Chapter Text
Double Indemnity
By Scribe
Chapter One
July, 1938
Los Angeles
New York has the nickname 'The City That Never Sleeps', but Los Angeles could usually give it a run for the title. Not tonight. It was two AM, and the traffic in the business district was very light. A new Dodge coupe was making it's way slowly down the street, weaving a little, but not out of control. Anyone observing it would probably come to the conclusion that the driver was on his way home after having a gay old time at one of the livelier nightspots.
They would have been wrong, but the driver was definitely not at his best. As he approached an intersection, the sign changed to STOP. It made no difference to the driver. He didn't put on his brakes, and he didn't speed up--he just cruised on through. The newspaper delivery truck that had been coming from the right hand street had to do a bit of fancy swerving to avoid him, and the truck driver leaned out the window, glaring after the coupe. The car continued farther up the block, then slowed, and pulled to the curb in front of a tall office building. Disgruntled, but assured that the man wouldn't be menacing any other drivers, the trucker went about his business.
The headlights shut off. For a moment, nothing happened--then the car door opened, and a man got out, moving slowly. He was tall, comfortably over six feet. There was a natty fedora perched far back on his dark hair, and his light gray suit was neat, save for something, perhaps a stain, on his left shoulder. HE was a handsome man, but his _expression was drawn and tense.
He paused, leaning against the door, his posture suggesting a weariness that was almost painful to see. After a moment he slipped his left hand into his pocket. His expression twisted briefly, as if with pain, but that eased slightly as the weight was taken off his arm. He leaned back into the car and snagged an overcoat. With a little difficulty, he managed to drape it over his shoulders. He bumped the door with his hip, swinging it shut, and headed for the building entrance.
He walked up to the double plate glass doors. Most men on a downtown street in the wee hours would be looking around cautiously, but his gaze never wavered from his destination. He was the only one on the street, and why not? Nothing was open for business. The drugstore on the left was dark and silent, and the side entrance in the large building's lobby sported a CLOSED sign. The barber shop and cigar and magazine stand in back were closed also. It would be a good six or seven hours before the staff came in and began setting up for the day.
There were two elevators on the right, and the doors of one stood open, the dome light spilling out onto the lobby's tile floor. The man tried the doors, and swore softly when he found them locked. He rapped on the glass, paused a scant second, then rapped again, more sharply. A gray head topped by a uniform cap popped out of the open elevator, the jaws working industriously. The night watchman squinted toward the doors, and the man outside made an impatient gesture.
The watchman came out of the elevator and walked to the door, not hurrying. He had a newspaper in one hand, and the remains of a sandwich in the other, and he finished his snack as he walked. When he was a few feet from the door he shaded his eyes, studying the man outside. When he recognized him, he moved a little more quickly, tucking the newspaper under his arm and pulling a ring of keys off his belt. He unlocked the door, nodding, and said, "Hello there, Mister Neff."
The man walked past him without responding. This seemed to surprise the watchman a bit, but he quickly relocked the doors and followed Neff to the elevator. He followed Neff into the elevator, and found the man leaning casually against the back wall. The watchman said, "Where to?"
"You've been running me up to the same place for years. What makes you think I'd change destinations now?" The man's voice was flat.
"The first day I don't ask, you'll have business on a different floor. Working pretty late tonight, aren't you, Mister Neff?"
"Late enough."
"Maybe you ought to take a little more time to yourself. You look sort of all in."
"I'm fine. Let's ride."
The watchman shrugged, closing the door. He moved the lever, starting the car on its way. Neff was a regular passenger, and he was usually genial enough, willing to shoot the breeze during the ride. The watchman tried again. "How's the insurance business, Mister Neff?"
He didn't get much of a response. "Okay."
"You know, they never would sell me any. Say I've got something loose in my heart--I say it's rheumatism."
"Mm." The watchman turned at the lackluster response, staring at his passenger. Neff didn't even seem to notice.
The lights blinked over the doors, and he stopped the car, saying sulkily, "Twelve." The doors slid open, revealing a reception area. Directly across was a pair of frosted glass doors. The sign above them said PACIFIC ALL RISK-INSURANCE COMPANY-FOUNDED 1906-MAIN OFFICE. A faint light glowed behind the glass. Neff pushed himself away from the wall and walked out of the elevator. The watchman watched his closely as he went to the doors, then worked the lever, closing the doors.
The insurance company occupied the entire eleventh and twelfth floor of the building. The executive offices, and the claims and sales departments were on the twelfth floor, all opening out onto a balcony that ran all the way around. From the balcony one could look down into the heart of the organization. The eleventh floor was one enormous room, filled with desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, and every sort of business machine. Usually the air was filled with continual background noises--voices, and the rattle of typewriters and calculators. It was silent now.
