After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and
the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and
newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched
across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but
little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and
there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the
pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the
expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and
the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper
reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial,
eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought
to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale
would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might
have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount
of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes
under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never
seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband,
that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced
herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very
suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a
man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its
simplest form. And it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself
on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the
catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every
practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and
confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or
speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because
no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense
personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her
instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away
early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
“Left no address?”
“No.”
“Say when they’d be back?”
“No.”
“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”
“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where
he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t
worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”
Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me
his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the
time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the
phone.
“Will you ring again?”
“I’ve rung three times.”
“It’s very important.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they
were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with
shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got
to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”
Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going
upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d
never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was
nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence,
staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem,
which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next
train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure
he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a
wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem
arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began
to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby
and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of
my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a
mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down
now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get
mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little
later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when
I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and
out.