King Coffin

XI The Regret

Before Jones had reached the corner, he had himself begun running, laughing a little breathlessly as he did so: the speed was a delight, the action was a relief, in the whole unexpected event there was something comically satisfactory. That they should be running thus along a half-lighted alley, separated by fifty yards, the one ahead grotesquely unaware of the one behind — as if, in fact, they were somehow connected, were two parts of a single mechanism — this was both ridiculous and right; and that the whole great adventure should thus suddenly accelerate and take momentary shape in a species of action so elementary and humble was essentially good. He had time to think this as he sprinted towards the florist’s at the corner, where Jones had already turned to the left, and he had time also to foresee for Jones a choice amongst three possible actions: he could go out to Reservoir Street by subway and streetcar — which seemed in the circumstances unlikely—; he could go by subway to Harvard Square, and there take a taxi; or, if a real panic had possessed him, he could go by taxi all the way from Boston, sacrificing actual speed for the illusion of speed which is always to be extracted from a feeling of uninterrupted activity. All this, of course, was based on the assumption that it was to Reservoir Street that he was going — was it just possible he was going somewhere else?

Arrived at the corner, he stopped, stood still, glanced quickly south towards the subway entrance, saw no sign of Jones, but then at once noticed that a taxi in the Park Street stand was just at that moment snarling into motion, swerving left as it did so. It was turning north to go along Tremont Street, shot past him accelerating rapidly, and in the back seat Jones was fleetingly visible — leaning forward to struggle into his coat, his derby hat perched at a queer angle on the back of his head, obviously stuck there in a hurry, the earnest little face wearing an expression which was quite clearly something new, something different.

If it wasn’t fright, it was something very like it: Jones was frightened. For once, he had lost his smugness and complacency, his perpetual air of competence.

Something had gone wrong.

He watched the taxi out of sight, glanced at his wrist watch, glanced at his wrist watch, glanced up also at the clock of Park Street Church, found that he had forgotten the time as soon as he had noticed what it was, stood irresolute. Jones was still there, he had not in any sense escaped, his swift departure was merely a blind movement from one part of the closed circle to another, he was as easily reached there as anywhere else, and as easily seen. Standing here motionless by the florist’s shop, it was nevertheless as if he were watching Jones from above: looked down through the taxi roof, saw Jones nervously take out a cigarette, strike several matches in an attempt to light it with shaking hands. But if this was true, and if Jones could not really escape, it was also true that this new development had subtly altered the situation, the equation had been multiplied by an unknown quantity, the simple was becoming complex. To make the necessary arrangements now, in the face of this, would perhaps not be quite so easy: the greater pressure would have to be met with greater guile, or even with greater violence. The trap would have to be a more powerful one, and more enticingly baited.

But suppose it turned out to be something really serious.

He frowned, crossed the street, opened the taxi door with automatic hand, and said:

— Cambridge. Over the Cambridge bridge. If you go fast enough, you’ll overtake the Independent Taxi that just left here. Keep a little way behind it and follow it: I’ll tell you when to stop.

— Yes, sir!

Yes, the action had become unexpectedly complicated, the action or his awareness of it, the thing was on several different planes all at once, and in the very act of deciding to take a taxi he had still been on the point — surprisingly — of going across the Common to see Gerta, or even, if she had happened to be out, of then proceeding to Sandbach’s. To see Gerta at this juncture was reasonable enough: for a moment it had seemed in fact perhaps desirable. To put in an appearance, and above all a cheerful one, to laugh loudly about the whole thing, discuss her queer picture with her, make plans for an expedition to New York in the following week, disarm her completely — the shape of this action had risen sharply before him, he had seen it vividly as he glanced across the Common toward the Frog Pond, had begun in advance to enjoy the simplicity of the deception. The words of the conversation were clear, the tone was precise, Gerta’s initial surprise gave way to relief, even to gayety. Come out and have a drink. And I’ll tell you the greatest joke yet. Come down to the Union Oyster House and have some little-necks. Or shall we go to that little bar at the end of Charles Street? I’ve made a very peculiar discovery, I’d like to tell you about it. The last dislocation!.. But if Gerta was out, if Sandbach were there, or if he went to Sandbach’s room — this wasn’t quite so clear. Why? Why Sandbach? The image was repellent, the reality of Sandbach in Sandbach’s room was twisted and a little nauseating, the sound and shape of the interview was drawling and feverish, unnatural. No, the impulse was obscure and unpleasant, there was really no need to see Sandbach again, Sandbach was out of it for good. Sandbach had been defeated, even if he didn’t yet know it — and didn’t he actually know it? The tall shadow of Jasper Ammen was behind Gerta, Sandbach was aware of this and was angry about it, he struggled helplessly with it, knew that it would be useless. But just the same to stand before Sandbach now, in his own room, to smile down on him and patronize him, look idly at his books, ask casually about Breault, make no reference whatever to Gerta—

He closed his eyes for a second as the taxi shot up the curve of the bridge, kept in mind for a moment the image of the lighted train which had rushed past them full of people, felt suddenly a little sick. As against all this, this jangle of Gerta and Sandbach and Toppan, the Jones situation was still comfortingly simple. It had the merit of a pure perfection, stood off by itself, was as clear and beautiful as a single flower. To hold this up for admiration was still the best possible of all realities, it kept its finality, and having admired it to destroy it—

But exactly why, in the midst of this action, had he wanted to deviate from it, to see Gerta? With the revolver in his pocket, and Jones so close at hand, with the scene already so developed and so rich in potentialities, so rewardingly immediate, why step aside from it? The night was still young, the possibilities were immense, anything at all might yet happen. To intercept Jones might not be convenient, but to call him up by telephone, make an appointment, even to meet him later in the evening — what could prevent this, except of course this new development, his mysterious flight to Cambridge?

