King Coffin

X The Pure Murder

That he should fall asleep during the daytime was unusual, that he should fall asleep in a chair was stranger still; from a ragged fragment of dream, a wail of unintelligible voices in a darkening scene of leafless trees, he woke with a start to find that night had fallen, he had slept for two hours, it was after eight. The sea shell shone whitely on the window sill, there was a dim light in the little attic room of the club across the street, above the dark cowl of the ventilator on the roof were a few stars. The effect was odd, as of a profoundly mysterious hiatus in time, a sense of loss, and he sat still, listening to the delicate ticking of his watch, and trying to remember what it was, in the dream, that Gerta had said. Miles of aching arches of eyebrows—? was that it? It was something like that, but the words, even as he looked at them, seemed to be changing in shape, he could not be sure. And that he should have fallen asleep like this, in the midst of making notes, with the book on his knee — which now, with the pencil, had fallen to the carpet — this was subtly disturbing; and as he thought of it he felt his heart suddenly begin beating more loudly and quickly. Was there anything abnormal in it? It was true that he had not been sleeping well, as Toppan of course had reported gleefully to Gerta, but this was not at all because he was really worried, or because his nerves were in any way upset — not at all, not in the least. It was simply and solely because of late his conscious life had become so severely and energetically concentrated: the preoccupation had become so intense and unremitting that to break it off, for sleep, seemed a waste of time. No doubt, in the upshot, he had been more fatigued than he had supposed. One couldn’t go on working indefinitely without rest. And if in addition one was by nature more conscious than other people, and occupied, moreover, with a special problem, so that one’s consciousness was hourly deepening and widening, with a progressive increase in this peculiar interiorness of one’s life — an increase in its essential silence — why then it was natural enough that this should constitute not a strain exactly but at any rate a fatigue. That was it, of course! The scene with Gerta at Belmont, three days before, had somehow accentuated this; in some unanalyzable way had had the effect of still further emptying his world; and of leaving him there, for the future, alone with Jones. Henceforth, as he had seen almost at once, he was alone with Jones. They stood there together, at the center, like a man and his shadow.…

He gave a little shiver, the night had turned cool, got up to switch on the lights.

Jones!

Of course.

That was why his heart had begun beating — it was the theater night, it was Tuesday, Jones would perhaps be at the Orpheum. But there was no rush—: if Jones went there at all, he would be there all the evening. The show itself would probably be dull, it wasn’t really necessary to go till near the end. And in some respects this would be better. For if in fact (as he had half considered just before he fell asleep) an opportunity should occur tonight; if in some unexpected way Jones should prove vulnerable, or the circumstances propitious, for the thing itself — if for a moment, in the subway, Jones should detach himself from whoever might be with him, or on leaving the theater, or on getting off the Huron Avenue car — not that any of these things was likely or that in any case the scene itself would be the most suitable — he would be prepared for it, the revolver was in his pocket; and it would be safer, of course, if he had not been too long visible in the theater.… Yes, that had been the idea, when he fell asleep; but now, after dark, after waking in the dark to a subtle sense of change, of void, it all seemed oddly improbable, and as if not properly outlined: a little vague: a little unreal. What he needed was a wash, cold water on the eyes and wrists — what he needed was a drink. Then the thing could be looked at more calmly, more clearly. And after all, what was the hurry?

Moreover, was it quite certain that the revolver was the best way? Better, perhaps, to make an appointment with Jones to discuss the advertising project, drive him out to Concord, into the country, as if to meet the mythical “partner”—there would be no difficulties about that, it would be ridiculously easy — no one would know about it, not a soul, it could be done in daylight — and even if done with the revolver, there, in some wooded lane—

He turned his back on the vision, walked slowly across the room to the Chinese waterfall, stared at it, in the silence seemed almost to hear the headlong rush of the gray torrent: it was his own silence, his own world, it was himself who waited there in the little red pavilion among trees on the edge of the twisted crag, listening to that sound as of a pouring and terrible chaos. He leaned toward it, as if the better to hear it, the better to see it, but found that it wasn’t in fact the waterfall he was looking at, or trying to hear, but the little man who had become his shadow, the little man who stood alone with him in the center of the world. Jones was beside him in the car, Jones with his absurd tweed hat, the brown feather at the side, the cheap fur collar, the little red notebook in his hand. Jones turned toward him and said — what was it that he said? Jones was smiling at him sidelong, under the clipped moustache, was looking ridiculously competent as always, nodded with a knowing air, seemed to be about to say that he knew a trick or two worth two of that. And all the while, Jones was confidingly, almost invitingly, opening his heart to a pistol shot.…

In the bathroom, he ran the cold water over his extended wrists, let it run till it freshened, smiled slightly at the tall image which stooped forward from the greenish mirror. He said aloud:

— Are you getting into a panic about this? Are you being quite straight with yourself about this? Is your voice a little unsteady?

