Park Avenue Tramp

Chapter 16

Oliver knocked and opened the door and came into the room. Charity was lying on her back on her bed. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t look at Oliver when he entered. She didn’t stir in the slightest.

“There’s a man here to see you, my dear,” Oliver said.

“I don’t wish to see anyone,” Charity said.

Oliver walked over beside the bed and stood looking down at her. She was fully dressed, wearing even her shoes. Her wide-open eyes were hot and dry and unblinking. They continued to stare at the ceiling.

“I’m afraid you had better see this man whether you want to or not,” Oliver said. “He’s a policeman.”

“Why does a policeman want to see me?” she said. “I’ve done nothing that should be of any interest whatever to a policeman.”

“Of course you haven’t, my dear. He’s only trying to get some information about a man who was killed. This man’s name was Joe Doyle. The policeman seems to have some evidence that you and the dead man knew each other. Naturally, he wants to ask you some questions.”

“Am I required to answer his questions?”

“I think you are. After all, he’s really being very considerate. He might have forced you to go to police headquarters.”

“All right. If I’m required to answer them, I’ll come.”

“I’d like to make a suggestion first, if you don’t mind. Please be very careful of what you say. There’s always a danger that an inexperienced person may incriminate himself or others in these things when there is really no need for it at all. It would be most unfortunate if you were so careless.”

“I know. You needn’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, my dear. Not for myself. I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be with you all the time, supporting you, and I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about. Shall we go in together?”

“Yes.”

She got up and smoothed the skirt of her dress and pushed back the heavy side of her hair. She did not look at Oliver at any time. Walking with a kind of rigidity, as if she had been drinking too much and were exercising the greatest effort to conceal it, which was not true, she walked out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room, where a man rose at once from a chair to meet her. He was slender, below average height, with sparse, sandy hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, and his eyes were covered with thick, rimless lenses. He leaned slightly forward from the hips, which gave him the appearance of peering intently at whomever he was merely looking, and he had, she learned after a moment, an odd habit of pinching the lobe of his right ear with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He did not conform at all to her idea of a policeman. To her, he looked much more like a clerk in a department store, although he was not dressed quite well enough for it, and he was so palpably uneasy that she felt sorry for him and wanted immediately to say something to reassure him.

“My dear,” Oliver said, “this is Mr. Bunting of the police.”

“Lieutenant,” Bunting said.

“Excuse me. Lieutenant Bunting. He would like to ask you some questions.”

“How do you do,” Charity said. “I’m sure I can’t imagine what I could tell you that would be of any help to you.”

“Well, it’s just routine, Mrs. Farnese.” Bunting sounded apologetic. “You know how these things are.”

“No, I don’t,” Charity said. “What things?”

“Oh, police matters in general. It’s necessary to investigate them, you know. I’ll not disturb you any longer than necessary. Perhaps it would be better if we sat down.”

“Certainly. Please sit down, Lieutenant.”

Bunting hesitated with an air of desperation and then sat down slowly in the chair from which he had risen. Afterward, Charity went to another chair and sat down too. They faced each other across five feet of deep pile. Oliver continued to stand.

“I understand that you knew a man named Joseph Doyle,” Bunting said.

“Do you?” Charity said.

“Yes. He played the piano in a nightclub called Duo’s. You’re familiar with the place, I believe. The bartender there told me that you and Doyle became acquainted there one night about a week ago and later left the club together. He said you saw each other at other times.”

“Is he certain of that? That we saw each other at other times afterward?”

“Well, no, he isn’t, as a matter of fact. He can’t prove it, that is. He assumes it, but he feels sure you did.” Bunting shot a glance at Oliver Farnese and looked more apologetic than ever. “I don’t want to embarrass you, of course.”

“I am not embarrassed, Lieutenant. I only want to know if you are accusing me of something just because someone chooses to make assumptions.”

“I am not accusing you of anything for any reason.” Bunting pinched the lobe of his ear, glanced at Oliver Farnese and back to Charity. “I thought it was understood that I’m only after information. I’m not very good at saying things, however, and maybe I didn’t make my position clear. What do you say we start over? Joseph Doyle is dead. Maybe it was murder, but more likely it was manslaughter. He was found yesterday morning in an alley. His jaw was broken and his face and lips lacerated, and several teeth were loosened. He had been struck, from the evidence, by the fist of a strong man. But it wasn’t this blow that killed him. He had been struck a second time in the body. Above the heart. Post mortem showed that he had a bum heart, and it was the body blow that he didn’t survive.”