He watched the swift dance of streetlights, counted them, one, two, three, four, was half-consciously aware presently that they had passed the Technology buildings, crossed Massachusetts Avenue, and that there was still no sign of the other taxi. Perhaps they had gone by Broadway; but it hardly mattered. It would be just as well to keep a discreet distance behind, there was no particular reason for remaining within sight: the odds against his going anywhere but Reservoir Street were tremendous. Moreover, to realize this was to realize also his motive for wishing, at this point, to deviate. It was based on a sense of complete confidence, the feeling that poor Jones was now completely in the bag. In effect, Jones was still as close to him as he had been in his box at the theater: just as near, just as unguarded, just as unsuspecting. The flight from the box, from the theater, the dash to the taxi-stand, and the ensuing swoop on Cambridge, all this was really nothing more than the circumscribed panic of the mouse: the dart from sofa-shadow to chair-shadow. The door was still closed, the mouse was still within the room.

The taxi driver slid back the glass panel and said, without turning his head:

— That’ll be Connor now — yes, that’s him all right. How near will I tail him?

— Just keep him in sight, that’s all. If you lose him, never mind, take me to the corner of Sparks Street and Huron Avenue.

— Sparks Street and Huron Avenue, okay.… Boy, is he stepping on it! You’d think he was going to a fire.

A hundred yards behind, they followed dizzily the bobbing tail-light, lost it for a few minutes when they were held up by the signals at River Street bridge, caught it again as it slowed with glowing brake-light to turn left into Mount Auburn Street. Everything was going like clockwork, there could no longer be any doubt that Jones was on his way to Reservoir Street in response to a telephone call. He had arranged it with the usher, had given his name, and then waited: but presumably he had not really expected to be called, or he would not have come. And all this being the case, what did it mean? Either of two things: either that the child was being born, if that supposition was correct; or, if there was already a child, and the child was ill, that it had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Or was there just a chance — also — that it might be a question of the wife, the mother?

In any case, it could have no bearing on the situation. What had been decided was decided.

The only regrettable feature was that it indicated new avenues for exploration, which, with this sudden increase of pressure — if indeed it was pressure — from Gerta and Sandbach and Toppan, would have to be neglected. If life itself, or destiny, was about to take a hand, and tighten the screws on Jones, it was unfortunate not to be able to take advantage of the enhanced entertainment, even if the enhancement was purely adventitious. To watch his antics in this new predicament, whatever it was, and to observe what changes it might bring about in his habits — this would be of the finest essence of the experience. It would add the last fillip to the thing-in-itself, the perfect chiaroscuro for the projected image, the right silence for the hearing of the cry. And perhaps even now there would be time, it might be managed — the notion of seeing Gerta was not, on second thought, so bad, or even of seeing Sandbach. If too abrupt a transition was avoided, so that they didn’t suspect him of merely acting, of playing a part, they could even now be lulled into inaction and inertia, put off the track. The little ritual with Jones would be by so much deepened and prolonged, yield just so much more of its vital juice. And the further fact that their intervention was actually impending, that they stood there, in the background, ready to protect and save Jones, and only prevented from timely action by their stupidity, this too would add its deliciousness: it would be worth trying. A telephone call to Gerta, perhaps an invitation to S, and the first soundings could at least be taken. And if the signs were propitious, then the time problem would once more have become elastic. He and Jones could proceed with due leisure and affection to their profound little collaboration.…

And this was odd. He saw it against the swift palings of a white fence, the lighted windows of a house, the turning headlamps of a car — he saw it concretely, and with an almost horrible vividness — the form of his sick hatred for that ridiculous trio of people, the three of them plotting while they smiled, bowing while they whispered behind their hands. It was odd, it was loathsome, but it was true, and also it was funny; he began, in the swaying taxi, to laugh a little, then stopped, then laughed again. What it came down to was simply this — that he and Jones were now actually in alliance against Gerta and Sandbach and Toppan: had their private plan, their conspiracy, which those three, bowing among the elm-trees, were attempting to frustrate. He saw them this minute, separately and together; Gerta in the lunchroom at the Museum, talking earnestly with red-haired Toppan; Gerta pausing before the Kwannon with S, Sandbach’s fat little hand on her arm, the sharp tooth showing at the corner of his mouth; Gerta saying at Belmont “then we shall have to do something.” The images came together, fused, lost their identity only to separate again, their nearness so oppressive, and so actual, that he put out his hand toward the taxi window as if to destroy them. But he and Jones together — he and Jones together would defeat them.

