The Eighth Circle

by Stanley Ellin

  “Well, don’t drop it. Matter of fact, don’t go in alone to the office. Call up Mrs. K. and tell her to send a couple of men out for you, and then one of them can take that Chewy back to Staten Island. And if you smell trouble coming, call for the cops. Don’t you go being a hero. Lucy’s got enough on her hands without having to take time off to visit you in the hospital.”

  “That’s so, isn’t it?” said Bruno, and then he said awkwardly, “You know, Murray, now that we’re talking like this, I wanted to tell you something. I mean, the way I popped off about that partnership and all—well, I felt bad about it afterward. But it’s such a big thing for me, Murray. What the hell, you work all your life, and then you get turned out like an old horse, and where are you? But if you’ve got a piece of a good business you don’t have to wake up in a sweat all the time, worrying about things. You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? There’s Vito here and the three others, and maybe they got brains enough for a good education, and where’s the money coming from, the way things cost today? And maybe Lucy gets sick—you know how women are when they get older—and there’s operations and stuff, and that’s more money. I got plenty of money troubles in the head, Murray; it’s the only reason I blew up like that. With all I’m making I just can’t get ahead of the game. But if you and Jack can get together—”

  “I’ll talk to him when he gets here,” Murray said, “but I can’t make any promises until I get his offer. If it’s a case of some extra cash right now—”

  Bruno shook his head. “I don’t want any handouts, Murray. I don’t take handouts. All I want is a little percentage. You won’t ever be sorry about it, either.”

  “We’ll see,” Murray said. “Will I be able to get a cab around here this early?”

  “Sure. You tell them you want to go into Manhattan they’ll be glad to take you.” Bruno bumped the back of his head gently against Vito’s chest. “Uncle Murray’s going away, Vito. What do you say?”

  Vito pointed angrily behind him, and opened his mouth.

  “Ah, don’t start that again,” said Bruno.

  3

  The cab pulled up at the St. Stephen a few minutes after seven, which, Murray estimated, allowed him just time enough for a quick shave and a change of clothing before he paid his visit to the Harlingens. It was going to be an interesting visit, he knew, and not for the reason he had given Bruno. What he hadn’t told Bruno—after all, it was none of his business—was that Harlingen was the means by which a single page torn from Wykoff’s binder would be presented to Ruth Vincent, pink ribbon or no pink ribbon. Chances were that if he tried to approach Ruth himself, he’d be left out on the sidewalk like a frustrated Romeo bellowing up to his unwilling Juliet that he had the goods on Paris, and that was not for him. He wanted no part of that. But Ruth would listen to Harlingen, and if the three of them sat down together—

  When he pushed open the door of his apartment there was no mistaking the scent of perfume that hung in the stale air of the living room. Didi was asleep in the armchair there, her feet tucked under her, her coat wrapped around her. Murray stood looking down at her until she opened one eye and returned his look with disinterest. Then she yawned prodigiously, a shuddering yawn, and huddled down, wrapping the coat tighter around her.

  “Well, where have you been?” she asked.

  “Out,” Murray said. “What was I doing? Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” said Didi. “Sweetie, aren’t you the chivalrous one?” She stood up with a show of anger, and then gasped and clutched at the chair for support. “Oh, God, both my legs are asleep, Murray! They’re all prickles. It’s killing me. Will you please do something?”

  “You do something. I’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes.” He walked into the bedroom, and Didi cautiously relinquished her hold on the chair and hobbled after him, groaning at every step.

  “You’re despicable,” she told him. “Don’t you even want to know why I’m here? Aren’t you interested one little bit?” She flung herself face-down on the bed. “Oh, God, now they’re coming back to life! It’s not funny, Murray. Will you please rub them and stop acting like that? I don’t care if you’ve been in bed with that girl all night. It’s medical attention I’m asking for, you utter stinker, not sexual!”

