by Horace McCoy
'Frankly, I don't. I haven't the faintest idea what you're driving at—'
'I'll put it another way. Did you ever hear of a man named Marx?'
'Sure, I've heard of Marx and Engels and Lenin. So what?'
'Know anything about them?'
'No, not much. What the hell has that got to do with this?'
Bishop turned to Myra.
'Isn't this marvellous?' he said. 'Would you believe it?'
'Hardly—'
'For God's sake, what is this?' Dolan said, sore.
'The reason I asked you was because you ought to study them,' Bishop said. 'They felt the same way you do about things. They anticipated you by a good many years.'
'I still don't see—'
'I hardly know how to make you see,' Bishop said. 'You need discipline. You need organization. Without them you won't get to first base. Without them you're just a zealous worker. You know what Communism is, don't you?'
'Vaguely I do, yes.'
'You're always kidding me about being a goddam Communist—'
'I didn't mean anything personal, Ed—you know that. It was just an expression.'
'Don't apologize,' Bishop said. 'I'm proud of it. But you're right when you said it was just an expression. That's what it is to most people. Why, for God's sake, you're more of a Communist than I am—'
'You're crazy,' Dolan said. 'I'm not a Communist—'
'You're a Communist, only you don't know it. You hate the way they run the city and you hate the way they run the Little Theatre—you hate lousy advertising on the radio, you hate preachers because they whine and beg for converts, you hate the whole system. Why, goddam it, you've told me so a hundred times—'
'Look,' Dolan said, taking off his hat. “This argument could go on all night. Maybe I am a Communist. If I am, I don't know it. But I do hate all the things you say I hate, and a lot more you didn't mention, like the Father's Day racket and the Mother's Day racket—but most of all I hate these bastards who put on black robes and helmets and take people down in the river bottom and whip hell out of 'em and perform operations on 'em and make 'em kiss the flag. Maybe I do need discipline and organization, and maybe later on I'll get somebody to teach them to me. But I haven't got time to stop for that now. All that matters now is busting up those Crusaders, and I'm going to do that if it's the last thing I ever do—'
'You'll get rich doing that,' Bishop said, with a trace of sarcasm.
'Well, there's no pockets in a shroud,' Dolan said. 'I've never felt like this before. A few things've annoyed me, and in a half-hearted way I've wanted to do something about them. But I distributed my energy—and the women got most of it. There's nothing amazing about that; everybody knows I was a pushover for a good-looking girl. But there's nothing amazing in me waking up all of a sudden either. A man goes to bed tonight a fool and tomorrow morning he wakes up a wise man. He can't explain what's happened in between; all he knows is it's happened. That's the way it was with me. I don't know yet what I'm going to do, I haven't the faintest idea where I'm going to start—but I do know I'm going to do it.
'I don't give a damn for your Communism and your rules and regulations. As long as men come to me, as Tim Adamson did, asking me to help him at the Little Theatre, and as Bagriola did tonight, I know I'm on the right track. Maybe you can fight things like these with rules and manuals and scientific tactics, but I don't think so. Now, there'll be no more arguments, no more left-handed advice—from right now on, you two will do what I want done the way I want it done or it's hail and farewell. I mean it, by God. First thing in the morning we start after these so-called Crusaders, and nothing else matters—and right now is the time to make up your minds. Is it yes or no?'
Bishop looked at Myra, biting his lip. There was nothing in her face that he could read.
'Well, Myra,' he said finally, 'it's the wrong way to do it, but it looks like we'll have to string along with him.'
'Yes,' Myra said huskily.
'All right,' Bishop said to him. 'You're dead wrong, but you're a thick-headed Mick with a one-way mind, and Jesus Christ Himself couldn't convince you in a million years. But we'll stick because we both love you. If by some miracle we get out of this, maybe I'll have time to show you where you're all wet.'
