No Pockets in a Shroud Read online

  'Have to sort of keep an eye on him,' the Major said. 'First night, you know'

  'You prompting?'

  'No, just standing by. Well, Dolan, how are you?'

  'All right—'

  'You look fine in that outfit—only you know what you should be doing, don't you?'

  'What?'

  'Out there playing Burke. Made to order for you—'

  'That guy seems to be doing all right. Who is he?'

  'Name's Wycoff. Learned the part in eight hours.'

  'I mean—where'd he come from? I don't recall seeing him around—'

  'I dug him up ... Congratulations on your magazine. Hear a lot of talk about it.'

  'You'll hear a lot more, I hope ... I understand Pat Mitchell got the mumps on you—'

  'Yes; too bad.'

  'Major, why didn't you give that part to Timothy?'

  'Oh, now, come, Dolan. After all, I have to do what I think best. I've got the box-office to consider. Has Timothy been talking to you?'

  'I haven't seen him in a month. I knew he'd been hanging around here for three years waiting for a chance, and when I saw this new man on stage I wondered, that's all—'

  'Timothy'll get his chance. But let's talk about you.'

  'I don't want to talk about me. I want to find out what you're going to do about turning this joint back into a Little Theatre—where people can have a chance to develop themselves—'

  'And I don't want to talk about that,' the Major said curtly. “This theatre is my responsibility, and I'm going to direct it the way I think is best.'

  'But you forget this is a community affair, and that the people who support it have something to say—'

  'Are you going to write this up in your magazine?' the Major asked suddenly.

  'I might—'

  'Then I've nothing to say'

  * * * * *

  'All right, but I'm giving you a chance. Do you want to have David write me a statement I can use? I'd like to have your side of it'

  'I want nothing to do with it. You come here belligerently, looking for trouble—'

  'I did no such goddam thing. I came here to say “hello” to a few friends I hadn't seen in a long time. I saw the new man in the part, and that's why I wondered why Timothy wasn't given a chance—'

  'You can't scare me—'

  'I'm not trying to,' Dolan said.

  The fire-door opened and through it rolled the sound of the applause from the auditorium.

  'Excuse me,' the Major said, going on stage ...

  Dolan walked out the stage door to the patio, through the patio to the alley behind the theatre where he had parked his car. He got in behind the wheel, lighted a cigarette, and settled down to wait.

  'Where do you want to go?' Dolan asked, as they rolled along through Sycamore Park.

  'The Hot Spot,' Lillian said. 'I'm hungry.'

  'I don't want to go there—'

  'Why not?'

  'Simply because for the first time in my life I'm using a little judgement. You're the only girl in town whose name hasn't been connected with mine, and I'm not going to the Hot Spot and let your friends see us together. If it got back to your family it might be awkward for you.'

  'I'm not worried about my family. I'm twenty years old—'

  'Just the same, we're not going—'

  'Are you afraid of Myra?'

  'Myra? Certainly not. She's nothing to me—'

  'She thinks she is. She as much as told me to let you alone—'

  'When did she say that?'

  'From time to time. That's why I made the date with you—just to spite her.'

  'You've got a lot of guts,' Dolan said, sore.

  'Oh, I didn't mean that literally,' she said, moving over a little closer. 'You know how I've always felt about you, Mike—'

  'All right,' he said, still surly. 'I'll see that you get fed.'

  Nothing was said for a few blocks.

  'What exactly did Myra say to you about me?' he asked finally.

  'I don't remember—exactly. But it was to the effect that I'd better let you alone.'

  'Is that as close as you can come?'

  'Oh—she said something about you being a child in some things and susceptible to girls, because they were wealthy and social—I don't know—a lot of junk I didn't pay any attention to—'

  'She did, hunh?' Dolan said grimly.

  Nothing was said for a couple more blocks.

  'Lillian—how'd you like to get married?' Dolan asked.

  'I'd like it,' Lillian said.

  'I mean how'd you like to marry me?'

  'That's what I mean,' she said calmly.

  'All right—can you postpone the sandwich till after the wedding?'

