Compulsion

by Meyer Levin

  “I ate at the house. I’m sorry,” he apologized to Horse-teeth. “I guess I was upset and excited about this case.” He told all about his frat brother, the reporter who had identified the body.

  “Poor Mrs. Kessler, she’s prostrate, I read,” Lewis’ bride put in.

  Horse-teeth remarked that it was the war, the destruction that had taken place in the war. Life meant nothing any more.

  “Sure, after all that mass killing, human life becomes only an abstraction,” Artie pronounced, feeling Jocko would have enjoyed this, and diving into a second dish that Clarice had set before him.

  “What do you know about mass killing?” Lewis, the war veteran, demanded of Artie. “You were just a kid.” Big hero.

  “That’s exactly when the effect is strongest,” Artie replied, glittering at the guest. Bet she’d wet her pants before he was through. “What did we play?” he demanded rhetorically. “Kill the Huns! Mow them down! We even had a scoreboard at school, how many Huns were killed! Hey! I forgot to tell you – I’ve got the inside news! They arrested a teacher! Steger! It isn’t in the papers yet. Sid Silver told me.” He gazed around, reaping their reactions. “You better watch out for Billy, Mums. That school is full of perverts.”

  “Kiddo! Watch it,” his older brother Lewis sniffed, while his father looked pained. James, however, gave him a funny, keen look.

  His father reminded Artie that it was unfair to come to hasty conclusions merely because a teacher was being questioned. It could have been any stupid brute.

  “Oh, no! Take the ransom letter in the paper,” Artie exclaimed. “That’s no illiterate crook! That’s the letter of an educated man, also of someone who can type. Say, they ought to check every typewriter in that school!”

  And in that instant, Artie saw the goddam portable still sitting in Judd’s room. Gobbling a last spoonful of strawberries, he leaped up.

  “Date?” his mother asked.

  “Yah. Just remembered.”

  “Mary?” his mother asked. “Or would it be violating the etiquette of our flaming youth for a mother to ask?”

  “It’s a new frail; you don’t know her,” he said. And on the spur of the moment added, “Ruth Goldenberg.” That way she couldn’t check up. “Brilliant babe – all A’s, and a good dancer. Folks are nobodies.”

  He rushed to the phone.

  Only to hear Artie’s voice, breathless, talking in their private code, gave back to Judd a sense of life; even if there were danger, it relieved the caged feeling he had had at the table – the sense of being defenceless there, alone, open to be caught. “I saw a bargain in portable typewriters,” Artie was saying. “Thought you might want to pick one up with me, two blocks south of Twelfth Street.” That meant two hours before twelve, Artie would be over. And portable typewriters? Judd gasped. Another error! His! And Artie had spotted it. The portable on which he’d typed the ransom letter, Artie leaning over him, suggesting phrases to make it sound real businesslike. The typewriter could give them away! If the glasses were traced to him, and the house searched, the portable found… They’d have to get rid of it tonight.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was thinking of getting rid of my old portable at that. Two south of Twelfth. I’ll go along with you.”

  As Judd came back into the dining-room, preoccupied, Max remarked, “Your chum again?” Max never let up about him and Artie. “I never could figure out what two guys have got to call each other up about all the time. Weren’t you with him all day today? And yesterday?” Max said it jovially, but there was that smutty look back of his eyes. Ever since a certain story had got out about Judd and Artie, a couple of summers before, at the Straus’s summer place in Charlevoix, Max had never let up. “What were you guys doing all day long?”

  “We went birding.”

  “I’ll bet. Chickens,” he said with his fat chuckle, but with an air of letting it go. Max put a big cigar in his mouth, like the old man, and the two of them resumed talking business.

  Judd looked at them, feeling acutely the “who are you?” that he sometimes wanted to blurt out. When his mother had been alive, there had at least been someone for him, at the table, when the “men” got off on their business dealings.

  Sure, that same old story about himself and Artie was why the old man had been so easy about the trip to Europe. What a joke it would have been on them if the ransom had been collected and Artie had joined him abroad! Not that Artie still couldn’t do if it he wanted to – Artie certainly had the money.

  “Too bad Artie isn’t going with you,” Max’s voice banged in; it was frightening how that stupe seemed to sense his thoughts. “You two could have gone birding all over the place.”

