Love Has No Alibi Page 2

  The orchestra stand was at the opposite end from the bar. Immediately behind it were the rest rooms with modest designations on the ivory doors. To the right of the rest rooms were the storerooms and kitchens. To the left stretched the passageway leading to the next building. Rooms opened from that passageway: offices and dressing rooms. There was a big room for the lovelies who made up the line, and individual rooms for the principals. Three of these latter rooms had private baths. They were large and comfortable, and you’d never guess that the building overhead was little better than a tenement. Under the fire laws there was an exit through the tenement, but the door which opened onto the passageway was kept shut. It could be used, but customarily the Caliente personnel came and went through the club itself.

  I took my usual table near the bandstand. I had a good view of the floor, and I was near the passageway, so that when Dana got dressed and was waiting to go on she could sit with me. Except for sometimes on Saturday nights, I never had any trouble getting that table because it was a pretty bad location and the customers didn’t want it. But it suited me fine.

  The place was about half full, which was the usual size of the dinner crowd. There’d be a show at nine o’clock, and another at 12:30 or 1:00 A.M. Dancing from 7:30 until curfew. Two orchestras: a sweet name band and a nifty outfit for rhumbas and waltzes. The cover charge was two dollars and the balance of the expense was proportionate. It was much too rich for my blood, but all the employees knew that Dana and I were friends, and they usually forgot to give me a check. They never remembered the cover charge under any circumstances.

  The show was good. It started with the gals. They were young and beautifully proportioned and looked lovely unless, or until, you happened to look at their eyes, which were hard and wise and blank. There was a famous female singer. A suave young man who worked with a French poodle was one of the greatest comics I ever saw. Then the chorus again. And finally, the topper—Ricardo & Dana.

  I ordered a cup of coffee, lighted a cigarette, and watched the show. I was having myself a grand time. Being away from New York hadn’t meant a thing. Being away from Dana had meant plenty.

  In my pocket was the long brown envelope which contained the bank statement. I was getting a kick out of that. I had visions of the head waiter wanting to know whether I could afford to be there. All I would have to do would be to produce the bank statement and say, “Look! One hundred thousand dollars—that’s my balance. Now bring me a second cup.” I wouldn’t have to explain that it was all a mistake. Tonight I could prove I was rich, whether I was or not. And that thought intrigued me. It didn’t matter what you actually had: it was what you could make people believe that counted. Smart me. Kirk Douglas, architect and philosopher. Clever thoughts a la carte. Fun tonight, just being this close to Dana, and fun tomorrow when I started kidding the boys at the bank about the mistake they’d made. I felt so good that I didn’t even worry about all the young fellows who were wearing the same kind of army uniform I had worn for a year . . . before they had decided in Washington, for no discernible reason, that I could help the war effort even more by being inactive.

  The M.C. called for silence and made a simple introduction of the dance act. Ricardo always made his entrance from the other side of the bandstand. And now, as the sensuous music of the tango swept across the floor, Dana rushed in from the passageway. She made a cute little gesture as she passed me, and left me a smile to hold onto. Then she was out on the floor with her partner.

  As I watched, I was gripped by an uncomfortable sensation which I never had been able to shake off. I couldn’t look at Dana out there and believe that she was the same girl who had been in my arms an hour ago.

  On the floor she was utterly different from the bright, gay, natural, bantering young lady I was in love with. She was different in every way. Her face was different, her hair was different, her expression was different, her clothes were different.

  Tonight she was wearing a sophisticated black dress which accentuated every lovely curve of her exquisite figure. Her hair, which she usually wore informally waved back from her face and combed casually to fall softly over her shoulders, was now parted on the side and brushed off the forehead. The back was swept up and caught by a jeweled comb. She danced with her eyes half closed and with her lips parted. She looked passionate and seductive, which was swell with me, except that it was passion and seductiveness in which I played no part.

  She danced with her whole body. The rhythm seemed to flow into her from the orchestra and to flow out through her feet. She was in another world—a world in which I did not belong. I felt proud and helpless.

  Ricardo was a superb partner. Maybe he danced better than she did. I wasn’t a very good critic. But out there on the floor, I couldn’t hate him. He was perfection. He belonged in the upper brackets. The team belonged there. They held you breathless.

  The personalities as I knew them vanished in the magic of their dancing. They were a unit. As dancers, they belonged together. They went through the intricacies of their tango. The lifts were beautifully effortless. When they finished, there was an instant of silence, and then a wave of applause.

  Their second dance was a gay, lilting polka and their third a novelty number which finished with a sensational lift and spin. The applause at the end of this was deafening. They wound up with a brief and delightful waltz, then took three bows; the orchestra swung into a dance number, and the show was over. I felt let down. I wondered why I punished myself by watching this night after night. It emphasized something that I preferred not to think about. It wasn’t jealousy. Not of Ricardo, anyway. I could be jealous of him at other times. But on the floor it wasn’t Ricardo, the man: nor was it Dana, the woman. It was perfection; a perfection in which I had no place.

