Speaker 1: Four Pretty Things by Robert Winton one two three. Old
Stephen Burnt cackled and mumbled to himself as he turned
his withered, shaking palm sideways and one by one allowed
three sparkling gems to fall on the table. Three beauties,
he gloated with senile, quivering lips. Three drops of crystallized
light of sun and moon. When I die, you pretty
shall go with me into the deep, cool grave, in
the darkness, safe from the desire of some grasping stranger.
You will stay with me until dust returns to dust.
The old man's maudlin monologue spent itself in foolish, vague
and half crazed mutterings. His rummy eyes blinked with cunning
avariciousness as he sought to feast his gaze with the
scintillating glitter of his precious bobbles. He grumbled weakly, and
his shriveled fingers groped uncertainly for his hoarde. It seemed
to him that the radiance of the stones that had
been the comfort of his lonely, selfish hours was not
so brilliant as it had been. My eyes must be
going back on me, he muttered, I shed blood for you,
and now you won't shine for me like you used
to do. It ain't my eyes, it's you that have
grown dull. What's the matter with you? Sparkle up, pretty things.
I'm murdered a man to get you. Nobody knows that
you are in my possession. Shine, little fireflies. You have
been bathed in blood. Shine for the old man who
has kept you warm on his heart for more than
twenty years. Bah your lightest, dim Stephen. A shadow is
creeping between you and your gems. Death is coming near,
but they shall not tear you away from me. I
will cheat them all. Still maundering and apostizing himself and
his treasures, the old man gathered up his diamonds and
reluctantly dropped them into a worn and greasy leather bag.
He then tucked the bag inside his gray shirt and
patted his thin, bony chest safe. He muttered, No one knows,
No one guesses that poor Stephen is worth a pile
of money. Now, I wonder if that darned girl has
been spying on me, trying to peek through the keyhole
or listen to what I was saying. I ain't been
talking loud, though and Susan's a fool anyhow. Standing by
his table, the old man gnawed nervously at his broken,
discolored fingernails. The haunted dread that he his secret might
be betrayed by some careless act of his own was
again upon him. The pleasure that he obtained by contemplating
and pawing over his stones was more than counterbalanced by
the condition of terror that always came over him with
redoubled intensity after he had indulged his weakness. The stolen
diamonds were his pride and joy. Also, they were a
burden and source of never ceasing anxiety. Shuffling over to
the bolted door, Stephen bent stiffly and peered at the
paper he had rammed into the keyhole. It ain't being touched,
he whispered, and with slow care, quickly slipped back the bolt.
There was a crafty, vicious gleam in his faded eyes
as he opened the door with sudden quickness. It was
his intention to surprise the girl he constantly suspected of
spying on him. But even had Susan beIN at the door,
the old men would not have caught her. He thought
his movements were soundless that he had given no hint
of his approach to the door. But he was greatly mistaken,
deaf to the noise of his own footsteps, and blind
to the many opportunities he had given the girl for
discovering his secret. Old Stephen lived in a fool's paradise.
Going slowly to the top of the stairs, he raised
his voice in a quarrelous call, Susan is supper ready?
From the kitchen below, came the sound of chair legs
scraping on the uncovered boards. The door opened, and a
shaft of lamplight illuminated the figure of a short, thick
set girl. She stuck her hands on her hips and
stared up at the crabbed features of her stepfather. Don't
ask fool questions, she said, brusquely. You know as well
as I do. It's been ready this hour and more.
You heard me thump on the ceiling. Come on down,
I'm sick of Waitin an attack of rage seized the
old man, and when he stood in the bare, untidy kitchen,
he shook a threatening fist in the girl's face. Don't
you get fresh with me, he said loudly. Don't I
feed you clothe you ain't it my money that pays
for your keep. You that is so dumb and stupid
that you can't even get a job at washing dishes. Ah,
shut up, retorted Susan, slamming a blackened dish on the table.