No, almost silent. A song drifted up from below--a deep male voice singing, "In my solitude you haunt me, with reveries of days gone by. In my solitude you taunt me with memories that never die..."
Neff moved to the rail and leaned against it heavily, looking down into the lower floor. The room was usually bustling with dozens of employees, but now there were only three--the housekeeping crew. A Colored woman was mopping the floor, while another one shifted chairs out of her way, then back into place when she passed. The singer was a husky Colored man, who was emptying wastebaskets into a large wheeled bin. When the woman who was moving chairs came within his reach, he grabbed her and pulled her close, beginning to dance with her. "I sit in my chair, filled with despair. Nobody could be so sad, with gloom ev'rywhere." The girl giggled flirtatiously, in sharp contrast to the melancholy dance music.
Neff shook his head, and a faint smile crossed his face. But it was quickly replaced by a wince of pain. He turned away and walked along the balcony to a door with 27 on it. Just below the numbers were the names HENRY B. ANDERSON, WALTER NEFF, LOUIS L. SCHWARTZ. He opened the door and entered the office.
There were three desks, and he went to one at the side, turning on the lamp. There was a dictaphone on a stand beside it, and he leaned heavily on the stand. All his strength seemed to have left him when he entered the room. After a moment he shuffled back and gripped a swivel chair, lowering himself into it. He slumped, head dropping far back, eyes closed. He rested for a moment, breathing heavily. His face was pale, and sweaty.
After a moment, he opened his eyes. He gripped his left wrist with his right hand and lifted the left elbow up, resting it on the chair's arm. With great effort, he opened his jacket, and pulled it aside, looking at his left shoulder. A heavy patch of wet blood marred the clean white of his shirt. He stared at it blankly, then used his feet and good hand to propel himself the few feet to the office water cooler.
He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it against the spring faucet, soaking it. He carefully tucked the wet cloth against the wound, pulling his jacket close again to hold it. That done, he ran some water into his palm and splashed it into his face, blinking and shaking his head so that droplets flew, sparkling briefly in the desk lamp's glow.
This revived him slightly, and he laboriously moved back to the desk, and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He stared at them. There was blood on the pack. His hand shaking, he dumped the cigarettes out on the desk. Some of them were blood stained, but some of them were clean. He selected a dry one and put it to his lips, then took up one of the matches that had spilled out with the cigarettes. He sparked the match into flame with a flick of his thumb, then lit the cigarette. He took a deep drag as he shook out the match, then dropped it. Neff let smoke jet through his nostrils, eyes closed as the nicotine buzz did what he had hoped--calming and steadying his nerves just enough to let him go on a little longer.
Neff stared at the dictaphone as he smoked. After a moment he set the cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, and leaned down, checking. There was a blank record on the cylinder. He reached over and took the speaking horn off its bracket. There was a low, buzzing sound. He pressed a button on the horn, and the buzzing stopped, as the record began to revolve on the cylinder. Neff leaned back in the chair, hat tilting back even farther on his head, and held the horn up to his mouth, beginning to speak.
"Office memorandum, Walter Neff to Barton Keyes, Claims Manager. Los Angeles, July 16th, 1938. Dear Keyes. You'll probably call this a confession when you hear it. I don't like the term confession. Let's just call it me setting you straight about a few things, one thing in particular. You couldn't see it because it was smack up against your nose. You've got your reputation as a hot potato in the investigation racket, and you believe it yourself. Think you're such a wolf on a phony claim. Well, maybe you are--most of the time. But let's take a look at this Dietrichson claim, accident and double indemntiy."
"You did pretty good there at first. You said it wasn't an accident. Check. You said it wasn't a suicide. Check. You said it was murder. Check, and double check. You thought you had it figured out, thought you had it wrapped up as neat as a birthday present, all in white tissue paper, with shiny pink ribbons on it. It was pristine and perfect, except for one tiny, little thing. You picked the wrong killer, Keyes. Want to know who really killed him?" He smiled, but it was sour. "Well, hold onto that cheap cigar of yours, because this one's a doozy."
He paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath. "I killed Dietrichson. Me, Walter Neff, insurance agent, thirty-five, no visible scars--" he winced, glancing down at his wound.
"Well, not till tonight, anyway. Yes, I killed her. I did it for money--and something I thought was love. I didn't get either." His voice started to break. "Sweet, isn't it?" He laid the horn down for a moment, taking another few puffs off his cigarette before grinding it out. When he had collected himself, he lifted the horn and started again, his voice now calm.
"It began last May, about the end of the month. I had to deliver some policies to Glendale, a nice contract insuring a small fleet of dairy trucks. On my way back, I remembered a couple of auto renewals I needed to take care of, over on La Feliz, so I swung by. It was one of those fancy California Spanish style places that was so hot ten or fifteen years ago. This one must have cost someone thirty grand--if they ever finished paying for it..."
TBC
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