No Pockets in a Shroud Read online

  'Just write the story, Ed. I'll handle the details.'

  'All right. I hope to hell you know what you're doing. When the Grand Jury calls you, you'd better have something to tell em.

  'I'll have it. Myra—get Mrs. Marsden on the phone for me, will you?'

  'What's her number?' Myra asked, narrowing her eyes, biting her lips.

  'Look it up—in the book, will you?' Dolan said, staring thoughtfully at the wall...

  'That will be all, Emery,' Mrs. Marsden said, as the butler placed the tray on the Renaissance coffee-table. 'How do you like your tea, Michael—straight or cream and sugar or lemon?'

  'Cream and sugar and lemon,' Dolan said.

  'All three?'

  'Er—yes, please,' Dolan said, realizing from her tone that he had said the wrong thing. 'Isn't that right to ask for all three? I never had tea before. I don't know.'

  'You're the most refreshing person I've ever met,' Mrs. Marsden said, smiling. 'You're so naive. Suppose you try it with just cream and sugar.'

  'All right—'

  'Two lumps?'

  'Yes, thank you,' he said, taking the tea. 'I didn't mean to put you to any trouble—'

  'Oh, no trouble ...'

  'Heard from Mary Margaret lately? ...'

  'Yesterday. She loves Mexico City.'

  'I don't blame her. I like foreign cities too. Some day I'm going to Mexico City—and the South Seas.'

  'Have you ever been to the South Seas?'

  'Only sitting in the last row of a movie theatre. That's not very satisfactory.'

  'I thought I'd take a trip in the fall. A cruise to the islands—'

  'That'll be swell. I'll bet Mary Margaret'll like that. She loves to travel.'

  'I wouldn't take her,' Mrs. Marsden said. 'That wouldn't be much fun for me. Wouldn't you like to go?'

  'Me? Oh, I couldn't—'

  'Why not? You could be in Los Angeles and I could happen through and—'

  'It'd be marvellous, but—'

  'Why not? More tea?'

  'No, thanks. Oh, I just couldn't. I've got the magazine—'

  'You think you'll have it by then?'

  'I hope so—the way it looks now I won't, though. That's why I came out to see you. I don't know who else to go to. I was wondering—'

  'Money?—'

  'Yes. Temporary, of course. It's not well established yet, but as soon as it is, the business houses will give us ads and then we'll be all right. We can pay back the people who've had confidence in us—'

  'How much money will it take to ferry you over?'

  'Well, it takes about a thousand a week—'

  'And how many weeks before you will be able to make expenses?'

  'Oh, a couple of weeks. Maybe three.'

  'Mightn't it take six?'

  'It might—'

  'Then you want to borrow six thousand dollars?'

  'Yes, but, of course, I'll pay you back—'

  'Yes, yes, I know,' Mrs. Marsden said, smiling wisely, standing up. 'I'll write you a check, Michael. But why don't you take this money and go away somewhere—and have a good time and forget the magazine? There'd be some point to giving it to you then—'

  'The magazine means too much to me—the town needs it. You know what I'm trying to do with it—'

  'That's why I don't see why you don't take the money and go away. To Los Angeles, say—until fall...'

  'I can't—'

  'Well—if you haven't had your illusions shattered by now, I won't do it. But you know you've picked out a sort of herculean job, don't you?'

  'Sure—'

  '—My check-book's upstairs in my bedroom. You'd better come along and tell me who to make it out to,' Mrs. Marsden said, moving away...

  * * * * *

  Six-feet one, a hundred and ninety-five pounds of forty-four-year-old he-man, with a brown walrus moustache, Bud McGonagill looked exactly what he was supposed to look like, a peace officer. He was the sheriff of Colton county.

  'I thought I'd best come here,' he said, looking around Dolan's room. 'Nice place you got—'

  'Yeah, comfortable. What's the beef, Bud?'

  'No beef, Mike. I didn't want to do any talking in my office. Best not to take chances. That's why I waited till dark to come.'

  'You're right. Well, sit down, Bud, there's no dictaphones in here. How've you been?'

