The Complete Crime Stories
James M. Cain
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Contents
JAMES M. CAIN: Introduction by Otto Penzler
The Baby in the Icebox
Pay-Off Girl
Two O’clock Blonde
The Birthday Party
Brush Fire
Coal Black
Career in C Major
Death on the Beach
Dead Man
The Girl in the Storm
Joy Ride to Glory
Pastorale
Mommy’s a Barfly
The Taking of Montfaucon
Cigarette Girl
The Robbery
The Money and the Woman (The Embezzler)
JAMES M. CAIN
Introduction by Otto Penzler
James M. Cain, the quintessential hard-boiled writer, claimed he didn’t know what the term meant, and he wasn’t alone. So what is it? They are realistic works of fiction in the sense that people who go out to get a private investigator license are hired to solve crimes, even if they are committed by tough guys (who, in fact, commit most violent crimes), which is more than the village vicar or the head of the gardening club can say. Since they are not part of an official police force, they have a lot more freedom to get information in whatever manner works best for them. This is true only in fictional accounts, of course.
The reason Cain never wrote a detective novel is that he didn’t like the notion of a criminal being caught in a neat ending with all loose ends tied together. His stories are mainly concerned with murder and love, and are told primarily from the criminal’s point of view.
Born in Annapolis, Maryland, in 1892, he was the son of James William Cain, a professor, and Rose Mallahan Cain, an opera singer. James also wanted a career in opera until he was told emphatically (by his mother) that he didn’t have the voice for it. His father later became president of Washington College in Chesterton, Maryland, where James received his bachelor of arts degree in 1910 at the age of eighteen, and a master’s degree in 1917 after teaching mathematics and English at the college for four years.
Eschewing a promising academic career, Cain decided to become a reporter and worked for the Baltimore American and the Baltimore Sun, with time out for two years in the Army during World War I. He was encouraged by H.L. Mencken in Baltimore and later by Walter Lippman at the New York World, where he wrote political columns of a relatively uncontroversial nature. There were so many taboos, Cain said, that as an independent columnist “all you could condemn was the man-eating shark, and all you could praise was your favorite flower.”
His magazine articles and short stories began to appear in the 1920s and he started to write screenplays in Hollywood in 1931 and continued to write them with increasing success, both artistically and financially, for seventeen years. He became a best-selling author with his first novel, The Postman Always Rings Twice (1934).
As a California writer, Cain inevitably faced comparison with Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and, to a lesser degree, Ross Macdonald. They are “tough guy” writers in the same way that John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Horace McCoy, and B. Traven were. The noted critic Edmund Wilson called Cain and his peers “poets of the tabloid murder” because they forced a new style of literature to be taken seriously.
Cain broke precedent with past literary works by producing a sensationally popular novel (later a play and twice a motion picture) in which both leading characters are repulsive. After the success of The Postman Always Rings Twice, he repeated the formula in Double Indemnity (1943). Displaying exceptional psychological insight in these and other works, such as Serenade (1937) and Mildred Pearce (1941), Cain was able to uncover and articulate the beginnings of the thought processes leading to the entangled schemes that ultimately result in the commission of murder.
Whereas Hammett and Chandler wrote about good/bad, soft/tough detectives who tried to unravel the messes that someone else caused by a violent or greedy act, Cain created two-dimensional characters interested only in themselves and who were motivated by their lust for money or sex or by some form of snobbery. They are flawed as characters because they are too thoroughly evil and Cain shows them no mercy. He is, as David Madden wrote in his biography, “the twenty-minute egg of the hard-boiled school.”
Although Cain wrote eighteen novels, he was essentially a short story writer, especially if one remembers that most of his novels were really novellas, extremely compact, coming in about half the length of conventional novels. Postman was only 35,000 words, Double Indemnity only 29,000, and his best-selling The Butterfly (1947) was so slim that Cain added a twelve-page introduction to try to give it a bit more heft. He edited an anthology, For Men Only (1944), in the introduction to which he extolled the virtues of the short story: “It is greatly superior to the novel, or at any rate, the American novel. It is one kind of fiction that need not, to please the American taste, deal with heroes. Our national curse, if so perfect a land can have such a thing, is the ‘sympathetic’ character … The world’s greatest literature is peopled by thorough-going heels.”
Cain’s literary style is a paragon of spare prose. In the wardrobe of literature, he is a thong. Along with George V. Higgins and Ernest Hemingway, Cain was identified by Elmore Leonard as one of his greatest literary influences. When you read these wonderfully taut stories, you will see that he followed Leonard’s advice long before it was given—Cain left out the parts that people tend to skip.
The Baby in the Icebox
Of course there was plenty pieces in the paper about what happened out at the place last summer, but they got it all mixed up, so I will now put down how it really was, and ’specially the beginning of it, so you will see it is not no lies in it.
Because when a guy and his wife begin to play leapfrog with a tiger, like you might say, and the papers put in about that part and not none of the stuff that started it off, and then one day say X marks the spot and next day say it wasn’t really no murder but don’t tell you what it was, why, I don’t blame people if they figure there was something funny about it or maybe that somebody ought to be locked up in the booby hatch. But there wasn’t no booby hatch to this, nothing but plain onriness and a dirty rat getting it in the neck where he had it coming to him, as you will see when I get the first part explained right.