The brakes began squeaking rhythmically, eek, eek, eek, eek, they had stopped in the silent emptiness of Wyman Square, the driver was saying:

— Do you want to stop here, Mister? He’s just turning the corner up there. There he goes now.

— Yes. This is all right.

— Baby, was that a ride! I didn’t know old Connor had it in him.

In another moment the striped taxi was reversing sharply to go back to Boston, he listened to the retreating sound, stood with his pipestem against his teeth and stared alternately west and north along Huron Avenue. There was no one in sight. Leaning over a fence at his elbow, almost touching him, a lilac bush was in bloom, the blossoms smoke-blue and artificial in the cold lamplight. The heavy fragrance sickened him, he began walking quickly towards Vassal Lane, debouched from Huron Avenue, looked over his shoulder as he did so to make certain that he was not being followed, and in half a minute had passed the willow tree and was approaching Jones’s house. The taxi, of course, had gone. Instead, the doctor’s car stood before the entrance: just as he had expected. The street was otherwise deserted, everything was quiet, he walked calmly up to the car and touched the radiator-cap with the palm of his hand. It was quite cool. The doctor had been here for some time, perhaps an hour — must have arrived very soon after Jones had set off to Boston. Stepping back, then, to the middle of the street, he looked up at the house.

All the windows on the second floor were lighted, and also the two windows at the right-hand corner of the top floor. None of the curtains had been drawn.

The three bow windows on the second floor were obviously the sitting room. Three bell-shaped lamp shades of ground glass hung from the plain brass chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, all of them lighted. Against the wall at the left the top of a bookcase was visible, with nothing on it but a glass vase, which was empty. Above this on the yellow wallpaper hung an oak-framed color-print — it looked like a single large face with a background of red flowers. Nothing else was to be seen, the room seemed to be deserted, and its quiet, under the three bells of light, took on a queer sort of significance.

The room to the right of this was not so easy to examine, for the white railing of the porch roof cut off what would otherwise have been an excellent view, through the glass door (which opened on to the improvised veranda), and the window, which, unlike all the others, was wide open. Through the door it was possible to see a table, on which was the telephone. Beyond this was an open door, which presumably led into the hall. Probably the room — as he had in fact concluded before — was Jones’s “den,” his office. In this room, too, there seemed to be no sign of activity; any one present would have been visible.

Of the room at the top, nothing could be seen, of course, but the ceiling and a fragment of wall: but these were eloquent. It was obvious at once that the entire life of the little house was now concentrated here. As in the sitting room, there was a brass chandelier, with three lights, but there must also be another light as well, somewhere lower down, for across the ceiling, and the visible portion of wall, shadows went and came with astonishing variety and rapidity, and not one shadow, but several. There were at least two persons moving about in the room, perhaps three, — the shadows moved separately, diverged, enlarged, blended; now and then altogether disappeared. Once, it seemed to be the light itself which had moved; for all the shadows shifted concertedly, and as if concentrically. Perhaps some one had moved a table lamp — for instance — from the table towards the bed. There was then a moment when none of the shadows moved at all. Everything was motionless, everything was silent. If only the windows had been left open—

He noticed again, what he had noticed before, but only casually, the ash can which stood by the curb just behind the doctor’s car. Of course, it was Tuesday, Jones would have put it out the night before, had not yet got round to taking it in again. It had been emptied this morning, was waiting, but Jones had been too busy or too anxious to remember it. And if Jones was too busy to attend to it, if they all, up there, were so occupied with whatever it was they were doing—

The idea was perfectly sound, he glanced rapidly north and south along the street to make quite sure that it was still deserted, then more carefully examined the houses behind him and those that adjoined number 85. There were lights in all of them, but in all of them, also, the shades had been drawn, there was no sign of any activity anywhere, no one was watching, or very likely to see him. There would be a certain amount of risk in it, certainly, but not much, — not more, at any rate, than could be easily bluffed out of. Accordingly, he pulled his hat down over his eyes, said softly to himself the words “briefly done,” and walked with careful but quick nonchalance along the cement path which led beside a privet hedge to the back of the house. It was necessary to act as if the action were customary: he must look as if he belonged there, had every right there, and he turned boldly at the corner to survey what he had found. The revolving clothesline lifted bare arms in the half-light from the street beyond, like some queer sort of desert tree, spiny and sterile; and before this, leading down to an open door, were the red brick steps which gave entrance to Jones’s cellar. There was no light below; and thinking to himself that he must show no sign of hesitation, and complementarily also no sign of undue haste, he ran lightly down the steps, feeling the slight grit of ashes beneath his feet, and stooped through the low doorway. Striking a match, he found a switch at the foot of a wooden stairway, turned on the light, saw that the cellar was divided into two sections by a wooden partition — one for each of the tenants — and that while one of these was padlocked the door to the Jones cellar was ajar, and the cellar itself in darkness. To find the swinging electric light bulb, with a help of another match, was quite simple: he turned it on, and discovered that he was standing immediately in front of a furnace. Above, the half-dozen asbestos-jacketed furnace pipes seemed, like an octopus, to be exploring the grimy and cobwebbed rafters of the ceiling: so low that he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head. The furnace itself, of course, was not lighted: the door was open, the interior was dark and cold, and at the edge of the ash door was a neat little pile of clinkers. One cigarette stub lay among them.