“He had rheumatic fever as a boy,” Charity said.

Bunting smiled at her, pinching the ear lobe, and silence stretched out for seconds. His attitude seemed suddenly more relaxed, suggesting that everything would now surely be pleasant and productive for everyone since he had clarified his position and his problem.

“That’s fine, Mrs. Farnese,” he said finally. “I knew you would want to cooperate with us when you understood the circumstances.”

“I’m willing to cooperate,” she said, “but I still don’t understand how I can help you.”

“You do admit that you knew Joseph Doyle?”

“What do you mean, admit it? I don’t like the way that sounds. You make it sound as if it were something shameful or incriminating or something.”

“No, no. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. I only want a statement as to whether you knew him or not.”

“It has been established that I knew him, and it is perfectly clear that you know all about it. I don’t see why you keep going over and over it.”

“Sorry. If you will only be patient a little longer, I’ll appreciate it. Was this night at the Club about a week ago the first time you met Doyle?”

“Yes. I had been somewhere else and went in there to have a Martini and think about things. He was playing the piano, and someone else was playing a drum. It was quite clever, like a conversation that you kept trying to understand. Afterward, when it was quite late, Joe Doyle played requests on the piano, and I asked him to play a particular song. I thought he was very good, but he said that he wasn’t. We had Martinis together at the bar. At least, I had a Martini. He may have had something else.”

“I see. Did you leave the Club with him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again after that night?”

“I don’t know that I should answer that. I can’t see that it makes any difference.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Bunting looked miserable, and the lobe of his ear was red from the mauling of thumb and finger. “I hope you believe that I have no desire to embarrass you, and that I have no interest at all in your personal affairs. Let me come to the point directly. Do you have any idea who might have killed Doyle?”

She was silent, sitting with her hands folded and her bead bowed. She wondered if he would hear, as she did, from some remote and indeterminable source, the soft, incessant sound of cosmic weeping.

“No,” she said at last. “How could I?”

“I thought he might have mentioned someone who held a grudge against him. Something like that.”

“No. Nothing of the sort. He didn’t talk about other people he knew or what had happened to him before we became acquainted. As you see, I learned practically nothing about him.”

“Except that he had had rheumatic fever as a boy.”

“Yes, of course. He told me that. Also that he wanted to be an exceptional pianist, but didn’t have the ability. I thought that he was very sad about it, not having the ability and all, and I felt sorry for him and tried to make him feel that it was still possible, but he didn’t believe me.”

“I see. It’s tough, sometimes, learning to accept our limitations.” Bunting looked embarrassed again, as if he were suddenly aware that his remark sounded presumptuous. He had not looked at Oliver Farnese since his one previous glance, but at this moment he somehow gave the impression that he was deliberately, with an effort, refraining from looking. “There is one other point I’d like to mention, Mrs. Farnese, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You may mention whatever points you choose.”

“Thank you. According to my information, you had arranged to see Joseph Doyle at the club where he worked on the night he was killed. Night before last, that was. Between six and seven o’clock, you called the Club and talked to the bartender and asked him to relay the message that you would be unable to come. Is that true?”

She would have lied about this if there had been any chance at all for a lie to be believed, but there wasn’t any, not the slightest, and so the only thing she could do was to tell the truth, or at least part of it, and try to make what had happened seem as natural and insignificant as possible.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s true. I called and said that I couldn’t come.”

“May I ask what made you change your plans?”

“Why do you continually ask if you may ask? Since you are obviously going to ask whatever you please, its rather ridiculous and a waste of time.”

“You needn’t answer any of my questions if you don’t want to. Not at this time, anyhow.”

“Later, however, you would force me to answer them. Is that what you mean?”

“I hope it would not be necessary.”

“In other words, if you were inclined to be honest, it is exactly what you mean. Well, it doesn’t matter, for I don’t mind answering at all, and I only wish you would not try to pretend that things are different from what they are.”

“I apologize. Please tell me why you were unable to go to the Club that night.”

“There was a very simple reason. I had promised I would go hear the piano and the drum again, because I liked them and wanted to, but at the last minute my husband wanted me to go out somewhere with him instead, and I felt compelled to go.”

Now Bunting did look sidewise at Oliver Farnese for verification, and Farnese smiled and nodded. It was apparent from his serenity that he found nothing disturbing in his wife’s activities and did not object in the least to her interest in pianos and drums and whoever played them.