  'Okay. Ain't seen you in a month—'

  'I've been pretty busy with the magazine—'

  'Good magazine, Mike. I like it. I guess it's a relief from working on the paper—'

  'It certainly is. Imagine what a relief it'd be to you if you could go out and pinch people who ought to be pinched. It's the same thing.'

  'That day won't never come for me, Mike. There'll always be them that's hooked up right with the Big Boys. It gripes me, but I can't do nothing about it like you. Hell, I got three kids in college—'

  'How're they doing? How's Terry?'

  'Fine, just fine. Terry wrote me he'd heard from you—'

  'I wrote him before I left the paper. Swell kid. Great football player. Ail-American next season, Bud—'

  'I dunno, since you're off the paper. You done a lot for Terry—getting publicity in the big papers and magazines—'

  'Terry doesn't need me, Bud. He's a cinch all-American. He'd made it last year but for the advance advertising Wilson and Grayson and Berwanger got. You know how that is. You need a year's build-up before you're selected—'

  'I hope so. Mind if I smoke?'

  'Certainly not. Come on, Bud, spill it. You're a lousy actor.'

  'Well—I been hearing things about you, Mike,' McGonagill said slowly.

  'What kind of things?'

  'Some of the boys been hearing a lot of talk around the courthouse about you and your magazine. Seems like you're going to clean up the county or something.'

  'Sooner or later I'll get around to it, but that oughtn't to bother you, Bud. You're on the level.'

  'Oh, I ain't afraid of no investigation or anything like that. I been a pretty good sheriff, I guess. I ain't worried about me. I'm worried about you.'

  'Me?'

  'Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I didn't know whether you realized what you were up against.'

  'I ought to. That's all I've heard since I started the magazine—what I was up against and what was liable to happen to me. But that isn't going to stop me, Bud. I'm a hard-headed Mick. I've got my neck bowed. I've got enough money to keep the thing going now whether anybody advertises or not, and I've got my neck bowed.'

  'Mike, I like you. You've done a lot for me—and for Terry, getting that scholarship and everything—but you're trying to make a pair of deuces beat three aces. Now, I been around this county a hell of a long time—and I know what's what.'

  Dolan came around and stood before him.

  'You're swell to come here, Bud—and I appreciate it. But I'm going through with this. I'm sick of all this goddam thieving and conniving and murdering. I could never spend another peaceful night if I quit now.'

  'By God, I'm glad you said that,' McGonagill said, sticking out his hand. 'I'm for you. I told Jack Carlisle you wouldn't—'

  'Did Jack Carlisle send you here?'

  'He asked me to drop by. He knew we were friends. He wanted me to sort of tell you he wouldn't want to be annoyed by no bad publicity—'

  'So that's why you came?'

  'Nope, I could have said that over the phone. I came to bring you this—' he reached into his pocket, taking out a paper and a badge. 'This is a special deputy's commission—and here's your badge. I kind of thought maybe you might feel a little better if you had 'em.'

  'Well—thanks, Bud,' Dolan said, a lump in his throat.

  'Oh, that ain't all. Here,' he said, taking a pistol and holster out of his hip pocket. 'They ain't much good without this. That's a .380 automatic—already got four notches on it. Belonged to Percy Yard. You remember Percy—'

  'Sure, I remember. Hell, Bud—this is
damned swell of you.'

  'I dated the commission back six months so's nothing could be said. That's a swell gun, Mike. I hope you don't have to use it, but if you do it'll be nice to know it's on the side of right instead of the side it was on.'

  'Well, I don't know what to say, Bud. I hope I don't have to use it. If I got in a jam I'd probably get so excited I'd shoot myself with it. I don't think I'll need it—'

  'You'd better have it, anyway. You got a right to carry it. I guess if Jack Carlisle can get special commissions for his own thugs, I can get one for a pal of mine. What's this story you're going to print about his brother? About his abortions?'

  'You know anything about him?' Dolan asked, surprised.

  'A little. I know a girl used to work for him—'

  'What was her name?'

  'I don't remember just now. I can find out.'

  'Will you, Bud? Will you find out? Maybe she could help me—'

  'Sure. I'll telephone you. Where can I get you?'

  'Lawrence Publishing Company. Maybe I'd better phone you?'

