The Lock and the Key

Chapter Three

Trent stepped into the closet and pulled an army footlocker out into the bedroom, a strange-looking object in contrast to the rich furnishings. “All right,” he said, “let’s see you do your stuff.”

“Do you just want it opened, or do you want it opened with a key?”

“What’s the difference?”

“If you just want it opened, I can do it with a hairpin, or a paper clip. But if you want a key...”

“Let’s see you open it with a key.”

Tommy shrugged and setting his tool kit on the floor, opened it. He rummaged about a moment, found a blank key and tried it in the lock. Nodding, he withdrew it and striking a match, held the match to the key. He again inserted the blank key in the lock and after drawing it out, began applying a file. A moment later he turned the key in the lock.

“Do it again,” Trent said.

“What?”

“Lock it and open it again.”

Tommy snapped the lock shut, got a new blank key and matching it against the one he had just manufactured, was about to apply a file, when Trent exclaimed:

“No — do it with the match.”

“I don’t have to. I’ve already got a key made.”

“Do it again,” Trent persisted. He shot back his cuff and looked at his wrist watch. “I want to time you.”

Tommy got to his feet. “If it’s just a game...”

“It isn’t,” Trent said sharply. “I’ll pay you double.”

Tommy hesitated, then exhaling, got down on his knees and went through the entire procedure. When the lock was opened for the second time he got stiffly to his feet.

“Under two minutes,” Trent said. “You can do that right along?”

“Depends on the lock. This one’s one of the easiest. I could open it with a pick in ten seconds.”

Trent took out his roll of bills and peeled off a twenty. “Here’s your money.”

“You could have bought a new trunk for less.”

“Sure. But I wanted to see you work.” He paused a moment. “I like to see a smooth operator doing his stuff.”

“Any key man can do what I’ve done.”

Trent regarded him thoughtfully. “Can any key man open any kind of a lock?”

Tommy looked at the twenty dollar bill in his hand. He folded it lengthwise, creased it to a knife edge and folded it again. Without looking at Trent he said: “If he can’t open a lock, he can drill it.”

“What about you?” Trent asked. “Do you use a drill very often?”

“All right, I’m a good key man,” Tommy said. “One of the best in the business. Is that what you wanted me to say.”

“I like a man who’s good in his job, whether he’s a key man, or... or a butcher or a baker.” Trent clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Let’s join the party, huh?”

“Uh, n-no,” Tommy said. “I’ll be running along.”

“Don’t be silly, you can stay for a drink or two.” Then Trent grinned wryly. “It’s that pal of yours. He’ll think I’ve done something to you.”

“The hell with Andy,” Tommy growled.

Trent opened the living room door and stepped aside for Tommy to go through.

The party had increased in numbers, or the guests had become noisier. Tommy stopped in the living room and surveyed the party for a moment. A redhead with all that a redhead should have was giving a squat, bald man the business. A drink in one hand, from which whiskey was dribbling onto the bald man’s coat, the redhead was gripping the man with her free hand, gripping his arm and leaning against him drunkenly.

Trent called to the Filipino. “Manuel!”

The white-coated servitor came over with his tray. Trent took down two glasses, one for himself. The other he pressed upon Tommy. Here, drink this, then have another. When you get loosened up, grab yourself a girl. He nodded toward the redhead. “She came without anybody.”

A slow throbbing began in Tommy’s pulse. Automatically he moved the glass of whiskey to his lips and downed it in a single gulp. The waiter smilingly moved the tray so that it was easy for Tommy to take a second drink.

And then Tommy saw her. She was standing at the far end of the room, near the open door that led to the terrace; the girl for whom he had made a car key the night before. Elizabeth Targ.

She was wearing a black cocktail dress that shimmered with sequins. Her hair was done up high on her head. She had a glass in her hand, but seemed oblivious of it. Her attention was focused on someone out upon the terrace. Her face wore an expression that Tommy did not like.

He drank his second cocktail, took a third from the convenient Filipino and started across the room. He had to pass near the redhead and the girl suddenly let go of the bald-headed man and squealed.

“A man! A sure enough, honest to gawd, man!”

She lunged for Tommy, but he evaded her and she spilled the rest of her whiskey on the bald man’s suit. The man swore angrily. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a dame that can’t handle her liquor.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

But Tommy was oblivious of the fight that was beginning. He was across the room, and beside Elizabeth Targ.

“Hello,” he said.

She brought her eyes from the terrace and fixed them upon Tommy. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were a friend of Mr. Trent’s,” Tommy said, to make conversation.

“Trent? Who’s Trent?”

“The man who’s giving the party.”

“Oh, him.” Her eyes strayed toward the terrace, then she caught herself and looked again at Tommy. “I suppose we’ve met somewhere.”

“Yes, we have.” Tommy waited a moment, then added, “Last night.”

“Last night? I wasn’t anywhere last night.”

“I made a key for your car.”

She looked at him then with more than disinterest. “Oh yes.” She grimaced a little. “I... I gave you a tip, didn’t I?”

“Fifty cents.”

But he had lost her attention. Her eyes had gone again to the terrace and she seemed completely unaware of his presence. Tommy waited awkwardly for her attention to return to him, but when it did not he stepped deliberately around her and looked out upon the terrace.

There were two couples outside. One stood by the parapet looking down upon the street below. The other, a tall, lean man and a girl in a flaming red dress, stood in the far corner; close together, talking animatedly.

Tommy said, almost into Elizabeth Targ’s ear: “Good-looking girl.”

Her head swiveled toward him. “What?”

