Fred started the car, and they began travelling westward. “Funny thing,” Fred was saying, “yesterday afternoon we had never even heard of Scott Ettley. Then at five o’clock when he visited Orpen he walked right into the picture. And he insisted on staying in the picture, getting us more and more interested, until he was wiped off completely. What bothers me is the fact that we found so little on him. Where did he keep his Party card? Not even in his room—I thought we might have found it there this morning.”
“Probably been told to destroy it,” Tom said gloomily. “Which makes him still more interesting.”
“Gone underground?”
“Looks more and more like it. I’ve a hunch the girl thought so too.”
“One thing I can say about Scott Ettley. As a Communist who got mixed up with a bunch of suspicious characters, he’s got the shortest file on our records.”
“We can forget him now. Orpen’s the man to watch. And the men who came out of that west side address last night after Ettley left it. Nice quiet little bunch, judging from their descriptions.”
Fred grinned. “Sure,” he was saying as they turned down Broadway and headed for the nearest drugstore where Tom could ’phone, “sure, they are always quiet and respectable guys these days. And all with names as Anglo-Saxon as Tom Jones even if they are straight from Bessarabia or Odessa. Funny thing that whenever they pick a false name it’s always something like Brown or Clark or James. You’d think they despised Russians and Germans and Rumanians, the way they become Ye Olde Tea Shoppe. Now my name’s Fred Bercowitz, and Bercowitz I stay even if it’s a helluva trouble spelling it out for a store clerk. But if I were a Commie, I’d be Fred Berry or Frank Burns.” He shook his head. “Bourgeois snobberies... Who do they think they’re kidding?”
“If they didn’t kid themselves, where would they be?” Tom asked.
25
On Saturday morning, Roger Brownlee’s office was officially closed, giving him time to attend to his “extra-curricular” work as he called it. The outer office, where two typists usually sat, was silent. “No clatter of knitting needles to disturb us this morning,” Brownlee had said when Paul Haydn arrived at midday. “Now, what’s the trouble?” And he listened to Paul’s story, and Paul’s decision.
“That’s all very well,” Brownlee said. “Except that you won’t need to worry much about Scott Ettley now. I’ve just had the information that he’s dead. Sure—that’s official.” And briefly he gave the police report of Ettley’s death.
“Was it suicide—or murder?” Haydn asked.
“Atonement or punishment?” Brownlee shrugged his shoulders. And at that moment the telephone bell rang.
Paul rose from the armchair, looking round the simply furnished room, and walked over to the window to study the courtyard outside. Scott Ettley was dead. Paul couldn’t quite believe it. It seemed almost as unreal as carnations dyed emerald green, as snow in August. Yet these happened too.
Then he became aware that the telephone call was over. He turned to see Brownlee watching him with a frown.
Brownlee said, “What’s worrying you now? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“It’s strange...” began Paul Haydn, and then stopped. “The hour before he died must have been pure hell.”
Brownlee nodded. “Nothing worse than that kind of hell, the hell you realise you’ve created for yourself.”
Paul Haydn said, “And Orpen—what will he think now?”
“As he is told to think. And that doesn’t allow room for any personal guilt.”
“How can he evade it? He began all this, back at Monroe College, when he first worked on Ettley. Sure, I know that Ettley must have had something in him that responded to Orpen’s talk—some lack of moral sense that let him accept lies and trickery as normal action. There must have been a willingness in him to believe Orpen, or he wouldn’t have fallen for his line. Plenty of other young men came under Orpen’s influence and weren’t won over. So Ettley did follow the path he wanted to walk. But last night, it became steeper than he imagined. He jumped off. Where was Orpen? From what we know now, they’ve been working close together.”
“We aren’t the only ones who are interested in Orpen,” Roger Brownlee said quietly. “That ’phone call was from Rona Metford. She wanted Orpen’s address.”
“Rona?” And Brownlee had given her the address. Paul had heard that much of Brownlee’s answers on the ’phone.
“She was insistent,” Brownlee said. Then he added quietly, “She knows that Scott Ettley is dead.”