  'I can remember that all right—well, Mike, anything I can do—you know, anything on the q.t.—just sound off. You know the kind of spot I'm in and everything—'

  'I know. I'll be careful, Bud. Thanks again for everything,' Dolan said, shaking hands, walking out with him.

  'Keep your head up, Mike,' McGonagill said ...

  Dolan finished reading Bishop's story and looked at Myra.

  'What do you think?'

  'Swell,' Myra said. 'You're swell too. First time I've seen you in a tuxedo. Where're you going?'

  'I'm talking about the story,' Dolan said.

  'It's got all the facts,' Bishop said. 'I still don't think we can nail Carlisle with this alone, but at least we can start the ball rolling.'

  'I told you not to worry about the details—'

  'I just don't want the Grand Jury to catch us with our pants down, that's all.'

  'They won't—'

  'Who're we going after next?'

  'Your old pal, Nestor. We're going to find out how a police commissioner can build a big home in Weston Park and ride in a Deusenberg on four thousand a year—'

  'That'll be fun,' Bishop said. 'I'll enjoy that. Of course,' he went on airily, 'the most fun'll come when they strap me in the electric chair or blow the top of my head off.'

  'It won't be that bad,' Dolan said, struggling with his tie. 'All those guys are yellow.'

  'Yeah? Well, I hope you're right—'

  'My, my,' Myra said. 'Aren't you beginning to look elegant? Would you like to have some help with your tie?'

  'Thanks, I can manage. And I don't like your cheap goddam sarcasm either.'

  'Now, was I being sarcastic?' Myra said, turning to Bishop. 'Was I? I merely remarked that you looked elegant and you bark at me. What's the matter—guilty conscience?'

  'Why should I have a guilty conscience?'

  'Oh—many reasons. You might be going out with Lillian or—'

  'Lillian? What gave you that idea?'

  'Well, you see, I'm a logician,' Myra explained. 'She is a beautiful girl, and she is very high in society and her father also has loads of money, and she has a very bad case of what is vulgarly known as hot pants for you. All those qualities in a girl have attracted you in the past, so I naturally presumed they would continue to attract you.'

  'Look. I'm putting on this tuck because I haven't worn it in a couple of months,' Dolan said patiently, spreading his hands. 'I am positively going no place in particular. I am going to drop in at the Little Theatre soon, just casually, as if I had already been some place where I had to dress. I want to take a quick look at the new show which opened night before last and say “hello” to David, to whom I still owe fifteen hundred bucks—and say “hello” to the very few people who are still my friends. Does that satisfy your goddam curiosity?'

  'Not bad, not bad,' Myra said. 'You certainly make it sound convincing. It's too bad you had to give up acting.'

  'For God's sake, Ed—will you get this dame out of here before I cut her throat?'

  'I'd love to oblige you, but I've got to get home. One of the kids is down with the flu. Anything else you wanted to see me about?'

  'No; the Carlisle story was all. Thanks for bringing it over.'

  'Okay. Good night,' Bishop said, getting up, going out.

  'Why don't you go home, too?' Dolan said to Myra, slipping into his coat.

  'I don't feel like going back to that hall bedroom. I feel like staying here. I'll make myself comfortable—'

  'I get it. You think I'm going to bring a girl home with me, don't you?'

  'Now, what on earth ever gave you that idea?' Myra said. 'I trust you implicitly, Michael—implicitly. I trust you just as far as I can throw that bookcase with both hands tied behind me.'

  'Oh, God,' Dolan said.

  'And if I were you,' Myra went on, 'I wouldn't bring any young woman home with me. It would be a little uncomfortable sleeping three in that bed.... Aren't you forgetting something?' she asked, stopping him at the door. 'Don't you want your new automatic?'

  'You keep it. Do me a favour and stick the front end in your mouth and pull the trigger. But not on my bed. Those are fresh sheets...'

  * * * * *

  When Dolan got backstage the show was almost over, the fourth act of Anna Christie, the scene where Burke tells Anna he has signed on the Londonderry for Cape Town. Dolan stood in the wings for a few minutes, looking, wondering who the new man was playing Burke, then he walked on back through the big fire-door and downstairs to the Bamboo Room. Johnny London, David, and April were lounging on the wicker furniture.

