Free The Complete Crime Stories by James M. Cain

to, but—I fell down.”
    â€œWell, I’ll shine them. You keep quiet after supper, and then we’ll see.”
    â€œIt’s all right. I don’t want to go.”
    â€œWhy, Burwell! You know you want to go.”
    â€œI do not! I’m going to bed!”
    He had overplayed it, and he knew it. At his insistent shout his father, who had been eyeing him narrowly for some time, suddenly spoke: “Burwell.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat’s this about the party?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhen you get through supper you’re to shine your shoes. You’re to bathe and dress. When you’re ready, come to me, and we’ll get some collodion on that face so it’ll have a beauty suitable to the festivities. Then you’re going to the party.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Bathed, shined, dressed, and patched, he started out, but he was in no hurry to get there. He was troubled, and he fingered the birthday present in his pocket most uneasily. How to explain his absence from his job wasn’t what bothered him. He already had a plan that would take care of it handsomely. He was at an age when it would be sufficient to say, “Yah, were you kidded! Did you bite! Yah!” and this would settle anything. But somehow he didn’t like it. He didn’t know it, but what ailed him was that he had already tasted triumph, or anyhow some sort of triumph, and what he craved now was humility, the sweet sacrifice of love: the sensation of being unselfish, and noble, and wan about the eyes.
    He loitered outside the billiard hall watching the mysterious business of white balls clicking against red; scuffled past the picture show, examining all the posters; dillied and dallied, but after a while he had it. He would put the first plan into effect almost as soon as he got there, but he would combine it with another plan, to be uncorked later. After Marjorie had had an hour of moping brokenheartedly trying to be gay with her guests, he would call her aside and tell her the truth, or what at the moment seemed to be the truth. He had worked for Red. He had helped him on the truck; had helped him for two weeks, as a matter of fact; and all because he knew that tonight would be her birthday, and he wanted to give her something out of his own money, and—well, here it is. Then she would know she had cruelly misjudged him, and they would sit there in the shadows, happy, but in a soft dreamy way, since she would be aware at last of his lofty nature.
    So it was quite dark when he got there and the party was in full swing out in the backyard. The yard had been strung with lanterns, and as he slipped back of the house he could see them all out there dancing on the clipped grass, to the radio. He paused in the shadows and looked for Marjorie. She wasn’t there. He kept looking and looking, and then a sound caught his ear, so close he jumped. He turned, and found himself looking in the dining-room window. In front of it on a small table, not three feet from him, was the big cake, with Marjorie’s name on it, the unlit candles spaced around its edge, with one in the middle.
    And approaching that cake, in the dark room, was Marjorie. She got to it, picked up the knife, hesitated. Then he felt creepy at the enormity of the thing she was about to do. She was cutting the cake that was to be carried out before the guests as the grand surprise of the evening.
    He was numb with shocked astonishment as he saw the knife go in twice, saw Marjorie pick up the wedge of cake in her hands and hurry out of the room. He was still staring at the mutilated cake when he heard a step, saw her run out of the front of the house, flit down the lawn to the pillar of the driveway, and wait. Then shame, panic, fear, and love shot through him in one terrible stab. He crept to the edge of the porch. He slipped the present under the rail. He ran blindly to the street, into the night.
    From the distance, up