It was strange how many circumstances could combine to hedge in Murray
Van Rensselaer’s pathway so that there was no way of escape.
They led him into the mahogany-lined cage with its bronze bars at
the little window, and inducted him into the mysteries of the duty
of a bank teller, and he was fascinated. It was like a new game. He
always was dead to the world for a time when he met with a new form
of amusement. They never could get him to pay attention to anything
else until he had followed out its intricacies and become master of
its technique. And this playing with crisp new bills of fascinating
denominations, and coins in a tray of little compartments, was the best
he had ever tried. Poker chips and Mah Jong tiles weren’t in it for
interest. These were real. They suddenly seemed the implements with
which the world’s big battles were fought. He had a vague perception of
why his father stayed in the game of business when he had money enough
to buy himself out many times. It was for the fascination of it.
Also, as he cashed checks and counted money, he had a realization that
he was doing something for the first time in his life that was really
worth while to the world. Just why it was valuable to the world for
him to stand there and hand out money in return for checks he did not
figure out. He only knew he liked it immensely. He felt as if he were
doing these people a personal favor to give them money when they asked
it. He was so smiling and affable, and took so much trouble to give the
fussy old lady exactly the right number of five- and ten-cent pieces
that she asked for in change, and was so pleasant to the children who
came with their Christmas Club cards and had to have different things
explained to them, that the other officials, watching him furtively as
they went about their own business, raised approving eyebrows at one
another. They nodded as they passed with a tilt of the head toward the
new member of their corps, as much as to say: “He’ll do all right, he’s
going to be a success.”
It is true he often did not know how to explain the things they asked
of him, and had to make them up or manage to get out of answering
entirely. He asked very few questions, however, of his fellow workers,
for he did not wish them to suspect he did not know it all. Only now
and then he would say: “Oh, I say, Warren,” to the man who had been set
to coach him, “just what is your custom here about this?” making it
quite plain that where he came from they had a method of their own, and
he did not wish to vary from the usual habit here.
It was remarkable how often he could skate thus on thin ice and
not fall through. Of course his college practice had made his mind
nimble in subterfuges, but on the other hand, the situation was quite
different from any he had ever met with before. He found it the more
interesting because of these various hazards, and he came to feel a new
elation over each person whom he succeeded in serving satisfactorily
without help. It was quite a miracle that he made no more mistakes than
he did.
The morning passed swiftly, and when he was told that it was the
noon hour he came to himself with a sudden realization that now was
his chance to escape. He had almost forgotten that he had wanted to
escape--_needed_ to. He was enjoying himself hugely, and liked the
idea of going on and becoming a banker. He saw himself winning out and
becoming a champion in the game of banking--just as he had won out and
become a champion in tennis and golf and polo.
But with the relief from his little cage window and the piles of
fascinating coins came the remembrance of his terrible situation,
came as if it were new all over again, and settled down upon his
soul in crushing contrast to the happiness of the morning. Why, men
had liked him, been pleased with what he did, showed him that he was
going to be a success. The long lines of men and women, even boys and
girls, outside his window, looking at him as if he were some one who
held their fate in his hand, had eyed him with pleasant cordiality.
Everywhere men had acknowledged his smile, as if it were worth
something to know him. He had been used to all that, of course, at
home, only there had been a new tang to this friendliness--a kind of
respect that had never been granted to him before. Was it because he
was doing real work? Or was it partly because of what they thought he
was, that religious business that almost every one managed to get in a
hint about? He did not quite understand it, but it somehow gave him a
new angle on life, a new respect for righteousness and right living.
How odd that he had never thought before that there were compensations
in being what men called “good.”
But to have experienced this new deference, and then to be let down
to reality again was a tremendous blow. Of course he had known it
was not his, he was only sort of playing at being a man and a bank
employee, but it had been great! And now he had to go out and sneak
away like a thief and disappear! He looked down at the piles of money
he was leaving with a wistful regret. Suppose he was a thief! Suppose
he should sweep all that with one good motion into his pocket and
disappear. He could do it. It would be a good game, interesting to
see if he could get away with it, but how loathsome to think about
afterward! He almost shivered at the thought of himself doing a thing
like that. That money had come to have a sort of personality and value
of its own apart from what it might be worth to him personally. He had
never looked at money before in any but the light of his own needs.
There had always been plenty of it so far as he was concerned, and he
had always seemed to feel he had a right to as much as he pleased.
But now he suddenly saw that money was a necessity to the daily life
of the community. He had seen it pay a gas bill and a telephone bill
today; and he had seen small checks brought forth from worn wallets in
trembling hands, and the cash carried away with a look that showed it
was to be used for stern necessity. One could tell by the shabbiness
of some of the owners that with them a little money had to go a long
way.
Now all this swept through his mind in a kind of hurried surge as he
turned to follow the man Warren out to lunch. He knew none of the words
to express these thoughts to himself, but the thoughts themselves left
their impress on his soul as they surged through him.
