Part 19

“The strike may not come off, Rio. There’s always a lot of talk. And if it does, it’s no worse than the waterfront.”

“Well, anyway, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” Rio walked into the little hallway, calling back over the banisters to Martin to find out how much longer he had to wait.

Martin glanced at his watch.

“I’ll be through in twenty minutes,” he said. “We can stop down the street for a nightcap.”

“I’ll be outside,” Rio mumbled, and went on down the stairs.

He was sitting on the steps when Martin joined him. His huge frame filled the doorway and as he arose lazily, Martin wondered, as he had wondered many times before, at the harmony of his movements.

Far beyond the reaches of the sulphur fumes, the soft tread of these men, accustomed as they were to the intricate, woven fabric of the sea, made scarcely a sound in the night.

Rio sniffed.

“New York,” he said, as they walked along. “It smells different this time of year.”

And Martin, through his friend, felt a definite, new motion in the color of the air—a deliberate music brought by the full season. In both retrospect and in the moment, Martin watched Huysmans, that frightened older brother, break the skyline into small patches of dim lights between the darkened buildings.

So still was the atmosphere that the two friends felt annoyed at the sight of a lighted tavern. But they stopped in for a drink nevertheless, then went on slowly toward Martin’s rooming house.

“Say, Martin,” said Rio finally. “I been thinkin’ over that act you pulled with Roberts. I don’t get it.” He laughed. “It’s funny, though.”

“It really wasn’t an act,” replied Martin.

Rio looked at him through the darkness.

“You mean——”

“Good Lord, no!” interrupted Martin. “I’ll admit, it’s difficult to understand—even for me. But the way he stood, the way he smiled, and his new threat (remember, he’s carried them out before!) made me break loose. I kept thinking, as I looked at him, that he’d always asked me for something that he didn’t want. When I called him, I must have known he wasn’t real. For when I pretended a consummation he was frightened and ashamed.”

Rio shook his head.

“You’re a brave lad. It makes me sick to think about it.”

Martin’s tone was peculiar.

“I was poisonous,” he said.

Rio looked at him again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I guess it cured him.”

Martin thought a moment.

“I don’t know. I suppose that when it comes down to it I don’t understand him at all.... By the way, Rio, what made him take such a dislike to you?”

“Nothin’ much. I asked him about you once and when I found out he lied, I shook him up.” Rio closed his fist in the dark. “I wish I’d shook ’im harder now,” he added, half under his breath.

“Damn it! That’s the pay-off!” said Martin angrily.

Rio turned to him.

“If you mean you’re fed up messin’ with this queer outfit, I’m with you.” He began to walk more rapidly. “I wish to God I was back——”

Martin interrupted.

“I know. Sometimes I wish we were at sea again.”

“What about Deane?” asked Rio.

Martin’s voice was as even as his steps.

“I wouldn’t mention her name, Rio,” he said. “We never think about a little thing like that the first time.” His voice was trembling now. “But I wouldn’t ever see her, or mention her name again.”

They walked along Eighth Street without speaking for a few blocks until Rio turned to his friend.

“Is that all you’re goin’ to say?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m a miserable bastard, Martin. I wish I was in Santa de Marina. By God!—I think I’ll go.”

Rio sounded so unusually plaintive that Martin had to laugh.

“I don’t blame you. Why don’t you return to the family? Your money won’t last them forever and you could make out all right down there.”

They had reached Washington Square and were about to turn down Martin’s street when Rio stopped him.

“Let’s go in and sit down for awhile, buddy. There’s a few things I’d like to ask you.”

Martin walked beside him until they came to the large circular rim of the fountain. They sat down on the low concrete wall and Rio put out his cigarette, grinding it under his heel on the pavement. It seemed difficult for him to speak.

“Y’know,” he said, finally, “I been around more than most men. I been places and seen funny practices, and ugly ones, among the heathen. And I know Berlin better’n I do New York. The same goes for a few other cities. I thought I’d scraped most people and most happenin’s. Then I had the luck of bumpin’ into you.”

“Good, or bad?” asked Martin.

“Bad, I guess, or I’d have missed it.”

“Why bad?”

“Well, because I had a few ideas that I believed in. Somehow, you’ve managed to mess ’em up.”

“That’s all right,” said Martin, emphasizing his words with a quick movement of his hand. “If you were on a weak foundation you shouldn’t mind having your opinions reversed. If you had a strong one I couldn’t change it.”

“It ain’t one or the other,” said Rio in disgust. “You can take an idea, right or wrong, and squeeze it like butter.” His tone grew deeper and Martin felt that he was frowning in the semi-darkness. “I’m goin’ to ask you a question, Martin. Don’t get sore; and I don’t mean it hard. But I got to know. We’ve kidded each other a lot since we met. You stood by me—” Rio’s voice faltered. He swallowed and stopped for a moment. Martin could hear his heavy breathing.

“Get rid of it, Rio,” he said.

“It’s god-damned crazy,” said Rio, swearing to hide his embarrassment. “But listen, Martin. Are you——”

Martin half closed his eyes.

“Oh,” he thought. He watched his friend struggling through this viscous medium in a painful attempt to absorb most of its ugliness himself. But he gave the man no clue, no help. He merely closed his eyes tighter and listened.