He stood still, listened; footsteps were crossing the floor overhead, in the apartment of the other tenants; they crossed the floor and returned again, slowly and without urgency, it was nothing to be alarmed about; some one traversing the room for a paper, or a box of matches. When the steps had ceased, there was no other sound — the silence was profound; and it occurred to him that not impossibly something — from the Jones apartment — might be audible through the pipes. But no. He listened and heard nothing, the upper rooms were of course too far away. What they were doing there remained a secret.

Revolving slowly on his heel where he stood, he looked to all corners of the little cellar, saw the divided coal bins at the front, the shovel leaning against the coal-blackened wall, the wooden soapbox half full of kindling with a short-handled ax laid across the corner, a newspaper on the cement floor, a wooden snow shovel, a pair of worn-out galoshes. Under the little cellar window at the side there was a hole in the cement floor, where the surface had for some reason cracked and crumbled, it had been scratched away and showed the earth beneath it: it occurred quickly to him that if anyone should come — if Jones himself should come — he could say that he was there on behalf of the landlord to examine the floor with a view to repairs. But all this was nothing. It was gratifying enough to step thus closer than ever to the small and secret life of Jones, to know his furnace and his shovels; but for any immediate or practical purpose it came to nothing. The newspaper, when he went nearer, turned out to be a week-old American: the headline simply said CARNEY ORDERS ERA “CHISELER PROBE.” The question was—

Considering it, and noticing also that his heart had begun beating rather rapidly, with the odd effect of giving him a sensation of suffocation in the left side of his throat, he walked slowly back to the door and regarded the wooden stairs which led up — presumably — to the Jones kitchen. The question was, if he should wait here, secret himself here, where all sounds would be muffled, or even completely inaudible, and whence escape would be so easy and so quick—

Why not?…

It would be the simplest thing in the world. No one would hear a thing.…

But how likely was Jones to come down? or to come down soon?

A curious pain was beating in each of his forearms, throbbing down into his hands, which felt swollen; the sudden intensity of his vision seemed in effect to glaze or dull his eyes; and it was only after a moment or two that he noticed the brown wicker wastebasket half way up the stairs. He reached over the railing for it, lifted it down, stooped and spread out the fragments of paper on the floor. Torn envelopes, one of them with the business address of the Acme Advertising Agency in the upper left-hand corner, the receipted bill of a news agent, the crumpled page for the month of April torn from a calendar, a nest of dead matches, a tiny hairpin, a pasteboard milk-bottle top slightly bent, a fluff of hair combings, a few torn fragments of paper which looked like shopping lists. Vegetables, groceries, cheesecloth — the items written in a small backward-leaning hand — but suddenly, from another list, written more boldly and coarsely, he noticed a single item—1 baby’s folding tub—and rose with it to go nearer the light. There could no longer be any doubt of it. “3 papers small safety pins. 3 papers large safety pins. 2 large agate pails with covers. 1 large agate basin. 1 bath thermometer. ¼ pound boric crystals. 4 oz. olive oil. 1 can baby powder. 1 kitchen scales with weights — avoid springs. 1 bathing apron.”

So it was that!..

At this instant, the little Jones was being born upstairs, — with Jones in attendance, and the doctor, and the nurse. The child’s cot, the hamper, the slop-bowl, the hospital chair — the whole thing was only too disgustingly obvious. The nurse, of course, lived in that house at the corner of Alpine Street, had loaned these objects, had been summoned, Jones had gone to the Orpheum not expecting any such immediate development, it was all happening prematurely. The drama of moving shadows on the ceiling in the upstairs bedroom was simply the drama of childbirth, a drama in which these items were the humble properties. He crumpled the paper in his hand, flung it down bitterly amongst the litter besides the overturned basket, ran quickly up the brick stairs to the back yard. That Jones should come down now was clearly inconceivable: the scope of action had abruptly narrowed — perhaps psychologically as much as physically? — and therefore something else must be done, something else must be thought of, the time-problem otherwise dealt with. But what, and how?

He stood for a moment beside the uplifted arms of the clothesline, stared at it, then walked slowly along the path towards Reservoir Street. There was an odd smell — faint, but unmistakable: it was ether, a slight sweet thread of ether on the night air, he paused to make sure, and at the same time heard a cry. It was not a child’s cry — it was a woman’s, a soft downward quaver, something between a sob and a moan, distant and muffled. It was not repeated, he stood listening for two minutes or perhaps three with angrily averted face, his hands clenched in his pockets, again feeling the curious pain in the side of his throat. His position, too, was tense and unnatural. He became slowly aware of the strain in his half-flexed right knee, the pressure of his elbows against his sides. Did he want to hear that sound again, or didn’t he?

