by Irwin Shaw
The room was small and, aside from the blood on the rug and the unmade bed, eerily neat. Strand and Babcock stood at the door because there wasn’t enough space in the room for them all as the policeman methodically opened drawers, looked under the bed, threw back the blanket, turned over the rug, went through the pockets of Hitz’s clothes hanging in the closet.
“Nothing,” he said, after ten minutes.
“I told you,” Hitz said. He had been ashen in the infirmary and at the police station, except for the streaks of blood on his cheek and along his neck, but now the color had returned to his face. “You could’ve saved yourself the trip. I told you I didn’t take his money.”
“I think you better get into bed and get some rest, sonny,” the policeman said. “I’ll be going now.”
They left Hitz in his room, calm now and triumphant, and descended the stairs together. Strand said good night to the policeman and Babcock in the common room. Alone, he let himself drop into a chair for a few minutes. He felt too exhausted to face Leslie without some interval of quiet.
He closed his eyes and tried to recall the exact movements of the policeman as he searched Hitz’s room, going over the possibilities that the man might have overlooked just the one place that the money could be hidden. If he had found it, it would not have proven that Romero was innocent of a crime, but it would have been a mitigating circumstance, would have made Romero’s attack on Hitz less senseless, less savage and inexcusable. But as he ticked off from memory the places the policeman had looked, Strand could think of no corner that had been missed. He sighed, opened his eyes, stood up, looked for a long time at the bloodstain on the common room couch where Hitz had lain with Strand’s handkerchief pressed against his cheek. The handkerchief was still on the floor where the doctor had dropped it to look at the wound. The blood was dry now, a dark rust color, the cloth stiff. Strand bent and picked it up.
He turned off the light and went down the dark hall toward the door to the apartment. He remembered that Leslie had locked the door and fumbled in his pocket for the key. But when he put it in the door he found that the lock was open. He pushed open the door and went into the living room. All the lights were on.
“Leslie,” he called. “Leslie!” He went into her bedroom. The lights were on there, too. The door to her closet was wide open. He saw that most of her clothes were missing. Then he saw the note on her dressing table.
He picked it up, his hand trembling, stared at it. The handwriting was hasty, not like Leslie’s usual fine script at all.
Dearest,
Forgive me. I just couldn’t stand staying here another night. I’ve called Linda and asked her if she really meant that she would take me along with her to Paris. She said she did and I told her I’d drive into New York right away and be ready to leave with her tomorrow. Please don’t worry about me, my darling. And please, please take care of yourself. And above all, don’t blame yourself for anything. I love you with all my heart,
Leslie
He put the note down carefully, smoothed it out with his hand. Then he closed the closet door, put out the lights, and went into his room, undressed and got into bed. He did not set the alarm. Babcock would understand that he could not face a class that day.
“Of course, the whole school is talking about it,” Babcock was saying. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and they were driving in Babcock’s car toward the courthouse. Strand had awakened early, but had stayed in the apartment, disregarding the bell for breakfast and the ringing for the change of classes. He had tried to call Linda’s apartment, but the line had been busy each time he had dialed and he had finally given up. Leslie had not called him and he had sent a telegram to Linda asking her to phone him. He knew it was foolish to worry that Leslie might have had an accident on the way into the city. If anything had happened, somebody would have gotten in touch with him. But he could not get over the vision of Leslie, agitated and distraught, wandering off the road and crashing into a tree and lying bleeding in a ditch. He had also called Hazen’s office but had been told by a secretary that Mr. Hazen had left early that morning for Washington. Conroy had driven him to the airport, the secretary had said, and she did not know where Mr. Hazen could be reached or when he would be back. “Naturally,” Babcock said, driving slowly and carefully, “the Hitz boy spread the news as soon as he woke up this morning. With some lurid exaggerations, I would imagine, from what has come back to me. And he telephoned his father and his father got me on the phone and was most—ah—emphatic with me. What he actually said was that if I tried to whitewash the scandal—that’s the word he used, scandal—he’d have my job. He also threatened to sue the school for criminal negligence for ignoring a known danger—that’s Romero, of course—and to close us down. And to make sure that I knew that he was not—ah—absolutely happy, he said that if his son was forced to answer to a charge of theft he would name us as codefendants in a criminal libel suit. It’s not the most obliging of families.” Babcock smiled wanly. His face was gray and strained, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. His hands clenched the wheel so tightly that his knuckles showed white.
“You’ve had a busy morning,” Strand said.
“I’ve had worse,” Babcock said. “There was the morning eighty boys woke up vomiting and with extreme cases of diarrhea. We thought it was typhoid. It turned out to be the pastry we had for dessert the night before. The theory is that schoolmasters live to a ripe old age.” He laughed softly. “Outdated wisdom.”
“What do you expect you’ll have to do?” Strand asked.
“I’m afraid the first thing we’ll have to do is expel the boy. Romero. If we don’t we’ll probably lose half the enrollment of the school.”
Strand nodded. “He brought it on himself.”