'That's fine ...' Dolan said. 'Now, will you please get the hell out of here and let me go to bed? My goddam head is about to pop off my shoulders—'
Bishop and Myra got up. Bishop picked his hat off the desk and went out slowly without even saying good night. Myra walked over to her coat on the bookcase and took a lot of time putting it on. Nothing was said. You could hear the ticking of the small alarm clock on the night table ... At the door, Myra turned and looked at Dolan, still not saying anything, still not smiling—just looking. Then she went out. In a minute he heard her following Bishop down the stairs.
It did not occur to him until he got in bed that this was the only time since he had known her that she had gone to her own room without first having an argument about spending the night with him. He didn't quite know what to make of this.
3
He was in the downstairs bathroom the following morning (the upstairs one was still haywire; Mrs. Ratcliff, the owner, still refusing to budge an inch), under the shower, washing, dabbing at his body, careful not to get the bandages on his head wet, when the door suddenly burst open. Dolan paid no attention, thinking it was one of the boys, until Elbert, who was shaving, uttered a shrill squeal of surprise.
Dolan parted the curtains and looked out. Just inside the door stood Roy Menefee, his face flushed and excited, a pistol in his hand.
'Come out of there,' he said to Dolan.
'I'm coming,' Dolan said, shutting off the water, throwing the curtains back, but still standing in the tub. 'What's the matter?'
'Where's April?'
'I don't know where April is. Why ask me?'
'Stop lying, Dolan—and tell me.'
'I am telling you. I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her in several days.'
'I'm going to kill you, you lying sonofabitch—'
It was almost funny to Dolan; Menefee, meek Menefee, standing there with a gun; Elbert watching him in horror, his arm still crooked, holding the razor against his face, afraid to move it. It was almost funny...
'Wait a minute, Roy,' Dolan said, not daring to move a muscle except to talk with. 'I don't know where your wife is. I've been busy as hell for a week and I haven't seen her. I haven't even heard from her. Have I, Elbert? Has she been here?'
'No—' Elbert managed to say.
'That's the God's truth, Roy—'
'Where else would she spend the night?' Menefee asked. 'She hasn't been home all night—'
'I don't know where she was, but she wasn't here. You can look upstairs at my bed. She didn't stay here. Anybody in the house'll tell you that. Put that gun away, Roy—you're absolutely mistaken this time.'
Menefee hesitated, but lowered the pistol, finally putting it in his pocket. He was under a great emotional strain. His face was still flushed, and he was blinking his eyes rapidly. Dolan knew that was to keep back the tears. He got out of the tub, wrapping a towel around him.
'Elbert,' he said, 'leave us alone a few minutes—'
Elbert nodded, walking out, still holding the razor.
'Here, Roy,' Dolan said, letting down the lid of the toilet seat. 'Sit down—'
Menefee walked over and sat down, his lips twitching.
'What made you think April was here?' Dolan asked.
'She's somewhere. I knew she used to have a crush on you—it's that Little Theatre that's done it. I've been trying to get her away from there for months.'
'Maybe the Little Theatre's not wholly to blame,' Dolan said, wiping his legs on the towel. 'Maybe April's a little to blame. Not that there's any harm in April—she's just naturally flirtatious. You know that—'
'I know she's slept with everybody in town. I know that. I found that out after I had married her.'
'Well—'
'Don't try to defend her, Dolan. You've slept with her yourself. I know that, too.'
'I haven't slept with her since she's been married—'
'You've had affairs with her since she's been engaged. What's the difference?'
'Hell of a lot. Look, Roy. You can't afford to be quick-tempered about this. You're liable to get into trouble with that gun—'
'I'm going to kill the man she was with last night,' he said calmly.
'And what? You'll be disgraced for life, maybe hanged. You're no bum; you're important people. No woman's worth going through that for.'
'I'm not thinking of April. I'm thinking of something else.'
'Pride?'
'Perhaps—well, I'm going. I'm going to the Little Theatre,' he said, getting up. 'If you're not the man, then he's around the Little Theatre. I'll find him,' he said, walking out.
Dolan watched him go, then picked up his robe and shoved his feet into the red slippers. He went out into the living-room and watched through the windows as Menefee got into his Packard coupe and drove off, fast. Then he went to the telephone and called the Little Theatre. They answered backstage and he asked to be transferred to the office. He waited a moment or two, and David answered.