Shove some of them beans in your jaw and claw
on the moldy pork you expect me to eat, but
don't chew a rag with me. I am fed up
with your nasty mean ways. I am a fool, sure
I am for staying around here when I might mite,
What asked the old man, jeeringly, might ride in a
limousine and dress in velvet and a weezy gust of
merriment was Old Stephen Brunt's greeting to the girl's strange announcement.
He cackled and leered at her anger flushed face and
took no heed of the dangerous look in her cold eyes.
Don't make me laugh, he pleaded, in mock concern. You
won't never ride in no gas tank, scept it be
a patrol wagon or a hearse shove over the bread
and quit. Try to be funny while he ate his
food and gulped the lukewarm coffee that Susan poured in
the tin cup that stood at his elbow. Old Stephen
further elaborated on the girl's future. It was part of
his evening recreation to taunt Susan and tease her with
brutal words to the point of tears, with the meaninglessness
of a diseased nature. The old man delighted in tormenting Susan,
but although he tried to prod her with stinging words,
he failed to bring a flash of rage into her sullen,
dark eyes. It takes two to quarrel, and after a
while Stephen, tired of his one sided argument. Crouched over
the stove, his thoughts reverted to the girl's peculiar assertion.
Lee Mosine, he muttered in puzzled disgust. Now and again,
his hand rose stealthily to his chest, and he convinced
himself by touching that his prize gems were safe in
their hiding place. Pretty things, he whispered drowsily. Nobody dreams
that Old Stephen is mighty rich. Nine thousand dollars apiece
three ninees or twenty seven twenty seven thousand dollars in
shining diamonds, safe and warm, Ignoring the old man's mutterings.
Susan stacked the dirty dishes in the sink, and leaving
them to be washed later, she silently went out the
back door. Susan had a date, and when she reached
the corner of the house, the smell of cigarette smoke
acquainted her with the fact that her friend was waiting
for her. Old man of sleep inquired a drunk husky voice.
As usual, replied the girl. And as usual, you've been boozing.
Keep away from me, Jim, you're a beast. I only
had a couple of glasses, protested Jim. That ain't gonna
hurt a fella. None, say, I pulled off a cinch
last night. Listen, I got a wad as big as
my fist. Get your hat and let's go take in
a show. Come on, you, black eyed cutie, be a sport.
Nothing doing, retorted the girl. Tell me about last night.
What did you get? A hat full of watches and rings,
boasted Jim got away like a bird. Did you hock him?
Not on your life, kid, say I ain't such a
simp as to take a risk like that. Jim leaned closer,
but although the girl allowed his arm to encircle her
ample waist. She proved to be in no mood for
love making and light talk. She wanted to know how
he disposed of stolen property. Jim talked a little, but
thought a lot. I'll bet a dollar. He reflected that
old miser has something hidden away that's worth having, and
she wants to get a hold of them. Sue is
mighty anxious to find out the name of a fence.
Do I butt in and put one over on her?
Or do I not? I'm sick of her anyway, and
I may as well get something out of it before
I cut loose. During the next three hours, Jim kept
his foot on the brass rail, but although he drank frequently,
he exercised care to keep his head. Got another little
job on hand, he confessed to the bartend Good biz.
