“...What dirty work do you mean?”
“At the Domino.”
“I was in town.”
“You seem to know about it.”
“You mean making something look like nothing?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Let’s say I’m a pretty good guesser.”
He laughed. She laughed. She had big white teeth. He remarked on them, and on her eyes, asked if she had Spanish blood. She said no, but she was one eighth Indian. He said he always said if a woman really wanted to be good-looking, one thing she couldn’t do without was a drop of Indian blood. He said he ought to have known it, because she had such beautiful black hair. The canapes came, and he poured her coffee, gallantly giving her his sugar. She said it didn’t look like there was much use trying to kid him, did it? He said he hoped her eyes weren’t kidding him, anyway. Abruptly she said: “I seen something out there today.”
“At the Domino?”
“I work there.”
“In the bar?”
“I deal blackjack.”
“Oh yes of course.”
“What’s your name?”
“Layton. George M. Layton. What’s yours?”
“Call me Ethel.”
“Want to call me George?”
“I don’t mind. George, I seen it all. I don’t mean what they said happened. I don’t mean what they done to fix it up and make it look like a accident. I mean I seen it. But don’t get me wrong. I didn’t come down here to make her feel bad or anything like that. That’s why that clerk made me so sore. I came down here for just the opposite. I came down here to let her know it was all right and she didn’t have nothing to fear. I come down to let her know that so far as I was concerned that husband of hers was a heel. You’d be that amazed, George, if you know the propositions he made me, while I was dealing him blackjack not an hour before she shot him. Wanted me to drive back to his shack with him for a ‘small fun,’ he kept calling it. Can you imagine that? It’s not any of my business what was done. Just the same I do think she ought to make it worth my while. Don’t you think that’s only right?”
“I do indeed.”
“You’d think she’d want to do something like that.”
“I guarantee she wants to.”
“So if you want to take me up there—”
“Not so fast, not so fast. Taking you up there would be simple, some other time, but, as you can easily imagine, she’s got her own reasons for not seeing anybody today, not even me. Don’t worry though, it’ll be handled. Does she know you saw it? Were you there?”
“In the door there’s a slot, with bars in front and a steel door behind. The door was open a little bit. I peeped in.”
“And you saw something, is that it?”
“I seen him killed.”
“By her?”
“If I told you that, you’d know as much as I do, wouldn’t you? Suppose you do some talking now. And talk nice. About money.”
“To spill it or skip it?”
“To skip it, I would rather imagine.”
“She’ll be interested to hear that.”
“What do I do now?”
“Let me think. Where’s Spiro?”
“Out at the Domino.”
“I think he’s the guy, not Shoreham.”
“I would have gone to him, but he and Tony are so thick all of a sudden I was afraid. I work for Tony and I didn’t know how he’d take it.”
“I’m awfully glad you came here first. Now here’s what you do. Have a buck off me and see yourself a nice picture. Around seven o’clock or so, come back here and wait to be paged. Don’t go back to the Domino till you hear from me.”
When Mr. Layton entered the Domino, Tony was being pointedly disagreeable to some schoolgirls, telling them Miss Shoreham was not there, that he had no idea when she might come there, and that they certainly could not leave their autograph books for her to sign. It didn’t seem a propitious time for inquiry, so Mr. Layton bought $1 worth of 10c chips and began playing roulette. But soon the phone girl came through, her plug bouncing against her knees, calling his name. Tony said he might take the call in the office. It was Miss Jennifer, whom he had informed of his movements, with a telegram from Mr. Gans, evidently his last testament before explaining. It was full of exhortations like: “Cannot impress on you too strongly importance prompt energetic aggressive action your part or refrain calling your attention Southwest General will expect same cooperation you she expects gets every man her organization.”
Mr. Layton listened as Miss Jennifer read this to him over the phone, then, two or three times, he heard something that was quite familiar to him, on account of Miss Jennifer’s habits. It was the sound of a key being lifted. As he hung up, a short, round, flat-headed little man came into the office, and began peering at a road map that hung on the wall. Suddenly, fitting Tony’s surprising courtesy, the key, and the little man together, Mr. Layton knew his call had been tapped, and he felt a hot, salt taste in his mouth, for he needed nobody to tell him that the pure in heart do not plug in on other people’s lines.
Thus he who had been paralyzed by officialdom, by ignorance of the ropes he was trying to handle, by a conviction that he was afoot on an absurd and monstrous errand, had now become a different man, and an incomparably dangerous one. For bland cheek was an integral part of his daily life; he not only had a gift for it, but believed in it, as the sign of an up-and-at-’em-tude, and studied it avidly under the district manager, other agents, and such experts in salesmanship. He was a virtuoso at keeping the other fellow guessing, at never giving him a chance to take charge of the interview, of feinting him into the path of the argument held in reserve. He could dissemble, he could laugh, he could tell a little joke. He could be stern, he could plead. He could wink. And he could defeat, by stratagems developed by the whole inner arcanum of insurance agents, any known method of throwing him out.
He didn’t address Dmitri at once; indeed, he didn’t seem to pay any attention to Dmitri. Instead, he drummed on the desk with annoyed finger tips, then lifted the receiver and asked for a number. When it answered he said: “Sheriff Lucas, please — Layton calling, George Layton of Southwest General... Well listen, sweetie, I don’t like to get disagreeable about it, but haven’t you any idea at all where he is, or when he’ll be in, or how I can get hold of him?... No, there’s no way he can reach me. I’ll be on the move all afternoon and there’s no use having him call... I’m sorry too, and I suppose you’re doing your best and that God loves you or somebody does, but you’re putting me to one awful lot of unnecessary trouble.”
Hanging up, he spoke with the baffled weariness of one who has puzzled over human nature all his life, but can still make no sense out of it: “Maybe you can figure this one out. Sheriff Parker Lucas. If there’s been any time in the last two years when you couldn’t see that long-legged jerk anywhere you went, with his hand out for a cigar, a drink, a phone number, or what have you, I don’t know when it could have been. But now, on a murder case, when I want him, when I’d like something for my vote, try and find him. It’s a great life if you like a great life. Personally, I’d rather see a picture.”
On the word murder, which was the only part of this elaborate harangue that mattered, he saw Dmitri’s eyes leave the map and stare glassily at the wall. He lifted the phone, rang Miss Jennifer again, asked airily if the sheriff had called. Then he went out, paid the operator for his calls. Then he went in the gentlemen’s room, combed his hair, whistled The Minstrel Boy. When he came out, Tony and Dmitri were in a corner of the casino, whispering. He went into the office, called the apartment where he lived, and where he knew there would be nobody. He was holding the receiver to his ear, frowning at getting no answer, when Dmitri came into the room and went to the map again. But he looked up pleasantly when Dmitri said: “You been to Goldfield?”