  Dana waved at me again and vanished in the chilly passageway leading to her dressing room, which was at the farthest end. I stayed where I was and fired up another cigarette. Then someone paused by my table and I looked up at Ricardo.

  He was handsome, all right. Six feet tall, weighing perhaps a hundred and eighty, he had the black hair, tiny moustache, olive complexion and gleaming white teeth of the Latin. He was, as the head waiter had once confided, a smart cookie.

  He had been born and raised in Brooklyn. He had come up the hard way and knew all the answers. His name was genuine, his father having been Puerto Rican and his mother American. He had learned a fair Spanish from his father. But he was too shrewd to build himself up as a South American. It had been his policy to publicize his Brooklyn background. He played on it so consistently that most people didn’t believe him. They thought it was a gag. The Broadway columnists loved it. From a publicity standpoint, he couldn’t have made a smarter move.

  He stood looking down at me. He was a man now, not a dancer—and I didn’t like him. That went double. He said, “You’re back, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you and my wife getting along?”

  It wasn’t what he said; it was the way he said it that I didn’t like. He knew that Dana and I were in love with each other. He knew that we were together constantly. To a man of his stamp that could mean only one thing. But it didn’t seem to do anything more than to afford him amusement. He repeated his question. I didn’t say anything.

  He went on: “You taking her out between shows?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know damn well you are.”

  There wasn’t any use answering that, either. He took out a gold cigarette case and put a little white cylinder between his lips.

  “With me,” he said deliberately, “she was always cold as ice.”

  He walked away. I hoped he couldn’t see that my fists were clenched under the table. I was still that way when Dana came through the doorway and said gaily, “Let’s go, Rich Guy.”

  I bought my coat and hat back from the checkroom girl for a quarter. We decided to walk. From one angle that was a mistake because the wind seemed to shoot icicles right through us. From a
nother angle it was good because it helped sweep Ricardo from my mind. It helped, but it didn’t do a thorough job.

  We got to our restaurant at 10:30. We abandoned our champagne idea. We ordered steaks with mushroom sauce plus the usual dinner trimmings. I tried to keep it light, but didn’t succeed very well. Over the coffee and liqueurs, Dana leaned across the table and touched my hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  I said, “Nothing.”

  “Try again.”

  I didn’t look at her. I said, “The usual thing.”

  “Ricardo been baiting you?”

  “Something like that.” I faced her squarely. “Isn’t there something we can do about it, sweetheart?”

  “What?” She was very patient with me, considering we’d been over it a thousand times. “There’s nothing between Ricardo and me, but we are married. He won’t grant me a divorce, and so far as I know, or can prove, he’s done nothing to give me grounds for one. He swears that even if I went to Reno, he’d follow me there and contest it. And he isn’t bluffing.”

  “It’s the act, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t you offered to go right on with it if he’d give you a divorce?”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t believe me. And also . . .”

  “Also what?”

  Her cheeks were pink. “He knows that I’d marry you. And he’s afraid that if I did . . . well, that things might happen. . . .”

  “Children?”

  “Yes. He won’t take chances.”

  The grim humor of it struck me suddenly. I laughed. “It’s a new method,” I said. “But it’s certainly effective.”

  She thought that was funny, too. The laughter helped a lot. But it didn’t make the evening what we had wanted it to be. It was grand, but it wasn’t perfect. We worked at it, perhaps too hard. At midnight, I took her back to the club and said good night. We made a date for the following night. “But no steak,” I warned. “Hash only. I’m going to the bank tomorrow and let them strip me of my wealth.”

  I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I was thinking about too many things. I lay down on the bed and stared into the darkness. The next thing I knew the alarm clock was going off. The hands pointed to 7:30 and it was black as midnight outside.

  I bathed, shaved, dressed, drank some coffee and orange juice, and went to the office. I reported to the big bosses. They seemed satisfied with what I had done. I spoke to a couple of the other boys in the drafting room and went out. Nothing to do until Monday.

  I went to the bank. It was a branch on the corner near my office. I knew several of the men, including George Larsen, the assistant manager. He saw me come in and said, “Hello.” I walked behind the railing and sat down near his desk. I motioned for two other fellows to come over. I said, “You boys never make mistakes, do you?”

  George said he hoped not.

  “But you wouldn’t swear to it?”

  “Almost.”

  “That isn’t enough.” I pulled the brown envelope out of my pocket and produced the yellow sheet of paper with figures on it.

  “Feast your eyes on that,” I invited. “Is that a laugh or is that a laugh?”

  All three of them glanced at it. Then Larsen said, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Wrong? Are you kidding?” I read one entry: “January 28th—by deposit—$100,000.00.”

  George said, “So what?”

  “So your bookkeeping department is crazy. I never had a hundred thousand dollars in my life, and probably never will have. And if I did . . .”

  Again the three men exchanged looks. One of them said, “You think that’s a mistake?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I know it’s a mistake.”

  Larsen shook his head.

  “It’s not a mistake,” he said. “On January 28th we received one hundred thousand dollars in cash with instructions to deposit it to your account.”

  CHAPTER III

  I STARED AT George Larsen and he did the same to me. I said, “April Fool’s Day is a long way off.”

