“What about Mignon?” I asked him.
“You mean Dan hasn’t told you?”
“He couldn’t find out anything—he said.”
“He probably wanted to spare you.”
“You mean, they never got her?”
“That’s right—we grappled all morning, not only for her, but for a seaman that was lost, boy by the name of Cassidy, who never came up after the cutter capsized when they took her down separate. No bodies were found.”
He came over, patted my shoulder, stood around, and said all the dumb things one friend says to another who’s been hit in the head with an axe. At last I said: “Well, the end of our little adventure.”
“In New Orleans, you’re talking about?”
“Yes, Sandy, of course.”
“You feel you can’t go on?”
“What do we go on with? Whiff?”
“... I’m sorry I got you into it.”
“Takes two to get into a thing like that, and I don’t blame you for it. Just the same, Sandy, I stick around New Orleans and I’m on the town. Well, I don’t want to be.” And then, as I began to shift from what was to what was going to be, I went on: “I’d like you to do something for me. I have the fare home—not much more, but enough to get me there. Not enough, however, to settle my hotel bill, doctor, and so on. They’ve been paid for me, in a somewhat mysterious way, and what I want you to do is see a woman for me; I think she is responsible.” I told him the little he needed to know about Marie and said: “What I want you to do is see her, find out how much she’s spent, and assure her I’ll remit when I get to Annapolis. I want you to talk to her nice as you can, but if she has any idea of starting up with me again, get it out of her head. That would be the last straw—she’s a sweet, wonderful person, who’d be perfectly capable of paying for me here out of the goodness of her heart. But I must mourn my dead, and my dead wouldn’t like it if I got outside help. Will you take care of it for me?”
“I’ll do my best, Bill.”
I didn’t see him for several days, and in that time I gained enough strength to sit up. I’d taken my first staggering stroll, to the sofa in the sitting room, and was reading the Times there when a tap came at the door. “It’s open, come in!” I called, expecting the maid. But who opened the door was Marie. She had on a white summer dress, with floppy straw hat, and carried a bouquet of flowers tied with a white ribbon. I jumped up to greet her, but she pushed me back on the sofa, then sat down, laying her flowers aside, and took me in her arms. “Guillaume,” she said, “are you better?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m going to be all right—thanks to you, I think. And that’s what we’re talking about.”
“No, please,” she whispered. “First, about me.”
“Then—what about you?”
“You may félicite me. I am mariée.”
“That means—married?”
“Yes, Guillaume. Are you angry at me?”
“Angry? I’m so happy I want to cry.”
“Alors. Alors. Alors.”
She got up, as though to go to the door, but I grabbed her, pulled her down again, kissed her, and kissed her again. I said: “It’s the most wonderful news, Marie—especially to me, after the lousy way I treated you—”
“There shall be no talk of louses! You were in love, with a fine, wonderful girl, half poupée, half tigre, so where is the louse, for example? But you ask not, petit, who my husband is.”
“All right, who is this lucky hombre?”
She got up, went to the door and beckoned. I expected her guard to come in, or Dumont, or someone who had been in her life before she met me, but Sandy stepped through the door, a self-conscious grin on his face, his Lavadeau suit glittering like a Christmas tree. I said: “You?”
“That’s right, Bill. I’m the one.”
“Pardon me, I think I’m going to faint.”
He took a seat in a chair, quite pleased with himself, while she sat by me again, no longer afraid of what I might say, but friendly, cuddly, and ramping to tell me about it. She said: “Alexandre came to me, with messages of you, who I heard about of m’sieu Olsen, but it seemed discussions were required. So—we walked, in Jackson Square. We had coffee, in the French Market, perhaps—gras, greezee but droll. Ainsi, next day, more discussion appeared to devolve, so we lunched at Antoine’s, some hours. Then, it was time for dinner, and then we attended the theater. Then, we walked more in Jackson Square, and next day we resumed our discussions. Ainsi, ainsi, ainsi—today, we go to the City Hall, and—pardon if I draw breath.”
“You mean—there’s more?”
“Little bit, Bill,” said Sandy. “She’ll tell you.”
“Cresap et Gregg,” she said.
“Gregg and Cresap,” he corrected.
“Cresap et Gregg!” she repeated, jumping up and stamping her foot. “Who tames one river may perhaps tame another, and we know who this tamer was!”
“Then—Cresap and Gregg, all right!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked them.
“The twenty-five thousand bocks,” she said.
“Bill,” he told me very solemnly, “you don’t have to go home if you don’t want to. I didn’t bring this up, and in fact knew nothing about it, except that crack I heard that Mignon made one time—but it didn’t really connect. And she didn’t bring it up, until after the knot was tied in City Hall just now. But then she did bring it up—and that’s what brought us here. One of the things.”
“Marie,” I said, “now I am going to cry.”
So, in the mornings I read the papers, for the U.S. marshal’s auction sales of stuff we’re going to need, and sometimes go out to bid, having the gear delivered to a waterfront shed we rented over on the Algiers side. In the afternoons I write, on a stack of foolscap I got, of the hours I spent with her, to explain how everything was, so I’ll have it to read later on, and so perhaps it’ll ease the pain. Because at night is when my life gets bad. I turn out the light, I go to bed, I make myself sleep somehow. Then I open my eyes and she comes—through the walls, floating in, her hair wet, her cheek cold, her hands pressing mine, telling me how she escaped; how she swam ashore at Biossat’s, at the bridge, at the Catholic church below town, and was hidden by kind friends, so the Navy couldn’t find her; and how, if I’ll give her a little time, we’ll be together soon when the war is over at last. Then I moan and try to tell her I would have dived in to save her, but I was forcibly stopped. Then I get more and more worked up, and then she goes—through the wall, waving as she did from the monitor’s deck.
So, the hoodoo passed me by at Red River but didn’t forget me, at all. He sleeps in the other bed.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1948 by James M. Cain
cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4532-9161-0
This 2012 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY
JAMES M. CAIN
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
James M. Cain, Mignon
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends