Sinful Woman

Chapter Eleven

The sirens were a success, quite as much of a success as they invariably are in a fast, gangster movie. They came screeching out from town at 80, motorcycles in front, the chief’s car behind that, the salvage truck behind that, the ladder truck behind that, and the pump behind that, a fine, glittering, noisy, 100 % American midnight motorcade. Even so, it was tame in comparison with what went on inside the Domino. The inflammable dice, if they had been all, might not have amounted to much, and Dmitri’s desperate scheme might have failed for the simple reason that a fire takes a great deal longer to get going than a theatrical imagination realizes. But the box happened to be sitting within an inch or two of the big intake cable that led from the connection outside to the electric meter at rear. So when the dice flared hotly up they did not ignite the wall, for it was made of some sort of fireproof composition, but they did melt the cable, so that the first result of the cigarette was that the place went completely dark, without so much as a fuse blowing out. For a minute or so, as Americans versed in the idiosyncrasies of power houses, the gathering sat around without saying a word: one or two muttered gags about a blackout were rebuked by the Coroner, who said it was not a frivolous occasion. But when another minute went by and no light came on, the Coroner said: “Well, we got to get on with this. Tony, do you think you could get us a few candles?”

“I’ll do it.”

It was the voice of one of the girl dealers, and at once there was the sound of her heels clicking off to a corner, and then out. At once came her scream, and then another, and then another. “It’s on fire, the whole storeroom is burning,” she called, as soon as she could run back into the casino. At once came the Sheriff’s voice: “Out, everybody. Take it easy, but get outside.” The front door opened, making a big rectangular patch of light from outside, and Mr. Flynn’s voice said: “This way.” Several photographers, carrying cameras and evidently concerned for their pictures, hurried out. But hardly had Mr. Flynn spoken when Tony, frantically, yelled: “The cash! Girls, the cash! Girls, don’t let me down without getting the cash out!” For the cash, amounting to several thousand dollars, had been rung up on the registers, but it had not been put in the safe, and Tony’s voice betrayed only too well what he stood to lose if the place went up and took this precious paper with it.

Within a few seconds there was a frightful din, as the girls groped their way to the registers to retrieve the cash, the officers groped their way to the girls and tried to get them out, and the photographers groped their way inside again to take pictures of the scene by flash-bulb, all yelling at the top of their lungs. But a dull, flickering glow took command at last, accompanied by the smell of smoke, and by the light of that, the girls ran out, handing their money to Tony at the door. After them stamped the irate officers. When the fire apparatus arrived, in answer to Mr. Britten’s call, some of the crowd was out front, but most of it was at the side, watching Tony, Jake, and one or two others throwing water into the storeroom window with buckets.

Dmitri, being already out, took no part in any of these proceedings, but stood apart, some little distance off, apparently studying how best to take advantage of the diversion he had created. When the firemen piled off their trucks and began coupling their hose to the plugs along the main highway, he spotted the Sheriff, standing with the first chief near the ladder truck. Going over and speaking in a large, confident way, he said: “Can I bother you one minute, Sharf?”

“What about?”

“Plizze, is confidential.”

Wonderingly the Sheriff followed him a few steps off, until they were on the banks of the little mountain stream. Dmitri cleared his throat, said mysteriously and importantly: “Sharf, there was one thing. One thing I didn’t tell when Excellenz ask me. Sharf, I feel sure this Vicki, this my friend, he killed himself.”

“What you got to go on?”

“Last night he wrote a letter.”

“How do you know?”

“He took my pen. My pen with green ink. He wrote a letter to Sylvia, put a special on, drove out and mailed it. Sharf, when he finish this letter, Vicki cried. He cried like a baby. In my arms, he cried. Sharf, I know this man took his own life.”

“Well, you could be right.”

“What did she say when she read this letter, ha?”

“That the letter you gave me?”

“Sure, it was the same one.

“She never saw it.”

“She— What did you say?”

“I burned it up. She got kind of upset when I handed it to her. Broke her up. I didn’t see any reason for making her feel worse. I pitched it on the fire. It’s gone.”

Dmitri made a noise like a very small pig. The Sheriff watched an emergency truck of the electric light company turn in at the gate, then turned a reflective eye on the wretched little figure in front of him. “You seem kind of upset yourself.”

“Yes, Sharf. He was my friend.”

“We’ll never know.”

He started to rejoin the fire chief, but Dmitri caught his arm. “No, Sharf, plizze don’t go. I must talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Money.”

“In what way would you want to talk to me about money?”

“Man to man.”

“You sure you don’t mean crook to cop?”

“Why, that’s ridiculous.”

“Then say what it is.”

“Now, Sharf, don’t get sore, because I don’t know how goes with you. Sometimes a guy needs money, sometimes not.”

“He generally does.”

“O. K., then if twanny five-fifty will help out, say the word, here I am. Cesh, or any way you want it.”

“You think I could be bought for fifty bucks?”

“Bucks? Don’t make me laugh. Grand.”

Even the Sheriff, no stranger to matters cinematic, blinked at this gay riposte. “You mean you’d pay me fifty thousand dollars to cover up something in this case?”

“Cover up? Who said cover up?”

“Then for what?”

“That I can sleep my nights, Sharf. That I can go back to Hollywood and hold up my head. That I can look people in the eye. That they don’t say, he let his friend be killed. That they don’t say, there goes the dirty heel that didn’t think any more of his friend than to let him use a loaded gun. That they don’t say—”

“I got the idea.”

“Sharf, I know this note says Vicki will take his own life if Sylwia gets a divorce. All I ask, Sharf, is that you tell you read note first. Before you burned it up. You burned it up, that’s O. K. Who wouldn’t? My God, to save a girl from feeling so bad, anybody would burn it up. You do this for me, so all know Dimmy Spiro is no heel, that all know Vicki himself did this, that’s all I esk. No cover up. The truth, Sharf! The truth!”

The Sheriff cogitated over this some moments, staring at Dmitri, or at that spot a few inches behind Dmitri’s head that seemed to be his focal point at certain moments. Then he said: “Here’s where you get the surprise of your life. I’m taking your money.”

“Sharf! Sharf! I die! From happy!”

“I want your check.”

“Anything.”

“Make it to Parker Lucas, Treasurer.”

“Treasurer what?”

“Just at large.”

“O. K., do like you say.”

“I won’t testify that you read the letter, but I’ll testify there was a letter, and that I burned it. If you want to testify that you lent him the pen to write the letter, and that he cried and made remarks that led you to think it was a suicide letter, then O. K., that’s up to you. But I’ll agree if the inquest turns out in a way that interferes with your sleep, to return your money.”

“O. K., Sharf, it’s wonderful!”

The Sheriff led the way to his car and got in, beckoning Dmitri to follow. Then he turned on the top light, and Dmitri got out a single blank check. Then, using the brim of the Sheriff’s hat for a writing table, he wrote a check, handed it over. After examining it carefully, the Sheriff put it in his pocket.

“O. K., Mr. Spiro, thanks.”

“Ah, Sharf, you don’t know what you do for me.”

“You set that fire?”

“...What you say, Sharf?”

“I asked you if you set this place on fire.”

“O. K., Sharf, I did.”

“You’re paying for that too. Every cent it takes to repair that damage, so Tony doesn’t even put in a claim.”

“Sharf, you know I will.”