by Vera Caspary
“I have never mentioned his name…”
“What do you think you’re doing now?”
“Truth-Sharing,” I reminded her, “is different. Confessions are sacred. You know as well as I that the secrets of another person’s heart, no matter how freely offered, are not yours to disperse.”
“Okay,” she snapped. “What else do you know?”
Oral truth-sharing has always been an effective cure when I am troubled. No sooner have I purged myself of foolish secrets and distressing fancies than I realize that their only substance was my own fallacious imagining. I felt a great deal better and would have flitted gaily out of the Ladies’ Room had not Eleanor caught my arm and squeezed it painfully.
“Now that you’ve shared with me,” she admonished, “never, never, never in your life mention this to anyone else.” Her excitement was so intense that she threw her cigarette into one of the wash bowls and leaned against the wall, her face as white as the tiles.
Girls had begun to pound on the door, demanding admission. I took the cigarette stub out of the wash bowl where she had thrown it so thoughtlessly, creating a bad example for the untidy stenographers. With utmost sympathy I tried to help Eleanor unburden herself of those dark secrets that were obviously causing such conflict in her psyche. My efforts were rewarded with a proud and stubborn glance. Locking herself into one of the compartments, Eleanor refused to speak to me or to answer any of my sympathetic questions.
There was more rude pounding on the door and remarks of a vulgar nature were shouted through. Gently I addressed Eleanor, but no answer drifted from her compartment.
I stooped and spoke softly, fixing my eyes upon her thin stockings and frivolous, high-heeled pumps. “Eleanor, my dear, if there’s anything buried in your unconsciousness, speak of it, share it with me. Don’t let pride or shame inhibit you. Buried truths are festering sores, you know. Share the truth with your old friend…”
“Go to hell,” she answered ungraciously.
Just then the janitor opened the door. I made my way through the throng of gaping stenographers and returned to my office. I did not see Eleanor again that afternoon but was informed that she had left without finishing her work for the day, probably to have her hair set for that dinner date.
In spite of her lack of sympathy this little session of Truth-Sharing had purged my spirit. For me the unpleasantness would have been completely over had not Mr. Ansell burst into my office a second time that day and demanded to know what information I had imparted to Eleanor in the Ladies’ Room. When I refused to answer, he laid his hands upon me savagely. Had it not been for the fortunate coincidence of Mr. Barclay’s appearance, I might have been the victim of brutality.
It was almost as if Mr. Barclay had known instinctively of my predicament. Was it mere chance that ordained my rescue? I prefer to think there was something deeper in the coincidence of Mr. Barclay’s taking his briefcase with him that night and then suddenly remembering that he would not need it and deciding to return it to the office. My spirit had cried out to his, silently, and without perceiving the direction of his guidance, he had opened the elevator door at the crucial moment.
His powers of intuition must have perceived my distress, for upon leaving his briefcase upon my desk, he kindly invited me to ride uptown with him in the limousine, a privilege which I do not often enjoy. Such typical Barclay generosity was manifest in another of his kindly gestures the following day when another unfortunate incident darkened the atmosphere of the Barclay Truth Publications.
The office that morning was in a state of the wildest excitement. One of the scrubwomen, arriving at ten o’clock the previous night, had discovered Mr. Ansell unconscious on the floor of his office. Had not the night man summoned the ambulance so promptly and the doctor been so efficient in rendering first-aid, we might have lost our Truth and Crime editor.
Mr. Barclay did not arrive at the office until noon that day. Upon seeing me his first words were, “He’s all right. Let them know it outside.”
“Who’s all right?” I inquired, not crediting Mr. Barclay with knowledge of the unhappy situation.
“Ansell,” he answered briefly.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Then you’ve heard about it?”
“Where do you think I’ve been all morning?” he demanded and hurried into his private quarters.
A few moments later I received a summons via the buzzer.
“Will you get me some cash, Miss Eccles? I haven’t a penny in my pockets.”
“My, someone has been extravagant,” I observed, treating the matter in a light vein. “Only yesterday afternoon I cashed five hundred dollars for you.”
