Only she never had, and now she never would.
And all of a sudden the hell of a chance I was taking just didn't matter any more at all, and I didn't want to hear any more of it. I couldn't take any more of it. I stood up and walked--I kept myself from running--back to that juke box. I wanted to smash my fist through the glass and jerk the needle out of that groove, but I didn't let myself do that, either. I merely jerked the cord that pulled the plug out of the wall.
Then there was sudden silence, a silence you could almost hear, and the bright varicolored lights quit drifting across the glassed-in bottom half of the juke box and it stood there, dark and silent and dead, as though I'd killed it. Except that this time somebody could put the plug back into the wall and it would come to life again.
They should make people that way. People should come with cords and plugs.
But now I'd done it. I hadn't liked the way that bartender had looked at me before; what was he thinking now?
I took a deep breath before I turned around, and I strolled up to the bar as casually as I could.
"Sorry as hell," I told him. "My nerves are on edge tonight. I should have asked you to turn that off, but all of a sudden I just couldn't take any more of it and--well, I took the quickest way before I started screaming."
I knew it wasn't going to sell. If he'd looked angry, if he'd glow-ered at me, then it would have been all right. But his face was quiet and watchful; not even surprise showed on it.
I sat on one of the bar stools. I made another try. I said, "Guess I can use another martini. Will you make me one?"
He came down behind the bar and stood opposite me.
He said, "Mister, I used to be a cop. I was on the force eight years before I bought me this tavern."
I said, "Yes?" with what I tried to make sound like polite disinterest. It was still his move.
"Yeah," he said. "Look, that gag about your killing your wife. You said you shot her?"
"I strangled her with a knife," I told him. "What's the matter with your sense of humor, Mike? Don't you know all actors are a little crazy?"
"A little crazy I don't mind. All Irishmen are a little crazy. But a psycho--you've been making like a psycho, mister. You damn well could have killed someone tonight. I don't like it."
I leaned my elbows on the bar. I felt the pitch of my voice trying to rise and I fought it down. I said, "Mike, get this straight before you make a fool of yourself.
Adrian Carr's got a role open for a murderer. He thought I couldn't handle the part.
I've been putting on an act for him and I've got him sold. Ask him when he gets back. And how's about that martini? I can stand one now."
"You were putting on an act then--or are you now?"
I said, "Mike, I'd walk the hell out on you if it wasn't that Adrian's coming back here to pick me up. But if you don't like my company I can wait for him out front."
"Murder's nothing to joke about."
I let my voice get a little angry. I said, "Nobody was joking about it. Can't you get it through your head I was acting a part? Is an actor joking about murder when he plays the part of a murderer on stage--or at a tryout for the part? Maybe you think it wasn't good taste; is that it?"
He looked a little puzzled; I had him on the defensive now. He said, "You weren't acting for Mr. Carr when you jerked that juke box plug."
"I told you my nerves were on edge. I apologize for touching your damn juke box. Now let's settle it one way or the other--do I get a drink or do I wait for Adrian outside?"
He wasn't quite sold, but I'd talked the sharp edge off his suspi-cion. He reached for the gin bottle and the jigger. He put them on the bar and then put ice in the mixer glass. He put a jigger of gin and brought up the bottle of vermouth. But he moved slowly, still thinking it out.
He put the drink in front of me and leaned on the bar, watch-ing me as I took the first sip. He'd filled the glass fairly full but I managed to drink without slopping any out, keeping my hand steady.
I was starting to say something foolish about the weather; I had my mouth open to say it when I saw his face change.
He said, "What's that stain on your coat?"
I tried to grin; I don't know how the grin looked from outside, but it didn't seem to fit quite right. I said, "Catsup. I tried to sponge it off, but didn't do such a hot job. Don't worry, Mike, it isn't blood. Not even mine."
He said, "Look, mister, I'm just a dumb ex-cop, but I don't like the look of things. Is your wife home now?"
"She might be. I haven't been home this evening. Are we going to start this all over again?"
"You're in the phone book?"
"No, it's through a switchboard. I can give you the number, but why should I?
Quit acting like a dope."
I could see it didn't go over. Maybe it was the smear on my coat, maybe it was the grin that hadn't fitted my face when I'd tried it, maybe it was just everything put together.
Mike walked to the front end of the bar and around it. Before I realized what he was going to do, he was at the front of the tavern, turning a key in the door.
He came back, but on my side of the bar. He said, "Stick around. I'm going to make sure. Maybe I'm making a dope out of myself, but I'd rather do that than let a psycho loose out of here."
I made one more try. He was already walking toward the phone. I said, "This is going to cost you money, pal."
It did stop him a second. Then he said, "No, it won't. I heard you say you did a murder. That's reasonable grounds, even if you didn't have a blood stain on you.
Just sit tight."
Date With Death
If it hadn't been for that bright idea of his of locking the door I could have walked out. I could have got away; he was twice my size but I was faster, I think.
But he hadn't left me that choice.
I did the only thing left to do. I took the revolver out of my pocket. I said,
"Don't go near that phone," and pulled back the hammer. The click, which sounded almost as loud as a shot in that still room, stopped him suddenly. He turned around slowly.
He licked his lips again. "I can make you turn around," I sug-gested, "and tap you with the butt of this. But I might hit too hard. I've never sapped anyone before.
And I'd be afraid of hitting too easy. Any better ideas?"
He hesitated, then said, "There's a closet off the back room. Key's on the ring."
"Turn around and walk there, slowly."
He did and I followed him. He stepped inside and turned around facing me, his face rigid and white. I don't think he expected to live through his experience. He thought this was the payoff.
I closed the door, found the right key, and locked it. I called through the panel, "I'm going to stick around till Adrian gets back. It may be a long time. Don't get the idea of hammering on that door for a long time or I'll put bullets through it."
He didn't answer and I went back to the front of the room. I unlocked the front door and sat at the bar again. I drank the rest of my martini at a single gulp. I caught sight of my face in the mirror back of the bar and realized I'd better get calmed down and straightened out before Adrian came back, or before another customer came in.
I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths. Again I heard the far siren of a police car, but it wasn't coming this way; it died out in the distance.
I sat there and it seemed like a very long time. It seemed as though I'd been sitting there for hours. I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve thirty-five.