Magician's Wife by James M. Cain Page B

strings. Are the rest of you guys in?”
    After a startled moment, Mr. Lomack nodded and rapped with his knuckles. Mr. Gordon rapped. Mr. Katz rapped, and after thinking, Mr. Heine. “O.K.,” said Clay briskly, “that gives them twenty-five grand, which ought to hold them—anyway, to start.”
    Back in the office, he learned from Miss Helm that “a Mrs. Simone called—wants you to call her, at Fisher’s.” Grace, when he got her, seemed upset, and asked: “Have you seen The Bosun today?”
    â€œOh? That columnist? On The Pilot?”
    â€œYou’d better have a look.”
    â€œI will. Hold on a minute, Grace.”
    He had noticed Miss Helm with the paper, and she let him have it at once, looking, he thought, rather sheepish. Finding The Bosun, he read:
What well-known magician, hooked in a Baltimore club, is burning because his girlfriend has started to cheat, with a big sausage-and-porterhouse man, here in Channel City?
    â€œWell?” he asked Grace. “So what?”
    â€œYou don’t think it just happened, do you?”
    â€œNo, I think a bitch put it in, as part of a get-hunk campaign that you kindly warned me of. But don’t let it worry you, Grace. I’ve been busy selling meat, tons and tons and tons of it—but this I can handle too, and when I do I’ll ring you. How’ve you been?”
    â€œI’ve been fine, thanks.”
    â€œI took a trip to the beach.”
    â€œI hope you enjoyed it.”
    Hanging up, he asked Miss Helm to call Mr. Iglehart, of The Pilot business office, and when Mr. Iglehart came on, he made himself most agreeable, recalling a previous meeting and bringing up the new project, with the space it was going to require for the ads in The Pilot. “And why I called,” he went on, “we’re going to need help, of course, your very valuable help, with layout and stuff like that, and I was wondering if I could come in? Take up some of your time and—”
    â€œCome in? Mr. Lockwood, I’ll come to you.”
    â€œOh, would you? You mean, today?”
    â€œWell—I can. I’ll come right over now.”
    But Clay told Miss Helm: “When Mr. Iglehart comes, cool him off a while. It suits me that he waits.” So in twenty minutes or so, a good-looking young man sat, staring through the glass, while Clay stared back fish-faced, making no move to ask him in. At last he came in, or at least put his head in the door, smiling: “Mr. Lockwood? Jim Iglehart, of The Pilot. ”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Clay. “Come in.”
    â€œYou called just now. About space.”
    â€œDid I? You must learn to take a rib.”
    â€œRib? Mr. Lockwood, I don’t get it—”
    â€œIt’s O.K., don’t give it a thought. There’s always The Baltimore Sun, which has space for me too—and doesn’t print lies about me, like this thing that I saw, after talking with you.” He handed The Pilot over, and Mr. Iglehart read The Bosun. “Well!” he faltered. “I can see why you wouldn’t like it, but—after all, Mr. Lockwood, it doesn’t name anyone!”
    â€œOh, how considerate,” said Clay.
    â€œAnd it doesn’t have to mean you!”
    â€œJust what I told my girl—my secretary—just now. And yet they were both in, the magician and his girl. I never saw either one of them, before or since, but—they were here. And so, not only my girl but every girl in the place thinks I’m a wolf, a chaser, a—”
    â€œWill you give me five minutes, sir?”
    â€œSure, I’ll give you till hell freezes over!”
    â€œWill you give me a phone to use?”
    â€œHelp yourself, help yourself!” Clay said it sourly, waved at the phone, and walked out, winking at Miss Helm and telling her: “See that he gets his call—and let me know when he’s done talking. I’ll be down at the