Dave’s was within three minutes’ walk from the offices of Mutual and Columbia, and was a haven for weary writers and radio directors who liked to drink in an atmosphere that didn’t remind them of the lacquered hysteria of their jobs. Now, Jake saw there were two stand-by announcers from CBS at the bar, having a quick one between station breaks, and two tired copy-writers sat at the opposite rim of the bar, discussing without any genuine interest the relative merits of advertising and tuck-pointing as professions.
Sheila sipped her brandy. “Well, let’s get drunk.”
“Oh, great,” Jake said.
Sheila put her feet up on the opposite seat and crossed her ankles comfortably. “What’s wrong with you? No epigrams, no impish revelry. You make me a little sad.”
Jake sipped his drink. “That’s quite an indictment. What do you suggest?”
“I’d suggest you call Gary Noble right now and tell him you’re turning in your typewriter and hand-painted tie for good. Then find yourself an honest job. Maybe you’d make a good sharecropper. But naturally you won’t do that.”
“Naturally,” Jake said. “But why do you think it would help?
“I think you’re getting fed up with yourself, Jake. I think you’re getting an oh-so-tiny pang of conscience about the Riordan account.”
“Oh, stop it,” Jake said irritably. “Why should I have pangs of conscience about the Riordan account? It’s just a job.”
“Supposing he’s proved to be a war profiteer? Would that make any difference in your thinking?”
“I would suggest to Gary that we double our fee, that’s all. Sheila, honey, I’m not sincere or idealistic. Now let’s talk about something cheerful.”
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t want to talk about May, but she’s on my mind. This afternoon I learned that Riordan sent his prim little hatchet man, Avery Meed, to get the diary from her. Meed apparently succeeded. But then somebody killed him. The diary is again missing.”
“What are the details?”
Jake told her what he knew. When he finished Sheila made a little circle with the bottom of her glass on the table. For a moment she was silent. Then she said, “What does Martin think?”
“He seems to be in the dark. But I wouldn’t like to be the boy he’s after.”
“You look harried enough to fit the role. Jake, this may be a far-fetched idea, but could Riordan have killed Meed?”
Jake looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Supposing Meed murdered May and got the diary. And supposing Meed suddenly decided then that he could blackmail Riordan very profitably. That’s a possibility, at least. Riordan might have had to kill him to get the diary. He has no alibi for the time Meed was killed, remember.”
“That’s right,“ Jake said. Then he shrugged. „But I can’t let you hang a murder rap on my client. If Riordan’s a murderer I don’t want it to get bruited about.“
“Naturally,“ Sheila said drily. She sipped her drink, and said, „Mind if I ask you a personal question, Jake?”
“Why, no. Go ahead.”
“Maybe I should know the answer, having shared your bed and board for two years. But just what do you believe in?”
Jake waved to Dave for another round. “We’re going to be here a long time,” he said. “I don’t know why it is, dear, but that question always makes people excited and garrulous. They will worry it around all night until someone gets glassy-eyed and belligerent because he can’t convince everyone else that the only thing to believe in is sex rampant or the dictatorship of the proletariat.”
“Oh, stop being so utterly, utterly clever,” Sheila said. “I asked you a serious question. Do you want to answer it or not?”
“Okay, I’ll try,” Jake said resignedly. “Dear, a man can believe in anything at all if he tries hard enough and gets some satisfaction out of it. The world is full of apothegms, slogans, religious proverbs and old saws, that are more or less true, and which can be adapted to any temperament and situation. There are a thousand to choose from, and they’re all shining and beautiful. Honesty is the best policy! Hamilton is a fine watch! Every cloud must have a silver lining! It’s the rich what gets the pleasure! Take your pick. They’re all wonderful, I believe in them all, though I’ve lately been toying with the heretical notion that possibly there may be other watches almost as fine as Hamilton.”
“Let’s forget I asked,” Sheila said. “That mood of brittle elfishness you affect is quite a bore. I gather though that Riordan’s innocence or guilt doesn’t make any difference to you?”
“Well, why should it? I’m not his confessor.”
“How long are you going to kid yourself? Eventually, Jake, you’re going to wind up with Noble’s attitude, that a dollar is its own reward, and that decency is a droll superstition for peasants.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Jake said. He felt uncomfortable. He didn’t enjoy self-examination. “Supposing Riordan’s guilty? I don’t see that it’s my concern. As a press agent I’m retained to make him look good. Hell, we’ll create a bumper demand for lousy barrels, and Riordan can corner the market in the next war.”
Sheila looked at him for a moment in silence; then she picked up her purse and gloves and slid from the booth.
“I’m going to run along.”
“Oh, don’t go off in a pout,” Jake said. “I know you’re disgusted. I am, too. My mother must have been scared by a corny gag before I was born. Don’t leave me tonight, Sheila.”
“Sorry, Jake. You’re just not very funny.”
He watched her walk through the bar, and let herself out the door. Sighing, he picked up his drink...
Two hours later Dave came back and sat down in the opposite seat, his homely face sympathetic. “What’s the matter?”
Jake finished his drink. “I’m not funny, Dave,” he said.
“Ah, who says that?”
“Sheila. She told me in a simple declarative sentence that I am not funny.”
“Ah, women,” Dave said. “They got no sense of humor. They laugh because they seen men doing it. But take it easy on the booze, Jake. You can’t drink it all yourself.”
“Don’t worry. I’m running along.”
Dave came with him to the door, and helped him into his topcoat.
“She was right, of course,” Jake said.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m very unfunny,” Jake said, and went out the door.
He lay awake that night for what seemed a long time. The liquor wore away slowly, leaving him tired and depressed. Why did he always behave like such a sophomoric idiot with Sheila? Why did he delight in trying to shock her, like some nasty little boy scribbling four-letter words where the nice little girl across the street would be sure to see them? Lighting another cigarette, he tried to get his mind on something else. The only alternative was the murders of May and Avery Meed, and thinking of them led him to a frustrating dead end. There was nothing in either death that could be checked on, investigated or speculated about. May had been murdered. Avery Meed had been murdered. And so far there was nothing but these brute facts to consider.
But as he put out the cigarette a few minutes later, he remembered something. Noble had told him he’d spent the night with Bebe Passione at the Regis; he had wanted Jake to cover up for the sake of his wife.