The Complete Crime Stories

  After a while, though, I pulled up, and said well, and she switched off to Doris. “Your wife has a remarkable voice.”

  “Yes?”

  “… It keeps haunting me.”

  “Is it that good?”

  “Yes, it’s that good, but that isn’t why it haunts me. I keep thinking I’ve heard it before.”

  “She used to sing around quite a lot.”

  “Here? In New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “That couldn’t be it. I don’t come from New York. I come from Oregon. And I’ve spent the last five years abroad. Oh well, never mind.”

  “Then you think she’s good?”

  “She has a fine voice, a remarkably fine voice, and her tone is well produced. She must have had excellent instruction. Of course …”

  “Go on. What else?”

  “… I would criticize her style.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Has she been studying long?”

  “She studied before we got married. Then for a while she dropped it, and she just started up again recently.”

  “Oh. Then that accounts for it. Good style, of course, doesn’t come in a day. With more work, that ought to come around.”

  “Then you think she ought to go on?”

  “With such looks and such a voice, certainly.”

  With that we dropped it. In spite of all she said, it added up to faint praise, especially the shifty way she brought up the question of style. She tried to get me going again on concrete, but somehow talking about Doris had taken all the fun out of it. After a few minutes I thanked her for all the trouble she had taken and got up to go. She sat there with a funny look on her face, staring at me. A boy came in with a note, and left, and she read it and said: “Damn.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I’m singing for the American Legion in Brooklyn tonight, and I promised to do a song they want, and I’ve forgotten to get the words of it, and the man that was to give them to me has gone out of town, and here’s his note saying he’ll give me a ring tomorrow—and no words.”

  “What song?”

  “Oh, some song they sing in the Navy. Something about a destroyer. Isn’t that annoying?”

  “Oh, that song.”

  “You know it?”

  “Sure. I had a brother that was a gob.”

  “Well for heaven’s sake sing it.”

  She sat down to the piano and started to play it. She already knew the tune. I started to sing:

  You roll and groan and toss and pitch,

  You swab the deck, you son-of-a—

  She got up, walked over to the sofa, and sat down, her face perfectly white. I had forgotten about that rhyme, and I began to mumble apologies for it, and explain that there was another way to sing it, so groan would rhyme with moan. But at that I couldn’t see why it would make her sore. She hadn’t seemed like the kind that would mind a rhyme, even if it was a little off. But she kept staring at me, and then I got a little sore myself, and said it was a pretty good rhyme, even if she didn’t like it. “To hell with the rhyme.”

  “Oh?”

  “Borland, your wife’s no good.”

  “She’s not?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Well—thanks.”

  “But you have a voice.”

  “I—what?”

  “You have a voice such as hasn’t been heard since—I don’t know when. What a baritone! What a trumpet!”

  “I think you’re kidding me.”

  “I’m not kidding you. … Want some lessons?”

  Her eyes weren’t wide open any more. They were half closed to a couple of slits. A creepy feeling began to go up my back. It was time to go, and I knew it. I did not go. I went over, sat down, put my arm around her, pushed her down, touched my mouth to her lips. They were hot. We stayed that way a minute, breathing into each other’s faces, looking into each other’s eyes. Then she mumbled: “Damn you, you’ll kiss first.”

  “I will like hell.”

  She put her arms around me, tightened. Then she kissed me, and I kissed back.

  “You were slow enough.”

  “I was wondering what you wanted.”

  “I wanted you, you big gorilla. Ever since you came in there this morning with that foolish song-and-dance about getting Hertz to go to the concert. What made you do that? Didn’t you know any better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “I had to.”

  “… You mean she made you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Couldn’t you say no?”

  “I guess I couldn’t.”

  She twisted her head around, where it was on my shoulder, and looked at me, and twisted my hair around her fingers. “You’re crazy about her, aren’t you?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m sorry I said she was no good. She really has a voice. She might improve, with more work. … Maybe I was jealous of her.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You see—”

  “To hell with it. You said just what I’ve been thinking all along, so why apologize? She has a voice, and yet she’s no good. And yet—”

  “You’re crazy about her.”

  “Yes.”

  She twisted my hair a while, and then started to laugh. “You could have knocked me over with a straw when I saw Hugo Lorentz coming out there to the piano.”

  “You know him?”

  “Known him for years. I hadn’t seen him since he played for me in Berlin last winter, and what a night that was.”

  “Yeah?”

  “After the concert we walked around to his apartment, and he wept on my shoulder till three o’clock in the morning about some cold-blooded bitch that he’s in love with, in New York, and that does nothing but torture him, and every other man she gets into her clutches for that matter. Oh, I got her whole life history. Once a year she’d send Hugo a phonograph record of herself singing some song they had worked on. He thought they were wonderful, and he kept playing them over and over again; till I got so sick of that poop’s voice—” There was a one-beat pause, and then she finished off real quick: “—Well, it was a night, that’s all.”