The weakness which he felt in the lips that shaped these words did not show in the reflection, the mouth was calm and curt, a little derisive, the fine eyes regarded him narrowly and ironically; and then as he stood still the whole beautiful face (despite its undeniable pallor) smiled at him with an air of enigmatic affection and power. The lynx-eyes were astonishingly clear, laughed with a private light of their own, the voice said to him:

— What are you afraid of? Don’t be a fool. The murder is now pure. It has now reached a perfection in idea. To be alone with Jones — is that so difficult or painful? Is it any deeper a corruption — or evil — than to be alone with yourself? alone with your own shadow? It is merely the sacrifice of a shadow.

He repeated softly the word shadow, to watch the movement of his lips, drew the tip of a finger across an eyebrow, as if merely for contact with the bold image which seemed so haughtily to keep its distance, considered for a moment the resemblance of the forehead to Kay’s. The speech was peculiar, did not quite seem his own, came out of a subtly different level of consciousness, like that of a dream — like the words of Gerta in the dream, miles of aching arches of eyebrows, or whatever they had been. But it was a comfort to hear his own voice, to hear it speaking so calmly and effectively, and to see moreover that his bearing was as imperturbable as ever. Resting both hands flat on the marble he leaned forward and said:

— The face is that of a genius. You must expect to have misgivings, that is the penalty of the solitary spirit! The one who dwells in the abyss.

The vibrant murmur died in the little room, he paused, then went on, speaking slowly, watching the shape of his mouth, the eagerness of his eyes in his white face.

— Behind this forehead is the tree, the vision of the tree, it is an imagination which can do what it likes. You hear? Do what it likes … Jasper Ammen.

Jasper Ammen.

He turned smiling away from the smiling image, and extinguished the light; in the silence of the other room he picked up the pencil and book from the floor. The book lay open, he put it on the table and read:

“Rule 2. No bizarre typographical arrangement of text in obvious violation of good taste is permitted. Type of heads and text must not be more than 12 points wide (1–6 inch) in its widest stroke.… All illustrations to be no darker than the equivalent of a number 8 Ben Day when laid on metal. Where accents are required ⅛ square inch of solid black may be used, but not as mass shading.”

But not as mass shading.

The voice of Jones, yes; but this was beginning to be a bore, it was tiresome, and of course it was now a little unnecessary. Of this aspect of Jones, enough was already known, the notes were ample; if any further conversation with him should become needed — for instance, in the drive to Concord to meet the mythical partner — the notes would serve. It was even a question — and as he reflected on this he found that he was about to sit down again, but decided not to — whether enough was not known altogether. In a sense, yes! In a sense. A great deal had certainly been learned. The picture was pretty complete, it was satisfactory as far as it went, but there was still room for something more immediate. The scene in Alpine Street, for example, had partially supplied this lack; but only to suggest the need for more. What was the trained nurse for — if that was what she was? And the child’s cot? It was possible to argue, of course, that the significance of these things lay outside the real problem — but that in turn depended on how one saw the problem. They might not contribute anything to the ease or success of the final action — that was true enough — but they certainly contributed something else, something almost as good. The Alpine Street episode had been profoundly and beautifully natural, it was essentially the right sort of thing, he reminded himself that in the talk with Toppan he had said there could be no limit in the matter of pure knowledge; and if Jones appeared tonight at the Orpheum, that too would have the same delicious weight and immediacy. It was even (if one looked at it like this) a question whether in the approach—! But no.