“Must I answer to you for that?” he asked with unusual severity.
“I was just making an observation,” I remarked. “I do not mean to be inquisitive. You’ve probably been over-generous again. I’ve been wondering a bit about your penchant for giving away money ever since last May when we quit drawing that monthly two thousand dollars for personal charities.”
The expression of his face was enigmatic. I hastened to fetch his checkbook. When he had signed a check and I had sent it down to the bank, he instructed me to ask Mr. Smith to come to his office immediately.
“Which Mr. Smith?” I asked, since there were several of that name among his acquaintances.
“Sometimes you’re very irritating,” Mr. Barclay rejoined in a manner unlike his usual magnanimous self. “Mr. Smith of the Barclay Building Grille, of course.”
I considered this unjust inasmuch as this particular Mr. Smith had never stepped foot into our offices. Heretofore his transactions had been negotiated entirely with the leasing agent of the Barclay Building, a subsidiary corporation. Instead of accosting Mr. Barclay with these facts which would have cleared me of his charge of obtuseness, I humbly performed my duties. Ten minutes later the required Mr. Smith entered the private office.
“I’ve good news for you, Smith,” Mr. Barclay said as he shook hands with the restaurateur. “Ansell has promised not to sue. I’ve persuaded him to keep the matter quiet. No one will know except a few employees in my office and they will be requested not to spread the story. Of course, Smith, I’m sure it’s not your fault, but I urge you to be more careful in future.”
Mr. Smith professed not to know what Mr. Barclay was talking about. I could tell by his manner that my employer was not “taken in” by Mr. Smith’s pretense of innocence, however. What transpired further I am in no position to say, as Mr. Barclay informed me that my services were not required. Twenty minutes later Mr. Smith left smiling and apparently pleased by the magnanimity of Mr. Barclay.
Again my buzzer sounded. This time Mr. Barclay wished to dictate the following memorandum:
Memorandum
From the office of: Noble Barclay
To: All Employees
Date: 11/23/45
For the sake of our tenant, the Barclay Building Grille, and our friend, Mr. I. G. Smith, its proprietor, I am requesting you not to repeat the rumor that Mr. Ansell was poisoned by eating shrimps at the Grille. Mr. Smith exercises the greatest care in preparing the dishes served in his restaurant, and would never allow food to be set before a customer if there were any question as to its freshness.
Unfortunately, it is not always possible to judge seafood. The shrimps cooked yesterday in the Barclay Building Grille kitchens showed no sign of deterioration, and no one was more surprised than Mr. Smith himself to learn that Mr. Ansell’s sudden illness was blamed upon the food served in the Grille.
Since Mr. Smith is not only our tenant but a good friend to all of us who eat in his restaurant, I appeal to your sense of good sportsmanship in asking that you use all possible discretion in keeping the story from spreading.
“Make ten copies and circulate them through the office,” Mr. Barclay instructed. “Have them signed by every employee and then have every copy returned to me with the signatures.”
“Yes, Mr. Barclay,” replied this humble
servant.
While I was typing the memo, Eleanor burst into the office. She greeted me as if our last meeting had not ended in an impasse.
“He’s all right, Grace!” she cried, as if I had inquired as to some party’s condition. “All he needs now is a short rest and he’ll be back at work. You can’t imagine how I feel.”
“Are you by any chance alluding to Mr. Ansell?” I inquired.
She nodded vehemently. “I thought I’d die when I heard he’d been poisoned. I guess I have a melodramatic mind because I…” She paused at the brink of revelation and changed her mind about voicing it. Shrugging her shoulders, Eleanor babbled on, “What a relief to learn it was only seafood! Hasn’t Father been wonderful?”
“Noble Barclay,” I replied, “is always wonderful.”
“They called him early this morning to tell him one of his editors had been found half dead in his office. Father rushed to the hospital at once, and told them to do everything they could for Johnnie. I’ve never seen Father so wonderful.”