This was becoming decidedly unpleasant. What was needed was a longer view, a wider horizon, something farther off on which to rest one’s eyes, a voice at the other end of a telephone, the simple reassurance of something known and familiar, even if hated. Gerta? Sandbach? Toppan? A rapid walk to the Square, to Fresh Pond, perhaps the getting out of the Buick and a drive into the counrty? The time-problem, in this fashion—

To think this was automatically to begin moving. Without any clear reason for it, he walked quickly to the street, passed the doctor’s car, then turned up the next path, proceeding thus again to the grotesque shape of the clothes-line in the back yard; and before he knew, had walked completely round the house without once looking at it. There was no sense in this; it was stupid and meaningless, it might even be dangerous; nothing was now to be gained from loitering here, despite his reluctance to go away in the very middle of what was so obviously a “scene.” He could ring the doorbell, of course, making some pretense of an inquiry, participate thus more intimately, perhaps even converse with his victim face to face — but to look up once more at the lighted windows on the third floor, to observe that now everything there was still, no shadows in motion, was also to decide that this too would be meaningless. The smell of ether had sharpened, he turned and walked rapidly towards Huron Avenue, feeling oddly defrauded, oddly reckless. It was curiously as if Jones had deserted him; as if the alliance between them had been denounced; as if he were now, precisely, walking away from the very thing which most clearly symbolized his own reason for living. This was the center, and to walk away from it—

An empty streetcar clattered past the corner, on its way to Harvard Square, he cursed it and turned in the other direction, already finding the angry phrases to telephone to Gerta. I really mean it. Gerta. What exactly did she think she meant? That she had discussed the whole thing, finally, with that dirty Jew Sandbach, told him all about it, cried with her face on his greasy shoulder and his ridiculous short arms about her? That they were working with Toppan? That they had told the police? Toppan would be here again tonight, no doubt, sitting in a car somewhere to watch him. Damn them all, and to hell with them. If they thought for a minute they could match their wits against his genius, against his freedom from scruple — the idea was crazy, he could laugh at it, and as he closed himself into the telephone booth in the drugstore at Gurney Street he was already feeling amused.

— Hello?

— Your dear Jasper speaking. I just wanted to thank you for your card: very kind of you.

Gerta’s voice was very cool, very detached; she said slowly—

— Now look here, Jasper—

— I’m looking with all my teeth.

— I don’t think you are taking quite the right attitude, do you? I’d be a little more concerned — for you I mean — if I didn’t know of course that the whole thing is a fake.

— Oh, so it’s a fake, is it?

— Obviously, isn’t it, my dear?

— Oh, obviously! I’ve just, for example, been in his house — in his cellar. I suppose that’s a fake. You and your Sandbach make me laugh!

— Of course it’s a fake! I don’t believe a word of it.

— Believe what you like. I assume, of course, we’re talking about King Coffin?

— You and your King Coffin!

— Yes, me and my King Coffin! Size five by two! Silk-lined and silver-handled; you’d be surprised! If you want to come out here, I’ll prove it to you. Is it a bet?

— Thanks, my dear, I’m afraid I’ve got better things to do.

— Suit yourself.

— And incidentally, I thought you were going to the Orpheum tonight.

— Certainly. I did!

— I see. You combined theater and cellar.

— Exactly. It’s been a great success! You’d find a full account of the evening very entertaining, I assure you.

— No, thank you. I’d rather not!

— I might have known you’d get cold feet—

— Call it what you like, my dear—

— I said cold feet.

— And when you come to your senses drop me a picture postcard, won’t you? Good night!

— Gerta — listen—!

He heard the click, listened, she was gone; she had played his own trick on him; he gave a little annoyed laugh, hung the receiver softly on its hook. A fake! It was an ingenious line to take, it did her credit, Gerta was no fool. She had calculated it cunningly to drive him out into the open, force him to show his hand. And so cool about it too. But behind this were other things, other shapes — imponderable but perhaps for that no less definite. She had not yet said anything, or much, to Sandbach, perhaps very little to Toppan. She was still hoping to bluff him, still hoping that she could manage the thing by herself. This much loyalty could still be counted on, to this extent she was loyal in spite of herself, or in spite of Sandbach; and to this extent by implication she was keeping open for him, if he should want it (or as she put it, come to his senses), a line of retreat. She had suggested New York — a holiday in New York. New York! But that was far away, impossible, it was another shape and another design, it was not and could never be in this pattern at all: for better or worse the thing had now taken its own deep direction. Jones was not in that world, nor New York in this, he and Jones were here together, more than ever together — and if the pressure of their queer relationship was becoming hourly more obscure, and hourly more subtle in its underground ramifications, it was perhaps for that very reason all the more tyrannous and inevitable. There could now be no New York, or “other” thing: any more, for example, than there could be life after death.

Life after death!

Exactly. It was like making an engagement for a party, or to meet a friend, or to go to a show, at eight-thirty on the evening following one’s death. Gerta, with her New York, her Sandbach, her painting, her print-room at the Museum, the bowl of apples on the window sill, the life-class at Belmont, the smile from under shaded eyes in the two-year-old photograph, Gerta with her Gertadämmerung and her Russian blouse — this was now already another world, whirled away diminishing into the past or the future, beyond all contact or reality. To think of it was simply to think of an amusing contrapuntal device in time, a synchronization of the impossible. It was an act of laconic leave-taking, a laconic farewell, the cry of a sea gull over the last whirl of froth that marked a sunken ship. The thing was gone.