  Judd didn’t answer; but as Max, chortling, went back to the business talk, the whole scene of yesterday flooded Judd’s mind. Birding, yes, birding for a rare specimen. Parking the rented car under the tree shade where the branches hung low to give a natural cover, so that from the school entrance the kids could hardly see anyone sitting in the car. And sitting motionless, hushed, just as when birding, until you are part of the landscape itself. Sitting quietly in the car you became part of the street, and you waited for the flock to pour out of the school doors like a flock whirring up suddenly out of a thicket, when quickly you snagged your specimen.

  Waiting. “All set?” Artie’s eyes flicking, checking the pockets of the car. All the equipment on hand?

  In the pocket on Judd’s side, handy, the ether cans. The length of clothes line. Artie had wanted a silken cord, but at the last moment they couldn’t find one. In the other pocket, on Artie’s side, the chisel and the hydrochloric.

  What made this the day?

  Again Judd saw the last test of the train. “Perfect! Let’s set the day!” And even then he had thought of something. What about the car? If someone spotted his car? Anybody’d know the Stutz, Judd objected. Then Artie wanted to make it a stolen car, but Judd said no, that would only increase the danger of apprehension. To make it a perfect crime, the car had to be unidentifiable.

  There it hung. Artie became sullen. But driving down Michigan, passing the Drive-Ur-Self place, Judd suddenly had the idea. A rented car. This proved he still wanted to do it, and Artie came partly back. A shitty idea, he argued; if they trace the car, they trace who rented it. You can’t just use a fake name; they check references. Okay, Judd had said, we establish a fictitious identity – with references!

  That brought Artie back entirely. Shifting closer on the seat, Artie plotted an identity. A fake name. You could open up a bank account. And register in a hotel. Then the personal reference. That was easy. “You give them a number where I’ll be waiting, and I’ll answer. Why, I’ve known Jonesey for ten years. He’s a fine, upright citizen!”

  Great! Judd slapped Artie’s knee. Another thing, Judd said. Better take the car out at least once before, so there would be no suspicion.

  Artie gave him a glance. Was this more stalling?

  It was a whole chain of things, then. It stretched from one week into the next; could it even have stretched till the day never came, till he sailed with the thing undone? Had he really meant to do it?

  There was the going down to the Morrison Hotel, Artie throwing a suitcase into the Stutz, the one he claimed he always had ready for registering with a girl. The suitcase felt too light, and Artie threw a couple of books into it, a history from the university library, and H. G. Wells – that made it heavy enough. And what about a name? J. Poindexter Fish, Artie offered, and how about P. Aretino, Judd proposed, and that led to a great game, each outdoing the other. Or how about making it someone they knew, like Morty Kornhauser, the prig, for causing all that trouble at Charlevoix? Or Milt Lewis, the ponderass? But then, settling down to it, they chose a name from a store window – Singer Sewing Machines. Artie signed James Singer in the register, and they went up, and laughed and laughed in the room, and had a drink and fooled around, and then Artie said, “Come on, how about renting the car?”

  Lea
ving the suitcase, they drove up Michigan, and Judd said, “Wait, don’t forget the bank account for Mr. Singer.” Artie put in three hundred, signing James Singer, Morrison Hotel at the Corn Exchange Bank. And then, how about some mail at the hotel for Mr. Singer? They wrote a couple of letters, crazy stuff: How about a jazz, Jimmy dear? My husband is out of town. Your devoted Cuddles. It was getting better and better!

  Then, the reference. A name: Walter Brewster. Then, stopping at a lunch counter on the corner of 21st, Judd taking down the number in the phone booth, leaving Artie sitting at the counter, waiting.

  Selecting a Willys at the Drive-Ur-Self. “What business, Mr. Singer?”… “Salesman.”… “Any references in town, Mr. Singer? You know, we are required to have at least one business reference.”… “Oh, that’s all right, you can call – Mr. Walter Brewster.” And giving him the number. Then waiting while the dope called. “We have a Mr. James Singer here, to rent a car… Yes? Yes, thank you, Mr. Brewster. Any time we may be of service to you, sir.”… And driving out with it, picking up Artie at the lunch counter – smooth as silk.

