Stranger Than Truth

by Vera Caspary

  Even in these dark hours, however, my normally unselfish nature asserted itself. Unable to help myself, I tried to help others. There lived in our neighborhood a girl younger than myself and more unfortunate in that she was blind. According to stories whispered by scandalmongers she had none to blame but herself for this tragic fate. It was said that she had consorted with a married man whose vengeful wife waited one night until her husband and this girl came out of a bar and dashed acid in the girl’s face. As a result of shock and

  remorse the girl went almost insane but she was saved by the tender nursing and devotion of her dear mother. Her eyesight, however, was lost. She was taken to see several world-famous specialists, but they shrugged their shoulders and shook their learned heads. The optic nerve had been destroyed and she would never see again.

  In addition to this tragedy the girl also suffered the belief that her face was hideously scarred. This was untrue but no one could convince her. In her mind’s eye this girl saw a countenance so distorted that none could look upon it without revulsion. As she had been extremely pretty and consequently a vain person, this cross was almost too heavy for her frail shoulders.

  I tried to bring some brightness into the life of this tragic creature, and whenever I was not immersed in personal melancholy or seeking employment, I spent my time reading aloud to her. One day by a coincidence, which some would call a minor accident but which I prefer to think of as a divinely guided miracle, a copy of My Life Is Truth came into my hands. I had picked it up by mistake, leaving the copy of a light novel by Kathleen Norris.

  I glanced over the Introduction. It was strong meat. At first I was dubious for it seemed that no mortal could suffer what Noble Barclay had gone through in the first fifty-seven pages. What inspired me to go on reading was the reaction of my audience.

  When I had come to the last sentence in the Introduction (just the Introduction, not even the philosophical portions) this girl said to me in a trembling voice, “Grace, it’s absolutely true what people say about me. I have been lying to my dear mother and my good friends. I was fooling around, as they say, with Mr. L. Not only that, but I tried to take him away from his wife. God help me, I never confessed this to a living soul but you, Grace, but I swear it’s true. I feel much lighter now that I’ve said it, as if I’d cast off a heavy load.”

  Unfortunately her mother entered at this moment and we shut up like clams. Although her mother had been a devoted nurse, she had never ceased abusing her daughter for immoral conduct. I left immediately, the precious book clutched tight in my tremulous hand.

  While I was helping my sister wash the supper dishes our telephone rang. It was the blind girl. Her mother had gone to an Eastern Star meeting and she wanted to talk to me. I hurried to her at once, bringing Noble Barclay’s immortal work. We did not read much, however, because I listened while she poured out her heart. She confessed everything about her relationship to Mr. L., from the first caress to the pleasure she had experienced in intimate association and her evil desire to get rid of his wife. At times her emotion was so great that I had to bring her blackberry cordial from the bathroom cabinet. But she was almost in an ecstasy, and to make a long story short, she not only recovered her sight miraculously within twenty-four hours, but soon afterwards married a prosperous automobile salesman, and is now living happily in Birmingham, Alabama.

  My own miracle, while not so sensational, worked such a change in my sensitive and shrinking nature that timidity was transformed to self-confidence, foolish and desperate fears were overcome, and within a fortnight I found myself the incumbent of a part-time job. In addition I was cured almost immediately of the malady from which I had suffered for so many desolate years, and my complexion soon afterwards became clearer.

  All this happiness and good fortune were due to a single cause, my belief in Truth as expounded by Noble Barclay. Day and night I sought some way of expressing my gratitude. A second miracle brought me that opportunity. I happened to hear through an employment agency that there was a vacancy in the Stenographic Department of none other than Truth Publications. I applied at once for this position, and when the Head of the Department heard that I was not only one of Mr. Barclay’s followers, but would be satisfied with $16.50 a week, I was hired on the spot.

  For more than a year I was but a cog in the wheel of his vast enterprises. I confess now that I was shocked to discover that many employees were not believers in his principles, and wondered why he did not insist upon belief as a prerequisite of employment. How narrow-minded of me and how much broader his policy! He would never make arbitrary rules for his help but was willing to give all the same opportunity. The Head of the Department was such a cynic that I felt privately that she did not deserve the honor of that position which she managed to hold because she got maximum work out of the girls and found many excuses to dock those who were guilty of small infractions of the rules.

  Once again I was the vessel of what others may call chance or coincidence, but which I prefer to think of as a small miracle. Why was I lucky enough to be sitting in the office eating a box lunch when Mr. Barclay suddenly was seized with the desire to dictate while his secretary was enjoying his noon meal at a restaurant!

  Up to this moment I had not met Mr. Barclay personally. With his almost omnipotent glance he noticed my tremors. “You’re not afraid of me?” he asked in the kindest voice in the world.

  “I adore you,” I replied humbly.

  This rejoinder from a member of the cynical Stenographic Department must have startled him, but he was self-contained and with infinite patience and tolerance, he asked my name. That was not all I told him! Careless of his valuable time, selfishly concerned with my own emotions, I poured out the whole story of my conversion. Ringing a bell he summoned several of his aides, and asked me to repeat for them the story of my introduction to his philosophy and the incidental episode concerning my ex-blind friend. They asked her name and address, promising they would not embarrass her with publicity anent her previous affair and assuring me that they meant only to confirm my happy story.

