to the driver. “Come on, Jim. Lend a hand.”
Rio took Martin by the arm and they walked up the steps quickly.
“You god-damned fool,” Rio kept whispering to him. “You god-damned fool.
Keep your god-damned mouth shut.”
In Martin’s room they sat down and faced each other. Rio continued to
swear at him.
“So there you are,” he said mockingly. “Carol’s knocked off and you want
to butt in.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up!” said Martin miserably. Then seeing the
expression on Rio’s face, he went over to him and put his hand on his
shoulder. “I didn’t mean that, Rio. I know well enough you saved me a lot
of trouble out there. I’m just trying to figure it out.”
“Don’t be so dumb,” said Rio, and put his cap on backwards.
“Yes. It must have been Roberts. I suppose that’s what he meant when he
said he had proposed something. I knew it. I was slow. Damn him. Why?”
“Why not? Carol was in his way,” said Rio philosophically.
Martin stood up.
“Rio!” He spoke swiftly. His voice was harsh and a terrible light burned
in his eyes.
“Take it easy,” Rio answered calmly. “He won’t hurt Deane to-night. He’s
weak, some ways. This one job’s enough for his stomach this time. He’s in
bed—cracked up. Puking his guts out. But later, I dunno.” Rio was growing
thoughtful.
“How did he get away with this, Rio?”
“He’s a clever son-of-a-bitch.”
“Clever?” repeated Martin. “I wonder.” He moved toward the door. “Rio,
I’m going to see him.”
Rio went to his friend and held his arm.
“Don’t stick your chin out, Martin,” he said earnestly. “Maybe I got an
idea myself.” He righted his cap, and without further explanation left
the room.
Martin pulled up the rocker in front of his small radio which he turned
on softly. There, his head in his hands, he sat and rocked until morning.
Then he took a train uptown to Deane’s.
_CHAPTER XXV_
Roberts woke up with a sticky feeling in his mouth. He felt his wrist. It
was still throbbing. With difficulty he repressed a sudden panic brought
about by his full consciousness of this last and most horrible link
forged in the confused entries of his life. He got up, put his feet in
a pair of slippers and went to the mirror. He stuck out his tongue and
looked at it carefully. Walking away, he stopped suddenly and glanced
over his shoulder at himself. Then he rang for his breakfast and went
into the bathroom.
Although he was accustomed to this pale Orient, an atmosphere of
mauve with the suggestion of a darker tone enhanced by lights, direct
and indirect, it seemed to stimulate him now as though it were a new
experience. He took a crystal flagon from its glass shelf and shook the
bottle slightly, watching the opalescent liquid as hungrily as though he
were going to drink it. Removing the stopper, he closed his eyes and drew
in a deep breath, shivering; and as an afterthought, carefully shook two
drops upon his fingers and rubbed them into his temples. The astonishing
scent filled the bathroom and Roberts leaned against the wall as the
odor of stable frost arose about him. Slowly, he removed his pajamas,
white as his skin, and let them fall around his feet. The warm water
from the shower sprayed off his head. He stuck out his tongue again and
swallowed a little of the water. It tasted salty and he spat out what was
left. After a careless shave he put on a dressing gown of deep red corded
silk, and staring vacantly, sat down in front of the coffee table in his
living room.
The boy knocked and entered with his breakfast.
“My paper?” Roberts looked up inquiringly.
“Yes, sir. It’s on your tray, sir,” answered the boy.
“That’s right, my lad. Always a paper with one’s eggs.” The adviser
laughed sententiously.
The boy put down the tray.
“Will that be all, sir?”
Roberts looked up again, severely.
“Is that all? Most certainly. Do I ever digress from this routine?”
“No, sir,” said the boy and left.
Roberts mused, his lips spasmodically making little ticking sounds.
“Is that all? What else could he want? The scamp—he acted as if he knew
something. A pretty lot _he_ could know—or anybody, for that matter.”
The adviser looked around the room, smiling shrewdly. There was a single
scarlet geranium on his tray. He picked it up with a caress and held it
briefly under his nose before he tore off the petals. Then he looked at
his eggs.
“Cold, as usual,” he said bitterly. “And what’s this?—a spot?” He put
his spoon into the eggs. “The nucleus, no doubt. Good heavens!—does
fertilization confront me even in my breakfast?” He tried to control his
anger and nibbled at a piece of bacon and toast. The hot, black coffee he
drank greedily.