  He stopped undressing and turned around to slap her legs mercilessly until she yelled and kicked out at him. “Quit that!” she said. “The way you let me sleep on that floor, I just got over being black and blue because of you.”

  “You ought to have that set to music. Anyhow, you had it coming. That was a nice filthy crack you made to Ruth, wasn’t it?”

  Didi rolled over on her back and sat up to face him. She pulled her skirt primly over her knees. “Was it? Did it hurt her feelings, poor little thing?”

  “Jesus, what’s gotten into you? You’re acting like every woman you ever hated. You used to point them out to me and tell me what bitches they were for meddling in people’s affairs just to build up their miserable egos. Now you’re worse than any of them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just go some place else to get it out of your system. The further away, the better. Otherwise—”

  “I am going away,” Didi said, and the way she said it pulled him up short. “That’s what I came here to tell you, Murray. I wanted to say good-by, because the plane leaves at eleven, and we probably won’t be seeing each other again. I’m sure Donaldson wouldn’t like it, especially since it’s you.”

  “Donaldson?”

  “We’re getting married again. It’ll be in Dallas, because he wants everybody there. You might see it in Life; he’s trying to get them to send some photographers.”

  “I didn’t know Life was interested in remarriages,” Murray said, and Didi’s face went white.

  “You’ve got quite a filthy tongue yourself, haven’t you, Murray?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure everything’ll work out fine for both of you. After all, Donaldson’s older and smarter now, and—well,” he concluded lamely, “it ought to work out fine.”

  “But you don’t really believe that, do you?” said Didi. “You don’t, not really.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re no fool, and you don’t have to sound like one for my benefit, Murray. You know what’s going to happen just the way I do. It’ll be very nice to start with, and then, oh, in about two or three months Donaldson’ll take to going away on those awfully important business trips, or coming home four every morning, and then people will start to act all sorts of ways when I’m around—you know, so terribly kind and sympathetic, and a tiny little bit amused, of course—and then the columnists start to print those little hints with initials that don’t hide anything at all, so when I pick up a paper I—”

  He could not restrain himself any longer. “Then what are you doing it for?” he demanded. “What right do you have to let yourself in for something like that?”

  “Because I have to!” she said passionately. “I have to, Murray. I can’t wait around all my life for something to happen. In no time at all I’ll be thirty years old, and men don’t marry you when you’re that old. Don’t look at me like that when I say it, Murray, it’s true. You don’t know what it’s like when you’re a woman. Even when you’re twenty you start getting scared to look in the mirror, because you know how quick you get old, and there’s no way of stopping it. It’s the worst thing that can happen to you, and there’s no way of stopping it, at all.”

  “But why Donaldson? Alex would be a lot better than that, money or no money.”

  Didi smiled at him. Rather, the corners of her mouth twisted into what would have been a smile if there had been any humor in it. “You think so, Murray? Suppose somebody told you that tomorrow you could have whatever else you wanted, but you’d have to give up all your money for it, would you do it? No more St. Stephen, no more big car, no more anything—but everything the way you
told me it was when you first came to the agency. Would you want that? And old clothes, and a sick little three-room flat with bargain-basement furniture in it. And worrying yourself to death about nickels and dimes every minute you’re awake—would you really want that?”

  He tried to weigh his answer, and then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Especially when you’ve had it so good. That’s when you never want to go back to the way it used to be. Even Donaldson is better than that. Even your agency. And you hate your agency a lot more than I hate Donaldson.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No, you never did, did you? You never said a lot of things. Like right now. You know damn well that right now all you have to say to me—all you have to do—”

  She was silent, and he stood there rigid in the face of her silence, afraid of what was coming next, not wanting to hear her say it. But it remained unsaid. They looked at each other, the room oppressive with their unspoken thoughts, and that was it. Didi suddenly stood up, arranged her hair, pulled her dress into place. “Well,” she said brightly, “there’s no sense saying good-by all day, is there?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m real glad it was like this,” she rushed on. “I mean, not with both of us being huffy about things. I hate it when people go off being huffy, don’t you, and then they’re sorry for it afterward, but it’s too late to help. I left the key on the dresser there. Whatever clothes I’ve got here you just give away to somebody. It would be all kinds of indecent if I took them along to the wedding, wouldn’t it?”

