Double Indemnity

Notes: ~Represents the narrator's (Walter's) voice~, *Represents thoughts* The Philadelphia Story was a Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart romantic comedy reduced about the same time as Double Indemnity. undressed hair--back in this time it was unusual for men not to use some sort of hair control substance (see? It didn't start with mousse in the seventies). They used things like Brylcreem, Vitalis, and Wild Root Cream Oil. My dad used to use this stuff. Whoa--nostalgia burst. A man was being very relaxed if he hadn't tamed his hair into uniformity.

Double Indemnity, 2/?
By Scribe

Chapter Two

~It was Tuesday, May 21st, a real peach of a day. Sure, warm weather can be hell in the city, but I was out in the suburbs, out where you could still draw a breath of clean air on a warm spring day. I remember it so clearly. I felt like I had the world by the tail. There was the smell of honeysuckle all up and down that block. How was I supposed to know that murder could sometimes smell like flowers?~

The neighborhood was clean, quiet, and substantial. This was the sort of place where kids could play out in the front yard without their parents worrying about them being run over, or snatched. Well, such places don't really exist, never have, but people like to think that they do. It was that golden time between school letting out, and being called in to dinners and baths, and the children were making the most of it. Some had been tossing a baseball around; a couple of pigtailed cuties had been skipping rope.

As Neff entered La Feliz, an ice cream truck passed him, bell jangling cheerfully, but not urgently. The driver had already made his pass, and it had been a profitable one. Almost all of the children outside were licking ice cream cones, or sucking on Popsicles. Walter reflected that it must be nice to be so oblivious to the rest of the world, for your main worry to be whether or not the truck would have Rocky Road, or would you have to settle for vanilla. *Must be nice,* he thought, but there was no heat, no real resentment in the thought.

Walter located the address, and pulled up in front of the house. He got out, inspecting it casually as he pulled his briefcase out of the car. He estimated its value, and whistled silently at his conclusion. Not a bad little shack. He shut the car door and rested the briefcase on the roof, opened it, and quickly checked the forms inside. He hadn't written this policy himself, but had taken it over from a co-worker who'd left the firm several months ago. This would be his first time meeting with the Dietrichsons.

*Huh, signed by Mrs. Claudia Dietrichson. Funny, in the ritzier neighborhoods, it's usually the husband who takes care of the insurance. Glad I had that haircut yesterday. Looking nice for the ladies never hurts a sales pitch.*

Walter closed the briefcase and strolled up the walk to the front door. He thumbed the bell, then straightened his tie again as he waited. The door was opened by a bull dog faced woman in her forties. Walter took one look at her uniform, and knew she was a maid. *Not a very neat one, either. Looks like she hasn't washed that apron for a couple of days.* "Mrs. Dietrichson in?


She eyed his suspiciously. "Who wants to see her?"

"Walter Neff."

She started to ease the door closed. "If you're selling anything..."

Walter quickly put his hand out, bracing the door. "Look, it's Mrs. Dietrichson I want to talk to, and I'm not selling magazine subscriptions to work my way through college." He pushed past her, stepping into the house's cool, dim interior.

Walter glanced around the entry hall. There was a black wrought iron staircase curing down from the second floor, with a fringed Mexican shawl hanging over the landing. He could look through an open archway to his right, into the living room, and the furniture he could see was of heavy, dark wood, upholstered in dark red velvet--the sort that would have the nap wearing off after a few dozen asses had made contact.

Someone had spent a lot of money trying to make the house look Spanish. Walter thought it was a little stupid to try to make a house look like it was native to anywhere except where it was actually located, but he supposed that in California, this wasn't too far off the mark. There was a black wrought iron staircase curing down from the second floor, with a fringed Mexican shawl hanging over the landing.

The maid said testily, "Look, she's not here now."

"How soon do you expect her back?"

"She'll be here when she gets here. She doesn't give me a printed schedule.

A voice floated down from the upper landing. "Who is it, Nettie?" Walter looked up.

The speaker was standing with his hands braced on the rail, leaning over slightly to peer down into the hall. For a moment--just a moment--Walter thought he was naked. Then he saw the towel wrapped around his hips, tucked in at the side. The white of the terrycloth made his tan seem almost golden. There was the gleam of real gold on his left wrist and right ankle, and his hair was gold, too. It was a little too long for current business styles, and it was completely undressed, falling over his forehead. His expression remained bland, but he regarded Neff with lazy interest, light colored eyes making a quick head-to-toe sweep.

He was younger than Walter, somewhere in his twenties. His body was toned, but there was a certain delicacy about his face that made Neff think that he'd eventually go soft, unless he worked at it. The question was, which would win--his vanity, or his natural indolence?

The maid called up, "It's for Mrs. Dietrichson."

His eyes remained on Walter. "I'm Mister Dietrichson. What is it?"

*If he isn't just ordering me out, there's a good chance he'll talk--and I think I'd like that.* Walter took off his hat--as a gesture of politeness, and to show that he was ready to stay. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Dietrichson. I'm Walter Neff--Pacific All-Risk."