And then there was yesterday’s thing — the failure of Jones to appear from his house at the usual time; and instead, the arrival of a mud-spattered doctor’s car, with its little green cross, and the doctor staying in the house for over an hour. Was the child ill? or the mother? Why had the child never been seen in all this time, or the mother either? Was the child perhaps a chronic invalid? This would of course explain the good-natured casualness of the Alpine Street scene — or partially. Or on the other hand was it possible — and the idea suddenly arrested him in his pacing of the floor, it was as startling as a blow — that all this business was simply the preparation for a child? Good God! That would explain everything.…

The discovery came as a shock, he stood very still, stared out at the dark roof of the Club, saw the light turned off in the little attic window, heard voices from the club yard below. It must be an initiation night, the doors of cars were banging, the voices were loud, a little drunken. One of them was saying:

— Say, wait for me, will you?

He says wait. Oh-h-h-h, he floats through the air with the greatest of ease—

— The flying young man on the daring trapeze—

— Where’s Putnam? Hi, Putnam!

— Oh, come on, let’s go.

The car started, the voices trailed away round the corner, there was a sound of some one running, the slamming of a door, a moment of silence, then a simultaneous outburst of shouting farther off.

The discovery came as a peculiar shock, the night had mysteriously and deeply opened, but in one direction only; a swift tunnel of half-light; and as if it were an immense telescope, he looked along it to the far little amphitheater of brightness where obscure small figures were bending to obscure small tasks. His heart had begun beating loudly again, there was a real danger here, something uncalculated, a departure into a new dimension, a hindrance, a definite threat. But also there was a renewal of challenge; with the new danger came a fresh and sharpened necessity for energy and decision. If this were so, then once again the time element had become pressing; to look squarely at the situation itself was in fact to regard the face of a clock; and all the more so because of Gerta’s threat, and her report of Sandbach’s threat — the absurd possibility that Sandbach, in a moment of spleen or jealousy, might actually try to report him! How likely was this?

Gerta had not telephoned, had merely sent him a note, one line, saying, “I really mean it. Gerta.”

Sandbach had remained silent, invisible, had not attempted to communicate either with himself or — apparently — with Toppan. And Toppan’s diary, when examined night before last, had not been written up. Which might mean anything or nothing. At any rate, it had been impossible to confirm his suspicion that Toppan — presumably on Gerta’s suggestion? — was watching him. Had it actually been Toppan?

On Saturday night, when he had first noticed the shadowy figure under the arclight at the corner of Sparks Street he had not taken the idea seriously, had merely and fleetingly thought something in the gait familiar, and something also in the slope of the shoulders under the white raincoat. But last night, when he had abruptly come on the same figure at the same place, and half a block later had begun to wonder whether it mightn’t be Toppan, and doubled back through Royal Avenue, only to find that the figure had vanished — the suspicion had deepened, especially in retrospect. The technique, too, was recognizable — to stand so directly under the arc-light that the hat rim cast the face and upperpart of the body into a dense penumbra of shadow. And hadn’t there been a momentary flash of spectacles? Moreover, when he had gone to Toppan’s room, on returning, Toppan was out. Which again might mean anything or nothing.

The thing had become a little suffocating; like a physical pressure on the breast; there was certainly a shadow of danger, it was a nuisance, and observable in the foreground was the fact that to some extent the situation threatened to get out of control. But in essentials, this was good, this was right; he turned away from the window and regarded the map on the wall with a deepening of his sense of power; the city was there below him, the lights glided along those streets, the feet, the faces, the minds, beneath all those roofs the lives lay open, his glance went down to them from above. And this hostile alliance, if now it had at last really come into being, as Gerta’s attitude indicated, had of course not only been foreseen by him from the very outset but actually willed. There was nothing new in it, nothing strange, it was all his own creation, and if now there was a danger the danger was simply the shape of his own idea. Toppan and Sandbach and Gerta might indeed be plotting together, they might be whispering, call each other up by telephone, have their secret meetings, they might flatter themselves that they knew more than he did, could outguess him, anticipate him, by studious co-operation attempt to surround him, but his own advantage remained what it had always been: that none of them, not even Gerta, was quite sure of his intentions, and none of them — especially now — shared his entire confidence. At no point could they be quite sure that he was not simply making fools of them, that he would not suddenly turn on them and say that it had all been a joke, an elaborate joke, simply the theme for a fantastic novel, and themselves nothing whatever but the dupes of an experiment. They were aware of this. Between the assumption that he was mad or cruel, on the one hand, and the hope that it was a hoax, on the other, they must run to and fro, their eyes perpetually fixed on a moving shadow, their hands perpetually withheld from any overt action. They could guess, they could spy, but what could they do? They were still, as much as Jones, at his mercy. Just the same—

Suppose they were to warn Jones. Suppose they had discovered Jones, knew who he was, where he lived. This much they might safely do?