  A few months after this, destiny called me to the position which I have enjoyed for seven years. It was not long before I gained Mr. Barclay’s confidence and was able to keep him informed daily as to the undercurrents in the office, the crude and impolitic remarks of the envious and cynical, and the true nature of those who pretended to admire their employer. With an increase in my responsibilities came several substantial raises in salary. Mr. Barclay is more than generous with those upon whose loyalty he can depend.

  Let me add here that in his personal life as well, I found Mr. Barclay generous to a fault. Among his multitudinous friends, none knew that every month he privately and secretly gave away two thousand dollars in cash. So great was his modesty that none knew of this except I, who kept his personal checkbook. These secret philanthropies were never entered as anything but petty cash withdrawals and he never tried, as many would, to deduct the sum from his income tax. Once when I questioned the practical value of his scruples he took me to task by reminding me that the recipients of such charity would be embarrassed were their names known to anyone except himself.

  “How grateful they must be for your generosity and understanding,” I remarked.

  “We cannot always expect gratitude, Miss Eccles.”

  I am often filled with melancholy as I ponder the cynicism and distrust with which others regard the nobility of this man. But I comfort myself with the thought that he is so big that our little natures do not distress him overmuch. Someday all humans will learn to face and acknowledge Truth, and then war and illness will disappear from the earth, and there will be no more drunkenness or poverty, and life will be one sweet song.

  Because I have been so close to this great man, Mr. John Ansell has asked me to contribute a chapter to his book on Noble Barclay. That this request flattered my humble person I admit frankly, since I have had little time in my life for literary pursuits. I admit also to some bewilderme
nt anent the subject of my reminiscences. Why does Mr. Ansell particularly request my memories of the “incident” regarding Mr. Warren G. Wilson? But, as Mr. Ansell suggests, it is ever the duty of one who knows the truth to challenge the spread of rumor.

  On that fatal Friday in May, I returned from luncheon at my usual time. No sooner had I entered my office than the telephone rang and one of the switchboard operators informed me that she had a message for my chief. A Mr. Warren G. Wilson had called to say that the date was on and he expected Mr. Barclay at his apartment that evening. As is my habit, I went into Mr. Barclay’s office and made a notation on his desk calendar.

  Mr. Barclay had been lunching with the Senator, and did not return to his office until 4 p.m. A few minutes afterwards he buzzed me.

  “Where did this come from?” he demanded and pointed to the lone message on his calendar pad.

  “It came while I was at luncheon. I received it from the switchboard,” I replied.

  “Thank you, Miss Eccles,” he said briefly. Jerking the page off the calendar pad, he tore it into minute particles and deposited them in the wastebasket.

  Evidently Mr. Barclay communicated with Mr. Munn on the inter-office telephone, for I had hardly returned to my desk when that individual came hurrying through my office and disappeared into the private sanctum.

  My duties were interrupted a second time when Mr. Barclay commended me to summon his daughter. Eleanor was not at her desk in the office of Truth and Love Magazine. I was to locate her immediately. After a few unsuccessful attempts I discovered that she was in our Photographic Studio, helping to pose models for illustrations. A few moments later, in response to my request, she hastened through my ante-room and disappeared, also, in her father’s office.

  Their conference did not break up until after six o’clock and I saw no more of them that day. The incident, no doubt, would have been erased from my mind had not a curious coincidence followed. That being Friday, the next day was Saturday. Mr. Barclay was absent from the office. Certainly a man so unstinting of his energy was entitled to an extra half holiday each week, which he usually spent in the country with his wife and small sons, while faithful myrmidons kept watch over his affairs from nine until 1 p.m.

  Eleanor was also absent that morning, but unofficially. She had simply failed to appear in the office. For that reason I was involved in an argument with the Photographic Studio. Shortly after I had settled at my desk, Mrs. Harden, who is in charge of the Studio Property Room, telephoned to inquire about a gun.

  Yes, a gun. This may sound melodramatic but it is a comic facet of our work in the confessional magazine field. Since many of these stories published in our magazines are true confessions of crime, it is necessary in posing illustrative photographs to use firearms. And in order to have this equipment when necessary, we have an ever so amusing little arsenal adjacent to the studio. Although the guns are not loaded, they are considered lethal weapons and when an editor or sub-editor or assistant, in posing pictures, wishes to use such property, he signs a requisition. The love story that Eleanor was working on evidently required the pictorial display of a .22 (what this is, I confess, I have never been certain). The point was that she had this pistol in her hands when summoned to her father’s office.

  Mrs. Lola Manfred, Eleanor’s superior on Truth and Love Magazine, reported that the gun was not in the office they shared. She suggested to Mrs. Harden that Eleanor might have carried the gun into Mr. Barclay’s office and left it there. Hence, I was involved in the search. No gun was visible. I hunted high and low, but was unable to find anything of that description.

