government clerks, they were in hock so bad that something had to be done about it, so hock shops were made against the law. You know how they got around that?”

“Messenger service?”

“That’s right. There was a place just off the avenue that had a motorcycle service. It ran over to Virginia, and you gave them your watch, and they ran it over there for you, and one hour later you came back and got your money.”

“But that was—different.”

“I don’t see any difference.”

Whether Mr. Cantrell’s face was any redder than usual, whether his expression of embarrassment was real or feigned, it would be hard to say. At any rate, he received a stiff reprimand in court. Mr. Bleeker, the District Attorney, was no more unpleasant about it than he could help, but he made it plain that if the police, instead of taking things in their own hands, had consulted his office about it, the town would be spared an exhibition of over-zealousness that went beyond anything in his experience. The truth was, he went on without bothering to look at his former partner, Mr. Yates, who was defending Ben, that there was no law under which the case could be prosecuted. So long as no book was made in Lake City, so long as the Mercury Company acted solely to transmit moneys entrusted to their care, there was nothing that could be done about it and he would have to move to dismiss. Mr. Himmelhaber nodded. “Chief Cantrell, this doesn’t happen to be your case.”

“I acted as I thought best, your honor.”

“As Castleton is across the state line, it’s clearly a Federal matter, so I wholly agree with Mr. Bleeker: there’s nothing for me to do but dismiss your prisoner.”

“It’s not up to me to decide it, your honor.”

“This is a Federal matter.”

Mr. Yates soliloquized a little, as soon as he and Ben were on the street again. “You’d think it was a Federal matter. It would certainly
seem
that they’d have a law covering it, so the F.B.I., or somebody, could take charge and rub you out. However, they haven’t. I’ve been looking it up. It’s perfectly legal.”

The five o’clock Mercury plane was just winging in as Ben poured June’s cocktail, and he stepped to the window to admire it. “Look at that little green beauty—and think what she’s bringing in with her. All but one favorite lost today, and that means there’ll be four hundred we split on this one trip alone. Plenty of dough you’re making for Dorothy. How is she, by the way?”

“She’s all right, thank you.”

“Summer camp closed?”

“Yes. I sent her back to college.”

“Oh—I didn’t know that.”

“Not to the one she’d been attending, of course. I couldn’t have got her back there, after the trouble over the—missing articles. But there’s another little place where they accepted her, and she can complete her senior year.”

“Near here?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just being sociable.”

“I prefer not to say.”

The plane was dipping down for the airport now and Ben watched it for a minute or two, taking sips out of his cocktail, always blotting his lips with his handkerchief.

Presently he said: “I love that little thing. And the beauty of it is, the whole thing’s on the up-and-up. We’re not putting anything over on Jansen this time. It’s legal, the District Attorney says it’s legal, the court says it’s legal. And to think of what Delany would have cut in for, if he’d wanted to stick—just because he knows a lug in Chicago by the name of Frankie Horizon. The hook-up in Castleton was so easy it made me laugh. The cops fixed it up on account of the favor we did them after the bank stick-up. You and I, we just didn’t realize that we’d made a few pretty good friends.”

“Do you have to say ‘we’?”

“Anything you like.”

“I’d rather you left me out, if you don’t mind.”

Ben sighed, went around turning on the lights, took June’s
coat from her, hung it in a closet. It was a mink coat, of smart length and cut, and he admired it before he slipped it on the hanger. At any rate he sank his nose into it, to feel its softness, and to smell it. He seemed to be in an amiable humor. He sat on the arm of her chair, touched her black curls.