Things first begun to go sour between Duke and Lura when they put the cats in. They didn’t need no cats. They had a combination auto camp, filling station, and lunchroom out in the country a ways, and they got along all right. Duke run the filling station, and got me in to help him, and Lura took care of the lunchroom and shacks. But Duke wasn’t satisfied. Before he got this place he had raised rabbits, and one time he had bees, and another time canary birds, and nothing would suit him now but to put in some cats to draw trade. Maybe you think that’s funny, but out here in California they got every kind of a farm there is, from kangaroos to alligators, and it was just about the idea that a guy like Duke would think up. So he begun building a cage, and one day he showed up with a truckload of wildcats.
I wasn’t there when they unloaded them. It was two or three cars waiting and I had to gas them up. But soon as I got a chance I went back there to look things over. And believe me, they wasn’t pretty. The guy that sold Duke the cats had went away about five minutes before, and Duke was standing outside the cage and he had a stick of wood in his hand with blood on it. Inside was a dead cat. The rest of them was on a shelf, that had been built for them to jump on, and every one of them was snarling at Duke.
I don’t know if you ever saw a wildcat, but they are
about twice as big as a house cat, brindle gray, with tufted ears and a bobbed tail. When they set and look at you they look like a owl, but they wasn’t setting and looking now. They was marching around, coughing and spitting, their eyes shooting red and green fire, and it was a ugly sight, ’specially with that bloody dead one down on the ground. Duke was pale, and the breath was whistling through his nose, and it didn’t take no doctor to see he was scared to death.
“You better bury that cat,” he says to me. “I’ll take care of the cars.”
I looked through the wire and he grabbed me. “Look out!” he says. “They’d kill you in a minute.”
“In that case,” I says, “how do I get the cat out?”
“You’ll have to get a stick,” he says, and shoves off.
I was pretty sore, but I begun looking around for a stick. I found one, but when I got back to the cage Lura was there. “How did that happen?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I says, “but I can tell you this much: If there’s any more of them to be buried around here, you can get somebody else to do it. My job is to fix flats, and I’m not going to be no cat undertaker.”
She didn’t have nothing to say to that. She just stood there while I was trying the stick, and I could hear her toe snapping up and down in the sand, and from that I knowed she was choking it back, what she really thought, and didn’t think no more of this here cat idea than I did.
The stick was too short. “My,” she says, pretty disagreeable, “that looks terrible. You can’t bring people out here with a thing like that in there.”
“All right,” I snapped back. “Find me a stick.”
She didn’t make no move to find no stick. She put her hand on the gate. “Hold on,” I says. “Them things are nothing to monkey with.”
“Huh,” she says. “All they look like to me is a bunch of cats.”
There was a kennel back of the cage, with a drop door on it, where they was supposed to go at night. How you got them back there was bait them with food, but I didn’t know that then. I yelled at them, to drive them back in there, but nothing happened. All they done was yell back. Lura listened to me awhile, and then she give a kind of gasp like she couldn’t stand it no longer, opened the gate, and went in.
Now believe me, that next was a bad five minutes, because she wasn’t hard to look at, and I hated to think of her getting mauled up by them babies. But a guy would of had to of been blind if it didn’t show him that she had a way with cats. First thing she done, when she got in, she stood still, didn’t make no sudden motions or nothing, and begun to talk to them. Not no special talk. Just “Pretty pussy, what’s the matter, what they been doing to you?”—like that. Then she went over to them.
They slid off, on their bellies, to another part of the shelf. But she kept after them, and got her hand on one, and stroked him on the back. Then she got ahold of another one, and pretty soon she had give them all a pat. Then she turned around, picked up the dead cat by one leg, and come out with him. I put him on the wheelbarrow and buried him.
Now, why was it that Lura kept it from Duke how easy she had got the cat out and even about being in the cage at all? I think it was just because she didn’t have the heart to show him up to hisself how silly he looked. Anyway, at supper that night, she never said a word. Duke, he was nervous and excited and told all about how the cats had jumped at him and how he had to bean one to save his life, and then he give a long spiel about cats and how fear is the only thing they understand, so you would of thought he was Martin Johnson just back from the jungle or something.
But it seemed to me the dishes was making quite a noise that night, clattering around on the table, and that was funny, because one thing you could say for Lura was: she was quiet and easy to be around. So when Duke, just like it was nothing at all, asks me by the way how did I get the cat out, I heared my mouth saying, “With a stick,” and not nothing more. A little bird flies around and tells you, at a time like that. Lura let it pass. Never said a word. And if you ask me, Duke never did find out how easy she could handle the cats, and that ain’t only guesswork, but on account of something that happened a little while afterward, when we got the mountain lion.
