He held out his hand to me. I took a cigarette out of my case and gave it to him. I leaned over and lit it. His hand was shaking and his eyes, watching Connie, showed a vestige of that same lurking dread which had haunted his father’s face.
“I’ve always been scared of that, you know, ever since that last day when they came to get her, when she was screaming in her room and—and they came up the stairs with the strait jacket, the man in the white coat, the woman, the nurse or whatever she was, coming up the stairs, carrying that—that thing like a life preserver. I remembered all that and I got so scared. I guess I even forgot about Ala and the gun and everything. I just lay there, holding on as if there was a great cliff and I was on the edge. Then I guess I must have passed out or maybe just fallen asleep. But when I came to again it was five-thirty in the morning.”
There was another chair. Connie sat down on it. The noise of its legs scraping across the floor seemed deafening.
She said, “So that’s when you came over to us and waited across the street. You—you still had the gun with you?”
“Yes. I’d fallen asleep without undressing. The gun was still there in my pocket. I guess I didn’t exactly know what I was going to do any more. I was pretty confused. I just knew I had to see Ala. And then, well, she finally came. You know all that. I mean, my going up, talking to her and coming down. I guess I must have seemed pretty odd to you. God knows, I felt odd. You see, she’d said it was all hopeless, that we were through, that—that whatever you said about Saxby, it didn’t matter. She loved him. She was going to marry him. And, knowing what he was, knowing he was only out to shake you down for some money… When I loved her the way I loved her, the way I love her—”
“I know,” broke in Connie. “Of course I know. And I was frightened. That’s why I tried to make you go home.”
“But I didn’t. I don’t know what time it was. Around ten, I guess. And it all seemed perfectly straightforward to me then. I’d go to him. I don’t exactly know what I was thinking I was going to do. I—I didn’t actually say to myself any more: You’re going to kill him. Maybe I thought I could scare him or—I don’t know. But I walked down Madison and I went into a hotel. I looked up his address in a phone book and I called him. I wanted to make sure he’d be there. But the phone didn’t answer and—and that threw me a bit. I got kind of confused again. I started to walk. I must have walked downtown and across because I found myself on Forty-Second Street between Seventh and Eighth, where all the movie houses are. I called again. He still wasn’t answering. I went into one of the movies. It was some sort of an Italian picture. I sat looking at it with my hand on the gun, thinking about Saxby all the time. Then, well, it sounds crazy, but I went to sleep. I must have slept quite a while because when I woke up the picture was starting again. I must have slept through the whole show. I went out. I started walking again and I walked straight to Saxby’s place. I pressed the buzzer; the front door clicked. I opened it. There was a sort of iron grille elevator. I took it up to some floor—the fourth, I think. There was a door. I was just about to knock on it when it opened and he was there. He stood looking at me, smiling, and he said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ ”
Both he and Connie had forgotten me. They sat watching each other, completely absorbed with each other.
“What time was this?” I said.
“The time? Gee, around two, I guess. Two—two-thirty.”
“Yes,” Connie cut in, “you went there. He opened the door…”
“He stood there. He was smiling. He said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and he stepped aside and I went in and he shut the door behind us. And suddenly I’d—I’d lost the thread again. I guess I’d thought so much about it; I’d sat there in that movie, holding the gun, thinking about him, that—when it was actually happening... I don’t know. But that’s the way it was. I just stood there like a moron. He came up to me, smiling as if he was my oldest buddy. ‘I suppose it’s about Ala,’ he said. “Yes,’ I said. Then the smile went and he said very gently, ‘I’m terribly sorry. I know how tough it is for you. I only hope you’ll be able to forgive me. You see, we love each other and it’s something we can’t fight against.’ When I heard him say that, knowing all about Toronto and everything, I felt the rage surging up in me. ‘You love her!’ I said. ‘You bastard!’ And I took out the gun. He was only about two feet from me. I took it out—and I aimed it straight at his chest.”
He stopped then. In the cruel illumination from the overhead light, I could see his Adam’s apple working convulsively up and down his throat.