A short article at the bottom of the front page of his paper attracted
his attention. He read through it swiftly. A murder in Greenwich Village.
He smiled again, this time his right eye winking slightly.
“Definitely a bad neighborhood, Mrs. Twitchett,” he said amiably. “People
who go down there must expect such things, my dear.” Then, with a start,
he brought himself up. “You ass!” He spoke harshly to himself. “You
giggling, impossible hermaphrodite! Hush!” But unable to repress his
amusement he laughed aloud, pressing his finger to his lips secretively.
After awhile he picked up the paper again. “What was the name? ...
Carol?... Yes, Carol Stevens. A young chap, so the papers say. But he’ll
be a long time down there. It will bring maturity.... Unfortunately,
he might be connected with Martin Devaud? That would be scandalous.”
Before the smile reappeared on Roberts’ face he looked at the article
once more. Certainly, it would not involve himself. Being merely decent
to a homespun lad like that. There couldn’t be any connection there....
He spoke aloud again. “There isn’t any connection, you bloated bunch of
rags! You confounded, grayish bunch of rags! This is the time of year to
remain in one’s own department.”
He went to the desk and took a sheet of paper. Meticulously he wrote:
To the Police:
Using a small caliber automatic and under the pretense of
friendship I approached and shot Carol Stevens. The motive was
jealousy.
Signed:
William Roberts.
He permitted a slight smile. Then, taking a box of matches out of his
pocket he struck one and lit a corner of the paper. After the note had
burned he dropped the ashes into the wastebasket.
He took another piece of paper and wrote the same message, stood up and
looked at it from a distance, taking his eyes away from it at intervals,
for a second at a time. Then he picked up the paper, and waving it
around, walked to the other end of the room. After a few moments he
walked back, humming, and slowly burned it, too.
Again he wrote the message. This time he left the room. A moment later
his face appeared in the doorway. It was tense as he walked rapidly to
the desk. But when he saw the message, undisturbed, he smiled again.
He picked it up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.
Leaping after it and retrieving it with a desperate, sweeping motion, he
unrolled it with quivering fingers. Hastily he read the words and again
the satisfied smile lessened the tension on his face. Then he rolled
the paper once more and walked to the inside wall. He stood with his
back to the room for a long time, at last throwing the wadded note as
far over his shoulder as he could, one hand covering his eyes. Turning
around, he looked on the floor. The paper was not there. He began to
walk back and forth swiftly, looking on the divan, on the chairs. The
message was not to be seen. Finally he stopped in the center of the room,
a curiously stupid expression on his face. He felt slightly dizzy and
the room seemed to be turning. He walked hesitatingly to a chair, his
titubation increasing. Leaning over the chair, he looked at the room from
this angle. The paper had apparently vanished. He felt his pulse and was
alarmed by its rapid beat. In an attitude of half-fear, half-anger, he
went hurriedly over the room again, lifting the pillows from the divan
and from the chairs. Then he went to a mirror and looked at himself.
The pupils of his eyes were large and startling, set in a pale, grayish
face lined with anxiety. Panic-stricken, he ran to his clothescloset and
took down another dressing robe. This he hung over the mirror in the
living room. Animal-like, he fell to his knees, and crawling around the
floor, peered under the fringe of the rug. His shoulder bumped against
a chair and he tipped it over angrily. His movements became more and
more frenzied. At last each article had been closely inspected, and
still there was no message. He ran to the door and locked it securely.
Suddenly, he looked at the window. It was open. He drew his hand across
his forehead which was covered with perspiration. His knees trembled. He
sat down abruptly, the upset furniture swaying around him.
Within this desperate sense of fear he quickly regained his balance.
He went to the buffet and drank a small brandy. Unsteadily, but
seriously, he dressed. He started to leave the room, hesitated, and as
an afterthought went to the window. He leaned out and looked down at the
alley-like space between the buildings. Unable to distinguish anything,
he closed the window, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator.
Downstairs, he crossed the court, climbed over a low fence and walked
down the space under his window. One crumpled white paper drew his
attention, but it was an empty cigarette package. Toward the sidewalk he
saw another wadded paper. People were passing close by and he picked it
up self-consciously, not daring to hope that it was the one he wanted.
Walking back to the court he opened it feverishly. His eye caught the
first line. It said, “To the Police:—” He read no further, but jammed
the note hastily, though carefully, into his pocket and folded his hand
around it.
