Margie

by Howard Fast

  “Just how do you intend to prove that they were going to murder you?”

  “Isn’t it plain?—only he couldn’t get that silly silencer on the gun. And then they began shooting those guns and no one heard anything anyway.”

  “That still doesn’t give us the right to murder them,” Compton insisted.

  “I know that there’s a thing called manslaughter when you don’t actually set out to murder someone,” Margie said excitedly.

  “That’s a great thought,” Golden agreed. “That’s real creative thinking, Margie. That’s exactly what it is—manslaughter. I mean if any of them are dead. Well, I haven’t any hard feelings, not even now. Of course, I don’t like what they did to Margie. I wouldn’t let anybody do something like that to Margie—no, sir, not if I could prevent it. But aside from not wanting a fine American girl like Margie to be molested, I have absolutely no hard feelings against them. So it must be manslaughter.”

  “Just what do you think manslaughter is?” Compton asked cynically.

  “I never knew you felt like that about me,” Margie said to Hy Golden, squeezing his arm again.

  “You know—when you don’t feel angry at somebody, but you just happen to kill them anyway:”

  “That beats it!” Compton snorted. “That absolutely beats it. That is absolutely the greatest I have ever heard, absolutely the greatest!”

  “You’re a real help,” Margie said. “If Hy is wrong, what is right?”

  “I’m no lawyer.”

  “Well,” Margie said, “that at least is a sign of a little humility. I still think it is only manslaughter—and anyway, there’s no proof that any of them are dead except the chauffeur, and it was that wretched Gerald who shot him.”

  “Because you threw him at him.”

  “At who?”

  “The one who shot him.”

  “You talk as if I were throwing bodies all over the place.”

  “Well, weren’t you—” Compton began, and then he was interrupted by the sound of someone kicking at a piece of metal. A crash as the metal came loose, and then a voice, surprisingly near, barked:

  “Who is in authority here? Hello! Hello! Is the manager or the starter within sound of my voice?”

  “What do we do?” Golden hissed.

  “Let’s surrender,” Margie whispered.

  “Nobody’s asking us to surrender,” Compton said softly. “They don’t even know we’re here.”

  “Now hear me! I want an answer!” the voice boomed.

  “That’s a cop’s voice,” Compton whispered.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s obvious.”

  “Now hear this,” the voice barked. “This is John Comaday, Police Commissioner! I will repeat that! This is the Police Commissioner of New York City!”

  In a low, desperate whisper Compton said to them, “For God’s sake, keep quiet. Do you understand? When it came to muscle, I let you use your muscle—right, Hy?”

  “Right.”

  “So let me use my brains. I am going to get both of you out of this. It’s the only decent thing I can do.”

  “But why?” Margie hissed back, cynical and worldly after her experience with Gerald Macbain. “You’re such a louse, why should you do anything decent?”

  “That’s not fair,” Hy Golden put in.

  “Oh no? Have you been listening to him?”

  “So I’ve been a louse—”

  “And now we let you double-cross us?” Margie demanded.

  “Does my word mean anything?” he whispered fiercely, and Margie leaned over and whispered into Golden’s ear, “I don’t trust him—I don’t.”

  “All right,” Hy Golden said. “We don’t trust you, Alan, but we try. That’s for old time’s sake, and—”

  He was interrupted by a dangerous, barking, top-sergeant voice that demanded, “Who is in charge of this misrun building? This is the Police Commissioner talking.”

  “How can you prove that?” Alan Compton demanded brightly. “I mean—it’s only your word. We’re all in the dark.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Another voice, from the same source as the Police Commissioner’s cried, “That’s Alan Compton.”

  “Who?” barked the Police Commissioner.

  “My cousin—Alan Compton.”

  “That’s Fenton,” Alan whispered hoarsely.

  “See,” Margie said, “they’re on both sides.”