A mountain lion is a cougar, only out here they call them a mountain lion. Well, one afternoon about five o’clock this one of ours squat down on her hunkers and set up the worst squalling you ever listen to. She kept it up all night, so you wanted to go out and shoot her, and next morning at breakfast Duke come running in and says come on out and look what happened. So we went out there, and there in the cage with her was the prettiest he mountain lion you ever seen in your life. He was big, probably weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, and his coat was a pearl gray so glossy it looked like a pair of new gloves, and he had a spot of white on his throat. Sometimes they have white.
“He come down from the hills when he heard her call last night,” says Duke, “and he got in there somehow. Ain’t it funny? When they hear that note nothing can stop them.”
“Yeah,” I says. “It’s love.”
“That’s it,” says Duke. “Well, we’ll be having some little ones soon. Cheaper’n buying them.”
After he had went off to town to buy the stuff for the day, Lura sat down to the table with me. “Nice of you,” I says, “to let Romeo in last night.”
“Romeo?” she says.
“Yes, Romeo. That’s going to be papa of twins soon, out in the lion cage.”
“Oh,” she says, “didn’t he get in there himself?”
“He did not. If she couldn’t get out, how could he get in?”
All she give me at that time was a dead pan. Didn’t know nothing about it at all. Fact of the matter, she made me a little sore. But after she brung me my second cup of coffee she kind of smiled. “Well?” she says. “You wouldn’t keep two loving hearts apart, would you?”
So things was, like you might say, a little gritty, but they got a whole lot worse when Duke come home with Rajah, the tiger. Because by that time he had told so many lies that he begun to believe them hisself, and put on all the airs of a big animal trainer. When people come out on Sundays, he would take a black snake whip and go in with the mountain lions and wildcats, and snap it at them, and they would snarl and yowl, and Duke acted like he was doing something. Before he went in, he would let the people see him strapping on a big six-shooter, and Lura got sorer by the week.
For one thing, he looked so silly. She couldn’t see nothing to going in with the cats, and ’specially she couldn’t see no sense in going in with a whip, a six-shooter, and a ten-gallon hat like them cow people wears. And for another thing, it was bad for business. In the beginning, when Lura would take the customers’ kids out and make out the cat had their finger, they loved it, and they loved it still more when the little mountain lions come and they had spots and would push up their ears to be scratched. But when Duke started that stuff with the whip it scared them to death, and even the fathers and mothers was nervous, because there was the gun and they didn’t know what would happen next. So business begun to fall off.
And then one afternoon he put down a couple of drinks and figured it was time for him to go in there with Rajah. Now it had took Lura one minute to tame Rajah. She was in there sweeping out his cage one morning when Duke was away, and when he started sliding around on his belly he got a bucket of water in the face, and that was that. From then on he was her cat. But what happened when Duke tried to tame him was awful. The first I knew what he was up to was when he made a speech to the people from the mountain lion cage telling them not to go away yet, there was more to come. And when he come out he headed over to the tiger.
“What’s the big idea?” I says. “What you up to now?”
“I’m going in with that tiger,” he says. “It’s got to be done, and I might as well do it now.”
“Why has it got to be done?” I says.
He lo
oked at me like as though he pitied me.
“I guess there’s a few things about cats you don’t know yet,” he says. “You got a tiger on your hands, you got to let him know who’s boss, that’s all.”
“Yeah?” I says. “And who is boss?”
“You see that?” he says, and cocks his finger at his face.
“See what?” I says.
“The human eye,” he says. “The human eye, that’s all. A cat’s afraid of it. And if you know your business, you’ll keep him afraid of it. That’s all I’ll use, the human eye. But, of course, just for protection, I’ve got these too.”
“Listen, sweetheart,” I says to him. “If you give me a choice between the human eye and a Bengal tiger, which one I got the most fear of, you’re going to see a guy getting a shiner every time. If I was you, I’d lay off that cat.”
He didn’t say nothing: hitched up his holster, and went in. He didn’t even get a chance to unlimber his whip. That tiger, soon as he saw him, begun to move around in a way that made your blood run cold. He didn’t make for Duke first, you understand. He slid over, and in a second he was between Duke and the gate. That’s one thing about a tiger you better not forget if you ever meet one. He can’t work examples in arithmetic, but when it comes to the kinds of brains that mean meat, he’s the brightest boy in the class and then some. He’s born knowing more about cutting off a retreat than you’ll ever know, and his legs do it for him, just automatic, so his jaws will be free for the main business of the meeting.
Duke backed away, and his face was awful to see. He was straining every muscle to keep his mouth from sliding down in his collar. His left hand fingered the whip a little, and his right pawed around, like he had some idea of drawing the gun. But the tiger didn’t give him time to make up his mind what his idea was, if any.
He would slide a few feet on his belly, then get up and trot a step or two, then slide on his belly again. He didn’t make no noise, you understand. He wasn’t telling Duke, “Please go away”; he meant to kill him, and a killer don’t generally make no more fuss than he has to. So for a few seconds you could even hear Duke’s feet sliding over the floor. But all of a sudden a kid begun to whimper, and I come to my senses. I run around to the back of the cage, because that was where the tiger was crowding him, and I yelled at him.