He found that he was tapping with his fingers against the glass side of the telephone booth, looked down at his stilled hand as if suddenly it belonged to some one else, gave a little shiver. He noticed that he was again standing, as in the path of the Reservoir Street house, in a slightly unnatural way, and with an unnatural tenseness, like an animal that is frightened. The slight surge of the body which is being electrocuted! Relaxing deliberately and angrily, he opened the door, went out, pondering the other project, the idea of ringing up Jones. But this would be better when he got back, this would be better from Hampden. In the meantime—

The man in the white jacket behind the soda fountain was saying to a customer:

— fired for wearing a colored shirt and a wrong haircut.

— What? fired for what?

— For wearing a colored shirt and having the wrong kind of haircut.…

He went out, smelt the smoke from the burning-dump at Fresh Pond, the stars above the mean houses were like sparks borne on the cool north wind, a man and a girl were talking in low voices in a car which was parked at the corner. At the sight of this he stiffened, and turned quickly to the right, as if some sixth sense, some dark animal instinct, had given him warning. It was of course just the sight of people sitting in a parked car, that was all; but it reminded him just the same of Toppan, he had felt sure, he felt sure still, that Toppan was somewhere about, somewhere near. It had the simplicity of a conviction: it was just the right time for Toppan: he had in fact arranged for Toppan: and Toppan would be there. He might be in a car in the southern end of Reservoir Street, or in Huron Avenue itself; but more likely he would be on foot, and near Wyman Square. Or possibly he was even now in the act of walking up from Hampden, but had got quite close, was slowing down and moving cautiously as he drew near the neighborhood. This was excellent in its way, but it was also tedious, it was the little extra something of annoying and belated complication with which, for some reason, he felt reluctant to deal. One’s own past witticisms and ingenuities, one’s own history, in short, could become tiresome. To see Toppan, but to avoid him—

Keeping on the right side of the street, so as not to face the headlights of the oncoming traffic, and also keeping as close to the houses as possible and using the tree-line wherever he could, he walked swiftly, pointing before him the stem of his unlighted pipe. Very well, let Toppan come, by all means let him come, there would be plenty to say to him. Why, indeed, avoid him since there was obviously so much to say, and since besides it was always so easy to speak from the shadow — as it were, from the tomb — to those who walked in the sunlit innocence of their folly? The image of the party after death had recurred to him, it pleased him, it was a good idea, it would be nice to ask a group of ill-assorted people to come to a party, for instance, the night after one intended to commit suicide: send out the invitations, timing them very carefully, so that the guests would arrive and themselves make the charming discovery. The Findens, for example, Sandbach, Mrs. Taber, Gottlieb, Gerta, a sprinkling of mere acquaintances, of the socially climbing sort, like Mather, and a few ordinary University prigs—

A coffin party.

Mr. Jasper Ammen requests the pleasure of your company at a coffin party—

The door would be unlocked, someone would eventually try the door and walk in, and there he would be!

At Wyman Square, he was about to turn down Sparks Street when he saw the familiar white raincoat rounding the corner at Concord Avenue, hesitating and then coming quickly forward down the little hill, the whole figure very alert. This time, the bearing was unmistakable. He stood still in the shadow of an elm, completely invisible, and waited for Toppan to arrive at the opposite corner of the Square, — grinning, but as yet undecided what he would do. It was good. It was very good. It had all shaped itself quickly under his hand like magic, it was part of the whole beautiful scheme, it was growing miraculously and hugely, like a cathedral, with Toppan simply a gargoyle. As he approached the swerve of Huron Avenue Toppan slowed down, clung more closely to the hedge before the house at the corner, revolved his head, peering this way and that. Twice the round spectacles flashed under the arc light, but saw nothing, he even stepped cautiously out into the road so as to get a longer view round the curve; then, reassured, and once looking behind him, was about to go forward, when Ammen whistled.

The effect was comical.

Toppan not only stopped in his tracks, as if he’d been shot — he somehow managed to look extraordinarily silly. He just stood where he was, looking, but also pretending that he wasn’t looking, in every direction. One could imagine the slightly foolish smile. Ammen stepped out of the shadow and said:

— I’m over here.

Toppan came towards him rather slowly, his head a little on one side, his hands in his raincoat pockets.

— Oh, it’s you.

Yes: it’s me. I whistled because I had an idea you might be looking for me.

— And why should I be looking for you?

— Because, my dear Toppan, you don’t always mind your own business. And it was obvious to me that you needed a little help. Aren’t you being clumsy?

— Am I?

— Even your imitation of me is clumsy.

— Isn’t anything an imitation of you?

— But I’m sorry to have to outwit you. You can now pretend, if you like, to be taking a walk around the Pond, but can I tempt you to ride back to the Square with me in a taxi? Otherwise you’d be wasting your time.

— You think so?

— Don’t be silly. Of course it is. Of course you are.

— Is, or are?

— And there’s a question I want to ask you.