"Pacific what?"

"Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company. It's about the renewals on your automobiles. I've been trying to reach Mrs. Dietrichson at the office number we have on file, but she's never there." He paused. "We don't have a home number."

"You wouldn't. We're selective about who we hand that out to. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Walter could feel himself smile as he thought about all the answers he could make to that question--but he gave the one that wouldn't get him in trouble. "The policies expired on the fifteenth. I'd hate to think of you being in a fender-bender without being..." he paused, "fully covered."

The other man glanced down at his towel, then looked back at Neff. He gave a small smile. "Perhaps I understand what you mean." He adjusted the towel slightly. "I was just sunbathing on the roof."

"No pigeons around, I hope?"

"No--and no snoops, either. Up there I'm higher than our neighbors, so I don't have to worry about prying eyes."

"I hate to interrupt your basking, but about those policies..."

"That's all right. If you can wait a moment, I'll be right down. Nettie, show Mister Neff into the living room." He turned and walked away.

Neff continued watching as he disappeared into the depths of the house, then glanced at the maid. "And where would the living room be?"

She hooked a thumb at the archway. "In there, but don't get your hopes up--they keep the liquor cabinet locked."

"You'd know that, would you?" She scowled. "Don't worry about me--I always carry my own key."

He went into the living room, while Nettie headed toward the back of the house. Walter tossed his briefcase on an overstuffed davenport, dropped his hat on top of it, then started to look around. The living room was as dim as the front of the house, the Venetian blinds closed as tightly as possible.

It was also overcrowded. There wasn't really room for the showpiece of the room--a baby grand piano. They'd tried to tart it up like the rest of the house--another Mexican shawl was draped over the top. Walter had to wonder whose taste was reflected in this house. The young man he'd briefly seen didn't strike him as the type to go for such self-conscious touches.

There were a couple of framed pictures displayed on the piano--obvious studio portraits. They were both women. One was a squarish, graying woman somewhere in her fifties, and the other was a fresh looking girl who couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty. *Mother-in-law and wife,* Walter thought. *Well, if you pick out a chick, you usually have to deal with the mother hen.*

~The living room was stuffy. The rays of light that made their way through the slits between the blinds showed up the dust. Judging from the amount, Nettie wasn't doing much to earn her keep. The furniture was corny, but it looked comfortable--as if people really sat in it. On the piano, in fancy frames, were pictures of Mrs. Dietrichson--and her daughter. But I didn't know that right away. Yeah, I know what you say about making assumptions, but remember--I didn't write the policies, and I'd never met any of the household. After getting a look at Philip Dietrichson, it was natural to think he'd be with the young tootsie.~

~There was a bowl of dried flowers on the table behind the davenport, and they were as dusty as everything else in the room, but to tell you the truth, Keyes, I couldn't work up much interest in decorations right then, nor in auto renewals, nor in the two women in the photographs. I was thinking about the man upstairs, and the way he'd looked at me--as if we were sharing a secret. I wanted to see him again, close, without that damn staircase between us.~

Walter heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and looked through the arch. The young man was coming down. He'd changed into a pair of Khakis, and a white shirt, open at the throat. Walter had to fight down a smile when he saw that he was wearing sandals. *Informal. That's already a step in the right direction.*

"I wasn't long, was I?"

"Not at all, Mister Dietrichson."

"We're lucky being men, you know. We don't have to deal with putting our faces on, like women. We just wash it, then face the world with what God gave us."

"God did a better job on some than on others. You lucked out."

His fair eyebrows lifted a little. Walter knew he was being bold, paying personal compliments so soon, but he got the sense that this man was receptive. He knew he was on the right track when the man walked past him to a gilt-framed mirror and began examining himself. Not turning around he said casually, "Won't you sit down, Mister... Mister...?" He still didn't look around, but his reflection gave Walter a questioning look.

*You caught my name," Walter thought. *I bet there isn't much you miss, baby.* "Neff, with two F's, like Philadelphia, if you know the story."

"What story?"

"The Philadelphia Story." Now he turned back, frowning slightly. "What were we talking about?"

He looked back at his reflection, using his fingers to smooth a few strands into place. "Car insurance. My wife never tells me anything."

That didn't sound right. Yes, wives often took care of the insurance details, but it was usually the husband who made the final decision--especially it the wife was young. "It's on your two cars--the La Sal, and the Plymouth."

Walter turned back to the davenport and got the forms out of his briefcase. When he turned back, Dietrichson had seated himself in a large chair and crossed his legs, resting his right ankle on his left knee. "We've been handling the insurance for Mrs. Dietrichson for three years now..." *Three years? That girl would have been too young to buy insurance three years ago. That must mean...*

The man's pants cuff had ridden up a little, and Neff again saw the gleam of gold. This time he got a good look. It was an ankle bracelet. "Say, that's a honey of an anklet you're wearing, Mister Dietrichson." He pulled his cuff down, covering the jewelry, but he was smiling slightly. "We'd hate to see policies lapse, so we give our customers thirty days, but that's all we're allowed to give."