In his apartment, came the reaction. He lay on his back on the upset
divan, his hand still gripped around the paper, and wept softly and
bitterly. When he had stopped shaking he went to the desk, smoothed out
the paper and read it, a definite horror on his face. Then anger relieved
his fear and he struck the note repeatedly with his fist. Throwing it
into the metal wastebasket, he tossed burning matches after it until the
confessional was alight with flames. Methodically he straightened the
room and took the robe from the mirror. Looking into the glass, he held
out his hand and with amazing swiftness struck the side of his face.
Later, in the bathroom, he saw with satisfaction the purple outline of
his fingers on his cheek.
_CHAPTER XXVI_
Deane answered the telephone nervously. A voice, thin and unsteady, came
over the wire.
“Deane? This is Roberts.”
With difficulty Deane restrained a sudden feeling of panic.
The adviser spoke quickly, without waiting for her acknowledgment.
“This is rather unusual, but I assure you the situation is imperative
enough to justify its obvious lack of convention.”
Deane’s anxiety increased.
“What situation, Roberts?” she asked.
“A situation so delicate that its discussion by phone is impossible.
Won’t you do me the kindness to have dinner with me?” Roberts’ voice had
taken on a strange, beseeching quality.
Thoroughly frightened by the implication of drama, Deane tried to
remember that she had once been attracted by his intelligence, amused at
his suavity. She accepted his invitation.
What could he want of her? She was glad that Martin had gone home.
He would never let her meet Roberts if he knew. She recalled how
frightfully upset Martin had been that morning.
While she was dressing she kept wondering what urgency had prompted the
adviser to contact her so quickly after the tragedy. Surely no guilty man
would do such a thing. Perhaps Martin and Rio were wrong. Perhaps Roberts
wanted to help.... Did he know about that picture of Martin the police
had found in Carol’s pocket? Thank God, Martin had had an alibi. Or—did
alibis really count!... Poor Carol! Was she responsible for his death? It
was true that she had introduced him into this ill-assorted group of men
who, more experienced in the conflicting currents of human emotion, could
anticipate and often avoid such danger. She remembered little phrases and
gestures of Carol which in retrospect seemed touching and child-like. She
remembered the day she had gone to lunch with him—his earnest, immature
face as he reflected the thoughts and effusions of this man whom she was
meeting. What blindness of hers that she had not foreseen an approximate
outcome of this relationship! Deane’s eyes were full of tears. She
felt the tremendous sorrow of the immaculate woman for the spikes and
chains which bind humanity’s certified incompetents. Too, for herself,
there were tears of indignation—resentment over being drawn into this
formidable unity. She finished dressing and hurried uptown.
* * * * *
In the restaurant, Roberts leaned slightly forward, over the table, his
hands together.
“Deane,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me because of Carol’s
tragedy. The child was drawn into a significantly dangerous vortex. But
it is about this uncompromising whirlpool itself, which may engulf others
whom I love, that I want to speak. There is something here—some sinister
thing about us that is in deadly earnest. Do you sense it, Deane?”
“Yes, Roberts. Particularly now.”
“Martin,” continued the adviser, “does not appreciate the undercurrent of
this danger. It is for this reason—for this one reason I begged you to
see me.”
“Yes,” Deane repeated, feeling her skin tighten as it does under a great
and hopeless fear.
“I have but one thought in mind—” Roberts proceeded, “Martin’s future.
His temperament is one that will not adjust itself to the inevitable.”
Deane’s hand closed over her bag. A swift feeling of revulsion changed as
quickly to one of anger.
“The inevitable?” she asked, controlling her voice.
“Yes,” said Roberts. “The inevitable routine of this world. I have
it on good authority that he is about to lose his job at Miller’s
Typographical. You know his history. He came to me a transient—a common
seaman. I found him a good job. I made contacts for him in this respect
which he used, or rather abused, with an amazing recklessness. I do not
understand his lack of appreciation. But these things are unimportant.
Regardless of his inconsideration, I feel that there is definitely
something worth saving.”
“That’s good of you, Roberts,” said Deane, inclining her head a little,
the large hat shading her eyes. “Martin would be pleased to know that you
consider his regeneration a possibility.”
Roberts’ lips tightened at her irony. His fingers moved constantly over
the white tablecloth, touching a cup—a spoon——
“I appeal to you, Deane,” he said finally. “I recognize your influence
over him.”