  “O.K., let’s set the day.” Not too soon after the first car rental. So the rental guy wouldn’t remember you too clearly. A week must pass, at least. That would be past the middle of May.

  And the day his steamer ticket came, Judd had to show it to Artie. Artie’s eyes, wise to him, until Judd had to say, “How about writing the note tonight?” That made it so close, it had to happen. The ransom letter ready – Dear Sir – and the blank envelope waiting for a name to be written on it. The specimen to be selected. That was it. Life and death, pure chance. The day itself a random choice, until Artie said, “Friday?”

  And Judd said, “No, I’ve got the lousy Harvard Law exam.” And if it waited past the exam, and past the weekend, it would already reach the week before his sailing. Then, Max’s engagement party…

  “All right,” Artie gave him that cunning look, and pinned him, moving the date forward instead of farther away. “Wednesday.”

  And Judd could say nothing except, “Hey, we were supposed to have lunch with Willie.”

  “The nuts!” Artie said. Willie would be an alibi, ready-made. Wednesday, then. Yesterday.

  After his ten-o’clock, driving down Michigan with Artie. “I had one of your cars out, once before. James Singer. Just got back into town.” And then the two cars driving back south, Artie ahead of him in the Willys, pushing the speed, and himself racing the Bearcat, nose to tail. Then, picking up the last things. The hydrochloric, though he wasn’t entirely sure – maybe sulphuric would work faster. But hydrochloric should do it. Two drugstores, without any luck. At the third, Artie going in, otherwise too many druggists might remember the same short, dark young man with the unusual request. Artie, bringing it. And finally the chisel. A hardware store on Cottage Grove. Artie knowing the kind that was best, the kind with the steel going all the way up through the wooden head.

  And then stopping to get Max’s boots. And remembering – a silken cord. Artie tramping through the bedrooms. “Hey, how about this?” The cord from the old man’s dressing gown. Great!

  “No, he might miss it.” Then, Artie: “All right, the hell, any piece of rope. Buy some clothes line. Wait, don’t forget to pick up the goddam adhesive tape.” In the medicine chest.

  And then just time enough before lunch to stop in Jackson Park, Artie showing him how to wind the tape around the chisel, thick around the blade – tape makes a perfect grip.

  Thus, all set. The lunch at the Windermere, and Willie, Willie the Horrible Hebe with his oily dark face, trying to act real clever, quoting from Havelock Ellis, flashing his medical-student sex-anatomy knowledge, trying to play up to Artie, and never knowing, never having the faintest idea what was going on between his luncheon partners.

  Coming out, they ducked Willie, so he wouldn’t see the car they were using. Then, on the way to the Twain School, Judd went into his house once more. From the bottom drawer in Max’s room, he took the revolver. Artie already had his own, in his pocket.

  Even when they were ready on the spot, waiting, so close to the school, it still did not seem that the thing was happening. The school doors opened, and a flock emerged – first a few, then the thick mass of them, spreading over the street. Judd saw himself as he had been among them only a few years ago, the spindly-legged crazy bird, smaller, younger than anybody. “Hey! Genius!” a redheaded comedian would call – “Hey, Genius, I saw a funny bird, right on Ellis Avenue.” And, falling for it, “What was it like?” “A Crazy Bird!” and the comedian would be pointing at him, and the whole gang howling. The punks, the snots! Why, even at that time he could name and identify over two hundred species!

  And maybe picking up one of these punks today would be a kind of revenge for his miserable years in this miserable school. Today’s flock, or the flock around him four years ago – all crowds were the same, raucous humanity, stupes…

  But coolly, Judd checked himself. What he was doing today was not for revenge. He must have no feelings about those days. Even then, as a kid, he had known that he must not feel anything. That way, nothing could hurt.

  Therefore, no revenge. No emotional connection. This was an exercise in itself, a deed like a theorem.

  “Hey, ixnay.” Artie gestured for him to drive on. Too many of these kids were coming toward the car. Some might know them. Artie slid down in his seat, while the car rolled around the block. By then the flock was already broken up. A few kids walked with maids who always called for them, and some lingered in small groups, girls especially. Then Artie nudged, pointing his chin. “Richard Weiss.”