  “I told you, trust me,” Alan whispered. “If a Compton betrayed us, then I’ll strangle him with my own hands. But at least give him a chance to explain.”

  “Alan?” Fenton’s voice came—not the official bark by any means, yet a high-pitched commanding yip for a scholar. “Alan, is that you?”

  “I’m Alan Compton,” he replied with dignity—as much dignity as he could maintain in a shout—“but you, my cousin, I spit on you and deny you the right to call yourself a Compton if you have sold me out to the police.”

  “Sold you out?” Fenton cried indignantly. “What on earth have you done that you should even accuse me of that? As a matter of fact, I led the cops here to rescue you.”

  “Now wait a minute, Mr. Compton,” came the official, rasping voice of Lieutenant Rothschild. “I want to know who you’re talking to over in that elevator. You are in an elevator, aren’t you?” he yelled.

  “Right,” Alan yelled back.

  “Well, who is it?”

  “It’s my cousin, Alan Compton.”

  “You mean the Compton who works for Potnik?”

  “I don’t work for him—I work with him,” Alan shouted. “I share my talent, I do not sell it.”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Rothschild snapped. “What are you doing in that elevator?”

  “Going down.”

  “Just don’t get snotty with me, mister. Where’s the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “You know what girl. Margie Beck—the model.”

  “Margie? She’s gone on her way.”

  “What do you mean, she’s gone on her way?” Rothschild demanded. “First she’s in the hands of that oil crowd and now she’s on her way—just what in hell are you Comptons cooking up? I swear, if you’re conning me, I’ll have both of you put on ice for longer than you care to think about!”

  “I just want it on record that you are threatening me!” Fenton said.

  “No one’s threatening you, Mr. Compton,” came the voice of Larry Cohen. “Lieutenant Rothschild is understandably anxious about the safety of a New York City resident. This is his duty. We merely want to find out where the girl is.”

  “She’s safe,” Alan Compton shouted, his voice aloof and competent.

  “What is safe?” Rothschild demanded.

  “Her life was threatened by a group of ruthless miscreants—”

  “What?”

  “Miscreants.”

  “People of ill repute,” Fenton offered.

  “Crumbs,” Alan shouted. “Worthless crumbs. I dealt with them. The girl is safe and has gone on her way.”

  “Did you hear that?” Margie whispered to Hy Golden. “He dealt with them. Oh, I could scream, he makes me so furious. No wonder he wanted to sacrifice himself for us.”

  “But he’s taking all the blame,” Golden whispered back.

  “You’ve got to give him credit for that, Margie. He’s taking all the blame on himself.”

  “Hy Golden, you’re impossible.”

  “So you’re Alan Compton,” Rothschild said, his voice mixing all the attributes of a bark, a snarl, and a shout. “And you’re the cousin of this other Compton that we got here with us—the one who runs in the park.”

  “I don’t like the innuendo!” Fenton squealed.

  “No? Then save it and sue me. Meanwhile, you—Alan Compton—just what do you mean, you dealt with them? Who? How many? And exactly how did you deal with them?”

  “All right!” Alan Compton shouted back. “There were five of them. One in a chauffeur’s un
iform, two of them in pinstripe suits, and then there was one of them with a mustache and wearing a hunting jacket, and a younger man—five of them all together. I think the chauffeur is dead, or very badly wounded anyway. The two in the pinstripe suits took a bad beating, one of them out of it completely. The other two were roughed up a bit, but they were both conscious. Three of them had guns. I had to take the guns away. That was when the chauffeur was killed. One of the gang got him by mistake.”

  During this account Margie whispered to Golden, “Did you ever? Can you believe what you are hearing? Oh, just listen to him.”

  “He’s doing it for us,” Golden said.

  “Who are you, mister?” came Comaday’s voice. “If there’s a word of truth in what you’re saying, even ten per cent, you belong on the police force.”

  “We can drop the force and substitute him,” Larry Cohen said.

