Stranger Than Truth

by Vera Caspary

  “Why must you do that, Eleanor? Are you afraid of me?”

  His hand encircled my arm and slid down slyly until his clammy fingers were locked about my wrist. I tried again to pull away, but his hand tightened and he moved on the couch until his leg touched mine.

  “Please let me go.”

  His fingers relaxed slightly, but he still held my wrist. “Why can’t you be nice to me? I’m tired of being treated like a dog.” His face was close to mine and I smelled the peppermints he had been munching. He always smelled of synthetics, of mouth wash or Russian Leather or peppermint or shaving lotion. These scents revolted me; they were more offensive than an honest human smell; they were odors designed to hide the scent of living.

  “What’s wrong with me, Eleanor? I was good enough for you once. What’s wrong with me now?”

  He was good enough once; he was the only man I knew, my only friend, my dinner date, Ersatz for a sweetheart. I had been a lonely kid in a big hotel suite without friends or school routines to give form to my days. There were books from a Madison Avenue lending library and the movies and Ed Munn to take me out, like a grown woman, to dinner. He was adult if not charming, a suitor, and he sent beautiful boxes of French chocolates with tiny sugar violets decorating the top layer.

  “I was always nice to you. Why did you turn me down?”

  “Look, Ed,” I began.

  “Look. Look,” he interrupted. “Is that the only verb you know? Are you asking me to look with my eyes, or do you wish me to listen to what you have to say? I know where you acquired that habit. From Ansell. You’ve been seeing him, he’s your…”

  I slid off the couch. I stalked with my back up toward the door. My hand on the knob, my shoulders high, my chin in the air, I said coldly, “Please go now.”

  “Eleanor, Eleanor, little girl,” his voice was meant to be tender, but it was off key and it whined through his nose. “Why don’t you like me? What can he give you that I can’t? Who’s he, anyway? Little runt of a writer, he wouldn’t even have a job if…”

  “Get out.”

  “I was always crazy about you,” he whimpered, his voice becoming more and more soprano. “You were a cute little thing when I first knew you, in a red raincoat with a little hood. I knew then you were the girl I wanted. I made up my mind to study and improve myself so I’d be worthy. You were like a princess to me…”

  It was hideous and ironic, after what I had learned about him that night, to hear him whine like a small boy about red hoods and princesses. When he had first come to the Great Neck house Ed Munn had been my father’s secretary, a lank white worm of a man who abased himself and flattened against walls when a member of the family passed. His hands had trembled when he sat down to dinner with us; he had barely eaten, taken small careful bites and wiped his mouth too often. I had heard my father growl at Ed, laugh at him sarcastically, give orders in a high-handed imperious way. Father had never wasted his charm on the male secretary because Ed was as faithful when he was kicked as when he was treated kindly.

  “It’s a good match,” he said, looking at me with abject eyes, “you and I, heirs to the business. Who else could take Noble Barclay’s place? The twins? It’ll be eighteen or twenty years before they’re old enough and the way Madame’s spoiling them they’ll be polo players instead of executives. By the time they’re old enough to come into the business, you and I will be in control…”

  “Really,” I said, laughing at his false righteousness and his transparent affections, “you ought to take a course in love-making. The red raincape was one thing and father’s business another. I may be a princess to you, but you’ve planned a morganatic marriage for me with you as the lucky commoner. If you had an ounce of intelligence in that place where you hatch your filthy schemes, you’d have had sense enough to keep quiet about the business.”

  “What’s Ansell got that I haven’t? Why do you let him make love to you? You were the cold type. You couldn’t bear having your hand held, but you let him stay all night…”

  “You dirty sneak, you’ve been spying on me.”

  He made a show of laughter, but his mirth had no foundation. It was smirking empty revenge and he expected me to cry or cringe or beg him not to tell my father. “I thought I’d catch you,” he cried and got hold of me again, pulling me toward him and pinning me against his chest with the thin strong cords of his arms.