“I wasn’t scared of him,” he said. “I swear it wasn’t that. It—it was just—well, feeling the gun in my hand, seeing him standing there, hating him so much—it just didn’t happen. You know what he did? He just leaned forward and took the gun out of my hand. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. He just went with the gun to the door. He opened it. He waved at the door with the gun—and I walked out. I wasn’t there more than a couple of minutes. I just went out and I left the gun with him.”
His eyes moved from Connie to me then, scanning my face with a look of bewildered hopefulness. It wasn’t as if he were realizing how important it was for him that he should be believed. It was as if somehow he hoped to discover from our faces a clue as to how he had let it happen that way, how, after all those hours of brooding and hating, all he’d done was let Saxby take the gun out of his hand and ease him out of the apartment.
It was that expression more than anything that made me believe him. As stories went, it couldn’t have been more improbable. I understood, of course I did, why the D. A. was doing what he was doing. The shots had been fired sometime between two and five. Chuck had been in the apartment after two with the gun, admittedly intending to kill Saxby. Only the most naive of optimists could have hoped for any other decision. But to me it seemed that his bewilderment and shame were completely genuine. Could a murderer have thought of—just that? A story tapering off to quite so feeble an ending?
I hadn’t expected to believe him. I’d resigned myself to his guilt as the inevitable disastrous ending of the whole disastrous affair. But suddenly I was convinced he was telling the truth, and, with the conviction, so many things came crowding: hope, not much of it but some; exasperation against the insensitivity of officialdom; and something else... If Chuck was innocent, who was guilty? Someone totally unconnected with us, who had conveniently sneaked in after Chuck had conveniently left the gun there and before Ala had arrived? Such a person’s existence was possible. Of course it was. And I would have to believe in him because if I didn’t…
Once again the image came of Ala standing in that mustard-colored room, her back steadfastly turned against the body lying on the floor. Another image came of her too last night as a sulky stranger, glaring at Connie, almost indifferent to Chuck, it seemed, in her eagerness to justify herself.
Ala could have killed Don Saxby. There was nothing except my illogical paternal faith to keep me from admitting it. She’d been there. The gun had been there ready for anyone to use. If there’d been a scene, if she’d confronted him with the Duvreuxs and he’d shown his true colors…!
If Chuck was innocent… what about Ala?
THIRTEEN
Chuck was saying, “So you see, I didn’t even try to get back into the apartment. I didn’t do anything. I just took the elevator down, went out in the street and started walking. And that’s when the humiliation came. I thought: My God, that’s all you can do. When you love her, when you’ve loved her almost all your life, the only thing you can do when some two-bit heel…”
The words choked off. Yes, I was thinking, this is true. I know it’s true. Chuck didn’t do it. Then…?
“So that’s all, really. I just went on walking. Then I found I was on Second Avenue in the Sixties, passing a bar I used to go to way back when I was at Harvard, The Red Bear on the corner of Sixty-First Street. I went in. The same barman, Mack, was there. He recognized me. I was the only guy in there at the time. He s
tood me a drink. It didn’t do any good. After that I had another. I must have stayed there a couple of hours. Then, after that, I went on the town. It seemed the only thing to do. I went from bar to bar. I lost all track of time. Then I saw it was almost nine and I remembered my plane to Chicago. I had my ticket in my pocket. Plastered though I was, I knew I had to get to the airport. I took a taxi to Idlewild. I’d got my timing all crazy. The plane didn’t go till eleven. I had over an hour to wait. I sat around waiting and… well, that’s all there is to that. That’s what I told them, what they wrote down and I signed.”
He stopped. For a moment he sat looking at us, then a very small, tentative smile moved his lips.
“Well,” he said, “that’s what happened. I guess the D. A.’s going to think I’m pretty much of a jerk, but, well, he’s got to believe it, hasn’t he?”
He went on looking at us. When neither of us said anything, the smile gradually faded.
