“I suppose it’s all right.”
“You’ll stick with me, won’t you? Want a little port wine?”
Miss Collins wouldn’t dare do that but she’d be back presently. She was the prettiest twitch he had seen in a year.
After another glass of port he felt a growing excitement. He pictured “Mr. Griffin” on the floor below, feeling so hidden and secure, possibly asleep. He pictured Oaky and Flute Cuneo and Vandervere strapping on the arsenal; he wished he could be in on the finish but that was no play for a front man.
At a quarter of twelve Miss Collins came back and they went down the corridor to a glassed-in porch overlooking the city.
“I’m afraid this is my last New Year’s here,” she said.
“What do your care — you’ve got too much on the ball to go around washing mummies.”
At a minute before twelve a din started — first thin and far away, then rolling toward the hospital, a discord of whistles, bells, firecrackers and shots. Once, after a few minutes, McKenna thought he heard the pump sound of a silencer, once and again, but he could not be sure. From time to time Miss Collins darted in to the desk to see if there was a call for her, and each time he kept carefully in her sight.
After fifteen minutes the cacophony died away.
“My back hurts,” McKenna said. “I wish you’d help me off with my clothes and then rub me.”
“Certainly.”
On the way to his room he listened carefully for the sounds of commotion but there was nothing. Therefore, barring the unforeseen, all had gone off as planned — the State of New York’s intended witness was now with his fathers.
She bent over the bed, rubbing his back with alcohol.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “Just sit on the bed.”
He had almost finished the flask of port and he felt fine. There were worse ways to spend New Year’s — a job all mopped up, the good warming wine and a swell girl to rub his back.
“You certainly are something to look at.”
Two minutes later she tugged his hand from her rumpled belt.
“You’re crazy,” she exclaimed, panting.
“Oh, don’t get sore. I thought you kind of liked me.”
“Liked you! You! Why, your room smells like a dog’s room. I hate to touch you!”
Then was a small knock and the night superintendent called Miss Collins who went into the hall, hastily smoothing her apron. McKenna got out of bed, tiptoed to the door and listened — in a minute he heard Miss Collins’ voice:
“But I don’t know how to do it, Miss Gleason … You say the patient was shot…”
And then the other nurse:
“… then you simply tie the hands and feet together and…” McKenna got back into bed cautiously.
“Last rites for Mr. Griffin,” he thought. “That’s fine. It’ll take her mind off being sore.”
He had decided to leave next afternoon, when the winter dusk was closing down outside. The interne was uncertain and called the resident, just back from vacation. The latter came in after lunch when the orderly was helping McKenna pack.
“Don’t you want to see your doctor tomorrow?” he asked.
He was big and informal, more competent-looking than the interne.
“He’s just a doctor I got at the hotel. He doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, we’ve got one more test to hear from.”
“I haven’t got any fever,” said McKenna. “It must have been just a false alarm.”
The resident yawned.
“Excuse me,” he said — “they called me at two o’clock last night.”
“Somebody die?”
The resident nodded.
“Very suddenly. Somebody shot and killed a patient on the floor below.”
“Go on! You’re not safe anywhere now, are you?”
“Seems not.”
McKenna rang the bell at the head of the bed.
“I can’t find my hat, and none of those nurses have been in here all day — only the maid.” He turned to the orderly. “Go find a nurse and see if they know where my hat is.”
“And oh — “ the resident added, “tell them if they have that test ready to send it in.”
“What test?” McKenna asked.
“Just a routine business. Just a part of your body.”
“What part?”
“It ought to be here now. It’s hard to get these laboratory tests on a holiday.”
Miss Hunter’s face appeared in the doorway but she did not look toward McKenna.
“The message came,” she said. “It was just to tell you that the test was positive. And to give you this paper.”
The resident read it with interest.
“What is it?” demanded McKenna. “Say, I haven’t got — “
“You haven’t got anything,” said the resident, “ — not even a leg to stand on. In fact, I’d be sorry for you — if you hadn’t torn up that nurse’s letter.”
“What nurse’s letter?”
“The one the postman put together and brought in this morning.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“We do. You left your finger prints on it — and they seem to belong to a man named Joe Kinney who got three slugs in his bottom in New York last June.”
“You got nothing on me — what do you think you are, a tec?”
“That’s just what I am. And I know now that you work out of Jersey City and so did Griffin.”
“I was with Miss Collins when that happened.”
“What time?”
Catching his mistake McKenna hesitated.
“I was with her all evening — till one o’clock.”
“Miss Collins says she left you after five minutes because you got tough with her. Say, why did you have to pick a hospital? These girls have work to do — they can’t play with animals.”
“You got nothing at all on me — not even a gun.”
“Maybe you’ll wish you had one when I get done with you down at the station. Miss Hunter and I are engaged to be married and that letter was to me.”