  My hands ached with the need to slap and scratch, but his arms were a jail, and all my kicking and shoving were like the writhing of a creature caught in a trap. “I loathe you. I can’t bear it when you touch me. You’re repulsive; you make me sick. Even when I was engaged to you, when I was so young and stupid I didn’t know what I was doing, I was ashamed to wear your ring or let anyone know about it.”

  He quivered with hurt rage. His pallid cheeks had become colored by a faint girlish flush and his eyeballs protruded.

  “You’re vulgar,” I cried in ecstasy, for the pleasure of hurting Ed Munn had filled me with cruel energy. “You’re a vulgar, revolting man; everybody laughs at you; nobody takes you seriously. Why, if you were a leper,” I went on rapturously, “people wouldn’t be more anxious to shun you. All those lotions you use, the hair tonic, mouth wash, the peppermints, they can’t start to conceal the stink.”

  “I’m vulgar, am I? You loathe me?” His mouth twisted in such a way that I could not tell whether it moved in anguish or perverse delight. His hand had moved toward his pocket and for a moment I thought he was reaching for a gun.

  He pulled out a manuscript, folded lengthwise. “When you’ve read this, Miss Barclay, you may change your tune.”

  “What is it?”

  “Read it.”

  There was no signature on the manuscript. I recognized the paper as the yellow second sheets we used in the office for the first drafts of our stories. The tide was typed six spaces above the opening sentence just as we were instructed to type manuscripts in the office: A Short History of Homer Peck.

  “Homer Peck!” I said. “That’s the name Mr. Wilson used in the title of his book. Autobiography of Homer Peck. Who was he?”

  “You’ll find out.” Ed laughed. It was so false and off key that my nerves quivered at the dissonance.

  I began to read. “Twenty-three years ago in a poor sanitarium in Arizona…” It was hard for me to concentrate. Twenty-three years was too long ago, Arizona too far away. “…a young man lay dying.” I read a few more sentences, and looked up from the pages at the white plaster hands grasping the folds of the black drapes. Black and white, steel tubes and hard cords gave the room the feel of a torture chamber, and the vari-colored walls affected me like the pitching of a ship. “…had enjoyed his thirty years of living and viewed with unconcealed apprehension the approach of death.”

  The door opened and there was my father. I was pleased. My father was strong and kind. When I was a little girl he had lifted me high above his head and I had rejoiced in his size and the strength of his hands under my armpits.

  “You seem to be quieter,” Father said. “Feel better now?” Then he noticed the manuscript and came closer. “What’s that?”

  Ed bowed over my chair. “May I?” He took the manuscript and handed it, bowing again, to Father. The mock gallantry was awkward. Derision and rebelliousness did not become him. It was more natural for Ed Munn to cringe.

  Father was far-sighted but he would not wear glasses and he held the manuscript at arm’s length. Ed Munn watched, his eyes swollen with spite.

  “Where’d you get it?” Father asked.

  “Aren’t you grateful? Aren’t you going to thank me for getting hold of it for you?” Defiant, Ed Munn lit a cigarette. He had never before smoked in my father’s presence, but he seemed not to care anymore whether or not Noble Barclay disapproved. “I expect my reward, you know.”

  Father’s shoulders drooped. His eyes were reproachful, but the reproach was not directed at his disloyal aide. On the wall opposite him hung an unframed mirror. Reflected
in. it was the drooping, beaten figure of Noble Barclay. Ed reached for the manuscript and Father let him have it without protest.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Why are you so frightened? Who was Homer Peck?”

  “How about that promise?” asked Ed, holding the yellow pages before him like a shield. The manuscript seemed to give him courage. With it in his hand he was Noble Barclay’s equal. “Give me what I want and I’ll give you this to burn, too.”

  “Why do you want it burned?” I asked. “What is it?”

  I might have been tossing my questions at the wind. My father’s color was robust, his hair a silver brush against the black drapes, but he was like a vividly colored model, a wax man in a shop window.

