Lady, Here's Your Wreath (18 page)

     I stood, holding the 'phone, going a little cold. I'd forgotten that. Katz could have got me in a jam. I was glad he was dead, I never did have any use for that guy.
     “Okay, Mo,” I said, “I'm goin' back to bed. Listen, I've got Mardi, and we're keeping under cover for a bit. I'll watch the newspapers; when the trial's over, we'll come back. I ain't riskin' that baby gettin' drawn into it.”
     “You keep out of it,” Ackie agreed. “Give her my love, an' look after her, you tramp—she's a grand girl.”
     “You're tellin' me,” I said. “'Bye, pal, an' watch yourself,” and I hung up.
     I ran upstairs and into the bedroom. Mardi was sitting up in bed, waiting for ma. I could see something was wrong by the tense expression in her eyes. I didn't say anything about it, but began to get undressed.
     “I've had a talk with Ackie,” I said, pulling off my shirt. “He's crazy with excitement. The whole thing's blown up an' Spencer's in jail. Everyone's in jail, an' you an' I don't have to worry any more.”
     She said, “Is Lee Curtis in jail?”
     I stopped, holding my trousers in one hand, and stared at her. “Lee Curtis? Why worry about him? Ackie said they were all in jail.”
     “But did he say Lee Curtis was in jail?” Her voice was almost hard.
     I came over and sat on the bed. “What makes you ask about him... more than the others?”
     She looked at me in an odd way, and shook her head. “I just wanted to know.”
     There was something behind this, but I didn't want to press it. “He didn't mention Curtis, but he's being taken care of, all right.”
     “Oh,” she said in a flat voice, and looked at her finger-nails carefully. I sat on the bed, in my B.V.D.'s. I was beginning to feel like hell, but I couldn't get to sleep until I got this straightened.
     “Tell me, baby,” I said gently.
     She looked up at me, and her eyes were big and wild. “Nick, do you love me?” she said. “Do you really love me? Not just for yesterday and to-day, but for to-morrow and all the to-morrows?”
     I put my hand over hers. “You're everythin' to me, Mardi,” I said, and meant it.
     She said, “Will you do something big for me? Something that'll mean you love me?”
     I nodded. “Sure, what is it?”
     “I want you and me to go away. Never come back to this State. To go south a long way, and start all over again—will you do that?”
     “You mean never come back?” I asked.
     “Yes.”
     “But, Mardi, we've gotta live. My connections are here. I've lived here so long. I'm known here. I'll keep away with you until the trial is over, but if I've to earn dough it's here that I can earn it.”
     She shook her head. “Money doesn't matter. I have all we want.” She pulled a long envelope out of the bedclothes and put it into my hand. “Look, it's for you.”
     I opened the envelope blankly and shook out a bundle of bearer bonds. There were twenty thousand dollars. I pushed the bonds away from me and sat a little stunned, looking at her.
     “They're mine,” she said fiercely. “They're for you and me—with that, surely we can go away and you can start again.”
     I said, “But, Mardi, that's a lot of money for a girl to have. How did you get it?”
     She said, “At the Mackenzie Fabrics. I saved and I heard tips. Spencer invested for me ”
     “I see.”
     She began to cry. “Say you'll take the money and come away with me, Nick—please....”
     I rolled into bed beside her, shoving the envelope under her pillow. “Suppose we leave it until to-morrow? We'll be able to think clearly to-morrow,” I said.
     I felt her stiffen. “No,” she said, “it must be now. I couldn't sleep. I must know. It's so important to me.”
     “Why is it, Mardi? Why should you want to hide yourself away?”
     “Nick, you'll lose me if you go back,” she said, suddenly sobbing violently. “I can't tell you why, but I feel that is what will happen. You must say now.”
     And because nothing really mattered to me except her happiness, and because I knew she loved me as much as I loved her, I gave her the promise.
     She said, “You really mean that?”
     “Yeah,” I said. “We'll take the car on and we'll go to the coast. We'll get us a small house somewhere near the sea with a garden and we'll be just you an' I.”