  In the living room she flung the coat over her shoulders and slowly ran her hand over its sheen. “You marry a man like Donaldson who figures to let you down with a bump,” she said with a sort of defiance, “you’d be surprised how soft you land when you’re wearing something like this. Know what I mean, sweetie?”

  “Yes,” said Murray, “I know what you mean.”

  The scent of her perfume remained in the air around him when she was gone. It was, he knew, a very good and very expensive perfume called Joy.

  The effect on Harlingen of the page from Wykoff’s records left nothing to be desired. When he opened the door to Murray he looked in robe and slippers like a man in the pink, a man ready to go ten rounds with a tough fighter. But when, behind the closed door of his study, the paper had been laid on his desk and explained to him figure by figure, he looked weary and beaten, a man who has just gone ten rounds with a fighter who was a little too tough. He said, “It doesn’t leave much of a case for Arnold, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Harlingen pursed his lips. “Still, if LoScalzo calls this record into evidence, he’ll have to have Wykoff testify as to its authenticity. And if Wykoff decides to lie about it—”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “Well, then you yourself would have to testify as to how you got possession of it. Would you want to do that?”

  “No.”

  “But how can you avoid doing it? It seems to me—”

  Murray shook his head slowly. “I’m not giving this to LoScalzo,” he said. “I never intended to. Why should I when he’s got his case won without it?”

  Harlingen caught the meaning of that at once. “You mean, you’re giving it to me as final proof of Arnold’s guilt, is that it? It’s my cue to go to LoScalzo and make a deal as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” said Murray, “that’s it. It’s my impression that you’re working for Lundeen because you’re sure of his innocence. Now that you’ve got proof of his guilt, I want to see what you’ll do about it. Go to court and know he’ll be perjuring himself every step of the way, or make a deal with LoScalzo? It’s a nice point, Ralph. If you stay in criminal law, you’ll find yourself running into it again and again. And nobody’s ever worked out the answer to it. Maybe you’ll be the one to do it.”

  “Not I,” Harlingen said, and then he looked at Murray with a curiously penetrating eye. “As a matter of fact, Murray, I think that if anyone can come close to the answer, it’ll probably be you.”

  “Thanks, but you can count me out.”

  “You were out, Murray,” Harlingen said pointedly. “What made you come back in again?”

  “You don’t have to be coy about it,” Murray said. “I want Ruth to see this piece of paper. I want her to know once and for all the kind of grafter and liar Lundeen is. After that, I’ll consider the account settled.”

  “No, you won’t. After that, you’ll go out and get yourself blind drunk. You’ll pick up the first woman who comes along and go to bed with her and get no pleasure from it. You’ll beat your head against the wall trying to get Ruth out of your mind, and you won’t be able to. That’s how you feel about Ruth, Murray, and we both know it. But I told you that night that you were going about it the wrong way. All you’ve been trying to do is tear down Arnold, blot him from sight. And all you’ve managed to do as far as Ruth is concerned is tear yourself down.”

  Murray’s hand shot out and caught the collar of Harlingen’s robe almost dragging the man from his seat. “Did she tell you that? Is she so blind—”

  “It’s too early in the morning for this sort of thing, Murray,” Harlingen said calmly, and without making a motion to free himself, waited until the hand was removed. “She told me nothing, but she didn’t have to. You see, even though she may despise Arnold for carrying on with that girl—even though she’s already given him back his ring because of that—she’s bound to him by a kind of loyalty that transcends personal emotions sometimes. She feels he’s not guilty of the crime he’s charged with, and it’s that feeling she’s being loyal to. And the only thing that could change it would be his own confession of guilt. Now can you see what you’ve been trying to fight against?”