It came down, in short, to the question of time.

If they were, as he had himself planned, closing in on him, if his own plan was narrowing its scope, then the moment could not be far off when, instead of the luxuriation in knowledge — which was after all nothing but a preliminary — must come the pure terribleness of the deed. One day: two days: or three. Three at the most. If a telephone call tomorrow, an arrangement for the trip to Concord on Thursday—

A copy of The Cambridge Sun lay on the red table under the map, he had brought it up from the hallway downstairs with a view to reading the strange little social notes, under the caption Observatory Hill, which dealt weekly with the lives of those unhappy citizens who dwelt with Jones in the waste land beyond the Observatory and Saint Peter’s Church. He bent over it, ran his eye down the column of absurd paragraphs. These people of importance! Mr. Patrick Ronan of Upland Road, well-known druggist, is in Massachusetts General Hospital with an infected foot.… Last rites for Mrs. Margaret (McDonald) Connelly of Harvard, Mass., who died Saturday were held Tuesday at the home of her daughter, Mrs. F. F. Dugan, Fayerweather Street. A requiem high mass was said at Saint Peter’s Church at nine o’clock.… Mrs. Clarence Ricker, of 299 Concord Avenue, entertained her friends at a party held at her home Sunday evening.… Miss Giulia Abetabile is sojourning in South Carolina.… Funeral of Mr. Riley.… Surprise party for the talented young dancer, Peter Willwert: a banquet lunch served.… A baseball game at the Timothy Corcoran ground on Raymond Street.… Glamorous Spring Formal Plaza.… Last Saturday’s meeting of Bob’s Kiddie Klub at the Central Square Theater opened with the usual Hi-Bob from the audience and the singing of the theme-song. For the first number Bob presented another Bob, namely Bob Murphy, a Cambridge boy who started things going with a snappy toe dance. Next came an old friend of Bob’s, Marie Phelan, who pleased the audience with a toe-tap with a jump-rope. This number is as difficult to do as it is to say. The show closed with a snappy military tap by the Personality Kid, Aimee Dolon.…

Glamorous Spring Formal Plaza. What in God’s name was that!

And all this ridiculous ant-hill, the activities of these ridiculous ants — Jones among them—

He slammed the paper down into the metal wastebasket, seized his hat, banged the door behind him without turning out the lights, walked with a kind of drunken swiftness along the corridor, and as he waited for the elevator to come up, said aloud:

—“A different sense and grade of purity.… Such a tendency distinguishes — it is a noble tendency — it also separates. The pity of the saint is a pity for the filth of the human, all too human. And there are grades and heights where pity it regarded by him as impurity, as filth.”

The front door was open, the evening was warm and windless, arrived at the Square he turned to the left and entered the noisy and crowded little bar, pushed through to the back, leaned over the man who sat on the corner stool and ordered a double Manhattan.

— A double?

— Yes, I said a double. And with two cherries.

— Yes, sir.

And pity must speak with a revolver.

He patted the hard shape in his side pocket, picked out the two red cherries with the toothpick, swallowed the sweet fire at a gulp, and in another minute was running down the metal treads of the stairs to the subway, aware that it was half past eight. Much would depend on getting a seat on the left-hand side of the theater, as near the front box where Jones — if he came — would sit. But this ought not to be difficult, for at the Orpheum people were always coming and going, he could change his seat for one farther forward whenever opportunity offered, gradually get within range. Not, of course, for anything so absurd as rifle-practice, simply for vision. But it was amusing, just the same, to recall that queer business at the Beach Theater, several years before, when night after night the unknown individual had flung down his missiles into the audience — doorknobs, lumps of coal, fragments of metal — for his solitary pleasure in random murder, and for so long undetected. He had been an usher, had flung them down from the top-most balcony, over the heads of the gallery gods, and without being able to see where they landed: though most of them, he must have known, had to fall fairly far forward, so that as a matter of fact the orchestra had lived in perpetual terror. The ambulance stood always at the stage door, a doctor was handy, but all the while the newspapers hadn’t breathed a word about it — superb example of the venality of the press. Had he been insane? and if so, what sort? Perhaps not at all. And if it had really been as easy as all that, and if in some way tonight an opportunity did offer itself — for instance, in the dark little passage which led at the side, beneath heavy plush curtains, to the ground-floor boxes—