By nightfall the hospital showed signs of increasing life — the doctors and nurses back early to go to work in the morning, and casualties of riot and diet, victims of colds, aches and infections saved since Christmas. Even the recently vacated beds of Messrs. Griffin and McKenna would be occupied by tomorrow. Both of them had better have celebrated the holidays outside.
THE GUEST IN ROOM NINETEEN
Mr. Cass knew he couldn’t go to sleep so he put his tie on again and went back to the lobby. The guests were all gone to bed but a little aura of activity seemed to linger about a half-finished picture puzzle, and the night watchman was putting a big log on the fire.
Mr. Cass limped slowly across the soft carpet, stopped behind him and grunted, “Heavy?”
The watchman, a wiry old mountaineer, looked around sharply.
“A hundred pound. It’s wet — it’ll be one o’clock before it’s burning good.”
Mr. Cass let himself into a chair. Last year he had been active, driving his own car — but he had suffered a stroke before coming South last month and now life was like waiting for an unwelcome train. He was very lonely.
The watchman built burning chunks about the wet log.
“Thought you was somebody else when you came in,” he said.
“Who did you think I was?”
“I thought you was the fella who’s always coming in late. First night I was on duty he came in at two without any noise and give me a start. Every night he comes in late.”
After a pause Mr. Cass asked:
“What’s his name?”
“I never did ask him his name.”
Another pause. The fire leapt into a premature, short-lived glow.
“How do you know he’s a guest here?”
“Oh, he’s a guest here.” But the watchman considered the matter for the first time. “I hear him go down the corridor and around the
corner and then I hear his door shut.”
“He may be a burglar,” said Mr. Cass.
“Oh, he’s no burglar. He said he’d been coming here a long time.”
“Did he tell you he wasn’t a burglar?”
The watchman laughed.
“I never asked him that.”
The log slipped and the old man adjusted it; Mr. Cass envied his strength. It seemed to him that if he had strength he could run out of here, hurry along the roads of the world, the roads that led back, and not sit waiting.
Almost every evening he played bridge with the two clerks, and one night last week he simply passed away during a bridge hand, shrinking up through space, up through the ceilings like a wisp of smoke, looking back, looking down at his body hunched at the table, his white fist clutching the cards. He heard the bids and his own voice speaking — then the two clerks were helping him into his room and one of them sat with him till the doctor came… After awhile Mr. Cass had to go to the bathroom and he decided to go to the public one. It took him some time. When he came back to the lobby the watchman said:
“That fella came in late again. I found out he’s in number nineteen.”
“What’s his name?”
“I didn’t like to ask him that — I knew I could find out from his number.”
Mr. Cass sat down.
“I’m number eighteen,” he said. “I thought there were just some women next to me.”
The watchman went behind the desk to the mail rack. After a moment he reported.
“Funny thing — his box ain’t here. There’s number eighteen, that’s Mr. Cass — “
“That’s me.”
“ — and the next one is twenty, on the second floor. I must of understood him wrong.”
“I told you he was a burglar. What did he look like?”
“Well, now he wasn’t an old man and he wasn’t a young man. He seemed like he’d been sick and he had little holes all over his face.”
Despite its inadequacy the description somehow conjured up a picture for Mr. Cass. His partner, John Canisius, had never looked old or young and he had little holes in his face.
Suddenly Mr. Cass felt the same sensation stealing over him that he had felt the other night. Dimly he was aware that the watchman had gone to the door and dimly he heard his own voice saying: “Leave it open”; then the cold air swept in and his spirit left him and romped around the room with it. He saw John Canisius come in the open door and look at him and advance toward him, and then realized it was the watchman, pouring a paper cup of water into his mouth and spilling it on his collar.
“Thanks.”
“Feel all right now?”
“Did I faint?” he muttered.
“You fell over kind of funny. Reckon I better help you get back into your room.”
At the door of number eighteen Mr. Cass halted and pointed his cane at the room next door.
“What’s that number?”
“Seventeen. And that one without a number is the manager’s rooms. There ain’t any nineteen.”
“Do you think I’d better go in?”
“Sure thing.” The watchman lowered his voice. “If you’re thinking about that fella, I must of heard him wrong. I can’t go looking for him tonight.”
“He’s in here,” said Mr. Cass.
“No, he ain’t.”
“Yes, he is. He’s waiting for me.”
“Shucks, I’ll go in with you.”
He opened the door, turned on the light and took a quick look around.
“See — ain’t nobody here.”
Mr. Cass slept well and the next day was full Spring, so he decided to go out. It took him a long time to walk down the hill from the hotel and his progress across the double tracks took a good three minutes and attracted solicitous attention, but it was practically a country stroll compared to his negotiation of the highway which was accompanied by a great caterwauling of horns and screech of brakes. A welcoming committee waited him on the curb and helped him into the drug store where, exhausted by his adventure, he called a taxi to go home.
Because of this he fell asleep while undressing and waking at twelve felt dismal and oppressed. Finding it difficult to rise he rang, and the night watchman answered the bell.