     “And you'll be happy?”
     “Sure, I'll be happy. I'll find something to do.” Lying there in the dark, I suddenly felt fine about the idea. We'd got money, we were going to the sun, and we had each other.
     

     
     WE GOT A PLACE a few miles out from Santa Monica. It was small, but it was cute—the kind of place movie-stars week-end in. As soon as we saw it, we fell for it. The garden ran down to the sea, and if you wanted a bathe you just opened a gate in the wall and stepped on to the hot yellow sands. The sea was right ahead.
     The house had two bedrooms and a large sitting-room leading out to a piazza that encircled the whole building. The garden was big enough to screen the house from the road. The rent was high, but we didn't think twice about it—we took it.
     Maybe I should have felt a heel taking all that money from Mardi, but I didn't. If the money had been mine, I should have wanted Mardi to share it with me. Well, the money was hers, and I wasn't going to spoil things by refusing to share with her.
     We had a grand time fixing that house up. It took us a week to get straight, and we did all the work ourselves, even to fixing the carpets. When we got through, we were tickled to death with it.
     Getting Mardi to the sea was a good thing. In a week or so it began to make a big difference to her. She lost the drawn, tense look that had begun to worry me, and she tanned mighty quick in the sunshine and sea air. She was happy and so was I. I reckon I never felt happier.
     We got up every morning and had a bathe in the sea. It was grand swimming in that deep blue water, with no one to watch us— just the two of us, in the rolling swell of the sea. Mardi wore a white swim-suit that made her figure look better than it was, and that's saying something. She never bothered about wearing a cap, and we played around with each other without a care in the world.
     Mardi said to me, a couple of weeks after we had settled down, “Nick, you must start working.” I'd just come out of the sea, and was lying down on the sand, too lazy to dry myself, and letting the hot sunshine do it for me.
     “That's okay with me,” I said. “I'll look around and see what I can find.”
     Mardi knelt over me, her knees and thighs buried in the soft sand and her hands crossed in her lap.
     “Nick,” she said, “I've been thinking. Why don't you write a book?”
     I blinked up at her. “Write a book?” I said. “Why, hell— I couldn't write a book.”
     She shook her head. “You've never tried,” she said, which was true. “Look how some novels sell. Why don't you try, and see what happens?”
     “Yeah, but look how some flop. I guess novel-writing ain't so hot.”
     She said, “Why don't you write a novel about a newspaper man? Don't you think you could do that?”
     There was an idea there. I sat up and thought about it. Ackie had enough background to fill three books, and I had had a few experiences. Mardi could see that I was looking at the idea favourably, and she began to get excited. “Oh, Nick, wouldn't it be fun if you could. You wouldn't have to leave me then, would you? I could get your meals and sit around darning your socks, and you could be working——”
     I grinned at her. “Don't sound much fun for you,” I said, but she scrambled to her feet.
     “You stay and think about it, Nick,” she said. “I'll go back to the house and get the breakfast on. I'll call you.”
     Well, I thought about it, and the more I thought the more I liked the idea. Before she called me, I was itching to make a start. I went back to the house, bolted my breakfast and got down to it. It took me all the morning to work out the general idea of the book, and when I was through it seemed pretty good to me.
     I took it along to Mardi, who was in the kitchen, and explained the synopsis to her. She leant against the kitchen table, her eyes wide and bright with excitement, and was as enthusiastic about it as I was.
     “Okay, honey,” I said, when I had finished. “The next move is to get a typewriter, and I'll make a start.”
     It took me two months to get the book done, and if it hadn't been for Mardi it would never have been written. I got stuck half-way through and lost patience with it, but Mardi kept at me until I just had to go on. She was so excited that I hadn't the heart to fold up. When it was finished, and I read it through, I knew I had something. It wasn't going to be a best seller or anything like that, but it was good enough.
     Mardi said, “This is only the beginning; you're going to write more and more and you will very soon be famous.”