— My dear Jasper, go ahead!

— Oh, aren’t we clever! Oh, aren’t we smart! Don’t we stand with our heads cocked at an angle and feeling very brilliant! Jesus Christ!

Toppan was silent, merely raised his hands in his pockets, shrugged, turned his profile.

— Yes — breathing softly — there’s a question or two I’d like to ask you. If you don’t mind! And before you’ve become too impudent with other people’s affairs! You’ve been following me, and a lot of good may it do you. I’ve known all about it, and watched you at it, and it’s been funny. It’s made me feel a little ashamed. Do you understand that?

— So you thought I was following you!

— Thought!

— Could your question wait till tomorrow? I’m just on my way—

— My dear Julius, you were on my way, if you don’t mind my saying so, but let it pass. My question, which was about razor blades, can wait.

— Razor blades!

— Yes, razor blades. I’ll see you tomorrow.

He turned abruptly, with a slight gesture of the pipe in his hand, left Julius standing under the arc light, was off towards the yellow taxi which he saw at the top of the hill. He listened for the sound of Toppan’s footsteps, heard none as long as he was within range, figured to himself that Toppan must be standing motionless there, standing there fixed and smiling, fixed and thinking, but did not turn to see. To open the taxi door was in itself a dismissal of Toppan and the world, conscious of his height he stooped to enter, sank back and closed his eyes.

This giddiness again — this dizziness — it was the third time. It was queer. The sensation of speed, flowing past him and round him, catching him up and twirling him, with its steady pour of sound, was like a world of bright lines drawn swiftly in parallels, a vast river of bright lines. Amongst and against these rays of arrowy light he was borne rapidly forward in a half-recumbent position, with his eyes closed and his hands tightly clenched; and just above the roof of his mouth, on each half-painful crest of his breathing, was a new and peculiar darkness of helplessness and horror. This too it might be possible to visualize — one could see the shape of it, with a little trouble — but in a sense it was controllable, it could wait. The first thing was to call up Jones, and this could be done with perfect security from Hampden. To summon Jones down from that third-floor bedroom, make an appointment with him—

He dismissed the taxi by the barbershop, went round the corner of Plymouth Street with the phrases shaping themselves on his tongue. At the entrance of Hampden, Jack, the janitor, was standing on the granite steps with a dustcloth in his hand, bareheaded, his white hair bright in the lamplight. He pointed with the cloth towards the hall and said:

— Oh, Mr. Ammen, th-th-there’s a sss-pecial delivery for you in your b-box, you must have missed it.

— Thanks.

— You’re welcome.

He fished out the letter, saw the postmark, Saint Louis, the long blue stamp, slightly sinister in its suggestion of hurry, and his father’s printed name in the upper left-hand corner. This was ugly. It had a meaning, there could be no doubt of that, it was part of the narrowing circle of pressure, the unseen blockade. Damn him! And damn them all. The impulse to tear it in two ran sharply down his fingers, he had already visualized the gesture and felt the contempt in it, but instead he slipped the envelope into his side pocket and went to the telephone by the elevator. With one foot reaching back against the door behind him, he dropped in his nickel, gave the number, waited. Far off, he could hear the repeated double ring, the little rhythmic cricket-cry, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng, — zeeng, — it was as if he himself were there in the front room beside the oak table, on which the telephone stood, waiting for Jones to come downstairs. The ringing continued interminably, and then as if very close at hand the operator’s voice said:

— They don’t answer, shall I—

— Try them again, please, there should be someone there.

— I’ll try them again.

The little lost bell went on crying in its widening wilderness; with each repetition of the doubled sound the universe seemed vaster and emptier; it was as if Jones’s front room had become the seed of a world. To be the cause of this, to be sending into the void the small sharp signal from which should radiate such an expansion of significance, was both imposing and frightening. This act of creation-at-a-distance perhaps involved responsibilities: and the wider the expansion of the universe before one provoked an answer, the more freighted with consequences might eventually be the answer itself. Listening, with the receiver loosely held against his ear, he looked out through the small windows towards the garage at the back of Hampden Hall, noted the wrecking car which stood at the top of the concrete runway, and the strong curve of the steel crane, and then suddenly there was a cessation of the ringing, a faint sound as of clearance, and a voice.

— Hello? Karl Jones speaking.

The voice was flat, soft, tired, he smiled affectionately as he heard it, it was as if Jones had come into the room and were about to be greeted with the very warmest of reassurances.

— Ah, Mr. Jones. Perhaps you’ll remember that I called you up a little while ago about some advertising, political advertising.

— Yes?

— Well, now, I’ve had time for a careful discussion with my partner, our plans are fairly definite, and before we go any farther I’d like very much to have a talk with you.

— Yes—

— Now, my partner lives out in the country just beyond Bedford, near Concord, and I wonder if you would care to let me drive you out there, say tomorrow afternoon or evening sometime, to discuss it!

— Not tomorrow, no, I’m sorry—

— No?