“Glad to help you, Mr. Cass, if you’ll wait five minutes. It’s turned cold again and I want to get in a big log of wood.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Cass, and then, “Has the guest come in yet?”
“He just got in now.”
“Did you ask him if he’s a burglar?”
“He’s no burglar, Mr. Cass. He’s a nice fella. He’s going to help me with this big log. I’ll be right back.”
“Did he say what room — “ But the watchman was gone and Mr. Cass could only wait.
He waited five minutes, he waited ten. Then he gradually realized that the watchman was not coming back. It was plain that the watchman had been sent for.
Everyone tried to keep distressing things from Mr. Cass, and it was not until the following evening that he heard what had happened from some whispering at the desk.
The man had collapsed trying to lift a log too heavy for him. Mr. Cass said nothing because he knew that old people have to be careful what they say. Only he knew the watchman had not been alone.
After Easter the hotel’s short season faded out and it was not worth while to hire a new watchman, but Mr. Cass continued to have lonely nights and often he sat in the lobby after the other guests went to bed. One April night he dozed there for awhile, awakening to find that it was after two and he was not alone in the lobby.
The current of cooler air might have roused him, for a man he did not know had just come in the door.
The man was of no special age but even by the single light left burning Mr. Cass could see that he was a pale man, that there were little holes in his face like the ravages of some disease and he did not look like John Canisius, his partner.
“Good evening,” said the stranger.
“Hm,” said Mr. Cass, and then as the man turned down the corridor he spoke up in a strong voice:
“You’re out late.”
“Yes, quite late.”
“You a guest here?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Cass dragged himself to his feet and stood leaning on his cane.
“I suppose you live in room nineteen,” he said.
“As it happens, I do.”
“You needn’t lie to me,” said Mr. Cass, “I’m not an ignorant mountaineer. Are you a burglar — or did you come for some one?”
The man’s face seemed to grow even whiter.
“I don’t understand you,” he said.
“In any case I want you to get out of here,” said Mr. Cass. He was growing angry and it gave him a certain strength. “Otherwise I’m going to arouse the hotel.”
The stranger hesitated.
“There’s no need of doing that,” he said quietly. “That would be — “
Mr. Cass raised his cane menacingly, held it up a moment, then let it down slowly.
“Wait a minute,” he said, “I may want you to do something for me.”
“What is it?”
“It’s getting cold in here. I want you to help me bring in a log to put on the fire.”
The stranger was startled by the request.
“Are you strong enough?” he asked.
“Of course I’m strong enough,” Mr. Cass stood very upright, throwing back his shoulders.
“I can get it alone.”
“No, you can’t. You help me or I’ll arouse the house.”
They went out and down the back steps, Mr. Cass refusing the stranger’s arm.
He found, in fact, that he could walk much better than he thought and he left his cane by the stoop so that both hands were free for the log.
It was dark in the woodshed and the stranger lit a match. There was only one log, but it was over a hundred pounds, quite big enough to amply fill the small fireplace.
<
br /> “Hadn’t I better do this?” said the stranger.
Mr. Cass did not answer, but bent and put his hands on the rough surface. The touch seemed to stimulate him, he felt no pain or strain in his back at all.
“Catch hold there,” he ordered.
“Are you sure — “
“Catch hold!”
Mr. Cass took a long breath of cool air into his lungs and shifted his hands on the log. His arms tightened, then his shoulders and the muscles on his back.
“Lift,” he grunted. And suddenly the log moved, came up with him as he straightened, and for a triumphant moment he stood there squarely, cradling it against him. Then out into space he went, very slowly, carrying the log which seemed lighter and lighter, seeming to melt away in his arms. He wanted to call back some word of mockery and derision to the stranger, but he was already too far away, out on the old roads that led back where he wished to be.
Everyone in the hotel was sorry to lose Mr. Cass, the manager especially, for he read the open letter on Mr. Cass’ desk saying that no further money could be remitted that year.
“What a shame. He’d been here so many years that we’d have been glad to carry him awhile until he made arrangements.”
Mr. Cass was the right sort of client — it was because of such guests that the manager had tried to keep his brother out of sight all winter.
The brother, a tough number, was considerably shaken by what had happened.
“That’s what I get for trying to be a help,” he said, “I should have known better. Both those old guys looked exactly like death itself to me.”
THE LONG WAY OUT
We were talking about some of the older castles in Touraine and we touched upon the iron cage in which Louis XI imprisoned Cardinal La Balue for six years, then upon oubliettes and such horrors. I had seen several of the latter, simply dry wells thirty or forty feet deep where a man was thrown to wait for nothing; since I have such a tendency to claustrophobia that a Pullman berth is a certain nightmare, they had made a lasting impression. So it was rather a relief when a doctor told this story — that is, it was a relief when he began it for it seemed to have nothing to do with the tortures long ago.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 352