     I grinned at her. “Don't pin too much on this. Maybe it'll come back with the usual rejection slip.”
     Mardi had faith. It didn't come back, it stuck. A couple of months after sending it off, I had a letter from the publishers in New York I had mailed it to, saying that they liked it and would I come on over and meet them.
     I didn't expect to hear so soon, and we were right in the middle of painting the outside of the house. Mardi insisted on my going, and she stayed behind to finish the work. I knew she'd be all right on her own. We'd been clear of the trial and things had settled down. Spencer and his gang had all caught pretty stiff raps, and although, at the time, Mardi was pretty het up, she'd forgotten about the business by now.
     So I took the train west and left her. The publishers were mighty nice to me, offered me a very fair advance, and a contract for two more books. I wasn't going to waste time hanging around New York. Once I got their contract signed, I grabbed a taxi and made for Central Station. I found I'd got a couple of hours before I could make connections to Santa Monica, so I turned into the refreshment bar for a drink, before deciding where lid go to pass the time. Standing at the bar was Colonel Kennedy.
     He said, “Well, this is a surprise.”
     I took his hand. “You're right,” I said. “Colonel, this is a fine time to meet you. I've got a lot to thank you for.”
     We ordered more drinks and made ourselves comfortable. “What have you been doing all this time?” he asked, once we were settled.
     “I'm living at Santa Monica now with my wife,” I said. “You know, I've never thanked you enough for letting me have your lodge for a honeymoon.”
     He grinned. “That's all right, Nick,” he said. “I'm glad I had it to lend you. Why live so far away? I guess I'd like to meet that wife of yours.”
     - “Well, what are you doing? Why not come on over for a week or so? We'd be glad to have you with us.”
     He shook his head regretfully. “I can't, I'm afraid. I've got commitments right now.”
     I smiled. “They're still falling for you, Colonel?” I said.
     He nodded. “I guess I haven't much to worry about,” he said.
     I glanced at the clock. “I've got almost two hours before I pull out,” I said. “How about having lunch with me?”
     He slid off the stool. “Sure, I'd be glad to.”
     Now that I had met up with him again, a sudden curiosity to file off the rough ends of the Spencer business seized me. When we got seated in a quiet little restaurant not far from the station and had given our order, I got the conversation round to the angle I wanted it to go.
     “Colonel,” I said. “You remember the Mackenzie Fabrics trial?”
     He Looked at me, and nodded. I wasn't sure, but I fancied he looked a little taken aback. “Yes, I remember it—caused quite a sensation.”
     “Yeah,” I said, “I was in that business right up to my neck.”
     “You were?”
     “Yeah. I'd like to tell you about it, because I think you could finish the tale off for me.”
     He shook his head. “I don't know a thing about it,” he protested.
     “Wait a minute, Colonel,” I said. “Maybe I can jog your memory.”
     I took him carefully through the whole story, and he sat there, his lunch forgotten. When I had finished with the death of Blondie, and how Mardi and I had quietly slipped away to Santa Monica, he sat back and gently blew his cheeks out. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “That's some yam. I can't see where I come in, for all that.”
     This is where it was going to be a little tricky. “You remember when the newspaper boys had you bottled up at the lodge with a girl friend, Colonel?” I said.
     He frowned. “Now I don't want to go into that,” he said abruptly.
     “The girl friend was the woman on the telephone,” I told him quietly. “I want to know who she was.”
     He shook his head. “You've made a mistake.”
     “I'm givin' you this straight. I heard her voice, and that was enough for me. I'd know that voice anywhere.”
     “I can't discuss this any further, Nick. I'm sorry.”
     I said, “Listen, Colonel. I've got a right to know. That dame might have caused me a lotta grief. The trial's over, and the whole thing's washed up. You know me well enough to know that I won't use any information you give me. It's just that it is an unsatisfactory ending— not knowing.”
     He sat brooding. “I guess maybe you have a right,” he said with a little smile. “I wouldn't tell it to any other man, but you've done a lot for me.”
     He was just saving his conscience, but that didn't worry me.