He lifted his eyes from the idea, frowned, saw the red headlines of a newspaper immediately before his eyes in the train, was aware of the row of station-lights passing, Central Square already, the long line of accelerating lights, tried to concentrate his attention on the advertisements above the windows. These were Jones again. He knew all about them. His life was written out here in this ridiculous shorthand. Hear ye, hear ye! Now try a real ale. Eat foods that make you chew, say doctors, dentists, beauty experts. The Slouch Softie in Stitched Crêpe of Vibrant Spring Colors. A girl in a felt hat for two dollars and ninety-five cents.… This was Jones, the little man spoke with all these voices, all these pictures, an ice-cream cone, drooling, sprinkled with yellow walnuts, a town crier waving a huge brass bell, his mouth wide open, a disembodied hand spreading an immortal steak with immortal mustard, pouring juice from a bottle into a green glass, a muslined girl, wind-blown, laughing with a million teeth in a field of daisies. There was no escaping him: he nodded complacently in all these nauseating pictures, smirked in all this too-convenient jargon. This was the little red notebook, the pencil, the tweed hat, the clipped moustache. It was the office in School Street, the house in Reservoir Street, the fur collar, the Karl, the Jones. It was speed inscribed with the vulgar news of a vulgar and destructible human life: a Fury, flying with a cheap message in its beak.

And it was curiously oppressive. As oppressive as any too acute awareness of self. Like seeing oneself unexpectedly in a bad mirror—

And he thought of this again when he saw himself, sidelong, in the Orpheum mirror, behind the parrot, the tall and somber figure somewhat inclined forward, a little stooped as if with urgency, the dark felt hat at an angle, one hand just rising to remove it. Ammen! Jasper Ammen. On his way to an appointment. In the echoing lobby, among the palms, the cages, the tanks of goldfish, in a sound of discreet music, a smell of cheap scent, the vulgar women waiting on gilded sofas for their escorts, their knees langorously crossed under silk. The music crept here, there was a roll of drums, it loudened as he entered, climbing the stiff slope of plush carpet, died before him as he faced the bright sunrise-light of the proscenium arch, the stage, the leader of the orchestra standing in poised silhouette.

— Down front, please.

It would be easy — the theater was half-empty.

The little arc of light flittingly notched the red path before his feet, he sank into a chair by the aisle, looked quickly up toward the box at his left, saw that it was empty.

Jones had not come.

And a quarter to nine already—

Two Negroes were on the stage, the fat one, wearing white socks, yodeled softly and rolled his eyes, scraping sinuous feet, while the other stared disapprovingly.

— Did you all hear whut I said?

— No, I didn’t hear nuthin’.

— I heard some news about you. I hear you goin’ to night school.

— Night school?

— Yeah, night school. What you takin’ up, nigger?

— Space.

— What’s your favorite study?

— Recess.

— Are you takin’ up psychology, technocracy, algebra?

— Algebra’s my favorite study.

— What are you talkin’ about! Go ahead, speak some algebra!

— Sure I will. Sprechen sie deutsch?

There was mild laughter, the white socks slid and recovered, the white-gloved hands were lifted in air.

— That ain’t algebra, nigger, that’s geography. But tell me, how many sneezes are there in a box?

— How big is the box?

A sudden snarl of music marked the joke, the orchestra leader joined obviously in the laugh, but the fat Negro, continuing unruffled his lazy and soft-slippered convolutions, added:

— Now I’ll axe you somethin’.

— Sure, axe me somethin’, big boy.

— Where is the east hemisphere and where is the western, and what are they doin’ there?

— Boy, you got me. But do you use narcotics?

— Yeah, trans-lux! Now tell this one. Where is the capital of the United States?

— That’s easy — doggone — it’s all over Europe.…

They cackled together, the fat one yodeled, slithering to and fro, the orchestra played half a bar of The Star-Spangled Banner discordantly, what the thin one was saying was drowned in the sudden applause. They began to dance, soft-stepping, languidly, idly, the slow rhythm delicately accented by the barely perceptible whisper of the soft soles, the white-gloved hands now widespread, now crossed or swinging, the knees loose, the shoulders sagging. Above the muted saxophone the thin one could be heard saying:

— With this dance, boy, I might give you a job making a moving picture.