“She’s going to Orpen’s?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She’s going to Orpen’s,” Paul said. He stared at the desk.
“It’s well guarded, inside as well as out,” Brownlee reminded him. “And Rona, although you may not know it, still has her own escort.”
“You’d let her go to see that man?” Paul burst out angrily. “You’d—”
“Easy, Paul, easy. As I’ve been told, no one has been allowed by Orpen to enter his apartment in these last three days—except Ettley yesterday afternoon. He’s kept himself out of touch, completely. He’s afraid, obviously. Something is wrong. Something is very far wrong for Comrade Orpen. Rona might be the one person he’d see. If she brought him the news of Ettley’s death, he might even talk to her. That might be the mood he’s in.”
“I don’t like it,” Paul said. “She’s been through enough.”
“Yes, she’s suffered enough, I agree. But she isn’t the one taking the punishment this time, Paul. She’s going to hand out a little punishment, for a change.”
“She’ll only get hurt.” Paul started toward the door. “You were crazy to give her that address.”
“She was hard to refuse. She’s angry, Paul.”
“Rona?”
Brownlee nodded. Then he said quickly, “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think? To protect Orpen?” Paul closed the door with exaggerated care. He always did that; Brownlee remembered, when he was at his angriest.
Brownlee made one telephone call, suggesting politely that the watchers around Orpen’s house be alerted. That, he was told, had just been done; a new angle to the Orpen situation had been reported. Then he tidied his desk, putting back into the safe the papers on which he had been working, and locked everything methodically. He left the office twenty minutes later than Paul. There was time enough, he thought. It would take Rona Metford at least three-quarters of an hour to travel from the Tysons’ apartment to Orpen’s street. This was a tricky situation. Yet the best way to deal with it might be the spontaneous idea, the natural action. He had proved that before in equally difficult problems—the solution was begun from the moment you accepted the spontaneous idea and made use of it. That was one reason why he had given Rona the address she asked for. And the other reason? Simply that Rona would have found the address somehow, perhaps from Milton Leitner or another student who had visited there. And, then, Brownlee would not have known when she was going to visit Orpen. That would have been really troublesome.
But Brownlee had misjudged one fact. Rona had not telephoned him from the Tysons’ apartment uptown.
* * *
After the two agents had left her, Rona ended all indecision by borrowing a dress from Peggy’s closet and taking Barbara to the apartment upstairs. There, she left Barbara safely with the slightly surprised but welcoming Burleighs. (“Delighted to Rally Around,” Moira Burleigh had said, that being her phrase of the month, and she rushed to the kitchen to set another apple baking and shape up another hamburger, while the two small Burleighs and Barbara invaded the living-room with high soprano shrieks, quite ignoring Frank Burleigh at his desk, his pen poised as he searched for the mot juste to end another chapter. He gave up the unequal struggle and was last seen heading for the bathroom, manuscript and pen in hand.)
Rona took a taxi downtown, leaving it at Lexington and Fiftieth, entered the first cigar store she saw, and went straight to the tel
ephone directory. But it gave her no help. Orpen’s address was unlisted. His apartment was in this district, she knew. Scott had once said it wasn’t too far from her own, and she had come here quickly, so determined and sure of finding Orpen. For a moment she hesitated, then she refused to be defeated. Perhaps Paul could help, he might know Orpen’s address. Or Roger Brownlee would be better still. Paul would want to deal with Orpen himself. But Paul didn’t know all the facts. He couldn’t deal with Orpen.
As for me, Rona thought, I’ve only my suspicions and guesses—not enough to tell Paul or Brownlee or those two men who came to question me this morning. But Orpen won’t know they are only suspicions. He may tell the truth, thinking that I know it. All’s fair against Orpen.
She was in this mood when she telephoned Roger Brownlee. She remembered, as she dialled his number, that it was Saturday and his office could be closed. What would she do then? She must see Orpen before he had heard of Scott’s death. That was important, she knew. But her sudden attack of worry, that nervous sickness, ended as the telephone’s signal stopped and she heard Roger Brownlee’s voice.