  “She thinks I’m vulgar.” Ed moved the hand that held the manuscript. The pages rustled. “She says I smell bad; she says people shun me like a leper. Make her change her mind, or…”

  “What have I got to do with it?” I walked past my father and looked up into Ed’s swollen, bloodshot eyes. “If you think you’re going to blackmail my father into making me marry you because you know some old secret…”

  My father pushed me aside. “Let me take care of this.” He addressed Ed in a gentle, placating manner. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Ed. You and I, lad, we’re playing for big stakes. Who would it help if the business was ruined? Who else is going to pay you twenty-five thousand a year?”

  Ed’s tongue crept around his lips slowly. “I have my plans.”

  My father nodded toward the yellow pages. “You’re right, son, I made a promise. And I’m a man of my word.”

  Ed came toward me. The smells of peppermint and hair lotion made me ill. Between my eyes and the lamp Ed’s silhouette had become malignant and unsubstantial, shadowy as the future, a prophecy of my tomorrows.

  “No,” I cried. “Tell him no, Father.”

  My father shook his head in warning. I was not to deny Ed Munn, not to laugh nor insult him. Ed was dangerous, he knew something, he knew the secret that Mr. Wilson had known, the shocking truth that threatened the security of Noble Barclay. That much I saw clearly. That fine confession that introduced his philosophy in My Life Is Truth was not then the entire story of my father’s old sins. There was still mystery in his life, buried scandal, guarded shame that the apostle of Truth-Sharing could not confide to his loyal followers. A buried truth, a festering sore, a wound that had not been cleansed with the sharp, clean antiseptic of confession. My father was slave to a secret and I was to be made prisoner, too, bound and shackled to his ancient guilt.

  Gently my father urged me toward him, raised my chin with his hand and looked down into my eyes. His voice was aggrieved as though his stubborn child had defied him. “My little girl, my own dear daughter won’t forsake her father.”

  “I’ll do nothing,” I said, “until I know what this is all about.”

  The telephone rang. Its muted alarm shocked us out of the spell of self-absorption. That gentle, mocking tinkle told us that we were not alone, that a real world existed outside of this black-and-white fantasy of a room, and that we had responsibility toward that outside world.

  Father answered. “Yes,” he said, “she’s here.”

  “Is it for me?” I started toward the phone.

  Ed blocked my way. “Ansell, I suppose.”

  I was hot, angry, passionate and resentful. There had been too much frustration that night. I could bear no more of it. My hand swung out. I heard the smack, felt swift pain flash through my hand, saw the red, irregular mark on Ed’s cheek.

  “You … you…” he spluttered. The rest of the epithet was lost in his throat. His jaw trembled and he stretched his tense, gaunt arms toward me.

  Father stepped between us. “It was Ansell,” he said. “He wanted you to know, Eleanor, that the police are on their way to Ed’s place in Jackson Heights. He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Lola Manfred.”

  “You’ll have to get out of town,” my father said. He had taken down the painting of the bloated nude and from the wall safe behind it removed an enormous roll of bills.

  “Ten thousand,” my father said and handed Ed the money.

  He took it apathetically. His lack of greed surprised me. In the few minutes since Johnnie had called, Ed had grown smaller, thinner, older. Within the undistinguished blue serge suit his body had shriveled. He moved jerkily, like a puppet whose strings have gone slack.

  “I didn’t do it, so help me,” he moaned.

  These protestations went unheeded. Father did not seem to care whether Ed was innocent or guilty; he was interested only in getting Ed out of the state. Ed was to leave the building by the service exit, take the car which was parked outside, cross the George Washington Bridge into Jersey, drive to Philadelphia, leave the car, and take the first plane that was leaving for St. Louis, Memphis or New Orleans. He was to take the name James B. Thorpe. Father had a driver’s license, State of California, all ready in James B. Thorpe’s name. As Mr. Thorpe, Ed was to get transportation and a tourist card for travel in Mexico.

  Father gave Ed the license, the car keys and the ten thousand. “You’ll have about nine of it left by the time you get to Mexico. You can live like a king on it down there. In six months you get the tourist card renewed, and in a year I’ll send you some more money in the name of Thorpe, General Delivery.”

  Father had changed, too. He was on top again, the boss, wielder of power. Excitement heightened his color; his dark eyes glowed, and he worked out the details of Ed’s escape with great enthusiasm.