— Well, tell it to me, big boy, what is the moving picture?

— Tah-te-te-tya. Green Apples. That’s the small one. I also made a large one.

— What part did you play in the small one?

— Tah-te-te-tya. I doubled with cramps.

— What was the big picture called?

— Showboat.

— Showboat! How come I didn’ see you in it?

— What day did you see it?

— Thursday.

— Tay-te-te-tya. Thursday? Oh, tha’s too bad, I missed the boat that day.

The fat one began doing a cake-walk, head flung back, a few swift and soundless steps, but at this moment there was a movement in the box, the sound of curtains drawn on rings, a gash of light, and Jones, wearing a derby hat, in the act of taking off his kid gloves, stood in the aperture, talking earnestly to the usher. The usher nodded, listened attentively, nodded again, Jones was emphasizing what he said by tapping the forefinger of one hand on the palm of the other. As obviously as if he were audible, he was asking the usher if he understood, and the usher was reassuring him. The usher appeared to be holding a card, peered at it in the dim light, then examined it with his flashlight. He withdrew, closing the curtains behind him, and Jones, taking off his coat, sat down by the edge of the box. Meanwhile, with a jig and a yell, to a crescendo of drums, the two Negroes were taking their bow, slid on again, slid off, reappeared once more, and were gone with a final clamorous discord. The illuminated name-plates changed at either side of the stage, the curtain rose, the scene was of a hotel lobby, decadently tinted with mauve and orchid, sumptuous with satins. Floodlights above poured a harsh light on a group of palm-trees in one corner, on a gilt sofa, where with round mouths a man and a girl sat singing.

— I’m just putty in the hands of a girl—

Jones, the little cock-sparrow, with his head on one side, seemed to be listening to this detachedly, it was easy to see him, for he was barely ten feet away, but as obvious as his air of detachment was his slight self-consciousness, as if the occupation of a box was a new experience. He sat a little stiffly, very guardedly now and then turned to glance quickly at the rows of people below him; perhaps felt even too close to the performers on the stage. And was he — possibly — looking somewhat pale?

Why should he look pale?

And what had he been saying to the usher?

A bellhop crossed the stage rapidly, intoning—

— Telephone for Mr. Frederick — telephone for Mr. Frederick—

It might be that he had been inquiring about the origin of the tickets. It might be that he was suspicious. But why should he be suspicious? There was little reason. Complimentary tickets were sufficiently common. No, it must be something else. And the most likely explanation — of course! — was simply that the other members of the party were coming later: he was alone, he had come in advance, he was waiting, had given instructions, by name, for the admission of the others. Cautiously, he now rested an elbow on the box-edge — and with returning confidence he had relaxed, his head was held a little farther back, he passed his left hand slowly backward over his thin hair. But he looked pale, he looked older, or ill — unless, of course, it was simply the effect of the unusual light, and of seeing him, so close too, without a hat. The face looked smaller than ever, whiter, the hollows below the cheekbone more marked—

The man, rising, was saying to the girl:

— A couple of wees and a couple of woos, eh?

— Oui, oui!

Her hands held out straight before her, stiff as snake’s heads, she shimmied, she oscillated, undulated the sharp hips from which hung the straight line of beads, appeared to be about to encircle her breasts with the bright scarlet fingernails, approached him, lifting the eager mouth, then retreated again.

He said:

— Well, if you have to go, you’ll have to go, I suppose!

He stood still in the middle of the stage, puffy red face above neat white flannels, the malacca stick wandlike in pasty hands.

— But if you don’t go soon, we’ll both have to go!.. Suppose you do the fan dance for me, we’re all paid-up Elks!

The laughter of the audience began uneasily, ran lamely from group to group, a little furtive, died out and began again, some one in the top balcony applauded loudly, a single and clear series of hard handclaps, but before the ensuing silence could become embarrassing the pas de deux had begun, the bellhop was again crossing the stage, doing it nimbly in patter-dance, the heavy mother emerged beneath the palms.

— Ride ’em cowboy! The last round-up! Whoopee!

— You like it?

— Like it? I should say so. Say, I can see you had coffee and doughnuts for breakfast.

— Oh, you can-can you!