“It’s a tragedy just the same,” Babcock said. “The next thing I hope to do is keep him out of jail some way. Try for a probationary period, at least. I’ve called the school lawyer and he’s already seen Romero and is meeting us at the courthouse. I had hoped to avoid it. That’s why I tried to get in touch with Mr. Hazen to see if he knew somebody else around here. If the parents—especially the ones like Mr. Hitz—get wind of the fact that we’re paying the school’s money for Romero’s defense…” He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. “How is Leslie taking it all?”
Strand had been waiting for the question, although he had hoped it wouldn’t be asked. “Rather hard, I’m afraid. She’s taken advantage of your kind offer of a sick leave and will be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“She’s left already?” Babcock’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
“Yes.”
“I don’t blame her. If I could, I’d leave too.” Babcock smiled wearily. He maneuvered the car into a parking place in front of the pillared, white clapboard courthouse. “A handsome building,” he said. “Built in 1820. What woe has paraded through its corridors.”
The lawyer for the school was named Hollingsbee. He was waiting for them at the door to the courtroom. He was fat and florid, in a beautiful dark suit. His voice matched his appearance, round and actorish. “They’ll be bringing the boy in shortly,” he said after acknowledging Babcock’s introduction to Strand with a courtly nod. “I’ve spoken to him and I fear we have a difficult case on our hands. Romero won’t cooperate at all. He’s not going to testify. He told me he won’t open his mouth. In court he says he won’t even say why he did what he did, even though he told the police Hitz stole his money. Let ’em do their worst, he told me, what good would it do to talk? He says I’m the talker in the operation, I can say whatever I want. He seems to know more than is good for him about the law. He says he can’t be forced to incriminate himself and he’s not going to do it. He’s sorry he talked as much as he did to the police. His attitude is sullen—perhaps understandably so—but it won’t win sympathy in court. A little sign of contrition would be useful.” The lawyer shrugged. “But that doesn’t seem to be within his range. He says Mr. Strand here saw him running
after Hitz with a knife and that he admitted both to Mr. Strand and the police that he used the knife on Hitz. He says everybody in the courtroom would laugh at him if he pretended he didn’t cut Hitz. In fact, if you want to know what I think, he’s proud of it and wants everybody to know he did it. He refuses to tell me why he suspects Hitz of being the thief. He says he’s always known he’d wind up in jail one day and he has lots of friends who’ve been there and he’s not afraid of it. His attitude, I have to tell you, will not sit kindly with the judge. Or with the jury, if it comes to that. He’s over eighteen and he’ll be tried as an adult. And we’re pleading in a small town in Connecticut, not New York or Chicago, where knifings of this kind, obviously not with the intent to kill, are considered an almost normal part of everyday life. I’ll do my best, of course…” The lawyer’s voice sank to a melancholy register. “But I’m not optimistic.”
“What are you able to do?” Babcock asked.
“Play on the boy’s background. Brought up in a slum, with a broken and poverty-stricken family, etcetera, etcetera. The usual. Destruction of a promising career in a moment of emotional imbalance, that sort of thing. Not much.”
“What can we do to help?” Babcock asked.
The lawyer made a small, helpless gesture with his hands. “Act as character witnesses for the accused. Bring up whatever you think might be useful. Remember you will be under oath.”
Whatever he said about Romero’s character, Strand knew, would never be the truth. Would he mention the stolen volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire? Not if he wanted to keep the boy out of jail.
As they were standing there, Hitz came down the hall. The big bandage on his cheek made a dramatic pattern on one side of his face. He bulged out of his clothes. Strand saw that his fly was open. Hitz looked at the three men resentfully, but stopped and said, “Good morning, Mr. Babcock.” He ostentatiously ignored Strand. “My father said he was going to get in touch with you, sir. Did he reach you?”
“He reached me,” Babcock said.
“He was very upset when I told him what happened,” Hitz said.
“So it seemed,” Babcock said. “Well, shall we go in?”
“Don’t think I’m going to make things easy for Romero,” Hitz said. “Or you, Mr. Strand.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Strand said. “And zip up your fly. You don’t want to be held in contempt of court, do you?”
Hitz’s face went red and he was struggling with the zipper as Strand led the way into the courtroom, where Sergeant Leary was waiting to testify. Among the few spectators Strand noticed a young woman whom he recognized as a reporter for the town newspaper seated in the first row, a writing pad on her lap and a pencil in her hand. Babcock saw her, too, and whispered, “The news has spread fast, I’m afraid. She’s not here to watch the judge handle parking tickets.”
Romero came in with the policeman who had arrested him. At least, Strand thought, he’s not in handcuffs. He looked small and frail in the dark sweater Strand had bought him at Brooks Brothers. He smiled as he passed Hitz and said good morning to the headmaster and Strand. The lawyer accompanied him to a table set in front of the judge’s bench.
The judge entered from his chambers and they all stood up. The bailiff declared the court open and they all sat down, except for the lawyer and Romero and the two policemen, who stood in front of the bench.
The district attorney read the charge in a monotonous drone. Romero looked around the courtroom curiously, as though he was not interested in what the man was saying but was intrigued by the architecture of the old hall.
The district attorney finished and the judge asked, “How does the defendant plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” the lawyer said quickly.