  “I don’t know but what I envy you. No work, no responsibilities. Pretty señoritas, plenty of sunshine, plenty of dough. Life will be sweet for Mr. James B. Thorpe, the mysterious Gringo.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer the electric chair,” Father teased. His enjoyment of the situation was cruel. It was payment and revenge; it was compensation for years of forbearance and smothered hatred.

  “But I didn’t do it.” Ed was six feet of self-pity.

  “You must take me for a fool!” Father cried contemptuously.

  Ed grimaced. “Whatever I did. Noble, I did for you.” He was injured righteousness; he was the victim of injustice; he was Sydney Carton declaring it a far, far better thing.

  “You went too far,” Father said icily. “No one ever suggested violence. I asked you to get me something. Your methods were your own idea and your own responsibility.”

  Ed moved forward. “Then why was a gun on your desk that day? Tell me why.”

  I sat far away, across the room. Father and Ed were no longer real to me; they had no color; they were like flat figures on a screen. Nothing was solid; reality had become celluloid fantasy; I was a spectator in a chair made of black cords and steel tubing.

  My father left the room. When he came back he was carrying Ed’s hat and overcoat. With his pocket knife he ripped all the labels out of the coat and sliced three letters, E E M, out of the hat’s sweatband.

  Ed put on the overcoat slowly and slowly walked to the mirror. He tipped the hat over his right eye. The effect did not please him and he changed the angle, grimacing at his pallid reflection. My father watched impatiently while this man, a fugitive and murderer, took time to adjust his hat.

  By this time the police must have searched Ed’s apartment in Jackson Heights. They would presently come here to look for him, for Edward Everett Munn was not only Noble Barclay’s assistant but his best friend, a frequent guest in his home.

  “Make it snappy, Ed. You haven’t all night.”

  “Why are you treating me like this?” Ed implored, like a woman begging affection of a cold lover. “I’m doing this for you, giving up everything, my position, my place in the publishing world, everything I’ve worked for. The least you could do is show a little gratitude…”

  I turned away. It was disgusting to witness such slavish fawning and cringing. My father was no more affected by the spectacle of human degradation than by Ed’s w
oebegone pleas. He stood firm before the door, his right hand outstretched.

  “Empty your pockets. Give me all your papers,” he commanded.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be a damn fool. Suppose the police stop and search you. Come on, make it snappy.”

  As though he were yielding a treasure Ed handed Father a leather wallet, a pocket address book, a few letters with dog-eared corners. This did not satisfy my father. He searched Ed’s pockets, removed a key case, the monogrammed cigarette box and a card that entitled the bearer to four more half-hour sessions at a Coney Island massage parlor.

  “Where’s the manuscript?”

  “Manuscript?” Ed pointed vaguely toward the ebony table.

  “Come on, don’t stall, give it to me.”

  “I haven’t got it.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I’m not going to let you get away with it. Suppose you were caught with it on you!” Father snapped.

  Ed looked around blankly. “I put it down. It was there…”

  “Hand it over, Ed. No monkey business.”

  Ed seemed dazed. Father lost patience and swung out at him. Astonished, Ed whimpered and backed away. My father struck again.

  I pushed back in the steel chair, grasped the black cords of the seat. It was the only time in my life that I have ever watched men fight. Ordinarily I shrink from the sight of assault and cruelty. But this time I watched avidly; my eyes followed every movement; I gloated as my father’s blows rained harder and faster. Some perverse and brutal instinct came alive in me and my heart beat swiftly as I relished the heated ecstasy of revenge. My pleasure in watching the fight was no less than my father’s in feeling his fists beat against Ed’s soft flesh.

  He deserved punishment, I thought. He had killed two people, my friends, and he had hurt others, defenseless typists and clerks and office boys, for the pleasure of showing his power. If, as I believe, humiliating people is killing them in small ways, Ed Munn’s list of victims did not start with Warren G. Wilson. But who was I to judge the man? He had been the sycophant, the overseer, the servant who devoted his life and sacrificed his humanity to our welfare. If my father had reaped the profits and enjoyed the power, I had also accepted the benefits of his servile cruelty.