She remained silent.
“Have you no answer?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Deane’s moist, red lips closed tightly.
Roberts picked up a spoon and tapped it nervously on the table.
“I have always respected your antagonism, Deane, but I am somewhat
unprepared, just now, to face a personal issue. By coöperating with me,
I feel that we can bring about some satisfactory adjustment on the part
of Martin that will give him success and happiness.” The adviser waited,
quiet and intent.
Deane’s eyes paled, the color fading into clearness. She looked at
Roberts abstractedly. To her it seemed that an unhealthy whiteness moved
now under his skin. His handsome face seemed trembling, disintegrating
and forming anew, misshapen under the pressure of his mind. His
cheeks appeared alive with white nerve roots, moving uncertainly, like
microscopic serpents. The lens of Deane’s eyes penetrated through flesh
into the dark coils of blood, visualizing curiously the spiraling, pallid
germ.
Roberts jerked in his chair. He leaned sideways, holding to the table.
His cuff brushed a tumbler and a little of the water spilled upon the
cloth.
“Deane!” He spoke sharply. “What are you looking at?”
Her eyes grew deeper, lost their transparency.
“I was wondering.”
Roberts’ voice trembled. His words were insecure.
“You were wondering.... You were wondering at what? What are you looking
at?”
Deane took her eyes from him.
“Please go on, Roberts.”
He hesitated.
“I was saying—I was saying that you have a remarkable influence over
Martin. Doubtless he has told you of our early misunderstanding—a
misunderstanding based on the assumption that I was instrumental in
having him fired. As an intelligent woman you are probably aware of the
fact that he lost his position because he neglected his work. He is not
incompetent, but his social program affected his efficiency.”
Deane spoke without looking at him.
“Do you mean that I caused Martin to lose his position?” Her lack of
resentment, her cold, unemotional question disconcerted the adviser
momentarily.
“Indeed not,” he answered. “Please believe that I have valued and
approved his friendships for certain people. Martin tends toward
introspection and celibacy. It is most important that he cultivate the
social quality. That is why I was so astonished that he should, of a
sudden, become so interested in what constitutes society.”
“I do not constitute society, Roberts. I love him.”
Roberts lifted his eyebrows.
“Deane,” he said anxiously, “I hope that you do not believe that I have
intended to invade your personal affairs. I am concerned only with
Martin’s development. I truly desire his life to be a complete and happy
one.”
“Then please tell me what you want.” Deane made an uneasy little gesture.
For one lost moment, Roberts’ pallid cheeks were covered as though by the
light of a beautiful, dark flame and he leaned across the table with a
desperate, hopeless lust.
“You know what I want, Deane. _You have always known._” Now, he was
breathless and the color left his face, leaving him whiter and more
distraught than before.
Deane sat erect. There was more than anger in her expression. There
was the fury and the cruelty of all her sex against what she believed
to be the pitiful, crippled shade of themselves—against the mist of
a forever-damned kinship which thought as woman thought, desired
with woman’s desire, and still was mist, without substance, without
gratification. Deane’s voice was barely audible.
“Never,” she whispered.
At her expression and her exclamation, Roberts wet his lips and trembled
slightly in his chair, gazing at her as though in some enchantment.
“Never?” he asked, in a voice as low as her own, but with the quality of
a protesting and bewildered child.
“Roberts!” Deane spoke so sharply that he was shaken from his spell and
sat more normally, looking at her now with quiet speculation. “What is
it you wish me to do? I see no reason to protract a conversation so
unpleasant.”
The adviser met her glance with restraint.
“My motives are misconstrued,” he said slowly. “You will forgive my naive
desire to lend Martin my support?”
Again Deane’s eyes dimmed and faded. Catching his own reflection,
Roberts’ pallor grew even more death-like. And again he gripped the
table, his knuckles white under the transparent skin. In the opalescent
mirror of the woman’s eyes he saw his image—saw the pale movement within
himself. Deane, her face cruel, drove her thoughts in swift waves,
building and clarifying the image until the naked picture of the man and
his disease rose clearly in her mind. There was an odor of decay. Roberts
half rose from his chair, slipped back into it, and leaning sideways on
the table stared fixedly at her.
Terrified, she arose. In Roberts’ face there was no blood, no expression.