Maybe don't know yet. Gotta take a chance of landing
A lemon was in a while. Soon after midnight, the
back door of Stephen Brunt's ramshackle framed house creaked slightly
and yielded to the pressure of a skillfully applied Jimmy
Silent as a cat, Jim crossed the kitchen, listened for
a moment at the door of Susan's room and climbed
the stairs. He had made up his mind that whatever
there was worth stealing would be hidden in the old
man's room. The bolt that Stephen never failed to push
into its socket did not delay Jim's entry more than
fifty seconds. Accustomed to forcing an entrance where steel doors
and bars blocked his way, Jim found this as easy
to accomplish as opening a box of candy would be
to a child. The light of Jim's torch flitted about
the room, and in its passing, rested momentarily on the bed,
partly covered by a torn quilt. The old man lay
on his back, snoring. The light did not rest on
him for more than a few seconds, but Jim's darting,
searching gaze missed no detail. He saw enough to cause
him to snap off his light and step nearer to
the bed. Gently feeling his fingers crept over the old
man's chest and closed around the leather bag. He held
a knife, ready to cut the string that was looped
about Stephen's craggy neck. The deed was as good as done,
the bag all but in Jim's possession. When a metallic
clatter on the floor caused the old man to wake
with a shrill scream of alarm. Startled by the accident,
Jim stepped back and his heel came down on the
cylindrical torch that had fallen from his pocket and betrayed
his presence. He tried to save himself from slipping, but
the old man's clutching fingers hampered his effort to recover
his balance. He fell and dragged with him the cursing
old man. A furious struggle followed. Crazed by rage and
fear of discovery, Jim let loose all his strength in
beastial brutality. He secured a murderous clutch on the old
man's throat, and his hole did not relax until he
felt his victim become suddenly limp. Then, when it was
too late, Jim let the body fall and grope for
his torch. The bulb glowed and revealed the horror that
his hands had done dead. He stuttered. The look of
victory was wiped from his face as he stared down
at the distorted features. He felt no remorse for his deeds,
but in common with other murderers, he showed the cowardly
streak in him and trembled with heart gripping panic. He
jerked himself erect, ready to take instant flight. Then again
the leather bag caught his eye, and greed nerved him
to wrench it free. May as well have what I
came for, he muttered callously. He was amazed and joyful
when he opened the bag and three stones glittered in
his hand. I'll bet he stole them, muttered Jim. And
little knew that he was near the truth, and that
fate had chosen him as the instrument of vengeance for
the crime that Stephen Brunt had committed over twenty years ago.
Me for the woods, he added, and padded softly to
the door. Must have made a racket. If fat durned
girl woke up, I'll have to do another job. The
door slammed. Below, Jim heard a quick rush of feet
and a woman screaming in abandonment to hysteria, Sue, mumbled Jim.
Him crouching in the dark, he strove to collect his
alarmed thoughts and plant a way of escape. He could
frame no idea except the pressing necessity for flight. He
blundered down the stairs, frantic to get out. A man
shout and Susan's accusing repeated out cries of murder, that's
him rang out simultaneously as Jim tore down the street.
As he ran, he glanced over his shoulder. She's got
a cop, he gasped, then plunged on, unheeding of the
policeman's order to stop. Bullets began to spatter on his trail.
The third shot found lodgment in the murderer's knee. He
floundered and sprawled on his face. His race was done.
At the station house, Jim listened bitterly to a mocking story.
He had killed a man, pledged his own life to
atonement in the electric chair for nothing. The gems that
Stephen had fondled and played with were only paced duplicates
of the diamonds he had doated on. It was Susan
who told the surprising story. I stole them over a
month ago. She confessed. My stepfather left his bag on
his table, and I took the real diamonds and put
in three imitations that I had picked out of a
brooch I bought on purpose for when my chance should come.
For years I knew he had him. He half starved
me and never gave me a moment's peace. I was
going to sell him and run away. Now, curse you,
exclaimed Jim. All along you've been stringing me. That's why
you wanted to find out the name of a fence.
That's enough, the lieutenant interrupted, sharply. That'll be all from
you now. The rest can wait until morning. You'll get
all that's coming to you later. Hand over the diamonds,
young woman. We'll look up their history and see if
we can place them where they belong. When the real
and false stones were ranged on his desk, the lieutenant
summed up Susan's part. A clever girl, was his comment.
No wonder the old man couldn't discover the trick she
played on him. They're exactly the same size, and his
eyes were failing him. I suppose she counted on that
the real ones must be worth a pile of money.
I guess we won't have much of a job tracing
them back to their rightful owner. The End of Pretty
Things by Robert Winton