'This is Mike Dolan, Dave,' he said. 'Okay... You get it?... Thanks for lending it to me. I left the check with Arlene, I wanted to pay you while I had it. Listen, Dave. Roy Menefee was just here with blood in his eye. He's looking for April and he's got a gun. He's on the way over there, and I thought you'd better tip the guys off to keep quiet about that electrician or else tell the guy to beat it... I don't know, she didn't go home last night. Menefee's desperate ... Okay. Sure, I'll see you one of these days ...'
He hung up and Elbert came up to him. The shaving soap had dried on his face.
'That was a narrow escape, wasn't it?' he said.
'Yes—'
'I was plenty scared for a minute, all right. God, a fellow never knows when some goofy guy is going to bump him off...'
Dolan walked off towards the stairs, not replying. His head was beginning to throb again.
'Well—I hardly knew you in your bandage,' Myra said cheerfully, as he walked into the office. 'What did the doctor say?'
'It's healing good. Couple of days and I'll be all right.'
'Hello, Dolan,' Grissom said.
'Hello—'
'Look,' Myra said, showing him a list of names. 'Nine people already have called up for annual subscriptions. Volunteers.'
'I told you that Carlisle thing was good advertising,' Grissom said.
'And Thomas called a couple of times. Said he wanted you to be in his office at noon. Very important. Big meeting or something—'
'What kind of a meeting?'
'He didn't say. Impressed on me the necessity for you to be there. Said it would be to your great advantage.'
'I haven't got time to fool with him,' Dolan said, frowning. 'What the hell can he want?'
'It won't do any harm to go see—'
'Maybe I will,' Dolan said, sitting down at the telephone, dialing the courthouse. He asked for the sheriff's office and finally got McGonagill on the telephone. Dolan said it was important that he see him at once. McGonagill said he'd better make it that night, because it wouldn't be wise for Dolan to come to the courthouse.
'Can't you run over here a minute?' Dolan asked. 'I wouldn't bother you, Bud—but this is pretty hot. I'll only keep you five minutes—'
McGonagill said all right, he'd come over.
'It's on Sixth Avenue, just off Terminal. Grissom's Publishing Company... Thanks, Bud.'
He replaced the receiver and stood up.
'I think it's fine about the subscriptions, Myra,' he said. 'Hello, Ed—how's the kid today?'
'Better, thanks—'
'Good. I'm going over and get a cup of coffee. I'll be back before McGonagill gets here—'
He went to the drug-store and was gratified to see they had a dozen or more Cosmopolites in the rack. He sat down at the fountain and ordered a cup of coffee. He drank it slowly and then went across the street to the office. Myra said she had two more subscriptions...
Ten minutes later McGonagill walked in the front door and spoke to Grissom. Grissom pointed upstairs and went over and sat down with Myra, talking to her.
'Sorry to trouble you, Bud,' Dolan said.
'That's okay, Mike,' McGonagill said, a little gruffly. 'How're you, Ed—'
'All right, Bud,' Bishop said. 'Sit down.'
'I ran into something last night I thought you might help me with,' Dolan said. 'You and Chief Emmett are the only men in town who can help me. I wanted to speak to you first.'
'Okay. What is it?'
'Did you ever hear of The Crusaders?'
'Why—no. Who are they?'
'You have heard of them, Bud,' Dolan said quietly. 'When you narrow your eyes and look over the tip of your nose you give yourself away. Who are they?'
'For God's sake, Mike. Is that all you wanted to ask me?'
'All! Don't you think that's plenty?'
'I don't know. I never heard of The Crusaders—'
'It's like the Epworth League—only different,' Bishop said, a trifle sarcastic.
'Bud,' Dolan said, leaning over, 'let's cut out the stalling. You know goddam well who they are. Hell, you can't help but know—'
'When did you find out about them?'
'Last night. This morning.'
'Well, if you just found out this morning, don't you think it's possible I might not have found out yet?'
'No, it's not. I met a man last night named Trowbridge. His wife said she'd talked to you personally about these Crusaders.'