  'Hello, April—'

  'Hello, Mike,' she said, standing up.

  'Well—I see your hair finally dried—'

  'I think I'll live over it,' she said, abruptly going out.

  'What's the matter with her?' Dolan asked, puzzled.

  'Maybe it's the shock of seeing you around the theatre,' David said. 'What are you made up for?'

  'I just came from a party. How're you, Johnny?'

  'Fine. You're looking prosperous—'

  'Two more payments and it's mine. Who's the fellow playing Burke? I thought Pat Mitchell was doing it—'

  'Pat's got the mumps. This chap's name's Wycoff,' David said. 'Learned the part in eight hours. How'd you like him?'

  'I only saw a few minutes of him. Looked good—'

  'He ought to. He's been in stock for years.'

  'What's April doing around here? She in the show?'

  'No—you tell him, Johnny—'

  'None of my business. You tell him.'

  'April's got a crush on Emil,' David said, grinning.

  'You mean Emil, the electrician?'

  'That's the one—'

  'When did this start?'

  'Three or four days ago. Only this time she's really blown her topper. Says she can't live without him. She was telling us about his poetic soul when you came in—'

  'So that's why she left. What does Roy Menefee say about it, Johnny?'

  'He's sore as hell, but what can he do? Poor bastard, I feel sorry for him. If she were my wife, I'd punch her in the nose.'

  'She needs it, all right,' Dolan said. 'Where's the Major?'

  'On stage somewhere, I guess—'

  'I think I'll stroll up. See you one of these days, Dave, and have a long talk and make a report—'

  'No hurry, Mike—'

  'So long,' Dolan said, walking out.

  On the steps he met Timothy Adamson.

  'Could I speak to you a minute, Mike?' he asked.

  'Sure, Tim—come on upstairs—'

  'I'm glad you came here,' Timothy said, following him up to the corridor. 'I was going to see you tomorrow—'

  'What's on your mind?'

  'You know how long I've been around this theatre, don't you, Mike?'

  'Yes. Couple of years—'

  'Nearer three. And in those three years I've
never had a good part. I'm always the understudy. I'm not squawking about that, because there was no chance to use me until a month ago. Remember when you walked out of Lilion? They gave it to David. Now Pat Mitchell gets the mumps and they put some new guy, some old-time stock actor, in the part of Burke. It's goddam unfair.'

  'I think it is too, Tim, but why don't you speak to the Major about it?'

  'I did. He says he can't trust me in a big part, because I haven't had the experience. How the hell am I going to get the experience if he won't trust me? God, I'd rather act than eat. I want to get somewhere in the theatre. There was no reason for putting that new guy in the part of Burke. I know that part perfectly. How can I ever be a good actor if I don't ever get started?'

  'You're right, Tim—dead right. What do you want me to do?'

  'You could speak to the Major—'

  'That wouldn't do any good. He's off me.'

  'Well, I see your magazine, and I think what you're trying to do is swell. Can't you write something about this situation around here? Hell, they break a guy's heart. I wouldn't be asking you to do it, but after all this is supposed to be a Little Theatre—where people with talent have a chance. It's supposed to be wide open. The way it is it's worse than a Broadway show.'

  'You're perfectly right—perfectly.'

  'Will you write something in your magazine? You're the only guy in town who can straighten this thing out—'

  'Yes—I'll write something. I definitely will'

  'Don't be sore at me for asking you—'

  'Sore at you? Listen. This is the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me. This is the nicest compliment I ever got.'

  'Thanks, Mike.'

  'Thank you, Tim. Have you seen the Major?'

  'He's over on that side—by the switchboard—'

  Dolan nodded and walked through the corridor, past the dressing-rooms, and through the other fire-door on to the stage right. There were several people standing around, and when his eyes had adjusted themselves to the darkness he made out April and Emil, the electrician, in a corner by the switchboard, standing close together.

  'She's an indiscreet little bitch,' Dolan said to himself, looking around for the Major. Finally he saw him and went over and tapped him on the shoulder, motioning for him to come back into the corridor. In a moment they tiptoed off.