And now, the murderer, who had played at being a bank teller for a
brief time, must go out supposedly to lunch; must shake this man Warren
somehow, and get away, never to return; and he did not want to go. He
did not want to go back to being a runaway murderer. He felt like a
small boy who wanted somebody to show him the way home and comfort him.
He decided the quickest way to shake Warren was to say that he must run
back to Mrs. Summers’ for lunch, as she would be expecting him, and he
needed to get something he had left in his other coat, some papers he
must show to Mr. Harper at once.
But he found no opportunity for such stratagem. The man Warren was in
complete command of the situation. He was sent by Mr. Harper to bring
Murray to the top floor, where lunch was to be served to the Directors
today, and where the President was awaiting him and wanted him to sit
beside him. They were joined almost at once by one or two others who
had been more or less in his vicinity all the morning, so there was
no chance whatever of escape unless he wished to try the astonishing
method of making a dash. This matter of making a bold dash had become
almost an obsession in his mind. He saw it was a thing that was
impossible. They would think he was crazy. They would immediately set
up a cry. He would be caught at once and have to explain. It might work
in the darkness, perhaps, but not in broad daylight in a bank. So he
followed meekly and was shot up in the elevator to the top floor and
given a fine lunch and more of the pleasant deference which had soothed
his overwrought nerves all the morning, until he was even able to rally
and make several bright sallies in response to the conversation of the
men about him. He could see again that they liked him and were pleased
with his ready speech.
Back to his window again and the pleasant game that was so fascinating.
There was only one unpleasant occurrence, just before closing time,
when the girl Anita came in to make a deposit, and looked at him
with her clear eyes. A distant, formal recognition she gave him, but
no more, and again he felt her likeness to Bessie, little Bessie
Chapparelle, with her white face against his shoulder as he carried her
into the hospital.
It swept over him with a sickening thud. Bessie was dead. Why hadn’t he
gone back to Bessie Chapparelle long ago? This girl Anita had that same
sweet reserve about her that Bessie had put between himself and her
while they were driving. He had wanted to break down that reserve, but
he liked her for it. He could see that Anita would be a good girl to
know. She would be somewhat like Bessie, perhaps. But because of Bessie
he shrank from even looking at her. And somehow that odd fancy that she
could look through him, that she might even read that he had killed a
girl, took more and more possession of his mind. He must get away from
this town!
But Mr. Harper came to him just at closing time, and said he wanted to
take him home to dinner that night, that there were one or two matters
he wanted to talk over with him; and besides his wife and daughters
were most anxious to meet him. They would leave the bank about five
o’clock. His duties would be about over for the day then, and they
would take a little drive around the town and vicinity of Marlborough,
if that was agreeable to the young man. Then they would drive to the
Harper home and dine and spend the evening.
There was nothing to do but assent, of course, but his mind was so
troubled trying to think how to get away that he scarcely paid heed to
the routine of his work, which they were trying to teach him, and once
or twice made bad breaks which he knew must have made them wonder that
he did not know better. He saw they were being very nice to him, but
he fancied a look of surprise passed over their faces that he had not
understood more quickly.
The program was carried out without a break. He actually went through
that entire day, ride and dinner and evening and all, and was returned
to Mrs. Summers’ house late that night and ushered to the very door,
which she herself opened for him, so that there was no instant in which
he could have got away unnoticed.
As he stood by the bedroom window in the soft light of the little
bed-lamp, and looked out into the pleasant street once more, as he had
done twenty-four long hours before, he was amazed at the espionage
that had followed him from early morning to late at night. It seemed
almost uncanny. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps there was some
occult reason for it, that he should be caught in this maze of deceit,
and add this also to his already heavy offence. Could it be possible
that a kind Providence, or some other great Unseen Power, if there was
such a thing in the universe, had provided this way of escape from his
terrible situation and prepared a new place and a new name for his
wayward self wherein to begin again?
He looked around the pleasant, friendly little room that seemed
already to have somehow become his, to the deep easy chair with the
soft light falling on a magazine laid to hand, to the comfortable
white bed, with its sheets turned down again ready for his entrance,
and suddenly his heart failed him. How could he go out into the world
again and hide away from men when here was this home and this place
in the world awaiting him? He would never find another place where
everything would be so easy to fit into. He might stay at least until
something was heard of the other fellow. He would take pains to inquire
about that wreck. He would profess to be anxious about some of his
fellow passengers, and they would talk, and he would find out a lot of
things--where the other fellow really lived, and perhaps there would
be a way of tracing him. If he had really died the way would be clear
for him. The man seemed to have come from a distance, from the way they
spoke of his trains, and his trunk coming on ahead. It was likely
there would be a good chance of his never being found out. Why not take
the chance?
Now, Murray Van Rensselaer had been taking chances all his life. He
loved chances. He was a born gambler in living, and if it had not been
for the white face of Bessie Chapparelle that haunted him everywhere he
turned and suddenly appeared to him out of the most unexpected thoughts
and occurrences, he would have just delighted in entering into this
situation and seeing if he could get away with it. The little white
haunting face spoiled everything for him everywhere. There had never
been anything in his life before that really took the fun and the
excitement out of living.
