Love's lovely counterfeit - James M. Cain [53]
"Why don't they turn him over to us?"
"With their own charges untried?"
"Our charge is a capital offense."
"What difference does it make?"
"Plenty of difference, Yates. O.K., he serves ten years. He goes to Alcatraz, and he serves ten years. What then?"
"Then the State tries him for murder."
"And convicts him, I suppose. A fat chance! After ten years, you couldn't convict Hitler of murder. The witnesses have skipped, or died, or been seen, and besides the jury thinks if he served ten years he's been punished enough. The way you fixed it, after ten years he's out and it's bad."
"I didn't fix it."
"I'll say you didn't."
"He could be acquitted of murder, even now."
"O.K., then I got another murder. I got a million of them, and if the jury still won't say murder, I got a little larceny and maybe a couple of mayhems and assaults with deadly weapons. Then, if he's still acquitted, we got the Federal stuff to fall back on. But—get this, Yates—on murder he could burn. I don't say would, I only say could. But he'd have a good outside chance, and if that crook ever squatted hot, that would be doing something for the country."
"And you, I imagine."
"That's right."
"Not, I'm happy to say, for me."
"Yeah, even you."
As Mr. Yates looked up in surprise, Mr. Cantrell gave a short, harsh laugh. "You're right on the payroll of Ben's little outfit, his cute association that stole its machines from Caspar, and if you think Solly's going to be careful about it, and check it all up, to make sure you were told and all, why, you're flattering him quite a lot. He's not that conscientious. You're on the spot, right now."
"You mean—they're the same old machines?"
"Sure, don't you recognize them?"
"Chief, I had no idea of this."
"Yates, you're a liar."
Mr. Cantrell, after vainly pressing Mr. Yates for some other arrangement, was quite gloomy as they went out on the street, but Ben on the whole seemed relieved. He followed with interest the announcement, made late one afternoon, that Caspar had left the Post Office Building in company with F.B.I., agents, to lead them to the place he had hidden his bonds, so that he could make some sort of payment on the taxes that he owed. It was while he was dialing Mr. Cantrell, after dinner that night, to find out how this monkeyshine had turned out, that the house phone rang in the bedroom, and he went in to answer. "Ben?"
"Speaking."
"Dorothy."
"Come on up."
"I'm not in the hotel. Ben, I have another place."
"Yeah? Where is it?"
"You've been to June's old apartment?"
"Sure, I was there once or twice."
"I got the key for it today."
"You there now?"
"No. The phone's disconnected. I'm at the drug store."
"I don't like it."
"Why not?"
"It's hers, for one thing."
"There's not one single thing of hers in it. She's taken everything out, and there's nothing in it but the regular furniture. Besides, she only has it until January 1, and that's only two or three days off, and so far as she's concerned she's forgotten about it. I mean, she's out."
"Oh, come on over."
"Ben, I hate it there. I hear her out there, pounding on the door and crying. Ben, come on over, so I can put my arms around you in peace."
"Say, you sound friendly."
"I'll be waiting."
"O.K."
Her arms indeed went around him when he came in, and they stood for some moments in the shabby little foyer, holding each other tight, before they moved over to the sofa, and she snuggled into his arms, and they relaxed. "How in the world, Dorothy, did you find out about this place, anyway?"
"Through a friend of mine."
"Who's that?"
"Hal. Don't you know him?"
"Not by that name."
"He's a bellboy over at the hotel. He's on the late shift, the one that runs the elevator and gets you ice and does whatever you want done."
"How did he know about it?"
"June