With the fingers of his right hand, Jones was twisting his little moustache, he was laughing, a small cry catarrhal and descending laugh, the same four downward notes repeated over and over, huh-heh-ha-hah, huh-heh-ha-hah, then abruptly silent, the head tilted backward for dignity. It was easy to watch him, he sat there unsuspicious, exposed, immobile, near enough to touch with a tentpole. His coat was on the chair beside him, his hat on the floor, his heart, beating on the far side, naïve and vulnerable. Lighted thus, from above, the mole by the eyebrow was particularly noticeable, the slight curve of the aquiline nose rather more refined than one had suspected, the whole expression perhaps more intelligent, if also weaker. It was a homunculus, there was no mistake about that, a weakling — it was the face of a defeated animal, the sort of defeated animal in which a sense of humor has come to the rescue and has acted as defense: Jones was undoubtedly one of those innumerable ones who make a virtue of laughing things off. He was a belonger, a currier of favor, a propitiator, always ready to meet life halfway, a soft and guileful bargainer: the teeth and claws held in reserve. What mercy for this? What mercy for this, even now? It was a life, but it was also a symbol: its very nearness, now leaning on the box-edge, was an invitation: the arm, the raised hand, the pale cheek, shaved this morning in a paltry bathroom, the lungs full of foul theater air, the small belly with its little burden of half-digested supper—

To witness all this was to close the eyes to all other visible things, to forget on the instant the raised baton of the orchestra leader, the first violin leaning his face to his fiddle, the two girls who had sidled on to the stage, twin sisters, one blonde, one hennaed; it was to feel again the power and the vision; the vision arose, the vision grew like a tree, softly and soundlessly the magnificent boughs thrust right and left over the helpless world, it was like hands, it was like fingers, an all-exploring touch and grasp, one’s own body became immaterial. The knees pressed hard against the seat in front, the elbows pressed hard on the arm-rests, the revolver firm against the hip—

Blonde was saying to henna:

— Jane, why don’t you behave yourself?

— I would, but what’s in it!

— Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?

— In France. He said as soon as we were married he’d show me where he was wounded.

It all suddenly clicked firmly into place, it was perfect, and to be sitting here within ten feet of Jones, anonymous embodiment of death, as if they had come together here, in this queer place and in this company, for the performance of some profound ritual, was suddenly the rightest thing in the world. These subhumans, these chattering apes, were the witnesses, they bore unconscious testimony to the perfection and necessity of the idea and the action. Complete in itself, the whole scene had fallen swiftly out of time and space, was isolated as if it were itself a separate star, a final symbol: all of history had been preparing from the beginning for this absurd culmination. Jones there, in his box, sniggering at the stupid and laboriously obscene jokes, the fools clowning under an arranged light, the silly music, the rows of gaping idiots — all this was the reductio ad absurdum, the ultimate monstrosity of life; the awful perfection of the commonplace, the last negation of all values. And if Jones was the negative, he himself was the destructive positive, the anonymous lightning which was about to speak the creative Name. A ritual, yes — it was in fact a sort of marriage. And to realize this—

The blonde wiped her nose on the edge of her skirt, and said:

— He said to me, you’re just the kind of a girl I want for my wife. And can you beat this one, I said to him, well, you tell your wife she can’t have me. See? Just like that.

— to realize this—

It was of course — and this was really funny — to give Jones a kind of dignity, a kind of importance, he had become the other chief performer in the rite, the acquiescent one, the dedicated ram led garlanded to the pure altar. In this light, it was even possible to regard Jones with something oddly like affection; for as he sat there, with two neat fingers adjusting his spectacles, he was being subtly and dreadfully transmuted into something sacred. The bond between them had deepened immeasurably, he turned and looked at him steadily, smiling frankly, almost wishing that Jones would turn and see him, would meet the smile which meant so much to him without his knowing it; but at this very moment, like something planned, the curtains beyond Jones were swiftly drawn aside, the usher had entered, was stooping towards Jones and speaking agitatedly, Jones was rising, had risen, had snatched up his hat and coat, and gone. The curtains were swinging, the box was empty.

Something had happened: some message had come.

He jumped up, walked quickly up the steep aisle, heard behind him the phrase “show you a broken-down dance,” dived down through the marble and plush tunnel which led to the foyer, emerged into the alley, and saw, a block away, the illuminated front of the Park Street Church, and halfway to this, his hat in one hand, his coat in the other, Jones, in the act of running.