     “Thank you, Colonel; it'll go no further.”
     He hummed and hawed a bit, then said, “I don't know who she was—that's the truth. She came out to see me, representing a fellow named Lee Curtis. This fellow was associated with the Mackenzie Fabrics Co. and I had just put in for a bundle of their stock. This girl was authorised by Curtis to make me an offer for them. She was a devilish pretty woman, and I asked her to stay to dinner while we discussed the matter. I was curious to know why Curtis, who was the secretary of the place, should want to get hold of such a large block.”
     “How much was it?” I asked.
     Kennedy shrugged. “I forget now, I think it was about ten thousand dollars—something like that. Anyway, we had dinner. All the time, she refused to give me her name, but kept on selling me the idea of parting with the stock. She had some story which didn't convince me, but in the end I decided to negotiate. Curtis was offering a high percentage on the stock, and I thought it might be worth while.”
     “You mean, you don't know who she was?” I said, disappointed.
     “No—I don't. The rest of the story doesn't reflect to my glory, but you may as well have it. Once the business part was over, and she gave me Curtis's cheque, I thought we might get a little more friendly. I did tell you that she was a remarkably pretty woman?”
     I nodded a little grimly. “Yeah—you mentioned it.”
     “Well, she got a little scared and pulled a gun. I was never so astonished in my life. I tried to take the damn thing away from her, and it went off. The rest of the story you know.”
     I sat back. “Well, that don't get me very far,” I said. “I was hoping to tie that dame down.”
     Kennedy glanced at the clock. “You'll have to be on the move or you'll lose your train.”
     I beckoned the waiter for the bill. Kennedy said hastily, “I'll pay that.”
     I shook my head. “I've just sold a book, Colonel. I guess it's a nice experience to buy a guy, with all the dough you've got, a lunch.”
     Kennedy laughed. “I'm glad you've settled down, Nick. But you're not to hide yourself away. You must bring your wife up to town.”
     I took out my wallet and found a ten-dollar bill which I gave to the waiter. A photo of Mardi was amongst my papers, and I flipped it across to Kennedy. “That's my wife, Kennedy—you'll think she's a grand girl when you meet her.”
     I took the change from the waiter and gave him a buck for himself. Then I turned to see what Kennedy was making of Mardi. He was sitting staring at me, his face a little white and his eyes like granite.
     I said, “What's wrong?”
     He said in a hard voice, “What's the idea, Mason?”
     I stared at him. “You gone screwy, Colonel?”
     He tapped Mardi's photograph. “If you knew about this girl, why ask me?”
     I sat for a full minute, staring at him. Then I said, “That's my wife, Colonel—I don't know what you're gettin' at.”
     “That's the woman Curtis sent to me to negotiate the stock I was telling you about.”
     I pushed back my chair. “You've made a mistake,” I said unsteadily. “That's Mardi—my wife.”
     He picked up the photograph and looked at it carefully. All the time he was doing that, my heart was beating against my ribs like a pile-driver. Then he looked up. “Who was your wife before she married you, Nick?” he said.
     With the sudden horrible feeling of things crumbling, I said, “She was Spencer's secretary.”
     Kennedy pushed the photograph across the table towards me. “It fits, doesn't it?” he said quietly. “There's no doubt about it, Nick.”
     . I just sat there in a heap. Kennedy wasn't the kind of a guy who made mistakes. I said unevenly, “But this is crazy.”
     He got to his feet. “Suppose we leave it, Nick? I've got to run along. I'll be seeing you.” He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then walked out of the restaurant. I picked up the photograph and put it in my wallet. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I got up, pushing the chair away from me with the back of my legs and walked over to the hat rack. I put my hat and coat on slowly. The waiters were looking at me curiously, but I didn't care about them; then I went outside into the street.
     The train to Santa Monica was already in the station and I got a seat. I settled myself and looked out of the window. My eyes didn't see anything, and although it was a hot day I felt cold.
     The train began to glide out of the station, taking me back to Santa Monica—and to something I was frightened to face.