It’s only a few blocks away, she thought, coming out into the bright May sunshine again. She hesitated on the sidewalk. I’ll walk slowly and arrange my thoughts, she decided. God knows they need arranging at this moment. And I can’t face Orpen unless I know what I mean to say. She turned eastwards, and then, reaching Third Avenue, she walked south. The street was busy, warm and friendly. People were relaxing; it was Saturday, another week of work was over, the sun was up and the sky was blue. She skirted a group of playing children, avoided the baby carriages heaped with the week-end groceries, listened to the words and the snatches of talk, watched the faces and the gestures and the carefree confidence.
This is not the real world, Scott would have said, echoing Orpen. This is as false as a dream, a myth, a pretence, a surface lie. A snare and delusion, Orpen would say. These people are the enslaved masses, the prisoners of the capitalist system, the victims of exploitation; this is not the real world. Yet no one walked here as if he were afraid; no one looked over his shoulder before he spoke; no one felt the cold fear that now attacked Rona herself as she thought of Orpen’s world. No, Rona thought, his is the dream, the nightmare world. This is the real. Real, because its faults are human faults. But Orpen’s faults, and the faults of all men who believe as he does, are inhuman. That’s the difference, I have only to take one step inside his world and I can feel its cold shadows, as black and cold as the iron shadows under which I’m passing now. She crossed Third Avenue quickly, stepping once more on to a pavement filled with window-shoppers, housewives carrying groceries, children playing, men in overalls returning from work.
“Rona!” a voice called, and a hand caught her arm. Rona stared blankly at the girl, in black slacks and expensive suede sandals and a slickly tailored white linen jacket, who was holding back a red setter at the end of a bright green leash. It was Mary Fyne, her pretty face smoothly powdered, her lips a deep coral to match her nails, a smile in her green eyes, her head tilted to show her excellent neck and the charming fall of her smooth red hair. She was giving all her attention to Rona, but the black flickering eyelashes were quite aware of the admiring stares from the men and the disapproving looks from the women who passed by. She pulled the dog closer with a sharp jerk on the leash. “Meet Hasdrubal!” She pointed to the setter with pride. “One of my beaux gave him to me last week, and all I do now is water and air the brute. It’s a bit of a bore. But he looks kind of cute, doesn’t he?”
She eyed Rona carefully. That dress didn’t fit properly, and why choose navy to wear with black shoes and a black handbag? Rona’s taste was slipping. She had even forgotten her gloves. Her shoes needed polishing. Mary Fyne smiled generously and decided to stand awhile and talk. She pointed one foot, ballerina style. “What have you been doing with yourself? I never see you nowadays. How’s Scott? Oh—I forgot! I was so sorry to hear you’d ended your engagement, I really was.” She gave Rona’s face a sidewise glance. “Too bad. They say poor Scott is quite broken up about it.”
Rona’s silence seemed to irritate her. She leashed in the setter still more, her lips tightening. “Careful!” She sharply warned away a small boy who had come too near. “He’s kind of cute, but he likes to bite. Just a playful nip,” she explained to Rona. “By the way, do you ever see Paul Haydn?”
“He works at Trend, too,” Rona reminded her.
“My dear, what a cold you have! I wondered why you were throttled with a scarf on a hot day like this. Better rush home and gargle. And take my advice about Paul Haydn—don’t waste your time on him.” You’ve wasted enough time on Scott Ettley, the green eyes said. Then she laughed, throwing back her head just enough to show the excellent line of her jaw. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Haydn’s a bit of a queen,” she added lightly, with just a hint of venom in the smooth voice. “No doubt he picked it up in Germany.” The leash tightened suddenly. “Goodbye,” she called over her shoulder as the setter suddenly lunged toward a hydrant. “Hasdrubal just adores Third Avenue. Such interesting smells!”
Rona walked on. Two more blocks to go. And the thoughts she had been trying to arrange had mixed themselves up again. Mary Fyne will blame Scott’s suicide on the broken engagement, she suddenly realised. And so will most people. Scott’s father? Yes, probably he, too. And Paul, what would he think when he heard?... And if I were to tell any of them that this was Scott’s last revolt, a revolt against himself, who would believe me? Scott, she thought sadly, Scott has tied me to him. Will I ever cut myself free?