  “Are you trying to tell us,” Rothschild barked, “that you subdued five men, three of them armed, and that you did this singlehanded and you were unarmed and you took away their guns and one of them was killed in the process?”

  “That’s—more or less—the way it happened. Yes. But it wasn’t easy.”

  “It wasn’t easy?”

  “No, sir. No, sir. I would not want you to think that it was easy.”

  “And where are they now—this gang of hoodlums that you conquered?”

  “Up there on the twenty-second floor, in the offices of Dravinian International.”

  “Mister, I think you’re a goddamned liar,” Rothschild said indelicately.

  “Well, that’s your opinion. You are entitled to your opinion. The facts will reveal the truth ultimately.”

  “And what’s this about the chauffeur being dead? Who killed him?”

  “The one in Harris tweed—the small one.”

  “And where’s the girl?”

  “I got her out of there before the trouble started.”

  “So you got all this mayhem without a witness. And what gave you the right to be a one-man riot squad with these people?”

  “They were threatening the girl’s life.”

  “So that’s what they were doing. And just where is the girl right now, Mr. Compton?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You have no idea,” Rothschild said, being able somehow to shout in a quiet, icy manner. “So you got no idea where the girl is. Now let me tell you something, Mr. Alan Compton. I am placing you under arrest! Do you hear that?”

  “For what?”

  “You want it? All right. Assault and battery. Criminal assault. Attempted murder. Murder. Manslaughter. Plus murder in the first degree. And maybe kidnaping, if you had anything to do with snatching that Margie kid. Maybe grand theft, if you were in a conspiracy with her. And before we’re out of here, I will think of a few more things. So just don’t get any ideas that when the power comes back on you are just going to walk away from here. When the power comes on, you are going to step out of that elevator and turn yourself over to the police. And if you don’t we’ll put out an all points on you and seal up this city like a bottle of bonded whisky and pull you out of it like a damp cork. So don’t get any notions about running out.”

  “I want to talk to a lawyer!” Fenton cried.

  And Golden whispered gently to Margie, “You see how you misjudged Alan. You thought all he wanted was to be a big man, but it turns out that he has put himself in mortal jeopardy for us. Doesn’t it say in the Bible that greater love hath no man than this, that he shall lay down his life for a friend?”

  “It does not say it in the Bible, Hy, and he is not laying down his life for us, and I think it would be a very good idea if from here on, Hy, you allowed me to make the value judgments for both of us.”

  “For both of us?” he whispered weakly.

  “Yes. For both of us. Because I do not think you can be trusted to handle these things by yourself.”

  “I demand to talk to a lawyer,” Fenton Compton cried again.

  “For the time being you will shut up,” said Rothschild. “As for you, Compton, Alan—did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Alan answered miserably.

  “Any minute now the power will be back on. You understand? You are to surrender yourself immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got anything you want to add to your statement?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, think about it, Compton. Just think about it.”

  Compton leaned over toward Hy Golden and Margie and whispered, “I’m glad I did it, kids. Don’t worry about me. I’ll beat it somehow. I did it because I wanted to. I keep thinking, greater love hath no man than this, that he should lay down his life for a couple of sweet kids like you.”

  “Are you well?” Margie whispered. “Are you sure you’re not sick, Alan, because today was the kind of a day anyone could be sick from and not be ashamed of it?”

  “You think that a man cannot do a noble thing without being deranged. Is that it?”

  “I knew he’d come through,” Hy Golden said. “When the chips are down, Alan’s a nice guy. That’s all there is to it.”

  Rothschild’s voice demanded, “Hey, Compton, who the hell are you talking to?”

  “Myself,” Compton replied nobly.

  “Yourself?”

  “That’s right. Myself. Is there a law against it?”

  “Listen, Compton,” Rothschild barked sourly, “there is a law against practically anything you can think of. And if there isn’t a law on the books, I will talk to the mayor personally and have one passed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Compton answered.