  Let me say here, before any further suspicion is engendered in the reader’s mind, that the gun was discovered that very Saturday morning on a window sill in the Photographic Studio. Mrs. Harden had telephoned Mr. Munn about it, asking if he had seen the gun in Eleanor’s hand. He replied in the negative, but offered to assist in the search. Shortly after the weapon was discovered and we all had a big laugh over our “gun hunt.”

  It was not until the following Monday morning that I learned from the newspapers that Mr. Wilson—yes, our own Mr. Warren G. Wilson—had been murdered. In self-defense, let me remark that it seemed perfectly natural for me to comment on this to Mr. Barclay.

  “Did you see the morning papers?” I inquired. “Aren’t you shocked about your friend, Mr. Wilson?”

  Mr. Barclay, usually the most considerate of employers, snarled at me. “Never mention his name again, Miss Eccles.” Not content with that he stamped across my office to the door of his sanctum. “Not to me or anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “But, Mr. Barclay,” I argued, trying to explain what I considered a normal interest in the sensational occurrence.

  “You are never to speak Wilson’s name again, neither to me nor anyone else. I never knew the man. He was trying to annoy me. You’ll forget the whole incident, Miss Eccles.”

  It was easier to pledge my word than discipline my unruly thoughts. Each day thereafter Mr. Wilson’s name was in the newspapers. I was almost ill with worry. Mr. Barclay’s admonitions to silence contradicted the most elementary precepts of his creed. The only explanation with which I could satisfy my gnawing curiosity was that he was shielding another. I repeated and repeated over again his wise words regarding the sacredness of the secrets of others. I realized then that I, also, must conceal what I knew in order to shield some unknown innocent. The pain of such concealment was sweeter when I realized that I suffered for another’s sake.

  Months passed. The name of Warren G. Wilson was almost buried in my unconscious mind when John Ansell, unwittingly, I believed, chose his murder as the subject for the Unsolved Mystery Department of Truth and Crime Magazine. I was not surprised when Mr. Barclay rejected the story. I though the matter would be buried for the nonce. But Mr. Ansell was a rebel in our midst. Challenging authority, he demanded a reason for the rejection of his story. When Mr. Barclay withheld the answer to his impertinent questions, Mr. Ansell tried to force the information out of me.

  But Grace Eccles was too clever for him. Using feminine wiles I made a tactful excuse about a telephone call and managed to get rid of that inquisitive little gentleman. Although I gave him no reason to suspect that his questioning had unnerved me, I felt quite ill and knew I could not continue with my duties unless I unburdened myself partially or wholly of the heavy load that had been fermenting within me. The pressure was too great for my fragile consciousness to bear.

  Let me add here that I suspected no one of intrigue. At this time I sought nothing more than relief from the pressure of self-distrust. What guilty untruth about myself was I hiding behind the suspicion of others? It would have been most salutary to discuss this matter with Mr. Barclay himself, but since that day when I had promised never again to mention Mr. Wilson’s name, I felt that to seek his confidence on this particular matter would be tactless.

  While I was pondering the matter and watching office personnel through the glass window of my own little domain, I noticed Eleanor Barclay among the girls going to the Ladies’ Room. This seemed divine coincidence. Who was more worthy of my confidence than his own daughter, and who could be trusted more completely to guard his interests? In indulging my need for a session of Truth-Sharing with Eleanor Barclay, I felt no qualm of disloyalty.

  I followed her to the Ladies’ Room. It was my presence, I am sure, that quickly cleared the place of all the stenographers who waste company time smoking and dawdling before the mirrors.

  “Eleanor, I must speak to you,” I said, locking the door.

  “Is it necessary to barricade ourselves?” she inquired flippantly.

  “Please do not be cynical, dear,” I admonished. “When you know this organization as well as I do, you’ll realize how many two-faced people there are in the world. There’s no other place in this office where you can be sure of complete privacy.”

  “But somebody may want to use the toilet.”

  “I shan’t be long,” I pro
mised. “I sorely need a short session of Truth-Sharing.”

  “Is it really necessary?” she asked ungraciously. “I want to leave early today. I’m going to have my hair. done. I’ve got a dinner date, a particular dinner date, a dinner date I’ve been wanting for months.”

  This was inconsiderate, since I had frankly appealed to her for sympathy, but I generously overlooked it on the score that youth must have its fling.

  “I have something more important than a dinner date to discuss with you,” I rejoined.

  “Well, make it snappy,” she retorted.

  I was careful at the start to explain that I suspected no one of deceit, but was merely trying to purge myself of unworthy emotion. But I had hardly begun to describe my actions in relation to the telephone call when she interrupted.

  “Is it true the switchboard operator made a mistake on that call, and gave the message to Mr. Barclay instead of me, or was it you, Grace, playing one of your little tricks?”

  Needless to say, I was shocked. “I was not aware until now, Eleanor, that you were acquainted with this Mr. Wilson.”

  Her cheeks wore an unbecoming flush. “He was calling me,” she said. “That’s how it all started. But I hope you don’t think it has anything to do with the murder.”

  “Why, Eleanor!” I exclaimed. “That thought never entered my mind. It was simply that your father showed so much emotion over the incident and was so vehement in forbidding me ever to use Mr. Wilson’s name again that I…”

  “Why don’t you do what you’re told?” she interrupted harshly.