“That’s right, Lieutenant,” he said. “We went to the Empire Room, where I had made a reservation. I suppose you can check that if you feel inclined.”

“I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” Bunting sighed and stood up. “I won’t intrude any longer, and I appreciate your kindness. These things are tough. The toughest. You find a body in a street or an alley, and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it, no leads, no connections. We’ll be lucky if we ever get anything definite on this one. I mustn’t impose my troubles on you, however. I’ve already been bother enough, I’m afraid. Thank you again for your kindness, Mrs. Farnese. You’ve been very patient.”

“Not at all,” she said.

For a moment she was afraid that he was going to offer to shake hands on leaving, and she was exorbitantly relieved when he did not, turning abruptly, instead, and starting for the door with Oliver following. She remained motionless in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, and pretty soon Oliver returned from the door and stood a few feet away looking at her amicably.

“You did quite well, my dear,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

“Are you?” she said.

“Yes, I am. You were admirable. I’ve never heard anyone avoid the truth so cleverly. You had poor Bunting on the defensive from the beginning.”

“I wasn’t trying to put him on the defensive. I only wanted him to get finished and go away.”

“I can understand that, my dear. You’ve gone through a difficult time. I was certain, however, that I could depend on you to be sensible. You’re feeling tired and despondent now, but you’ll recover in a little while. I’ve noticed before how remarkably durable and resilient you are.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You owe me no gratitude, my dear. You have earned everything I’ve said.”

“And done?”

“Yes. Said and done.”

He laughed and took half a step toward her, and she wondered what she would do if he were to touch her. Perhaps she would begin to scream, she thought, or rake him with her nails, or merely be sick on herself and the carpet. He did not touch her, however. He stood for a second with one foot before the other and one hand lifted toward her, but then he lowered the hand slowly and drew the forward foot back.

“I think you had better rest now,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go to the office for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I don’t mind. Please go where you wish.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Certainly.”

“It disturbs me to be off my routine. I want to resume it without any further delay, and I hope that it will not be necessary to disrupt it again soon.”

She didn’t know if this was a warning or not, but it was of no great importance. She sat without moving or answering, and he turned and went out of the room, and she continued to sit with her hands folded after he was gone, and she was still there, in the exact position she had been in when he left, when he returned and crossed the room and left the apartment.

Now I will think very carefully about everything that has happened, she thought. It is absolutely essential now to think clearly and sanely and not to allow myself to become deceived by emotion or excessively depressed by what has occurred and can’t be helped. Let me see how it was exactly. I went accidentally to the place where he worked, which was nothing for which I can be blamed and was no offense of any kind, and I saw him there and heard him play the piano, and I thought that he was beautiful and played beautifully, and I loved him, I did love him, and now he is dead because of it, but that is no reason to accuse myself or to assume responsibility for what I did not want or directly do.

I did not want him to be hurt or to die. All I wanted was to make him happy and to be happy myself, and that’s what I did and almost was. He said himself that he was happy, that each time we were together was the best time of all, and this was good. It’s true, of course, that it would not have continued indefinitely, or even much longer, which I’ll not try to deny, but it was good for the time it lasted and better than no good at all. This is only logical, that something is better than nothing, and it is surely not my fault that it ended badly.

So. I have reasoned calmly and rationally, there is no question about that, and it is clearly preposterous for me to have this terrible and oppressive feeling of guilt, as if I had personally done a great wrong or had deliberately permitted the great wrong that was done. Commitment to grief is one thing, and commitment to guilt is another. That’s the distinction I must understand and believe. I saw him die, however. There’s no getting away from that. I saw him beaten and killed by a monster, and I said nothing afterward to anyone, and just a little while ago when the policeman was here I still said nothing, and the reason I have said nothing and will say nothing is because I am afraid of Oliver, and I know that he would find a way to destroy me if I gave him cause. I could go away, of course, but he could certainly find me if he wanted to, and even if he couldn’t I still wouldn’t go away, because there is no place for me in the world but this place and no way to survive but this way. I’m a coward, to tell the truth. I do not care to make a gesture that would change nothing that has happened and would only make things worse.

There. I have faced things fairly as they are, and myself as I am. There is supposed to be a kind of catharsis in this, and one is supposed to feel much better after having done it. In a little while, if I sit here quietly, I shall surely begin to feel better.