There was one other occurrence of the day that set its searing touch
upon his troubled mind, and that was that when he had been returning
from lunch he had lifted his eyes to the wall beyond the table where
patrons were standing writing checks, and had seen a large card hanging
on that wall in full sight of all who entered the bank, bearing the
picture of a young man, and underneath the picture the words, in large
letters, “$5,000 Reward--”
He read no more. To his distorted vision the picture seemed to be one
of himself. Yet he was not near enough to see it, and he dared not go
nearer. It had been like a Nemesis staring him in the face all the
afternoon as he worked away at the game of money, every time he looked
up, and tried not to see the card upon the wall with the face and the
words upon it: yet always saw them.
He thought of the card now as he stood by the window and looked out,
thinking how he could get across that tin roof silently, and down to
the ground by the way of the rose trellis.
Then the thought presented itself that perhaps, after all, he was safer
there, in the bank, even if it proved to be his own picture staring
across at him, than he would be out in the world trying to run away
from people who were hunting for him and wanting to get that reward. No
one would think of looking for that face behind the teller’s window. He
was bearing an honored name, and behind that name he was safe. He must
stay. That is, unless the other man turned up, and then--? Well, then
it would be time enough to decide what to do. At least his situation
could be no worse than it was now. He would go to bed and to sleep like
other people, and tomorrow he would get up and go to the bank and play
that enticing game of money again, and see if he could get away with
it all. At least it would keep his mind occupied, so that he would
not always have to see Bessie Chapparelle lying huddled beneath that
overturned car.
He turned from the window and looked toward the tempting bed again.
He was not used to resisting temptations. It had been his wont always
to do exactly as he pleased, no matter what the consequences. Let the
consequences take care of themselves when they arrived. Ten to one they
would never arrive. It had been his experience that if you kept enough
things going there was no room for consequences. Habit is a tremendous
power. Even in the face of a possible arrest for murder it swayed him
now. And he was tired--deadly tired. The excitement of the day, added
to the excitement of the days that had gone before, had exhausted him.
Add to that the fact that he had been without stimulant of any kind,
unless you could call coffee stimulant. It was a strange thing, all
these people who did not drink and did not approve of smoking. How did
they get that way?
He had thought that as soon as he got out in the world again somehow
he would manage a pack of cigarettes. But at the breakfast-table Mrs.
Summers had told him how the one thing that had held her back at first
from being ready to take him in was that she hated smoking in her
house, but when Mr. Harper had boasted that he was a young man who
never smoked, that decided her.
“And he was so pleased about it,” she added. “You know, though he
smokes himself, he said it was a sign of great strength of character in
you that you had gone all through the war even without smoking, and you
were said not to be a sissy-boy, either.”
He had paid little heed to her words while he was eating his breakfast,
because his mind was engrossed with how he could get away, but down
at the bank Mr. Harper, at noon, lighting his cigar, looked at him
apologetically, and said:
“I know you don’t smoke, Murray, but I hope you’ll pardon us older
fellows who began too young in life to cut it out now. I admire your
strength tremendously.”
He had opened his mouth to disclaim any such strength, to say that
they had been misinformed, for his whole system was crying out for the
comfort of a smoke, but a diversion suddenly occurred, and caution
held him back from contradicting it later. Besides, the entire company
seemed to have heard it about him that he did not smoke, and he dared
not attempt to invent a story which would show they were mistaken. If
he was supposed to be that kind of young man, better let it stand. He
could the more easily unobserved slip away without their immediate
alarm.
So now in the quiet of his own room he longed fiercely for a smoke.
But he had not a cent in his pocket. There had not been a chance for
an instant all day when he could have purchased cigarettes unobserved,
and if he had them in his hand he would not dare to smoke there in Mrs.
Summers’ house. She hated it. She would smell it. She would think him
a hypocrite. Somehow he did not want Mrs. Summers to think ill of him.
Of course he was a hypocrite, but somehow he did not want her to know
it. She had been kind to him and he liked her. She was what seemed to
him a real mother, and he reverenced her. If he stayed and enjoyed her
home and the position which he was supposed to fill, he would also
have to live up to the character of the man he was supposed to be, and
that would include not smoking, even when he got a chance and money
wherewith to purchase the smokes. Could he stand it? Was it worth the
candle?
And yet when he came to think about it, was not that perhaps the very
best disguise he could have, not to smoke? He had been an inveterate
smoker. Everybody who knew him knew that. If he was made over into a
new man, the old man in him unrecognizable, he must seek to obliterate
all signs of the old man. Well, could he do it?
He had settled down into the big chair to think, to decide what to do,
and suddenly a great drowsiness overtook him. With a quick impulse
of old habit he got up and began to undress without more ado. He
would have another good night’s rest before he did anything about it
anyway. He could not run far with sleep like this in possession of his
faculties. And in three minutes he snapped out the light and was in
bed. At least he was probably safe till morning. The man Murray could
not very well turn up at that time of night.