As he left me that last time, his parting words were: “Now don't forget that there is a future coming, Pete. Turn those old field glasses around and look ahead. You're still a young man... compared with me! And I'm still looking ahead, you bet! There's plenty of practicing left to do before I can sit back and consider myself a perfect undertaker! Why, I expect to live to be a hundred!”
A month later I learned that he was dead.
Now, whenever I think of old Doc Turnbull, my eyes dim with tears. He was such a fine person. The two of us got along so well together that I like to think that it was only an accident of birth which prevented us from being father and son. Yes, I loved that old man; and if there is such a place as heaven, I know that he's there.
There is little more to be said about the years I spent in prison. For the most part they were dull, each day exactly like the one before, with routine blunting the memory, fortunately. Contrary to the accepted idea of scratching off the days and even the half-days on the calendar, I did no such thing. Prisoners—;I think I am safe in the generalization—;prefer to forget about time. Their terms seem to pass more quickly if they do not keep themselves conscious of it.
But if, because I have given so little space to my life in prison, you get the erroneous impression that I did not miss so much, remember that while I paced back and forth across twelve feet of cell, radio made its initial appearance in the American home; motion pictures were greatly improved and, at length, made to speak; and Harding, Coolidge, Hoover and Franklin Roosevelt rested their troubled heads on White House pillows. Yes, and much more than that. Came the boom times of '27 and '28, the stock-market crash and the subsequent depression. Lindbergh flew to Paris, Byrd to the Polar regions. European governments were overthrown. Women's skirts grew shorter and longer and then shorter again. Henry made a lady out of Lizzie. Buildings were erected higher than the Woolworth. Fashion decreed that even portly matrons bob their hair. Indeed, the very map of the earth changed during those eighteen years!
Prohibition gave birth to rackets, put teeth into gangdom and lined their pockets with money—;before Roosevelt's administration decided to balance the budget. Dillinger played hide and seek. Hauptmann died in the Chair. Bridge became the nation's pastime. Hitler removed his corporal's chevrons. O'Neill managed to get some of his plays produced and Sinclair Lewis tapped out a book or two. Gertrude Ederle swam the Channel. Garbo demanded screen credit. Ice-boxes were made to freeze without ice, stoves to burn without gas. Dollar bills grew smaller in size as in purchasing power.
To this very day I have not seen the George Washington Bridge, the Holland Tunnel to Jersey, or been inside the Music Hall. I did manage to catch a glimpse of the towering Empire State, but only from a great distance.
One day the warden sent for me and when I came into his office he showed me his desk calendar. I saw that it was 1937 and September and a Tuesday. Then he gave me a good cigar, asked me to sit down, and talked to me for a long time.
The next morning, I walked through the prison gates a free man, rather timidly blinking my eyes at a strange world.
The first thing I did when I got out was to take a train for Ithaca. I was fully cognizant of the fact that I no longer had connections there. Doc Turnbull was dead and so was Mrs. Michaelson. However, there was nowhere else to go and, had I not been so determined to find out the truth of things, I really believe I would have turned about-face and begged the Warden to take me in again.
Here I was, penniless almost and without a friend, dead set on finding out about something that had happened fully eighteen years before. But, although it appeared a foolish notion and utterly pointless, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the scene of the crime. Of course I realized that if the police, lawyers and the private detectives I had hired could unearth nothing, it was vain of me to think that I might succeed where they had failed. Nevertheless, I bought my ticket for Ithaca.
There was one emotion I had which authors have described truthfully. Even after several hours, when the novelty of freedom was wearing off, I imagined that people were staring at me. It was decidedly an uncomfortable feeling and I felt very guilty. I had all I could do to assure myself that I had a right to liberty and that I was now once again as much a part of the social scheme of things as anyone else. But eyes continued to bore little holes into my back. Heads that turned, I was sure were turning to stare at me.
Then I realized that it was my clothes. My shoes were prison-made and a size too large. My hat and stiff collar were hopelessly out of date. Therefore, although the train was just pulling into the station, I decided to wait in Ossining until the next one came along. I had a little money—;about forty odd dollars—;and a small clothier's shop across the street beckoned to me.
“Yes? And what can I do for you, sir?”
“I want almost everything.”
“Ah! The works?”
“The works.”
“Come this way.”
And half an hour later I emerged, my appearance altered. Though the forty dollars represented all the money I possessed in the world, I had spent sixteen of it. Anything was better than being stared at.
Coming back to my home town after so long an absence brought a mist to my eyes. I thought of Odysseus in Homer's epic, returning to Ithaca and Penelope. I remembered the poem well because we had been forced to study it at Ithaca High. Well, I was returning to Ithaca, all right; but I had done no wandering, certainly; and there was no Penelope weaving and waiting for me. That death shroud had been finished years and years ago.
There weren't many changes in the station, I noticed as I stepped from the coach. There was a fresh coat of paint on the long row of wooden freight warehouses; and the bricks of the waiting-room had lately been sandblasted; but that was all.
I walked up State Street toward the center of town. Ithaca had grown. On many blocks which, in my time, had been devoted to homes, were stores. Of course, many of the older markets and shops were familiar to me, but State Street, as a whole, was disappointing.