— No. You’ll have to excuse me, I can’t talk to you now—

— Oh—

— You see, everything is upset, we’ve had an accident, my wife has just had a stillborn baby — just this evening—

— Oh, I’m very sorry — I’m extremely—

— And tomorrow is impossible, as the funeral is in the morning at Mount Auburn—

— I see, of course—

— Yes, I’m sorry.

— I suppose not for a day or two then—

— No, I’m sorry.

— In that case of course I don’t want to detain you, but would Friday perhaps be all right, do you think?

— Perhaps Friday. Yes, Friday would be all right.

— Suppose then I give you a ring at your office Friday morning, and we’ll arrange a meeting.

— Yes, very well. You’ll have to excuse me now—

— Certainly. I’m afraid I—

— Good night.

— Good night.

He hung up the receiver on its hook, in imagination he listened to the retreating footsteps of Jones, the footsteps hurrying quickly up the stairs to that bright and dreadful bedroom on the third floor, on the ceiling of which the shadows were perhaps now again in motion. The footsteps were running up the stairs, the conversation on the telephone was already forgotten, Jones was returning to that sordid and huddled little human scene. The woman lay on a bed in the corner, a raised hospital bed, perhaps raised on wooden blocks, she was naked, her lifted knees were apart, beside the bed was a white enameled pail, a table with an enamaled tray on which were bloody cloths, steel instruments, forceps. Jones was returning to that stupefying smell of ether, to that hurried and meaningful silence, to the dead child and the unconscious woman, the doctor and the nurse. Sometimes, in such cases, didn’t they use artificial respiration? In another room, in one of the other rooms, one of the bedrooms at the back, the doctor was perhaps working over the small body of the child, blowing into its blue mouth, trying to warm it to life. Outside the door, Jones, as he passed, could hear him working, knew already that it was useless, went on to the front room to help the nurse. The woman lay on the bed in the corner, unconscious, she didn’t yet know, later she would have to be told. In the meantime, the pail must be emptied, its contents must be burned in the furnace. While the nurse stayed with the woman, Jones took the pail and went down to the cellar. In the cellar, he noticed that some one had spilled the wastebasket on the concrete floor, had left it lying there amongst the litter. He paid no attention to it, went slowly towards the furnace.…

The front door of Hampden Hall creaked slightly, Jack was coming in with the dustcloth in his hand. The scene in Jones’s house suddenly became as small and remote as the picture in the finder of a camera, tilted brightly off and vanished, like a drop of light sliding off a leaf. He passed Jack on the stairs, and without sensible lapse of time was reading his father’s letter in the elevator. The glib phrases were sickening, were like a sickness. Wash my hands of you. Grateful if you’d be so considerate as to keep my name out of the courts. The writer of this anonymous letter says—

The lights in the apartment were turned on, he must have forgotten to switch them off, he dropped the envelope and the letter under the table on the floor and without thinking went straight to the whisky bottle in the kitchenette, poured half a wine glass full, and drank it straight. The writer of this anonymous letter. Who could this be but Sandbach, who but Sandbach — behind whom was Gerta no doubt, and perhaps Toppan as well. But perhaps not Gerta? No, not Gerta, Gerta would have given him a more specific warning, she would have said something tonight if she had known, after all Gerta was honorable. Honorable? He began to laugh, laughed louder and louder, putting both hands down flat on the butterfly-table; his head hung lower and lower over the table as he laughed, the spasms of laughter wheezed into silence, and he found himself studying carefully the grain of the table, on the waxed surface of which two tears had fallen. It was extremely funny.

But it was impossible to stay here.

He could perhaps go up on to the roof, look down from there at the traffic in Massachusetts Avenue.

Or down to the river and the stadium.

Instead, a few minutes later, he found himself walking into Harvard Square, bought a paper, went into Gustie’s and had a quick drink, crossed the street to the delicatessen place and had another. He held the paper before him with both hands and gazed at it without reading it, listening half-consciously to the talk.

— well, I should worry, I told him if he didn’t come by half past ten it would be gone, and it’s gone.

— served him right.

— Sure. It’s his own funeral. Next time—

— crazy as a bedbug.

— and two whisky sours, that’s three to come!

— and besides I don’t think he could really afford it. No, I don’t.

— You don’t think so.

— No, I don’t think so.

— can’t make out what his position is there, he’s always coming in, every evening, and they give him a handout—

— I heard he was unfrocked for something.

— poor themselves, too; Ada, she’s the oldest, working as a cigarette girl at the Palace—

— No. It’s a local beer. Only local.

He turned away from the counter, rising, went out, proceeded along Boylston Street till he came to the river, stood on the bridge and looked down at the dark luster of the water. Two men were standing close together on the float of the boathouse, talking intermittently in low voices: one of them stooped, put his hand into the water, then stood up again and wiped it with a handkerchief. They went slowly up the gangway into the club, which was dark, he heard the door close behind them, and at that moment he felt a single drop of rain on the back of his wrist. The sky was covered with broken clouds, ragged and hurrying, it was like a disordered mind, like a flight of disordered thoughts: with his hands on the parapet of the bridge, he tilted his head back and watched them, so long and so intently that at last he felt it was not the clouds which were moving but himself. And when he turned away, it was with such an acute feeling of giddiness that for a second he thought he was going to fall.