“I am glad,” I observed, “that you appreciate your father.” I would have said more, but Eleanor, with that rudeness that is characteristic of her and which, I am sure, she must have inherited from the distaff side, fled from earshot.
Since I am in the habit of eating a light breakfast I take my lunch early. As soon as I had finished typing the memo and had sent it, with complete instructions, to the various Department Heads I wended my way downstairs to the Grille. Seating myself at my usual table, I consulted the menu. My regular waitress approached me and asked, “How about shrimp Creole, Miss Eccles? It’s very nice today.”
“How dare you?” I cried with the utmost indignation. “Do you think it in good taste to jest when one of your patrons almost lost his life by eating your contaminated shrimps yesterday?”
The waitress seemed surprised. “Shrimps! Yesterday?”
I was annoyed with Mr. Smith for failing to inform his employees of the unfortunate affair of Mr. Ansell’s shrimps. Although I had typed the memo requesting employees not to spread rumor outside of our office, I considered it my duty to inform the waitress lest she hear of it through unreliable sources and indulge in idle gossip.
“But we didn’t serve shrimps last night,” she insisted. “We haven’t had a shrimp in this place for over a week.”
I tried patiently to argue with the stubborn creature, but I could not convince her that I had spoken the truth. She even summoned other waitresses to back up her assertions. Naturally her friends took her side in the argument. This puzzled me. Although I would not take the words of ignorant working girls in preference to Mr. Barclay’s interpretation of the case, my curiosity could not be appeased. My mind was riddled with questions that had no right to enter that holy ground. Doubtless I was at fault. Somewhere in my sly psyche was buried an untruth which I had not the courage to force out and boldly face.
If only Nature had endowed me with greater courage I should have purged myself by sharing known truths with the best of all confessors. Too timid to uproot the festering sores of buried doubt by laying my problems at the feet of Noble Barclay, I comforted myself with the excuse that a busy man occupied with problems of international import had no time for my petty concerns. This, however, was bare comfort. “Oft in the stilly night” have I wakened to wonder at the excessive discretion of my employer and his daughter. Was there not some hidden knowledge anent the connection between Mr. Wilson’s death and the misdirected telephone message? Why was Mr. Barclay so stern in commanding my silence and rejecting Mr. Ansell’s story?
Whatever the dark secret was, I knew it not to be mine. Nor did I cast the slightest shadow of suspicion upon Noble Barclay. With his unfathomable faith in humanity in general and his friends in particular, this paragon of honesty might readily have been victim of some cruel fraud. Tragedy is the inevitable result of deceitfulness. Out of the roots of falsehood evil flowers; that is the law of Nature and she is a stern taskmaster.
Part Three
WHOSE TARTAN?
BY JOHN MILES ANSELL
“Cynics, alleged to possess lively and inquiring minds, are in reality the most incurious and rigid tribe in existence. Their minds are frozen streams, their hearts as hard as granite. In the time of Jesus, cynics jeered at the Christ. Because they were told in childhood that grass is green they believe this must always be so, and if the grass on their front lawns should turn cerise, they would gaze upon its ruddiness swearing they saw it verdant.”
My Life Is Truth
NOBLE BARCLAY
“LOOK, MY PRETTY,” I said to the nurse who enjoyed the adjective without deserving it, “I admire you but I can’t afford you. I can’t afford this expensive layout. How the hell did I get here?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Ansell. If somebody couldn’t afford these things, you wouldn’t be in this room.”
I lay back on the expensive bed and tried to figure it out. Since my knees had given way under me in the office and I had felt myself hurled through space on the cannonball express, I was not clear about anything. My adventures with rock cliffs and crack trains had been delusions, and here I was in a hospital room that was not white and narrow, but done in muted colors and with a big corner window through which expensive sunlight streamed.
They would feed me nothing but gruel. Along with the breakfast tray came Noble Barclay.
“How you feeling, lad?”
“I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe I’m not bright. They tell me I lost consciousness and one of the scrubwomen found me on the floor. Didn’t I hear the ambulance doctor say something about bichloride of mercury?”