"I guess she's been busy." He leaned his chin in his hand. "She's been spending a lot of time down at Long Beach, in the oil fields."

"The oil fields? If you don't mind my saying so, Mister Dietrichson, she sounds like an unusual woman."

"I don't mind you saying so, but you're wrong. She's not an unusual woman--aside from some business skills she's very ordinary. VERY ordinary."

"Do you think I might catch her at home some evening soon?"

"I suppose so, but she's never back much before eight."

"That would be fine. My evenings are free."

"Really? What a shame. Are you connected to the auto club?"

"No, All-Risk has no connection with the Auto Club, and they wouldn't take kindly to me moonlighting for them. Why?"

"Someone from the Auto Club has been leaving messages for her, too. Could we get a better rate from the Auto Club?"

"If you're a member."

"I'm not, and neither is she."

~He got up and began to pace slowly around the room. I had to wonder--was he just bored, or was he showing himself off. Even if he was just bored, he was doing a good job of putting the goods on display. He moved like a cat.~

"To get their insurance, you'd have to first join the club, and pay a membership fee. Now, the Auto Club is fine--I never talk down my competitors, as long as they're on the square. But Mister Dietrichson, I have a policy that's just as attractive, and it wouldn't take me two minutes to lay it out for you."

"For her, Mister Neff. I don't own the cars, and it will involve money. I don't TOUCH the finances in this house."

There was a bitter tinge to his voice, and Neff said quickly, "We're writing a new kind of fifty per cent retention feature in the collision coverage."

"That means nothing to me."

He'd paused near Neff, and Walter caught a musky scent--a mixture of spice and sweet. "That's a nice aftershave."

"It's not an aftershave--it's a cologne. You're a smart insurance man, aren't you, Mister Neff?"

"I've been at it for eleven years."

"How's the business treating you? Doing pretty well?"

"It's a living. I'm not keeping Ali Kahn awake at nights, but I pay my bills without sweating too hard."

He sat down again, in exactly the same position--but this time he didn't bother to pull down his cuff. The anklet peeked out again. "Do you handle other kinds of insurance, or is it strictly automobiles?"

"All kinds. Fire, earthquake, theft, public liability, group insurance, industrial stuff, and so on, and so forth. Just about anything you could name."

"Accident insurance?"

"Accident? Sure, Mister Dietrichson." He eyed the anklet again. "You know, you don't see many men wearing jewelry these days. It's kind of nice. I wish you'd tell me what's engraved on that anklet."

"The same thing that's engraved on the bracelet."

"What would that be?"

"My name."

There was a brief silence. "I'm not good at begging."

His smile said 'oh, really? Perhaps we'll see about that', but all he said was, "Philip."

"Philip." Walter said the name as if tasting it. "I think I like that."

Now Philip seemed amused. "But you're not sure?"

"I need to take it out for a test spin."

He stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of his pants, small hands stroking casually down his thighs. "Why don't you drop by tomorrow night at about eight-thirty? She should be here then."

"Who?"

"My wife. You were anxious to talk to her, remember?"

"Yeah, but I'm sort of getting over it, if you know what I mean."

~I guess I was leering when I said it, Keyes. I'm not usually that obvious, but damn--there was just something about him. And I got the feeling that he'd like it--that his style of mating dance was more of a hard tango than a minuet. But he didn't like to be thought of as easy. When he looked at me, it was as sharp as a straight razor.~

"There's a speed limit in this state, Mister Neff--forty-five miles an hour."

"How fast was I going, officer?"

"I'd say about ninety."

"Are you going to pull out your pad and write me a ticket?"

"Suppose I just give you a warning this time?"

"Suppose I'm a bad boy, and it doesn't take?"

"Then I'd have to whack you over the knuckles."

"Suppose I bust out crying, and put my head on your shoulder?"

"I'm nobody's shoulder to lean on, Mister Neff. I've had enough of that in my life."

Neff nodded. "I guess that cuts it." He picked up his hat and briefcase again. "Eight-thirty tomorrow night?"

"That's what I said."

"Will you be here, too?"

"She doesn't like me going out without her, so I suppose so."

"Same chair, same cologne, same anklet?"

He opened the door, and stood aside. "I wonder if I know what you mean?"

Walter stepped outside, put on his hat, and looked back at Philip. "I wonder if you wonder." He snapped his brim, then started down toward the street as Philip closed the door. Walter opened the car door and deposited his briefcase, then looked back toward the house.

The front door had one of those little security windows set in the upper half. It was open, and Philip was looking out, watching him. Their eyes met, and now, in the sunlight, Walter saw that they were hazel. *Gold. He's all gold.* The window closed, and Walter got into the car, driving away.

~He liked me. I could feel it--sort of like you can feel it when the cards start falling right for you, and you have a nice, big pile of chips on the table in front of you. Well, I didn't know then that I wasn't playing him--he was playing me. Yeah, he was playing me with a marked deck, and the stakes weren't chips. They were dynamite.~