  He didn’t say anything. Neither did the other two immaculate, chastely-garbed gentlemen who worked with him. They tried to keep their expressions impassive, but they weren’t having much success. After all, a hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money. They looked at it all day long, but that was impersonal. When it actually belonged to someone they knew . . . that was different.

  I said, “I give up. And I’m asking the sixty-four-dollar question: Where would I get one hundred thousand dollars?”

  George smiled bleakly. “You might have held up an armored car,” he suggested with what he fancied was hot humor.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t make this deposit, either. I saw it entered on the statement which was waiting for me when 1 got home last night. I came in to kid you fellows because I knew it was a mistake. I still think so.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” he said gravely. “So far as we’re concerned, it’s yours, subject to your check.”

  I sat down. So did George and so did his co-workers. We pulled our chairs into a little circle and somebody passed a pack of cigarettes around, forgetting in the excitement that there was a shortage on. I said, “Tell me more.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. We were unusually busy that morning. A messenger came in and asked for me—”

  “A uniformed messenger?”

  “No. Just a man. I knew he was a messenger because when he gave me the package, he also handed me a little book to sign.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I’m sorry, Kirk. I haven’t the faintest idea. I was all messed up with a lot of papers and three people were waiting to see me. It was a plain, ordinary, bulky parcel wrapped in brown paper. I didn’t know what was in it or who it was from. I left it sitting on my desk until I’d finished what I was doing. That took about half an hour. Then I opened it.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Money. Lots of money. Fifties and tens and twenties. There wasn’t any sequence to the serial numbers—a banker notices that instinctively. The bills weren’t packaged. It looked like money someone might have won in a crap game, if you know what I mean. Not new; not old. Nothing to make it look different from any other hundred thousand we might scrape together. With it was a note from you.” He fished through a batch of papers and tossed me an 8½ × 11 sheet with typewriting on it. The note was short:

  Dear George—

  I can’t drop by personally, and I don’t want to carry this much cash around with me. Will you be good enough to deposit it to my account?

  I’ll be buying you a drink next week. Until then—

  Bestest—

  KIRK DOUGLAS

  I said, “Why should I sign it on the typewriter?”

  “Why shouldn’t you? It might be unusual, but it isn’t impossible.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I sent the money to one of the tellers. It added up to the penny. Your account was credited with that amount. The money was spread around in the cash drawers.”

  “In other words, there was nothing about it that would enable you to separate it from other currency?”

  “Not a thing.”

  I mopped my forehead. The thing was getting under my skin. I said, “Look, George—you’ve known me a long time. You know where I work and approximately what I make. Didn’t this strike you as odd?”

  “Brother, you said it. I telephoned your office. They said you were out of town. So I did the only thing I could do. Legally—or technically—whichever way you want to look at it, the money is yours.”

  I said, “I didn’t write that note, George. I didn’t send you the money. It isn’t mine, and I don’t want it.”

  “You’re stuck with it, just the same.”

  “What do you mean: I’m stuck with it?”

  He explained patiently. “The whole thing was unusual. I had no choice but to follow the directions in that note. It never occurred to me that you hadn’t sent it, and it was p
erfectly good money. The note sounded like you. I certainly couldn’t be expected to detect anything wrong about the situation. Lots of queer things happen in any branch of a big bank like ours. I had tried to check with you. No soap. There’s no way now of identifying a single one of those bills. If you wanted to draw against it right now, we’d have to honor your check. And that’s the picture.”

  “The more you talk,” I said, “the crazier it gets. If somebody wanted to present me with that much money, why did they do it this way?”

  “I wouldn’t be knowing that. Just as I didn’t know whether you’d suddenly hit it rich.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “You can put it in a separate account, if you wish. Or leave it where it is until you find the answer. Meanwhile, one of the ace detectives of the Bankers’ Protective Association happens to be with the chief right now. How about telling it to him?”

  I nodded. One of the three men walked away, and a few minutes later a man-mountain hove in sight. I was introduced. They said his name was Hanvey. Jim Hanvey.

  Hanvey didn’t look like a detective. He didn’t look like anything except a man who had eaten too much for too long. Large as he was, his clothes were even larger. He had a round face, pink cheeks, sparse hair and a pleasant smile. He had eyes like a fish: gray, dead, sleepy-looking eyes. He took a chair and listened while George Larsen did some explaining. And all the while he fiddled with a gleaming golden gadget that hung suspended from the hawser-like watch chain which spanned his vest. The thing fascinated me until he explained that it was a solid gold toothpick. I decided immediately that I had at last found something I could give my worst enemy for Christmas.

  Hanvey was a good listener, although I wasn’t sure he was listening. It looked like 6-2-and-even that he was asleep. Larsen finished talking, and then for quite a while there was a lot of silence. Then Hanvey asked, in a slow, drawling, patient voice, “You got no ideas, Mr. Douglas?”

  “No. The thing makes a lot of no sense.”

  “I wish somebody would play a trick like that on me.” He gave vent to a tremendous sigh. “I’d buy me a little place in the country and raise chickens.”