“The girl in the red dress — she’s good-looking...”

“What girl?”

“The one you’re watching.” Tommy paused. “Or is it the man?” Tommy had crowded her too far. She gave him a withering look and walked off. Tommy watched her clear across the room, saw her accosted by Willis Trent and not become aware of it until she had passed him a couple of paces, when she stopped and attempted an apologetic smile.

Tommy lit a cigarette and when a waiter came near took another drink. Smouldering, he sipped at his liquor and cursed himself, first, for coming up here and second, for remaining. Yet there was nothing to keep him here. He’d had the drink, and more, that Trent had asked him to have. He could go; except that he had talked to her and had been rebuffed.

Footsteps slithered on the cement of the terrace and a whiff of Chanel No. 5, although Tommy did not know it for that, assailed his nostrils. He turned and the girl in the red dress came into the room. Burnished copper hair and a heavily tanned skin went well with the red dress. Her liptsick matched it, too, except that it was smeared.

“Excuse me,” Tommy said, “but your lipstick is slipping.”

She stopped, looked at Tommy coolly and opened a compact. She looked at her lips, said, “Thanks,” and began repairing the damage. As she worked her eyes suddenly raised from the little mirror and met Tommy’s. “Do I know you?”

“I’m willing.”

“Get me a drink.”

The man with whom she had been on the terrace appeared behind her. He was tall, lean and swarthy. There was a good fifteen or twenty cents’ worth of pomade on his hair. There was possessiveness in the way he took hold of the girl’s elbow. “Let’s beat it.”

The girl continued to make up her lips. “I just got here.”

At that moment the waiter came within signaling distance and Tommy summoned him. He replaced his empty glass on the tray took down two filled ones. He handed one to the girl in the red dress.

“Here you are.”

She flashed him a smile. “You saved my life.” Then she looked over her shoulder at the swarthy man. “By the way, have you two met? Mr. Faraday... Mr...?” She snapped her fingers.

“Dancer.”

She smiled at Tommy. “Of course. Mr. Dancer, Mr. Faraday.”

The man with the pomaded hair looked at Tommy from under lowered eyebrows. “How are you?” He did not extend his hand.

Tommy nodded. “Har’ya.”

That should have ended the dialogue between Tommy and the other man, except that something within Tommy, probably the four or was it five? drinks urged him on. He said to the girl: “I didn’t set your name.”

“Oh, didn’t you? How careless of you, Earl.” She looked at Faraday.

But Faraday wasn’t in the mood. He pressed forward on her elbow. “Come on.”

Tommy stepped into the girl’s path, touched the wrist of the hand that held the compact, the one that wasn’t being gripped at the moment by Faraday.

“Did you come with anybody?” he asked.

It was quite obvious that the girl was striking a match in the presence of a powder keg, but she gave Tommy a slow, tantalizing smile and said:

“The name is Flo... Florence Randall, if you want to be formal. And no, I didn’t come with anybody.”

Faraday said harshly: “She’s with me.”

“How many girls can you handle?” Tommy retorted. His eyes flickered across the room toward Elizabeth Targ. The look was not wasted on Faraday.

His eyes followed Tommy’s, came back. “Look, sonny,” he said, “I don’t know who the hell you are, but if you’re trying to pick a fight with me you’re going about it the right way.”

“I never backed out of a fight yet,” Tommy challenged him.

Willis Trent came up from behind Tommy, and stopped so that his back was to him. He addressed Faraday: “Hello, Earl. Just get here?”

“I been here long enough,” retorted Faraday.

“Like to have a talk with you,” Trent said, “if you’ve got a minute or two.”

Faraday hesitated, glowering. Then he shrugged. “All right.” He turned and stepped out to the terrace. Trent followed.

Flo Randall said to Tommy: “Fun’s fun, but Earl Faraday isn’t fun, if you know what I mean.”

“Bad medicine?”

“Mmmm.”

Tommy laid his hand on the girl’s wrist. “Mustn’t touch?”

She did not draw her hand away, but her eyes went across the room to Elizabeth Targ. “You were needling Earl.” She nodded in Elizabeth’s direction. “You know her?”

“No, but I’d like to.”

The girl looked at Tommy, shook her head. She walked off, leaving Tommy alone.

Tommy stood for a moment, holding his glass. Trent and Faraday were out on the terrace. Flo Randall had left him. Elizabeth Targ seemed to be carrying on an animated conversation with a short, heavy-set man in a loud sport coat. Tommy’s vision was more than a little hazy from the drinks he had tossed off so rapidly. He felt uncomfortably warm and more than a little nauseated. He’d mixed it with the other kind and he had not come off too well. But he had a twenty dollar bill in his pocket, no, a twenty and a ten, which was more money than he was accustomed to having so late in the week.

He decided to call it an evening, and setting his glass down on a mahogany end table where it would leave a nice ring he started across the room to the bedroom, passing within two feet of Elizabeth Targ, who was completely oblivious of him.

In the bedroom he found his tool kit where he had left it and picking it up went back into the living room. No one spoke to him, no one seemed to notice him. He opened the hall door, stepped out and closed it again. He went down the corridor, turned left and after a moment reached the elevator.

It was down on the first floor and he pushed the button to summon it up to the fifth. He heard the machine whine its tedious way upwards. Finally the light appeared in the elevator door. He opened the outer metal-sheathed door and was reaching in to pull open the inner door when a voice behind him called: “Hold it.” He looked over his shoulder. Elizabeth Targ, carrying her mink coat so that it dragged on the dingy carpet, was coming toward the elevator.