  'You can't get married at this time of night—'

  'Can't I? I'll get the license-clerk out of bed and then get Judge Palmer. He's a Justice of the Peace. He'll marry us—'

  'But, Mike,' Lillian said, beginning to get a little excited now. 'What about the ring?'

  'We'll borrow one. He's the marrying Judge. He ought to have a prop ring somewhere. But what about the money? Got any money?'

  'A little. About fifteen dollars—'

  'That's enough. Here we go,' he said, turning around in the middle of the block, going back to the drug-store to telephone ...

  * * * * *

  At two o'clock that morning Mr. and Mrs. Michael Dolan sat at the counter of a small all-night cafe on lower Front Street near the courthouse. They had finished eating, and now they were waiting for the rain to finish raining.

  '... Well,' Lillian said, 'here we are—'

  'Yes, here we are,' Dolan said, laughing. 'You know that story?'

  'What story?'

  'That one. “Well, here we are—“'

  'Is it risque?'

  'It's not that kind of story at all. It's a short story. A magazine story by Dorothy Parker. About a couple that just got married—'

  'Yes?'

  'Never mind forget it,' Dolan said, looking at the window, watching the raindrops slide down. 'You like the rain?'

  'No—'

  'I love it. I wish it would rain all the time. It reminds me of the war.'

  'I shouldn't think you'd want to be reminded of the war after the way you got shot.'

  'I don't mean the war, exactly—I mean France. It reminds me of France.'

  'Paris?'

  'Tours. Blois. Down in the chateau country—'

  'Well, I wish it would hurry up and stop. Mike, where are we going?'

  'You mean tonight?'

  'Yes—'

  'I don't know. I guess you better go home. We can talk this over in the morning—'

  'What is there to talk over? We're married aren't we?'

  'Yes; but there are a lot of things to be done. First of all, I've got to get you a wedding-ring and return that one to the Judge. Then I suppose I'll have to have a talk with your father—sooner or later—'

  'He's in San Francisco.'

  'He is? That's swell! That gives me a little time to figure things out. Look. Don't say anything about this, will you, Lillian? For a while? This marriage will meet with a lot of opposition, and we've got to have time to get ourselves set.'

  'But, Mike—why can't we go somewhere tonight and talk?'

  'We could talk right here. It's not that. It's time I want. I've got to think—'

  'You didn't act like this two hours ago,' Lillian said, pouting a little.

  'Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not a second-guesser. I don't ever regret anything I do. But you must admit it was rather sudden—'

  'I wish we could go to a hotel. I'm going to catch hell for this anyway—I might as well get some kind of dividend—'

  'Come on, the rain's slackened up,' Dolan said, sliding off the stool. 'You're going home—'

  After he had left her at the front door (without kissing her good night) he drove aimlessly around in the drizzling rain, fascinated, as always, by the shining streets and the wetness of t
he smell and the utter loneliness of the city:

  buzz

  buzz

  buzz

  buzz

  buzz.

  The wheels in his head went, his mind not thinking about any one thing in particular but trying to think of one thing in particular, as a man surfeited and satiated and nauseated by too much sex tries to concentrate when he is having an affair with a lovely girl, tries desperately and fails, thinking of everything else—but not that...

  Finally he gave up and went home, climbing through a window downstairs and feeling his way through the dark into Ernst's room. He switched on the light. Ernst was sleeping like a log, snoring and gurgling and raising hell. Dolan went over and shook him out of it.

  'What's the matter?' Ernst said in his thickly flavored speech, blinking his eyes, quite peaceful now.

  'Move over,' Dolan said, starting to undress.

  'What's the matter with your bed?' Ernst asked quietly.

  'It's being used. Myra.'

  'Again?'

  'Yes—'

  'You're a fool, Mike. She's an attractive woman.'

  'I know it—'

  'Is that rain?' Ernst asked, raising up, just now conscious of the dripdrip-dripdrip of the water from the roof.

  'Yes—'

  Ernst got out of bed, going to the window, looking out. He wore no pyjamas. In a few seconds he turned back into the room, a smile on his face.