  “You see,” Margie whispered to Golden, “it’s not your fault, because essentially you have a trusting nature. You have the most trusting nature of any man I have ever known, and I guess that is because essentially you are the most gentle man I have ever known.”

  “I am?”

  Margie had to stand next to him, on her toes, to direct the whisper toward his ear. “I’m so tired,” she said. “Why don’t we sit down with our backs against the side of the car? It may be hours before the power comes on.”

  Golden agreed that this was a good idea, and he led Margie to the side of the car and then eased himself and her down to the floor. He made her as comfortable as possible in the space between one oversized arm and his generally oversized side. Across the car Alan Compton remained sunk in grim yet noble silence.

  “Of course you are,” Margie whispered, her answer to his half question of a minute ago being in the way of a non sequitur.

  “What?”

  “The absolutely most gentle man I have ever known. In fact, just to be near you this way gives me a great sense of security. You know, if there is one thing a girl needs, Hy, it is a sense of security.”

  “I never thought of it just that way.”

  “Especially after a day like today. You just can’t imagine what I have been through since this morning.”

  “I can,” said Hy Golden emphatically. “I can indeed. And do you know something, Margie? No girl should be forced to endure what you have endured today. My idea of womanhood is something else. I think a girl should be the master of her own home, where she lives contentedly with her own family, her own children, and a husband that she cares for very deeply. Don’t you think that a husband and a wife should care for one another very deeply?”

  “Talking to yourself again, Compton?”

  “Suppose I am?” Compton answered pugnaciously. “Suppose I goddamn well propose to talk to myself until we get out of his black hole of Calcutta? So what? What do you intend to do about it?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Rothschild said.

  From the same car the shrill, angry voice of Fenton cried, “I call that conscious cruelty! Police brutality! You are the District Attorney of New York County, Mr. Cohen—”

  “Only an assistant—one of many.”

  “Still you represent the office of the Public Prosecu
tor, who by the very nature of his oath and office is the Public Defender. I can quote eleven instances in the history of the New York City Judiciary—namely the Tombs—where the Public Prosecutor has consciously and forcefully assumed the roll of Public Defender. There was the very famous case of Michleman versus the State, the almost as famous case of Anhiemer versus Prettyman, the case of Josephs versus the City, the case of—”

  “Shut up!” cried Comaday, without preface or nicety.

  “There you are I There you are! I ask you to bear witness, Mr. Cohen, threat of violence, threat of assault—and the fact that he who threatens is a public servant does not lessen the enormity of his action. If anything, it increases it. Indeed, I believe I am in a position to exercise a citizen’s arrest.”

  “What? This—this runner is threatening to arrest me?”

  “He’s within his rights,” Cohen said.

  “Bravo!” Alan yelled across the elevator shaft.

  “You mean you are advising him?”

  “Absolutely not,” Cohen replied. “I think it would be a little better if we all cooled down. This darkness can get on one’s nerves—”

  “Nerves? They don’t even have nerve endings!” Fenton exclaimed.

  “One more word,” said Rothschild, “and I will have Kelly here put the cuffs on you.”

  Fenton retreated into silence and Alan Compton, after feeling around fruitlessly in the dark, called to his companions:

  “Psst!”

  “Psst,” Hy Golden replied.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Shush—”

  “Well, I’m whispering, naturally.”

  “Here. Only don’t wake Margie. I think she just dozed off, poor kid.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “That’s the way it is with a girl alone in this city.”

  “You can say that again.” Compton sat down on the other side of Hy Golden. “I like the way Fenton handled himself,” he whispered. “The Compton blood always comes through.”

  “Oh?”

  “He told them what for.”

  “He did,” Golden agreed. “I’ll never be able to repay the Compton family—”

  The Police Commissioner was yelling for the management again. Then there was silence. Then an argument developed between him and the District Attorney. Then there was silence again. Then Compton struck a match, and to their amazement it was nine P.M.