His eyes were set and the cords of his throat made ridges in his white
neck. Deane put her hands over her eyes. She knew now. Her thoughts
raced.... “_He killed Carol. He wants to kill me!_” ... Without excusing
herself she left the restaurant and hurried to a cab.
* * * * *
Roberts, his hands limp on the tablecloth, stared before him. He felt
Deane’s movement as she left, but he remained as he was.
“Take your eyes, too!” he said aloud. His voice rose higher. “I say, take
your eyes!”
Other diners looked curiously at him, smiling and nodding their heads. A
small, dark woman exchanged glances with her escort.
“He’s had plenty,” she said. “I watched him and the woman. They had an
argument. The man’s tight.”
Her escort regarded Roberts earnestly.
“I don’t know. It looks as though he has the horrors.”
Roberts gazed steadily at the translucent eyes floating across the table.
“All right, my dear. Stay there,” he said loudly.
The dark woman’s escort glanced at him worriedly and beckoned to a
waiter.
“Say, waiter, there’s a chap over there with the jitters. He needs
looking after.”
The waiter approached Roberts warily.
“Is there something you wish, sir?” he said, deferentially.
Roberts still watched the eyes. He stood up and spoke quietly.
“Very well, I shall go. You remain here.” Turning to the waiter, “My hat,
quickly.”
Outside, the adviser hailed a taxi, climbed in unsteadily and directed
the driver to his apartment.
Dropping his coat on the divan in the living room, he went hurriedly to
the mirror and stared into it. The light on the glass wavered, a shadow
appeared, and Deane’s eyes, large and transparent, materialized before
him. Roberts cried out sharply.
“I told you to stay!”
He jerked around, went to a chair, sat on the edge of it and put his head
in his hands, rocking gently on his toes.
“My God, Martin!—to think that I could have loved you! After all, Devaud,
you’re nothing but a sailor. A hostile, bestial—” Roberts’ head jerked
back and he jumped to his feet, breathing heavily. “Deane,” he panted,
“you’re in this room! It won’t help to try and hide. I can locate you
by your eyes. They’re in that glass there.” He pointed. “You think you
know my secret. It’s a lie! It’s a dream, and you’re a lie!” He leaned
against the chair, his cheeks darkening. “I’ll find Martin. Martin will
be fair.... Martin—you always liked me. You didn’t deserve a job....
Take her away, Martin! I want to sleep. I can’t sleep while she’s hiding
here.” He stopped speaking, a crafty expression changing his face.
Tiptoeing into the bathroom, he pulled the mirror from the cabinet and
holding it under his arm, crept back to the living room.
Approaching the larger glass which hung at the end of the room, he
quickly drew the other mirror from under his arm and held it so that the
two of them reflected into each other. Then, bursting into short, sobbing
laughter, he shook the smaller glass furiously.
“There! Look at yourself! You’re sick, too!” His laughter became fiercer
until his body rocked from its violence. Suddenly he stiffened. The
mirror dropped from his hands, the glass splintering, and Roberts fell.
_CHAPTER XXVII_
Martin and Rio walked along the waterfront in silence. All activity
seemed suspended. It was a lonely and a menacing panorama to both men who
realized that the very heart of the city had been pierced. Imported goods
and products for exportation were lying quiet, slowing up the commerce
of the world. Union longshoremen and truckmen had walked out with the
striking seamen; and the desperate efforts of independent groups could
not compensate for the loss of regimentated teamwork and good fellowship,
so vital. Policemen patrolled each pier to prevent acts of violence
between organized and unorganized Labor. Between the entrances, the
scattered trucks rolled about like confused ants.
“Damn the governors!” said Rio, thrusting out his jaw.
“Who?”
“_Who?_” repeated Rio, in exasperation. “Capital, you bastard! Capital!
_You’ve_ eaten their sour pudding and slept on their lousy blankets!—and
you ask _me_ ‘who’! It’s Capital that smashes Labor!”
“Money and work,” said Martin serenely. “Money and work.”
Rio turned on him nervously.
“Cut out that speakin’ in tongues, or whatever the hell it is, Martin.
I’ve heard you damn the Companies from Shanghai to Port Said. Anyway,
what about the printin’ plant?”
“It’s closed. The boys walked out. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“The same reason they’re walking out everywhere—for better hours, better
conditions.”
“When do they open?”
“I don’t know. There’ll be arbitration, of course. Most of the men
though, have put away enough chips to ride it. I haven’t.”
“Well,” said Rio, “what are you goin’ to do?”