“You filth!” he said.
She just stood there looking at him, then she slapped his face. He stood, without moving. Then she spat, right in his face. I grabbed her and put her down on a chair. Mr. Froken took his handkerchief out and wiped his face. He let the handkerchief slip to the floor and walked away from her out on the porch. I watched her for a minute. I was afraid to leave her. Then she got up and began to dance again, wild, round and round the room. I looked out at Mr. Froken. He was way out by the stairway, down to the beach. She was running the whole length of the room, back and forth, under her breath humming music. When she ran out on the porch I ran between her and Mr. Froken. Then I saw him. He was all bent over and holding on to the top of the stair rail. He looked up at me.
“Cappy...” he said. “Cappy.” Then he fell. I ran for the rail. He was maybe twenty steps down, all crumpled up. I went to him. I held him in my arms. Mr. Froken was dead. I wished it was me. I loved Mr. Froken.
After a while I carried him back up the stairs. He was light, like a little boy. She was standing there her hand on her mouth. I went by her and put Mr. Froken down on the sofa in the living room. I called on the telephone for the ambulance, then just stood there, looking at Mr. Froken. The ambulance came, and two fellows from the Police Department a little later. They took Mr. Froken away. Miss Lamson sat in a chair, not saying a word, just kind of shaking her head while the policemen looked around the room. They asked me who the man was in the other room and who I was. I told them. They were making notes, sort of slow about it. Then they talked to her. She sat in the chair, quiet. It was wonderful how she had changed, hardly drunk at all. She told them he fell down the stairs and that she didn’t see it. She said I saw it all. Then they turned to me.
“Tell us about it, Mr. Fleers.” It was the old quiet one who asked.
I sat in the chair, not saying anything for a moment, then I looked right at him.
“She pushed him,” I said. “She hit him, then she pushed him when he was by the stairs. She was drunk. She hit him, then she pushed him.”
“Liar,” she screamed at me.
“I’ll swear to it,” I said.
Suddenly she was at me, clawing and scratching and screaming dirty things. They pulled her off. “That’s what she did to him,” I said. “She was so drunk she can’t remember.”
After, when they took her away, I took Mr. Prestwick home. Mrs. Emma put him to bed. Then I went down to the police station and wrote down what I had said. They said I’d have to come back when the trial came up. I said I would and they took down a lot of other things I told them. It wasn’t really a lie. About the pushing, I mean. She did push him. She pushed us all, Mr. Prestwick, Mr. Froken, Mrs. Emma, Rosa, me... the whole family. I just pushed back a little.
Things are getting back to normal now. I can’t tell you what’s happened to Miss Lamson. I feel so bad about Mr. Froken, I don’t even read the papers about it, and her trial hasn’t come up yet. I’ll bet you one thing. I’ll bet she won’t get off. Not after what I wrote down at the police station.
Brother, Dear
by Glenn Canary
Just as there is no closer tie than that of blood-kinship, so there is no feud mare bitter than that between two brothers. Add rivalry over a woman, and you have the makings of a first-class vendetta.
It was snowing outside. Fat, soft flakes were falling, piling up on the window-sill. The sidewalks and streets were already covered. Across the street Paul Sarling could see people lining up for the bus and over their heads the clock and thermometer above the door of the bank. He looked back down at his desk, waiting, and pretended to study the papers there.
Sam Juraska looked into Sarling’s office and said, “You going to stay here alone all night, boy?”
“I have some work to clear up before I leave,” Sarling said.
“A man has to go home sometime, Paul. You can’t work all the time.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarling said. “A bachelor like me can work as late as he likes. No one’s waiting for me.” He laughed. “I’m just building up time for the next hangover I have.”
He listened to Juraska leave the office. He heard him tell Sally to be sure to lock the safe before she left. The front door slammed and Sarling heard Sally pulling down the blind over the door, hiding the legend that said, Home Loan Company.
She came into his office. “Aren’t you ready to leave yet?” she asked.
“Not quite yet.”
“This was a long day.” She smiled at him. “Is there anything I can do to help you get finished?”
“No. I just have to finish these papers. You go on.”
“I’ll be glad to wait for you.”
“That’s not necessary. There’s nothing you can do.”
She went out and put on her coat and scarf and then came back and said, “You be sure the door is locked when you leave.”
He knew she wanted him to ask her to wait. She was thirty and had never been married even though she was plumply pretty. He felt sorry for her somehow and any other day he would have suggested that they have a drink together. But not this day. He looked at her face, and he was coldly angry that she didn’t leave.
“Go on,” he said. “I won’t forget to lock up.”
“And the lights”
“I’ll get them too.”
He thought there was something sad in her face and his anger died and he was sorry that he had been curt with her. But not this day. He kept his head down, staring at the papers until he heard her go out. She passed the window and waved at him but he didn’t look up.
He shivered slightly; he was depressed. He sat up straighter, hesitating, and then stood up, picking up his briefcase, and walked into the outer office.
The safe was behind a counter so that it could not be seen from the street window. He went to it and put down the briefcase and knelt beside it. When the safe swung open he sat down heavily on the floor and looked inside it for a few seconds. The money was piled neatly, bound in bundles with paper strips.
He felt calm but his hands shook a little when he started taking the money out. His briefcase was too small to hold it but he put in as much as he could and snapped it shut. He filled his pockets, too, but there was still money left in the safe. He left it there; he had enough to do what he planned.
He slammed the safe door shut and twirled the dial, relocking it, and then stood up and went back to his office. He put on his hat and coat and picked up the briefcase.
When he went out it was colder than he had expected. The snow cracked when he walked on it and the wind burned his eyes. It was already dark.
He lived on the second floor of a wooden building. There was a cigar store under him. He took a cab home. He was nervous now, excited and on edge, but he went up the stairs and into his room. He took off his outer clothing and tossed it over a chair.
Even though he knew it was too early to start, he looked at his watch and then lay down on the bed. On the dresser, across the room, was a photograph of a smiling woman in an evening dress. He looked at it and smiled, “Cindy,” he said out loud, “beautiful, beautiful Cindy.” He turned and lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, and went on as if she were in the room. “This is the night, Cindy.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t get to you, but I can still get to him.”
He shook his head as if he were laughing at himself and reached across to the night-table and turned on the radio. It came on just as a piece of recorded music was ending. An announcer said, “You have just heard one of the hottest pieces around these days and on a night like this anything hot is welcome.” He turned the radio off and looked out the window. It was still snowing. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and he thought of getting up and going out to eat, but he was too excited to be hungry.