'Trowbridge? I don't remember anybody named Trowbridge.'
'You ought to. She's the wife of the guy they strung up—the guy they paralysed—'
'I still don't remember,' McGonagill said, shaking his head. 'Maybe I met her and don't remember her. I meet a hell of a lot of people, you know—'
'Oh hell, Bud. I know you know who these Crusaders are—you know damn well I do. Why are you so jittery about talking?'
'You got me wrong, Mike. I'm not jittery. I'd talk if I knew anything—'
'You're going to talk to me—you can bet your life you're going to—'
'Now, hold on there, Mike,' McGonagill said, getting up, a dark look on his face. 'This has gone far enough. You're a good guy and I like you, but I'm goddamed if I'm going to let you shove me around—'
'I'm going to shove you around plenty if you don't tell me something. I'm not impressed by either the look on your face or the notches on your gun. You're in no position to get ritzy with me. I know a lot of people who're waiting to get at your throat. If you don't talk to me, I'll throw you to the wolves so goddam fast it'll make your head swim. I mean it.'
McGonagill looked around the balcony and then over the railing.
'Let's go downstairs,' he said, after a pause.
'That's more like it,' Dolan said, leading the way.
At the foot of the stairs Dolan turned and went back by the washroom.
'I can't tell you much, because I don't know much,' McGonagill said. 'But just between me and you, I hope you can do something. Another month and they'll be running the country. They're worse than the Ku Klux.'
'They can't be worse. Are you a member?'
'Hell, no. They never asked me.'
'You know anybody who is a member?'
'I'm pretty sure Sam Wren is. He's one of my deputies. I think Crenshaw is, too. I think he's one of the leaders.'
'Marvin Crenshaw—'
'Yeah—'
'Why, he's vice-president of the Colton National. He's one of the biggest guys in town. President of the Chamber of Commerce—'
'Just the same, Marvin Crenshaw is one of the leaders. You understand, none of this I'm telling you is personal knowledge. It's what I've heard around—'
'I understand. Don't worry, this is one time I'm not goin
g off half-cocked. But, no matter what happens, I'll be careful and not involve you.'
'Yes, for God's sake, be careful. Those other guys you were after is kindergarten stuff compared with this. That's why I've never paid any attention to the complaints. I can't afford to—'
'There's just one other thing, Bud—and if you do this I'll never ask another favour. I want you to find out from Wren when and where the next meeting will be held—'
'I can't do that, Mike. This is a hell of a secret organization. I might make Sam suspicious—'
'I'll leave that to you. You've had enough experience to handle it. After all, you're his superior officer.'
'Well, you'd never know it. Lately he's been pretty snotty. Bullying around—'
'He's lost his respect for you. He's probably after your job.'
'I know he is—'
'All right—so much more the reason you should help me. You find out when and where they meet and I'll smash 'em. I promise you that.'
'Okay. I'll do my best. But for God's sake—'
'I'll protect you, Bud. Thanks for coming over.'
McGonagill nodded and went out. Dolan went upstairs.
'What the hell was he stalling for?' Bishop said.
'I don't think he knows a lot—'
'The hell he doesn't. He's one of 'em himself—'
'I don't believe it. He's promised to help all he can—'
'Yeah? He's yellow. He's got a lot of guts when it comes to shooting people, but he's yellow when it comes to an issue like this. He's so goddam yellow he won't fight for his own family—'
'I'm going over to see Thomas,' Dolan said, cutting him off, going downstairs.
'... You want to have lunch with us?' Myra asked.
'I don't know how long I'll be,' Dolan said. 'I'm going to see Thomas—'
* * * * *
Dolan went into Thomas's office, looked for him, and the secretary said he was in the conference room on the second floor and had left word that if Dolan showed up he was to come right down. Dolan went outside into the city room, pausing before the old letter-box a moment under a wave of faint nostalgia. He was conscious of a terrific clatter in his ears as he turned around; it was the same place—typewriters going, teletype going, people moving and scraping, and then he realized that these were the same old sounds, too, only they seemed louder now because he had been away for weeks ...