  'I love the rain,' he said. 'Reminds me of the old country—'

  'Germany?'

  'Yes,' he said, getting back into bed.

  'Reminds me of France.'

  'The war?'

  'In a way—'

  'Where were you nineteen years ago tonight?'

  'In the St Mihiel. Where were you?'

  'In the St Mihiel. On the side of Mont Sec'

  'That's funny. I was at Essey. Nineteen years ago tomorrow I got that,' he said, pointing to the shrapnel scar on his right thigh that looked like the map of Florida. 'Maybe your battery gave me that—'

  'Maybe—'

  Dolan turned out the light and went back to the bed, groping for the covers.

  'Move over,' he said, sliding down under the sheet.

  'You're lucky you didn't get killed—'

  'Am I? ...' Dolan said, turning over.

  * * * * *

  It was still raining when Dolan reached the office that morning. Only Myra was there, reading the page proofs.

  'Good morning,' she said, putting on a charming smile.

  'It is, at that, isn't it?' Dolan said, putting his trench coat and hat on the hall tree. 'From horizon to horizon nothing but those beautiful grey clouds. Looks like they hold all the rain in the world—'

  'Michael Dolan Shelley,' Myra said, smiling, not so charmingly. 'You're not one of those people who go walking in the rain?'

  'I used to until Garbo got all that publicity. Then I stopped it. I didn't want to appear affected. How's it look?'

  'This?—Oh, perfect. I had it set up, and I've checked it all over. Nothing to do but bind it—'

  'Thanks,' Dolan said, sitting down at his desk. 'I overslept.'

  'Was it fatigue—or Ernst?'

  'How'd you know I slept with Ernst?'

  'I was watching the rain too. I saw you drive up. You climbed in downstairs through the window.'

  'I guess I ought to be sore at you—but I'm not.'

  'You've got no reason to be. I purposely left early this morning so you could change clothes without the embarrassment of seeing me there. Mike—'

  'What?' Dolan said, not looking at her, looking at the desk.

  'I won't bother you any more. I won't come to your room again.'

  'That's all right, Myra—'

  'No, it isn't—it's all wrong. I've been an ass. But believe me,' she said, getting up, moving to his desk, looking down at him, 'I was only trying to help you.'

  'Help me? Help me what, for God's sake?' he asked, compelled, finally, to look at her.

  'Now, don't growl and don't be irritated. I hate those mechanisms of yours—'

  'And I hate this smug attitude of yours—this goddam maternal business. Where the hell do you get off to give me advice?'

  'Somebody ought to. It's the one thing you need. Mike,' she said, sitting on the desk, one foot on the floor, 'you'd be a great man—a great power—if you'd take advice. You're a born leader, but you're too impetuous, too impulsive, too obstinate—'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' Dolan said, slamming the desk with his palms, standing up, glaring at her. 'I wonder why the hell I don't smack you right in the nose—'

  'Maybe it's because you know I'm right,' Myra said, unintimidated.

  Dolan bit his lip, turned abruptly, and strode to her desk. He snatched up the page proofs and went downstairs to the mechanical department and gave them to Cully, the foreman.

  'Okay, Cully—let 'em go,' he said.

  He walked back to the front door and stood looking out into the street, watching the street car come down the hill, staring at the front end with morbid fascination, wondering what it would be like to run out and throw himself under the wheels, wondering how painful it would be, wondering how long before the end would come...

  'Prescott of the Courier just telephoned,' Myra said, when he got back into the office.

  'All right. Hello, Ed. When did you get here?'

  'A minute ago. I parked in the alley. I yelled at you as I came up—'

  'Did you?' Dolan said, surprised.

  'Yeah. You were standing in the front—'

  'Yes. How are the kids?'

  'Only one. Okay. Fever, you know—'

  Dolan sat down and dialed the Courier and asked for Prescott. The girl in the city room told him to try the Press Room at the courthouse. Dolan broke the connection and dialed the Press Room.