  “And that was where you heard my wife’s voice, wasn’t it?”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Come on, don’t kid me.”

  “… I’m sorry, Leonard. I didn’t mean to. From what Hugo said, I had pictured some kind of man-eating tigress, and when that dainty, wistful, perfectly beautiful creature came out there today, it never once entered my mind. It didn’t anyhow, until just now.”

  “Then it was?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve had my suspicions about Hugo.”

  “You needn’t have.”

  “I thought he was taking her for a ride.”

  “He’s not. She’s taking him.”

  “What about these other men she’s got her clutches on?”

  “For heaven’s sake, can’t a woman that good-looking have a little bit of a good time? What do you care? You’re having a good time, aren’t you? Right now? I’ll sock you if you say you’re not.”

  “Believe it or not, this is my first offense.”

  “—And, you’ve got her haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just one other man she’s got her clutches on, one more sap to torture. I happen to be married to her, that’s all.”

  “You poor dear. You are crazy about her, aren’t you?”

  “Come on, what about these other men?”

  She thought a long time, and then she said: “Leonard, I’m not going to tell you any more of w
hat Hugo said, except this: That no man gets any favors from her, if that’s what you’re worried about. And especially Hugo doesn’t. She sees that they keep excited, but inside she’s as cold as a slab of ice, and thinks of nothing but herself. I think you can take Hugo’s word on that. He knows a lot more about women than you do, and he’s not kidded about her for one second, even if he is crazy about her. Does that help?”

  “Not much. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, though. I’ve kidded myself about it for seven years, but I know. Lorentz, I think, he has the inside track on the rest, but only on account of the music.”

  “That’s what Hugo says.”

  “What?”

  “That she thinks of nothing but her triumphs, feminine, social, and artistic, and especially artistic. She’s crazy to be a singer. And that’s where he fits in.”

  “Her triumphs. That’s it. Life in our house is nothing but a series of triumphs.”

  “Leonard, I have an idea.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I hate that woman.”

  “I spend half my time hating her and half my time insane about her. What’s she got, anyway?”

  “One thing she’s got is a face that a man would commit suicide for. Another thing she’s got is a figure that if he wasn’t quite dead yet, he’d stand up and commit suicide for all over again. And another thing she’s got is a healthy professional interest in the male of the species, that enjoys sticking pins into it just to see them wriggle. But if you want her, I’m determined you’re going to have her. And really have her. You see, I like you pretty well.”

  “I like you a little, myself.”

  “That woman has got to be hurt.”

  “Oh, hurt hey? And you think you could hurt Doris? Listen, you’d be going up against something that’s forgotten more about that than you’ll ever know. You go and get your head lock on her and begin twisting her neck. See what happens. She’ll be out in one second flat, in one minute flat she’ll have you on the floor, and in five minutes she’ll be pulling your toenails out with red-hot pliers. Yeah, you hurt her. I’m all sore from trying.”

  “You didn’t hurt her where it hurt.”

  “And where does it hurt?”

  “In that slab of ice she uses for a heart. In the triumph department, baby. You go get yourself a triumph, and see her wriggle out of that.”

  “I won the club championship at billiards year before last. It didn’t do a bit of good.”

  “Wake up. Did you hear what I said about your voice?”

  “Oh my God. I thought you had an idea.”

  “You’re going to sing in Town Hall.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. And will that fix her.”

  “So I’m going to sing in Town Hall? Well in the first place I can’t sing in Town Hall, and in the second place I don’t want to sing in Town Hall, and in the third place it’s just plain silly. And in addition to that, wouldn’t that fix her? Just another boughten recital in Town Hall, with a lot of third-string critics dropping in for five minutes and another gang of stooges out there laughing at me. And in addition to that, I don’t go out and drum up another crowd. I’ve had enough.”

  “They won’t be third-string critics and it won’t be a drummed-up crowd.”

  “I know that racket, so does she, and—”

  “Not if I sing with you.”

  “What do you want to do, ruin me?”

  “I guess that wouldn’t do, at that … Leonard, you’re right. The Town Hall idea is no good. But—Carnegie, a regular, bona fide appearance with the Philharmonic, that would be different, wouldn’t it?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Leonard, if you put yourself in my hands, if you do just what I say, I’ll have you singing with the Philharmonic in a year. With that voice, I guarantee it. And let her laugh that off. just let her laugh that off. Baby, do you want that woman? Do you want her eating out of your hand? Do—”

  I opened my eyes to razz it some more, but all of a sudden a picture popped in front of my eyes, of how Doris would look out there, listening to me, and I started to laugh. Yes, it warmed me up.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s the most cock-eyed thing I ever heard in my life. But—all right. We’ll pretend that’s how it’s going to come out. Anyway, I’ll have an excuse to see you some more.”

  “You don’t need any excuse for that.”

  “Me, in soup and fish, up there in front of a big orchestra, bellowing at them.”

  “You’ll have to work.”

  “I’m used to work.”