She sat quietly and waited to begin feeling better, but she didn’t feel better at all, and pretty soon it was impossible to wait any longer for anything or to stay any longer in the apartment than it would take her to change her clothes and get out. Unfolding her hands and rising, she walked stiffly to her room with the strangest and most disturbing sense of being precariously contained, as if the slightest exaggerated motion would cause her to fly apart in all directions. In her room, she changed her clothes and brushed her hair and came out again to the telephone and called down to the garage for the Jaguar. When she got downstairs and outside to the street, the Jaguar was there, and she got in it and drove away, and then for the first time she began to think of where she would go, and she knew, even as she began to think, that she was going to Duo’s, where Joe Doyle had worked, and this was for some reason imperative, something she had to do.

It was after four o’clock when she got there, and Yancy was at the bar. He saw her enter and watched her approach, and then, just as she reached the bar, he turned his back and spoke to her reflection in the long mirror behind a row of beer glasses.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“You heard me,” he said. “Get the hell out of here and don’t ever come back.”

She stared past him into the mirror, meeting his eyes sadly, and he was almost convinced for a moment that he had hurt her inexcusably and should be ashamed of himself.

“Why are you abusing me?” she said. “Don’t you believe that I am as sorry as you for what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that it happened because of me?”

“Yes.”

“Is it because you hate me so much that you want to think so badly of me?”

“I don’t hate you. What would be the use? It would be like hating cancer.”

“If you don’t hate me, why don’t you look at me?”

“I don’t want to look at you. I don’t want to see you or talk to you or have you near me. I’m sick of you, and I’m afraid of you. You’re contagious. I told you before what you were, and I told Joe, but it didn’t do any good, and now it’ll never do any good. He’s dead, and there’s no way of proving who did it, I guess, but you know and I know why it happened, that it was because of you and what you are and did. I wish it had been you instead of him, but it wasn’t, and probably that’ll be all right, after all. In the end, you’ll probably find a harder and slower way to die.”

She shook her head from side to side, as if she would not believe that he was saying such cruel things to her, and the heavy side of her hair moved slowly back and forth over one sad eye.

“All right,” she said. “I can see that I had better go away. Good-by.”

He didn’t answer, and she turned and walked to the door and stopped and looked back, but he continued to look into the mirror silently, and so she went on out and got into the Jaguar, and it was remarkable how she had begun suddenly to feel. She felt vastly relieved and lightened, purged and almost exonerated by Yancy’s castigation. Driving away in the Jaguar, she started thinking about somewhere else to go in order to avoid being alone, and she decided that Bernardine DeWitt’s apartment on MacDougal Street was the closest place that appealed to her, and so she went there.

She was admitted to the apartment by the maid, and there were, as usual, several people talking and moving around and drinking cocktails, but Bernardine wasn’t among them. Perhaps she had merely gone off somewhere for a few minutes, or even for a few hours, which wouldn’t be exceptionally odd of Bernardine, who was very casual about guests, but it didn’t matter, anyhow, where she had gone or when she would come back. Everyone would simply drink as much as he wanted, and leave when he was ready.

Charity had one Martini quickly, and then took another to carry around the room. She had drunk about half of it and spoken amicably to three or four persons when she came to a young man in a corner. He was sitting alone with an empty glass in his hand, and he had an interesting, angular face and stubborn hair that went in different directions in several places. She stopped and looked down at him, pushing her hair back on the heavy side with the hand that did not hold her glass.

“Hello,” she said.

He stood up with a kind of awkward, spasmodic motion, as if he moved by sections, one after the other. He returned her look with fierce intensity.

“Hello,” he said. “I was just watching you.”

“Were you? Why?”

“Because you’re the only woman here worth watching.”

“Do you really think so? Even if you don’t, it was a charming thing to say. I don’t believe anyone has ever said anything so charming to me before.”

“Please don’t accuse me of being charming. I was only telling the truth. I’d like to paint you.”

“Are you a painter?”

“Yes, I have a studio in the Village. You needn’t ask who I am, however, because you’ve never heard of me.”

“Possibly I’ll hear of you in the future.”

“Possibly. It doesn’t matter. Will you come to my studio and let me paint you? I couldn’t pay you, of course. I’m very poor.”

“I wouldn’t want you to pay me.”

“Will you come, then?”

She heard in his voice the same kind of urgent fierceness that she saw in his eyes. She was aware of the stirring of incipient excitement. “Perhaps,” she said. “Let’s sit down and talk about it.”