“You must have been dreaming,” Barclay said. “Too much imagination, lad. Comes from working on all those detective stories.” He laughed. “I’m giving you a holiday from Truth and Crime.”
“I was expecting it.”
“Afraid you’d lose your job, eh? What kind of a heel do you think you’re working for?” This pleased Barclay. He laughed jovially. “You’re being promoted, son. As of this week you’re editor of Truth Digest.”
“Truth Digest?”
“The newest Barclay Truth Publication. Truth in tabloid. Fits into your vest pocket but contains the best that is being printed, not only in our own magazines, but in all popular periodicals. What do you think of the idea? Original, isn’t it?”
The idea of a digest magazine was about as original as a Christmas greeting. “Won’t you,” I asked cautiously, “meet a lot of competition?”
Barclay considered. “It’s true, there are other digests but this would be the first Truth digest. Get the idea? We’ve been selling reprint rights to other digests and even carrying their stuff, originated in their offices and written by their staff people. But what do we make on it? A few thousand a month. Think, lad, of the money we’d coin with our own digest. And what a medium for bringing our message to the public.”
“What about your contracts with the other digests, Mr. Barclay?”
“Don’t you worry about that, John. We’ve got the best attorneys in the country. You’re to keep your mind on the editorial side. It’s a cinch, boy, six magazines of our own to draw on, just as a start. Absolutely no cost for editorial matter, and anything we’d like to feature in TD, we can print first in one of the other magazines. Beautiful setup, isn’t it?”
I agreed. The setup couldn’t have been prettier. “But,” I said, “Truth and Crime and Truth and Love can hardly be used as a source of digest stuff.”
“Not as much as Truth,” Barclay said. “The bulk of the digest material would be from it. We’ve got a gold mine to draw on, exposés, political stuff, war, human interest. And Truth and Health! Look at the other digests, filled with health stories, medical discoveries, reducing diets, the newest cures…”
“Mostly phonies,” I put in.
“We can expose them,” cried Barclay. “And once in a while we can throw in some TC or TL, nothing the public likes better than a good fact romance or a true c
rime. And Truth and Beauty gives us the woman’s angle. What do you think of the new job, boy?”
“Sounds good.”
“Good?” sniffed Barclay. “That’s the best job you ever dreamed of. Boy, you don’t know. It’s going to thrill you so that you’ll have to be dragged away from your desk nights. It might be hard work but not too hard for an intellectual like you. Look at the public you’ll reach, the chance you’ll get to tell them straight simple truth instead of the guff that’s usually concealed under a welter of literary language. It’s a man’s job, lad. As of this week your salary is two hundred per.”
Two hundred a week? Was I still unconscious? Wake up, Ansell, you’re hearing voices. In a split second the cannon-ball express is going to crash head-on into solid fact. If the bichloride of mercury had been fantasy, what of the seventy-five dollars a week raise?
It was not a dream. There, solid as the hospital bed, was Noble Barclay, radiating health and good humor, and the nurse, who was not pretty, coquetting all over the place because she was attracted by his wealth or his virility. Aware of the admiration, Barclay exhibited more of his good humor. “You don’t believe me, John? Sounds too good to be true, huh?” His enjoyment was so frank that I did not flinch at his making a show of it.
He strode across the room. He covered its length in seven steps and strode back to the bed. “Don’t belittle yourself, lad. You know you’re a damn good editor. Do you sit around like the rest of the highbrows, wisecracking, while the staff writers get the material?” He paused beside the bed, looking into my face. “When an organization like mine is lucky enough to find a man of your caliber, it’s our job to hang onto you and to find work worthy of your talent. Why, if you weren’t satisfied with us you’d be looking for another job. And some other publisher would grab you like that.” He made a gesture intended to show how hungry publishers would grasp a smart young editor by the coat collar and swing him into a mahogany swivel chair. “Don’t think you’re not worth the price. I’m too canny a businessman to pay that salary to a lad who doesn’t deserve it.”