“But…” he said. “Gee, Connie, you…”
Connie got up and went to him. She stood by his chair, bending over, putting her arms around his shoulders. “Chuck… maybe we should have told you at the beginning. I don’t know. I—I just couldn’t think of what was best. The District Attorney’s already read the statement.”
Chuck sprang up. “He’s read it and…?”
“Trant told us,” said Connie. “They’re issuing a warrant for your arrest. They’re going to charge you formally.”
It was horrible to see the way his face changed. First the color faded from his cheeks, then all his skin turned gray, even his lips took on a grayish tinge.
“But—but that can’t be. I’m telling the truth. I…” He turned his gaze wildly from Connie to me. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you,” said Connie passionately. She spun around to me. “And so do you, don’t you, George?”
“Yes, Chuck,” I said. “I believe you.”
“Then… then—”
“We’ll do something,” Connie cut in. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll do something. I—”
She broke off at the sound of a key in the door. We all turned to face it. It opened and the cop came in.
“Sorry, folks, but I guess you’ve got to leave now.” Connie’s eyes, as she glared at him, were blazing. “I’ve got to see the District Attorney. Now, right away.”
“Sorry, lady. It’s too late tonight to contact the D. A.”
“Then take me to Lieutenant Trant.”
“He ain’t here. He went off just about ten minutes ago.” The cop was watching her with the faintly clinical benevolence of a cop who’d been asked thousands of times by thousands of relatives to be taken to the District Attorney. “Listen, lady, if you’ve got anything to say or if there’s anything you want to know, the man to contact is the kid’s lawyer.”
“Yes, yes.” Connie turned back to Chuck. “Where is he? Where can we find him?”
Chuck felt in the pocket of his jacket and brought out a card. Without a word he handed it to her.
“There you are, lady,” said the cop. “All fixed up. And now, if you please…”
He was standing aside, waiting for us to leave. Connie glanced at the open door and then ran back to Chuck, throwing her arms around him.
“Chuck, Chuck darling, I’ll make them see. I swear I will.” She was kissing him, her love for him as fierce as a lioness’ for her cub. “You mustn’t worry. Please, please, Chuck, you mustn’t.” She tore herself away from him. We went out into the corridor. The cop locked the door behind us.
Being away from Chuck was almost as bad as being confronted by him. As the cop started leading us down the corridor, I was still haunted by Chuck’s gaunt, stricken face because I couldn’t escape the fact that if I told about Ala, they wouldn’t arrest him. The moment they knew about Ala, there would be two people, neither of them more or less suspect than the other. They couldn’t arrest them both. But Ala was innocent, too. Hadn’t she convinced me of that in those moments at Don Saxby’s apartment, just as positively as Chuck had convinced me? What if, later, she’d behaved like a selfish, spoiled brat? There was a lot of the selfish brat in her anyway. It would be monstrous to assume that made her into a murderess. Of course she was innocent and of course I, as her father, her only ally, could do nothing but go on shielding her. It wasn’t as if we’d seen anything at Saxby’s which made it impossible for Chuck to be guilty. To betray her would do nothing really constructive to help him.
But Chuck was innocent, too.
He’s innocent. The words, synchronizing with the steady clump of the cop’s shoes, became a rhythmic, goading jingle in my mind. He’s innocent, he’s innocent…
All this time, Connie was being almost hysterically executive, demanding a telephone, pouring indignation into the cop’s placid ear. Finally he got us downstairs into the sort of reception hall where we’d first entered. There was a telephone on the wall. Monumentally impervious, he grinned and left us. Connie ran to the phone and called the lawyer. I listened vaguely to her crisp, “committee” voice. Then she was slamming down the receiver.
“It’s all right, George. We’re to go to him right away. But I’ll have to call Mal first.”
Another clattering dime, another dialing, the brisk voice again.
“Mal? You’re still there… No, no, dear, I can’t say anything now… We’re going to the lawyer… Yes, yes, wait. I’ll be there soon. Wait, dear.”
She hung up.
“All right, George. Mr. Macguire’s at his home. Seventy-second and First Avenue. That’s where we’ve got to go.”