  A good one. A cousin of their pal Willie, and a grandson of Nathan Weiss, the biggest investment banker in Chicago, the financier behind all their family fortunes, the Strauses, the Hellers, the Seligmans. Little Richard Weiss was turning into 49th Street. It took a moment to make the U-turn, and by the time they came to 49th Street, the kid was not in sight.

  In that momentary interval, the whole thing went down again in Judd. Perhaps losing the kid was an omen that it wouldn’t really be done. “The hell with him,” Artie said. “Let’s go back to the school.”

  If by now the school street was clear, then today’s chance would have been lost, and tomorrow Judd could say he really had to get ready for his exam.

  “Hey!” Judd followed Artie’s glance. Across from the school, on the play lot – a whole flock of them. “Watch me!” Boldly, Artie walked across to the lot. Judd sat staring, feeling a kind of awe. This was the way of a man entirely above normal fears and rules. So bold an impulse would never have occurred in himself, Judd knew.

  Artie walked casually on to the lot. Judd saw him stop and put his arm around his kid brother, Billy. Would he really bring Billy!

  He was leaving the lot alone. Judd pulled the car ahead a short distance to get out of sight of the kids. Catching up, jumping into the car, Artie said excitedly, “There’s a whole bunch of good ones. Mickey Bass.” His old man owned the South Shore Line. “And the Becker kid – but he’s pretty husky.”

  “How about Billy Straus?” Judd suggested. “His old man is the richest Jew in town.”

  Artie grinned. Then he shook his head. “How would we collect? Cops would be all over the house; I couldn’t make a move.” He looked back toward the lot. “I’ll tell you. Let’s make it the first good one that leaves the ball game.”

  They waited. Artie became restless. Motioning Judd to follow, he dodged around behind the play lot; from the alley they could watch the kids – birds with their random movements, stirring on the vacant lot. Artie was getting dangerously close. And yet not near enough to recognize one kid from another, especially those at the distant end of the field. They seemed to go on endlessly with their ball game. “Damn it,” Judd said, “you need field glasses.”

  “Hey! You’re a genius!” Artie squeezed his arm. “Let’s go!”

  “What?”

  “Let’s get your goddam glasses!”
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br />   Fleetingly, Judd wondered, was even Artie at that moment giving the whole plan a chance to collapse? Allowing a chance for all the kids to disappear while they went back for the field glasses?

  The house was quiet. Up in Judd’s room, Artie went straight for the Bausch and Lomb, grabbing the case. “Take it easy!” Judd cried. “They’re delicate!”

  Standing by the window, Artie focused. “This is the nuts! Christ, you could reach out your mitt and grab one of them!”

  Judd stood close to Artie. It was one of those moments, perhaps because of being safe together in the room, and yet in the midst of their wild game – one of those moments when he could almost groan with excitation.

  Artie turned to let him use the binoculars. And from the look in Artie’s eyes, that almost mocking look, Judd knew that Artie knew. “Come on!” Artie laughed, bounding for the stairs. “We’ll miss them!”

  Into the car again, and back beneath the tree. They took turns with the field glasses. It was so strange, watching a kid as he bent to tie his shoe lace, then stood up, waiting. Like a bird, preening, lifting his head, listening.

  Artie said, “One’s coming!” Judd started the motor. Then Artie shook his head. “No. I dunno.” They waited, the motor running. Judd felt Artie’s hand on his thigh, warm, tense, ready. Anything, anything to have times like this with Artie.

  A squeeze would be the signal.

  On the field, the boys had formed in a knot; it was an argument. Perhaps the game was breaking up.

  “The ump,” Artie muttered. “I think the ump quit.” Then, elatedly: “He’s coming! It’s the little Kessler punk. Hey! He’s just right!”

  “Who is he? You know him?” Judd’s voice went suddenly high. “They got dough?”

  “They own half the Loop. Old man used to be a pawnbroker.”

  Somehow, with that, the boy seemed exactly the right one.

  The squeeze came, on his thigh. Let out the clutch, slow, easy, crawling. Let the boy walk ahead a bit, lead your bird.

  Artie climbed over to the back seat. They had four blocks to work in, he said; the kid’s house was near his own. “Street’s clear,” he observed.