She felt sick, cold, and tired. She hesitated at the corner of Orpen’s street, and stood suddenly irresolute.
Even if no one else will ever know the truth about Scott, she thought, I want to know. I must know. Then I can try to forget. Without knowing, there is no forgetting. I’ll be tied to worries and doubts. No peace of heart, no freedom of mind...ever. She began walking toward the row of houses that faced the grimy wall of garage and warehouse.
Three children raced each other on roller skates. Two women with shopping bags on their arms talked about the price of meat. A young girl in a wide drooping skirt kept guard beside a baby sleeping in its carriage, while she watched three workmen beginning emergency repairs in the street. A mechanic leaned against the doorway of the garage and smoked a cigarette and watched them, too. At this hour of the day, the lines of parked cars had thinned; a scattered trail of pedestrians, intent on their own business, followed the sidewalks. An automobile came slowly through the street, skirted the nose of a truck backed up against a loading stage in the warehouse, and swerved round the patch of roadway lined off with red flags where a pneumatic drill was driving its first bite into the pavement.
Rona flinched at the sudden clatter of the drill. She looked up. A workman grinned and gave a nod of his head. It was all so natural an incident, something that had happened so often to her before, that she welcomed it. She smiled back, almost gratefully. She felt as if she had stepped from the coldness of an icy hall into a room where a fire burned cheerfully. Then she halted, looking now at the number on the glass pane above the nearest doorway. She glanced along the street, noticed its mild bustle and everyday noises for the first time, and—as if reassured—she ran up the flight of stone steps. She hesitated again when she couldn’t find the name she was looking for.
The workmen seemed to pay no attention to the girl in the navy dress who was standing at the doorway above them. One was concentrating on the vibrating drill, another was answering the questions of the small girls who had skated up to watch, the third was directing operations in general. Yet they were all noting the facts. Girl in blue dress, white scarf at throat—dark hair, even features, large eyes, pleasant smile—medium height, about 120 pounds, high-heeled shoes, excellent legs, walks well. And who was this guy following her? Quiet suit, grey felt hat, dark face. He had been keeping some distance from the girl, but now he quickened his pace as she ran up the st
eps. He stopped at the garage, though, to ask a question of the mechanic. Is he one of ours? the man with the drill wondered. Or is he another of that crowd? The workman straightened his back—a good excuse to glance along the street at a placid white-haired man who was half-hidden behind the loading truck, and then at a middle-aged woman who was sitting in the sunshine on a camp stool, placed near the warehouse wall, while she rocked a baby carriage gently and looked at the street scene with patient boredom. I wonder if they’ve guessed as much about us as we’ve guessed about them? the workman wondered. Orpen’s a popular guy this morning. That’s one clear fact, anyway.
The girl in the navy dress had pressed one of the bells at last—the superintendent’s bell, for a man in overalls and a dirty shirt opened the door. For a moment or two, the pneumatic drill was silent as a new spot for its attack was carefully chosen. The girl’s question was too low to be heard. The superintendent nodded; he stepped aside and let the girl enter the house. He didn’t close the door for a few moments. He came out and stood, as if enjoying this excuse for some fresh air. He lit a cigarette as he turned back to the house. So the girl had gone up to visit Orpen.
The men at work studied the roadway. The man in the quiet suit and grey felt hat had come to collect his car from the garage, for he followed the mechanic through the wide doorway, and halted just within its deep-shadowed cave. Farther along the street the white-haired man sat on a hydrant, his back against the warehouse wall, and lighted a pipe while he watched the loading of a truck with a critical eye. Beyond him, the sitting woman smoothed a light cover over the sleeping baby.
The man working the drill had a thought that amused him. There was Orpen, sitting quietly in his room, refusing to answer either telephone calls or any doorbells. Down here, in this ordinary little street scene, were two groups of people, both watching and waiting, both interested in the man upstairs who probably didn’t even know that they were there. And now the girl in the blue dress was climbing the stairs to his door. What group did she belong to? To them or to us? Or to neither? If she belonged to them...
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