Magician's Wife by James M. Cain

came, and when Clay answered, The Pilot city desk told him they had heard a rumor, “a tip from Mankato, Minnesota, that you’re to be president of Grant’s. Anything to it?” Pat talked, to confirm, and soon a reporter came, accompanied by a photographer, when Clay took the floor, suddenly very important. “There’s a revolution in meat,” he proclaimed, as though making a speech to Rotary, though pausing every so often so the reporter could catch up with his notes. “We’ve come a long way since Grant’s was founded in the northwest Land o’ Lakes, because that’s where the ice was, just as it was at Chicago, that they cut in winter, stored till summer, and chilled the meat with. Now there’s ice all over, but the revolution goes on—in storing, cutting, packing, and, most of all, distributing. And so far as Grant’s is concerned, we don’t follow that revolution—we lead it. We’re in the forefront of it—have been, are still, and will be.”
    The photographer hustled out to develop his film, and then the reporter left. Pat brooded, finally remarking: “That proves it, Clay, what I was saying before. Because while you seized the opportunity and said what the moment called for, what was I doing? Looking at your pictures and grappling with the problem of who’s to paint your portrait. All Grant’s, Inc., presidents are done in oil for the board room, with fingers suitably stuck into their coat lapel: my grandfather, like Washington crossing the Rubicon; my father, like Lincoln at Valley Forge, and me, like Napoleon at Appomattox. I’ll get to Sven next, but that still is going to leave you. However, God willing, I hope—”
    â€œSuppose I had a candidate?”
    â€œWell, now, that would be a help. Who is he?”
    â€œSo happens, it’s a she.”
    â€œAh! Ah! Ah!”
    â€œFor this job how much do you pay?”
    â€œFour-figure money, I think.”
    â€œConsider your problem solved.”
    He could hardly wait, when Pat took a cab to the hotel, to call Grace. She seemed a bit sleepy, even a bit grumpy, but eagerly he poured out the news of his luck. “Maybe I shouldn’t have waked you up,” he admitted, “but I wanted to tell you myself, before you saw the papers—and this is the first chance I’ve had. Pat has just gone home.”
    â€œWell! I’m certainly glad.”
    â€œBut, Grace, that isn’t all there is to tell!”
    Bubbling with excitement, he told about the picture, saying: “Of course, we know it’s done, but they don’t—Grant’s, I mean. And, Grace, they’ll pay! Four-figure money, he said, which is at least a thousand dollars. Is that worth waking up for? Is it?”
    â€œ... I imagine it better wait.”
    â€œWait? For what?”
    â€œTill you’ve straightened things out with Sally.”
    â€œSally? What does she have to do with it?”
    â€œHaven’t you told her?”
    â€œNo, and I don’t intend to!”
    â€œClay, you’d better.”
    â€œAre you starting that over again? Why? ”
    â€œFor the same old reason: you’re in love with her. And, for another reason, Clay: she’s going to be at the party!”
    â€œ... You mean— Bunny’s? ”
    â€œI picked out her dress this afternoon.”
    â€œI’m sorry I woke you, Grace.”
    â€œYou stay away from that party, dumbbell. Did you hear what I said? Let Pat go there alone—send Bunny three dozen roses, five dozen, ten. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go!”

11
    T HE GRANLUND HOUSE, KNOWN as “Calvert Hall,” was a fine specimen of old Maryland architecture, as well as an object lesson in the difference between things as they are and things as they seem, if adroitly distorted. From Queen Caroline Street, seen at a distance, screened by shrubbery and dwarfed by stately