Magician's Wife by James M. Cain Page B

eager to help Mrs. Granlund prove her distinguished origin, before she invested it in restaurant millions. Service, at tables for four in the big dining room, was by a Washington caterer, with elegant Negro help, and not by the Portico staff, which for such an affair was a bit on the folksy side. But Sally had a table for two by the wall near the kitchen door, and from this post of vantage steered things with sharp efficiency. Under these conditions not much could be said, and Clay made no effort to say it, retiring into silence and resuming the sulk that had slipped without his meaning it to. But presently, during a lull, Sally asked in a casual way: “When is he going back? Your most likable Mr. Grant.”
    â€œHe’s taking the four-o’clock plane.”
    â€œYou mean, today?”
    â€œFrom Friendship. I’m riding him there myself.”
    â€œThen you could be free tonight?”
    He looked up to find her staring at him in an arch, innocent way. “I could be,” he answered gruffly. “I am. Why?”
    â€œI could pay you a visit. I still have my key.”
    He was too shaken for some moments to trust himself to look at her. Then he did, and told her: “I’m sure you could, but you’re not going to until quite a few things are explained.”
    â€œIf you mean what I did to your place,” she whispered, leaning close, “I’m not sorry for that—I’m glad. Listen, when I go to you, in the frame of mind I was in, and you —”
    â€œThere’s also that piece in the paper!”
    â€œWhat piece in the paper?”
    He recited The Bosun’s item, and she said: “So you think I tipped him off? All the trouble that that caused me? Do you know what it almost caused? Him breaking off with her—he began making passes at me. Well you must think I’m dumb!”
    â€œO.K., we don’t say any more.”
    â€œOh, yes, we do—we say plenty, now that you’ve brought the subject up, of what I may have done, with good cause, Mr. Lockwood. Where were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
    â€œOh! So you called me!”
    â€œNo, Clay, I rang you.”
    The difference, it seemed, was profound. Calling, wanting to talk, was one thing, she explained in close detail. Ringing him, “making you answer your phone, and then hanging up on you, so you’d never get any sleep—that was something else.” But, she finished, “you never answered your phone. Where were you? Playing around with Buster? Or what?”
    â€œBunny’s looking at you.”
    She laughed gaily for Bunny’s eye, then repeated, leaning close: “Where were you? You louse, I want to know!”
    â€œAt the Chinquapin-Plaza.”
    â€œSo that was it!”
    As he explained she indulged in retroactive rage, at the trick he had played her in not being home in person to suffer the vengeance she’d planned, he in a retroactive gloat at the neat way he had foiled her intention. But retroactivity is fleeting and of low voltage, so presently they laughed, and she said: “So all right, all right, all right. We’ll say no more.”
    â€œNot so fast, not so fast!”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake, Clay! What is it now?”
    â€œYou can come—I can’t very well stop you. I might even be glad to see you. But it’s mock-orange love for you unless you meet my condition.”
    â€œCondition? What condition?”
    â€œSally, the same old one.”
    â€œOh? The Wild-Man-from-Borneo thing? Break up my marriage right away? Go to Reno and all that stuff?”
    â€œThat’s it. You’ve got it.”
    â€œWell, I have to now, of course.”
    He was astonished, staring to make sure she was serious. She seemed to be, and he asked: “What do you mean, ‘ now ’ ? ”
    â€œYou’re going away, I suppose?”
    â€œThat’s right. And soon.”
    â€œThen