Romero looked at the judge sardonically. The judge peered down at him over the steel rims of his reading glasses.
“I don’t recognize the jurisdiction of this court,” Romero said.
Strand groaned. TV, he thought, a thousand hours of TV lawyers.
The judge sighed. “We will not go into that at the present time, Mr. Romero. I remand you for trial in custody of the court. I set bail at ten thousand dollars.”
Strand heard Babcock gasp. He only half listened as the lawyer argued for a reduction in bail and the acting district attorney emphasized the gravity of the case and the danger to the plaintiff if the defendant, who had admitted his act of violence and showed no remorse for it, was allowed to roam free.
“The bail stands at ten thousand dollars,” the judge said. “Next case, please.”
The reporter was scribbling busily as Romero, between the policeman and the lawyer, walked down the aisle toward the door. As the trio passed Hitz, Hitz raised his middle finger in a derisive, obscene gesture. Romero stopped walking and for a moment Strand was afraid he was going to leap at Hitz. But Romero merely said, loudly enough for the whole court to hear, “Your time will come, fat boy.” Then he allowed the policeman to lead him out of the room.
“Oh, my God,” Babcock said. He shook his head sadly. “I dread to think of what that young lady is going to write for tomorrow morning’s paper.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief, as though he was trying to erase what the glasses had witnessed in the courtroom. “Well,” he said, “we’d better be getting back to the school.”
On the way back in the car he said, “Allen, do you think Mr. Hazen would be willing to put up the bail money?”
“Ten thousand dollars?” Strand said. “I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess.”
When he got back to the campus it was the lunch hour and Strand was grateful that he wouldn’t have to face any of the students or faculty as Babcock dropped him off in front of the Malson house. Getting out of the car, he felt as though his legs were giving way under him and he was afraid he would not be able to make it to the door. “If you don’t mind,” he said to the headmaster, “I would like to skip meals and classes for a day or two.”
“I understand,” Babcock said. “If I could, I’d skip meals and classes for a year.”
“I’ll try to get in touch with Mr. Hazen. If I do, I’ll let you know what he says.”
Babcock nodded and drove off. Strand went into the house. Mrs. Schiller was down on her knees, with a brush and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing at the couch. She stood up when Strand came in. “What a business,” she said. Her plump, maternal face, which always seemed to be flushed from standing in front of some invisible oven, was pained. “In twenty years here, there’s never been anything like this.” She looked around, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “I have to tell you something, Mr. Strand. But you have to promise that it won’t go any further.”
“Is it about what happened last night?”
“About last night. Yes.”
“I promise.”
“Can we go into the apartment?” She spoke in whispers. “I haven’t been upstairs and one of the boys might’ve decided not to go to lunch and I wouldn’t want anybody to hear.”
“Of course,” Strand said and led her down the hallway and unlocked the door and opened it. She followed him into the living room.
“Mr. Strand,” she said, “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m afraid it was my fault.” She was near tears.
“What was your fault?”
“Romero stabbing the Hitz boy.”
“How could that be?” Strand asked sharply.
“When I came in last night to turn down your beds, it was during the supper hour and the boys were all out of the house, I thought. I heard a radiator knocking and I went upstairs to turn it off. It was in the hall, right at the head of the stairs. The valve was stuck and I was working at it when I saw a boy coming out of Romero’s room. It was young Mr. Hitz. I asked him why he wasn’t at supper. He said he wasn’t hungry, he’d had some hot dogs on the road on the way back to school. And he went downstairs to his room. I thought nothing of it. The older boys are allowed to miss
supper at the end of holiday nights. I went home, we have a little house just off campus, and Mr. Schiller and I were watching television and we were just about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. Jesus Romero was there. It must have been after eleven o’clock. He seemed calm enough. He’s a cool boy at all times, mature for his age, if you know what I mean. At least I used to think so…until all this happened…” Her lips and double chins quivered.
“What did he want?”
“He said he’d just come in. He’d been on a trip, he said, for the weekend, and he’d missed connections getting back to Dunberry. He said something was missing from his room, a book he needed for his first class in the morning. He didn’t seem overly concerned, except I should have guessed it was something important, his coming to my house so late at night. Only what with the holiday and the television and all, I just wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head sadly. “He wanted to know if I knew anything about the book. Well, Mr. Strand…If I’d dreamed what was in his mind I’d have kept my peace till doomsday. But the boys have a habit of going into each other’s rooms and borrowing things—books, ties, a sweater…So I said I’d seen Mr. Hitz coming out of his room at supper time. Now I could cut my tongue out for being so foolish.” She was weeping now.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.
“I’ve been partial to Jesus since the beginning, Mr. Strand. He’s such a gentleman with me and he’s so neat and the other boys—at least most of them—treat him like a stray dog and I thought I was being helpful. He asked me if Mr. Hitz was carrying anything and I tried to remember, but I couldn’t and I told him.”
“How did he react to that?”
“Very calm, Mr. Strand. Not a hint of anything really wrong. He just said thank you and that he hoped he hadn’t disturbed me and Mr. Schiller and went away and I thought nothing of it until this morning when I heard…” The tears were pouring now down her full cheeks.