  “But it doesn’t make sense! I’ve proven the case against him a dozen different ways!”

  “You’ve proven nothing. You started off with a rank bias, and you’ve let it influence you right along. You’ve bought whatever was sold you, as long as it was evidence against Arnold. Miller, Schrade, Wykoff—anyone who stood against Arnold was automatically on your side. Anything you could lay your hands on, every statement made to you, this paper right here, wasn’t material to be put to the test and analyzed objectively, but a weapon to be used against Arnold. And the saddest part is that you’ve been going around with the smug assurance that you’re on the side of the angels. You’re proving to Ruth that you’re a better man than Arnold is. You’re putting another crooked cop in his place. What the hell, man, you don’t even make a good cynic! You reek with self-righteousness!”

  Murray felt the heat of temper roaring up in him. He fought against it, beating it down. “Are you talking for yourself, or for Ruth?”

  “I’m talking for Arnold Lundeen,” Harlingen said. “He happens to be my client.”

  “All right, then I want Ruth to speak for herself. I want her to see this piece of paper and then tell me what she thinks.”

  “That can be arranged. I’ll have her come here this evening, and you can be here, too. Will that be convenient for you?”

  “It’ll be more than convenient,” Murray said. “It’ll be a positive pleasure.”

  “I don’t think so.” Harlingen hesitated. “You know, I’ve been meaning to call you up about something, but since you’re here—”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about what you said that night. That is, you said Ruth might be in danger. I’ve been wondering—”

  “You didn’t have to,” Murray said. “There’s a man watching her all the time. But don’t tell her about it. It’s all right to keep someone under surveillance, but if they find out and turn you in, you’re liable to public disorder. I’d hate to see any of my men pulled in for that, because I told you about this.”

  “Well, in that case,” Harlingen said. He smiled. “You know, Murray, I wish we had gotten to know each other under different circumstances. I have a feeling—”

 
“That’s nice of you,” Murray said, and saw the smile instantly vanish from Harlingen’s face. He leaned forward and pointed to the signature at the bottom of the paper on the desk. “I’ve got something I wanted to ask, too. That accountant’s name there—do you recognize it?”

  Harlingen studied it. “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “Probably not. Is Megan out of her room yet, do you think? I’d like to ask her about it.”

  “Megan? Why Megan?”

  “I don’t know. But I have the damndest feeling she once talked to me about this man, and I’d like to check on it.”

  “Well,” said Harlingen doubtfully, “if that’s what you want—”

  Megan was at the breakfast table with her mother. She sat pale and drooping over a plate of scrambled eggs, listlessly stirring them with her fork. When she saw Murray she smiled wanly. “Hello, Murray.”

  “Hello, Megan,” said Murray. “I missed you when I came in. How are things going?”

  “Oh, all right, I guess.” Megan reversed the direction of the fork, and her mother said in a voice of restrained desperation, “Megan, will you stop doing that, and eat. Those things must be ice-cold by now.”

  “They are,” Megan said with loathing. “They’re unspeakably disgusting. I can’t eat them.”

  “Megan!” said her father.

  Megan started to eat her eggs. “Isn’t it awful?” she said to Murray. “I just have no appetite in the morning. I think I have a delicate stomach.”

  “You have no such thing,” said Harlingen.

  “I do. I think it’s psychosomatic.” Megan turned toward Murray. “Murray, when you were at the school that time did you like the play?”

  “Very much.”

  “Well,” Megan said eagerly, “we’re giving it Friday afternoon, because that’s when the Christmas party is, and tickets are only a dollar. And it’s for a disgustingly good cause—old ladies or something. You could come if you’re not busy then. You could even bring somebody.” And then she said with gallant resolution, “You could bring Mrs. Donaldson. She said she liked anything to do with the theater, didn’t she?”