“Are you—” continued Rio. Then, his voice stronger and more demanding, “Are you a god-damned fairy with your god-damned eyes and the way you look at people? You looked queer in that draggy dress at the party, and you acted queer.” Rio hesitated. “Oh, I know you took care of me afterward. But when I seen you leanin’ on the piano like a girl, I went crazy. If you’re a queen, tell me!” His voice had become so husky that he could scarcely speak. “And if you ain’t—what are you? Let me know. Let me know damned fast!” He was breathing still harder and Martin could hear his hands rubbing against the concrete.

He slipped off the side of the fountain and faced Rio. In the quiet night, without a moon, the open stars drew their icy shine across his eyes. He lit a cigarette and in the brief flare, Rio could see the drawn lips, the contemptuous silhouette and the sharp lines in his face.

“Time doesn’t count, Rio. Kindly don’t be in a hurry.” Martin spoke softly. “And remember, I’m talking about myself and not you, so don’t be anxious. You’ve asked me a question in your manner, and I’ll answer it in your manner, Rio. I am.”

“Damn you, you’re not!” Rio cried out.

“Then it’s for you to judge.”

“I don’t judge nothin’, Martin,” said Rio, standing and facing him. “But if you ain’t, why d’you hang around them?”

“‘Them’?” asked Martin, with a bleak smile. “If you could see yourself standing there, frightened of yourself, frightened of me, frightened of symbols——”

“I tell you, I’m not like that!” interrupted Rio, his hands back of him.

“Perhaps you are,” said Martin quietly.

“Clear that up.” Rio was leaning slightly forward in dignified, yet dangerously immobile restraint. “Clear that up fast.”

Martin spoke earnestly, without resentment.

“Before you ever ask another man that question, Rio, go to the mirror and ask it of yourself. Perhaps the answer will be—‘thou, too’!”

Rio kept the same tense attitude.

“You mean _I_ am?” he asked slowly. “You better explain it well this time. Show me your point.”

Martin looked at him indifferently.

“You asked me, didn’t you, if I was queer; and although you’re deathly afraid of it yourself, you hold such people in contempt. Did you think I was going to deny it as though it were intrinsically a shameful thing?”

“You say it ain’t shameful?” said Rio, not changing his position.

“It exists,” went on Martin calmly. “It’s part of life. It has its particular and its important position in the world. It has its stages and its stratas. Thus it is, Rio—this force was created.”

“Created for what?” demanded Rio. “For nightmares?” He wiped away the sweat from his forehead.

“No,” said Martin. “Created for balance.”

“‘Balance,’ hell!—those upside down bastards?”

“I didn’t say they were balanced. I don’t know that, because I don’t know where the average begins or ends. I said they were created for balance. A necessary people forming a resilient salient between the rigidity of the sexes.”

“I don’t see it,” said Rio heavily.

“Don’t bother, then,” said Martin. “And don’t make an issue of it. I’ve looked at Carol and seen the reason, the essential purpose of his destiny.”

“Go on,” said Rio.

“And I’ve looked at Drew,” Martin continued. “He made me wonder what the word ‘normal’ meant.”

“God, you’re crazy,” whispered Rio.

“I’ve looked at Roberts,” confessed Martin, “until his helpless, sick desire forced me into desperation, and I tasted the germ of his too bright mouth.”

“God!” repeated Rio, horrified.

“And I’ve looked at you,” went on Martin.

“Yeah?” breathed Rio, straining forward.

“And I became less blind.”

Rio’s heavy shoe scraped the pavement.

“And I’ve looked at myself,” said Martin, lifting his voice. And still more firmly, “I’ve looked at all of us and found us all so different—and yet so much the same.”

“Holy Christ,” said Rio softly.

“Aye,” Martin nodded. “Holy Christ.”

They left the park and walked on silently, each thinking more of the other’s thoughts than of his own. A wind from the south, carrying a burned, sulphurous cloud, quickly hid the stars and descended until even the solitary street lamps were darkened, became ominous and were worse than none at all. It muffled the occasional sounds of late night and was as forbidding as the attitude of these two silent men; for except themselves, the streets were deserted, and their presence only accentuated the desolation. It was a moment of such stillness that even nature becomes disturbed and ultimately furious, and sharply moving her wing, brings down a sudden and a violent sound.

A block away from Martin’s room an ambulance rushed past them, its siren full and piercing. It drew up quickly before the house and an ambulance doctor with white cap and trousers bent over a man who was lying on the curb. A thin group of spectators had gathered. They were quiet, looking on curiously. Martin’s landlady was standing by, shivering and crying. Martin went to her and touched her arm.

“What is it, Mrs. O’Brien?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Mr. Devaud,” sobbed the woman. “I heard a noise. I guess it was a shot. So I looked out the window and there he was.”

Martin hurried back to Rio.

“What does it look like?” he asked nervously. “I can’t see.”

Rio struck a match.

“I dunno. He can’t get no pulse.”

The doctor was still kneeling between them and the figure. At last, he moved to one side and opened the man’s shirt, throwing a point of light on a small, discolored spot under the heart. The man’s face was in bas-relief. But above the wound, in a broken curve, lay a delicate, golden necklace....

Martin leaned over swiftly and started to speak; but Rio stepped in front of him.

“The guy’s dead, eh, Doc?” he asked solicitously, glaring at Martin all the while over his shoulder.

“Get back,” said the doctor brusquely, to the crowd. Then he called out 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.