We started driving uptown. Connie always mixed up bustle with achievement. She had snapped right back. She was going to the lawyer. She was going to fix everything. In my state of moral deadlock, her resiliency set my teeth on edge. What did she think she was going to do? Announce to the lawyer that Chuck didn’t do it and sublimely assume that the word of Consuelo Corliss would be enough for everyone?
“There’s so much to look into. I’m sure they’re doing nothing, nothing at all. There’s that bar, for example. Where did Chuck say it was? The Red Bear, wasn’t it? On Sixty-First and Second?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“That barman, Mack, he’s bound to remember Chuck. Chuck said he was the only one in the place. He… George, didn’t they say the shots were fired sometime between two and five? Chuck wasn’t at all sure when he was actually at Don’s. Maybe it was earlier. Maybe the barman, Mack, could prove he’d arrived at the bar, say, at ten minutes to two.”
“It isn’t likely,” I said.
She swung around to glare at me. “Why are you always so defeatist? Of course it’s possible, and we’ll work on it. Yes, right now. George, get out at Sixty-First, talk to the barman. I’ll drive on to Mr. Macguire’s. There’s no need for you anyway.”
We were, in fact, in the Fifties on First. Suddenly the idea of escaping from Connie and the grueling session with the lawyer seemed wonderful to me. I didn’t have any faith in the bar enterprise, but what difference did that make?
“Okay,” I said.
“Find out everything,” she said, “absolutely everything. Then I’ll meet you back at the house.”
I got out at the corner of Sixty-First Street and First. Connie scrambled into the driving seat and drove away. I walked east down the block. The dim neon sign of The Red Bear showed on the corner of Second. It was just another Second Avenue saloon. I walked in. A straggle of men were lounging at the bar. The television was flickering with its sound off. The barman, a gaunt, balding man of around fifty, was polishing glasses close to a couple of guys who were arguing halfheartedly about something.
“Bourbon and water,” I said.
The barman came back with the drink, and I said, “Is your name Mack?”
“That’s right.” His bored eyes studied my face. “You from the cops?”
“No,” I said.
“Thought maybe you was. They just been in here aski
ng about that Ryson kid they’re holding on a murder.”
“I’m his uncle,” I said. “I want to know when he came in here on Sunday afternoon.”
The barman flicked at the bar with his towel. “Just like them,” he said. “Well, mister, there ain’t no mystery about it. I remember real clear because I took over for the other barman Sunday afternoon. It was just a couple of minutes after I took over and I took over at two-thirty.”
So much for Connie’s inspiration. Chuck had arrived at the bar a few minutes after two-thirty. Don Saxby’s apartment was only a ten-minute walk away. The shots could have been fired at two.
The two men at the bar were arguing even more heatedly.
The barman stood in front of me, watching me now with a sort of tired sympathy.
“It’s tough, mister. Chuck seemed like a nice kid. Always. A real nice kid.”
There was a crash. One of the arguing men had overturned his highball. Liquor was running all over the bar.
The barman started to sop up the spilled drink with his cloth.
It was as I watched the liquor seeping into the cloth that I remembered something which, until then, I’d forgotten as being of no significance whatsoever. When I’d examined Saxby’s body, the shirt sleeve of his left forearm had been damp with martini spilled from the smashed cocktail shaker. I’d actually touched the material. The cocktail shaker must certainly have been shattered when he fell. And when had I touched the shirt sleeve? Not before four-thirty at the earliest.
The barman, having cleaned up the mess, moved soberly back to me.
I said, “Have you ever spilled a shaker of martinis on your sleeve?”
The mournful eyes blinked. “Sure. Guess so. Why?”
“How long does it take to dry?”
He shrugged. “Gee, mister, I never figured it out. Not long. The gin evaporating, that don’t take long.”
I counted back. The latest moment Chuck could have been at Don Saxby’s apartment was twenty past two. Twenty past two until four-thirty. Two hours and ten minutes? Could spilled martini stay damp on a shirt sleeve for two hours and ten minutes?
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