The Institute by James M. Cain

Author:James M. Cain [Cain, James M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453291573
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

17

SO WE WERE IN business, and just to make it official, I named an “executive committee,” three members of our board, to ratify my decisions and, of course, draw moderate salaries. I called Davis and got his acceptance—his enthusiastic acceptance, I might add. But in regard to him, one funny thing happened. By this time I was making weekly trips to see Mr. Garrett, and one day he said to me: “Davis was in—happened to be passing through and dropped in to pay his respects.”

“Oh? Well, he’s an old-time bureaucrat. They polish their apples ... always. It’s automatic with them. ‘Corridor politicians,’ they’re known as.”

“He’s after your job, Lloyd.”

“He’s what?”

“Bucking for director.”

“He is an old-time bureaucrat, isn’t he? What did he say, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Nothing. I go by the look in his eye. But if I can see it, you can see it, and my reason for mentioning it is: don’t be upset. Use him. Let him scheme his head off. Your job is safe, whatever he does.”

“Well ... thanks.”

“He’s an oily son of a bitch.”

“With me, he acts like a brother.”

“Don’t trust brotherly love too much.”

Davis was in his midfifties, above medium height, slim, well-conditioned, and gray, with a quick, eager smile, as though what you just said was the most profound thing he had ever heard. He had a way of taking off his glasses and studying you two-eyed with a stare much more intimate than a four-eyed stare would have been. Sam Dent fixed him up with an office, but he was underfoot all the time, dropping in on me with bright and cheerful news about how long he had been a fan of mine, from back in my college days to my days playing football.

But he happened to live in Riverdale, down the road from me, and when he dropped by the apartment one night without any advance notice, that was bad. Fortunately I was dressed, though Hortense was already in bed. So, thinking fast, I played it friendly, having Miss Nettie hold him and tell him I would be down. I bounced into the lobby, glad-handed him, and apologized for not asking him up, explaining that the apartment was “in a mess.” He said he had an errand in College Park and had dropped by to ask me out for a drink. I thanked him, saying: “That’s a great idea, but I have some things to do. Could I take a rain check on it?”

In a few minutes he left, but Hortense was all jittery when I got back upstairs. “Lloyd,” she said, “I’m so scared, and I don’t even know what of.”

“Me too.”

“What are you scared of, Lloyd?”

“That’s it. I don’t know.”

Unfortunately, I did know, and so did she.

In bed one night not long after that, Hortense whispered: “Know what I did today? I hired a private detective.”

“Oh God, that’s all it needs.”

“What are you Godding about?”

“Don’t you realize that he’s bound to find one of those bugs in his office,

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