  “You’ll have to study music, and sight-reading, and harmony, and languages, especially Italian.”

  “Perche devo studiare l’italiano?”

  “You speak Italian?”

  “Didn’t I tell you I started out as an architect? We all take our two years in Italy, studying the old ruins. Sure, I speak Italian.”

  “Oh, you darling … I’ll want payment.”

  “I’ve got enough money.”

  “Who’s talking about money? I want kisses, and lots of them.”

  “How about a down payment now? On account?”

  “M’m.”

  It was about six o’clock when I got home, and Ethel Gorman, a cousin of Doris’, was still there, and the flowers were all around, and the kids were going from one vase to the other, smelling them, and Doris still had on the recital dress, and the phone was ringing every five minutes, and the reviews from the afternoon papers were all clipped and spread on the piano. They said she revealed an excellent voice and sang acceptably. One of the phone calls kept Doris longer than the others, and when she came back her eyes were shining. “Ethel! Guess who was there!”

  “Who?”

  “Cecil Carver!”

  “No!”

  “Alice Hornblow just called up and says she sat next to her, and would have called sooner only she had to make sure who it was from her picture in a magazine, and she was talking to her during the intermission—and Cecil Carver said I was swell!”

  “Doris! You don’t mean it!”

  “Isn’t it marvelous! It means—it means more than all those reviews put together. Think of that Ethel—Cecil Carver!”

  Now who Cecil Carver was, and what the hell kind of singing she did when she wasn’t entertaining contractors in the afternoon, was something we hadn’t got around to yet, for some reason. I pasted a dumb look on my face, and kind of droned it out: “And who, may I ask, is Cecil Carver?”

  Doris just acted annoyed. “Leonard, don’t tell me you don’t know who Cecil Carver is. She’s the sensation of the season, that’s all. She came back from abroad this fall, and after one appearance at the Hippodrome the Philharmonic engaged her, and her recital at Carnegie was the biggest thing this year and she’s under contract to the Metropolitan for next season—that’s who Cecil Carver is. It would seem to me that you could keep up on things, a little bit.”

  “Well gee that sounds swell.”

  She came in that night, to thank me again for the flowers, and to say good night. I thought of my date with Cecil Carver for the next afternoon. What with one thing and another, I was beginning to feel a whole lot better.

  4

  It’s one thing to start something like that, but it’s something else to go through with it. I bought a tuning fork and some exercise books, went up on the third floor of the Craig-Borland Building, locked all the doors and put the windows down, and ha-ha-ha-ed every morning, hoping nobody would hear me. Then in the afternoon I’d go down and take a lesson, and make some payments. I liked paying better than learning, and I felt plenty like a fool. But then Cecil sent me over to Juilliard for a course in sight-reading, and I went in there with a lot of girls wearing thick glasses, and boys that looked like they’d have been better off for a
little fresh air. It was taught by a Frenchman named Guizot, and along with the sight-reading he gave us a little harmony. When I found out that music has structure to it, just like a bridge has, right away I began to get interested. I took Guizot on for some private lessons, and began to work. He gave me exercises to do, melodies to harmonize, and chords to unscramble, and I rented a piano, and had that moved in, so I could hear what I was doing. I couldn’t play it, but I could hit the chords, and that was the main thing. Then he talked to me about symphonies, and of course I had to dig into them. I bought a little phonograph, and a flock of symphony albums, and got the scores, and began to take them apart, so I could see how they were put together. The scores you don’t buy, they cost too much. But I rented them, and first I’d have one for a couple of weeks, and then I’d have another. I found out there’s plenty of difference between one symphony and another symphony. Beethoven, Mozart, and Brahms were the boys I liked. All three of them, they took themes that were simple, like an architectural figure but they could get cathedrals out of them, believe me they could.

  The sight-reading was tough. It’s something you learn easy when you’re young, but to get it at the age of thirty-three isn’t so easy. Do you know what it is? You just stand up there and read it, without any piano to give you the tune, or anything else. I never heard of it until Cecil began to talk about it, didn’t even know what it meant. But I took it on, just like the rest of it, and beat intervals into my head with the piano until I could hear them in my sleep. After a while I knew I was making progress, but then when I’d go down to Cecil, and try to read something off while she played the accompaniment, I’d get all mixed up and have to stop. She spotted the reason for it. “You’re not watching the words. You can read the exercises because all you have to think about is the music. But songs have words too, and you have to sing them. You can’t just go la-la-la. Look at the words, don’t look at the notes. Your eye will half see them without your looking at them, but the main thing is the words. Get them right and the music will sing itself.”

  It sounded wrong to me, because what I worried about was the notes, and it seemed to me I ought to look at them. But I tried the way she said, and sure enough it came a little better. I kept on with it, doing harder exercises all the time, and then one day I knew I wouldn’t have to study sight-reading any more. I could read anything I saw, without even having to stop and think about keys, or sharps, or flats, or anything else, and that was the end of it. I could do it.