  'Allan Prescott,' he said. '... Hello—this is Mike Dolan ... Yes... Oh, wait a minute, Allan—you can't print that!... Yes... Well, not yet... I don't know—maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe I'll never use it. That's why, you see? ... He did? How'd you find that out?—He did? ... He did?... Well, you tell the old sonofabitch I'll see that he gets it back ... Oh, sure, sure, suresuresure, print any goddam thing you like ...' Dolan said, as he hung up the telephone.

  Myra and Bishop were both looking at him.

  'What's the matter?' Bishop asked.

  'Nothing—not a goddam thing.'

  'What is it?' Bishop said. 'Hell, I couldn't help overhearing. What'd Prescott want? What's he got you're trying to keep out of the paper?'

  'Nothing. Nothing.'

  'All right, if you want to act like that—okay. I thought we were all friends. My mistake.'

  Dolan said nothing, sat looking at them, but not seeing them clearly, not having his eyes focused on them.

  'I'll tell you,' Myra said. 'This crazy bastard got married last night.'

  'He—what?'

  'Married. Oh,' she said to Dolan, 'you needn't look so dazed! Lillian phoned me this morning and told me all about it. She couldn't wait to broadcast it. And with embellishment. I know all about the ring you borrowed from the judge—and about how you took her straight home—'

  'Well, I'll be a sonofabitch!' Bishop said, sitting down. 'And Lillian—of all people!'

  'Why not?' Myra said. 'She's beautiful, and she's got social position, and her father's president of one of the biggest banks on the Pacific coast and an ex-Senator to boot. That's what this crazy bastard wanted. It doesn't matter that she's a cheap little bitch who's got a yellow streak up her back—'

  Dolan shoved himself up from the desk, blood in his eyes, and started around towards Myra, his fists clenched. Bishop grabbed him and held him.

  'Cool off- sit down, Mike—'

  Dolan stood still in Bishop's arms, trembling in every muscle of his body, looking at Myra, livid hatred on his face.

  'It's the truth,' Myra said, continuing in the same biting tone. 'She's a yellow little bitch. She had hot pants for you, and sh
e didn't have the guts to lay you and get it over with. She had to marry you! Well, you should have taken her last night because today she'll probably look for ways to crawl out of it. Her mother'll be after her and all her friends—and all the papers, all over the front pages—oh, Heavens, you poor crazy bastard—'

  She stopped, turned, and walked rapidly out of the office to the rest-room.

  'Sit down, Mike,' Bishop said, releasing him. 'Sit down—'

  Dolan went back to the desk and sat down.

  'I don't guess it's quite as hopeless as it sounds,' Bishop said, lighting a cigarette. 'There must be something we can do.'

  'Myra's jealous—she's jealous as hell.'

  'I wouldn't know about that—but she's also right. She's right as right can be. I don't see how you get sucked in by these broads, Mike—I swear to God I don't. That Lillian has been on the make for you since she's been here. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't suggest this job herself—'

  'It hasn't occurred to either one of you that I might be in love with her, has it?' Dolan said, calmer now.

  'Nuts,' Bishop said. 'If you'll pardon my French—nuts! You know her people are going to be furious about this. Why, everybody west of the Rockies knows old lad Fried is hipped on the subject of ancestry. You remember that story they tell in every city room in town—that she won't even sit in a chair unless it's got a coat of arms painted on it. Hell, she lugged Lillian all over Europe last year trying to marry her off to a title. Won't you ever learn you're poison to the Weston Park fathers? What do you suppose her old man's going to say about this?'

  'He's in San Francisco—'

  'You mean he was in San Francisco. You can bet your right eye he's on the way home by now—'

  * * * * *

  Dolan had a sandwich and a glass of milk at a drug-store on the edge of Weston Park, and then went to the telephone, calling Lillian's house again. Neither Mrs. Fried nor Miss Fried had returned, the butler said. Dolan asked when they were expected. Well, did he know where Miss Fried could be reached? No, the butler said, but the Senator was returning from the north by plane sometime in the afternoon, and undoubtedly he could be reached around seven o'clock. Dolan slammed up the receiver and went out and got in his car. He sat there a few minutes, burning, and then decided to go to the house himself.