Ahead of me stretched the main thoroughfare, bordered on either side by restaurants, two motion-picture palaces and department stores. Only when it curved sharply up the hill toward the Cornell campus, was it familiar. There, scattered beyond the few garage buildings, were houses I knew. People I had once known lived in them.... But no. Probably not any more. More likely they had retreated before the expanding business area to the still lovely portions over-looking the lake.
As I neared the corner where my store had been, I felt a stranger, excommunicated, forgotten. The faces milling around me, going in and out of the markets, were strange faces, and somehow I imagined that they looked at me aggressively. I went along, half-expecting at any moment that someone would recognize me and call out my name. But no one did.
It was then that I clumsily stumbled over a little boy who was squatting at the curb, rolling some toy or other near the edge of the sidewalk. I picked him up, made certain that he was unhurt, and assisted him in dusting off his sailor suit.
“You owe me a soda!” the child shrilled pompously. “You knocked me down and now you'll have to treat me, mister.”
I patted him on the head and started to walk away. The little fellow followed me closely. “Pay up or go to jail,” he declared.
“All right,” I said quickly. “Come along.”
I took him by the hand and continued toward the store. Its metamorphosis was complete. The front of the building was a solid mass of show-window, in which were neatly arranged books, perfumery, tobacco-humidors, soap and cameras. Placards announced “special" luncheons, sales on toilet articles and giant malted milks. In one corner of the window, unobtrusively printed on a little cardboard cut in the shape of a mortar and pestle, were the words: “Prescriptions Filled By Experts.” A huge neon sign above the show-window kept spelling out:
THE GREAT EASTERN
DRUG COMPANY
“You can get swell ones in here for a dime, mister,” the little fellow t
old me as he drew me up to the expensive black and silver soda fountain. “I'll take a frosted chocolate,” he commanded the youth in the neat white jacket who came to wait on us. “And don't be stingy with the whipped cream!”
The clerk grinned and then turned to me. “And what will you have, sir?”
“Me? Oh, I don't care for anything, thanks.” As the young man started away, glass in hand, I called him back. “Is there anyone here who can tell me where I'd be likely to find a party named Tom Murphy?”
“You mean Mr. Murphy, our store manager? You'll find him at the prescription counter in the back. The crippled gentleman with the dark moustache.”
I followed his finger and immediately recognized my former assistant. This was a stroke of luck. It had been a long-shot, my asking for him. I had had no idea he worked there.
“Here's the money for the soda,” I told my diminutive companion. “I've got to see someone.” I slid a quarter along the counter and made my way to the back of the store. I heard the child's words of thanks, muffled by his noisy sipping at a soda straw.
Tom Murphy did not look up as I approached. He was busy checking over some figures on a sheet of wrapping paper. The only radical change in his appearance was the moustache which, obviously, he had cultivated to lend him a professional air. He looked much older, naturally. When he had worked for me he had been only seventeen. That would make him thirty-five.
“Hello, Tom,” I said quietly.
Slowly Murphy lifted his eyes from the paper to a level with mine. He frowned a little and I could tell that he did not know who I was. “You are acquainted with me?”
I laughed. “Tell me you don't know!”
“Can't say I do. But your voice sounds....” He stopped suddenly and leaned forward to inspect me more closely. Recognition dawned and the pencil dropped from his fingers. “Why... why... Mr. Thatcher! I... I....”
I am positive that it was fear I read in his eyes although I can't imagine why he should have been afraid. We had always been the best of friends. Maybe he felt as though he were standing face to face with some ghost; but more likely he suddenly remembered what it was I was supposed to have done. Murder is a terrible crime and the people who commit it are not looked upon as human beings—;no matter how much their action might have been justified. The taking of a life—;unless it be during wartime, making the deed not only legal but noble as well—;is an action which at once destroys both friendships and hates. People neither love nor hate murderers. They don't even feel sorry for them. They treat them much like Murphy treated me that day in the store. Like a freak.
I smiled disarmingly. “That's right, Tom. I guess I've changed a lot. I'm getting on in years, you know. But can I have a word with you?”
His lips trembled a little. “But... but I thought that... When did...?”
“This morning, Tom. I've finished down there.”
“Come on into the back room.”
I knew that he was reluctant to leave the front of the store. Maybe he was afraid to be alone with me, I don't know. If this were happening to me now instead of a few weeks ago, I wouldn't be at all surprised. Seeing the crude pictures of myself in the newspapers, I suppose I do look “haunted.” But I vigorously deny the press insinuations that I have a criminal face, merciless eyes and an unmistakable brutish skull formation. The prison experts all agreed that I look somewhat weak with my oval-shaped head and pointed chin.
The thing I wanted to find out from Murphy was if there remained anyone in town who had known Anita. I explained to him that I was trying to find out more about the whole affair.
Murphy puckered his brows in thought. “Let me see, George Garrett!”
“Garrett? Never heard of him.”
“Oh, yes. That's right. He moved here right after...” He stopped in embarrassment. “Say, Mr. Thatcher, I hope you know that. I never wanted to testify against you at the trial. They made me do it. I...”
“I know, Tom. You couldn't help it,” I said.
“And I never really believed you did it,” he went on, trying to appear convinced. “I always thought she committed suicide. But maybe you'd rather not talk about it, eh?”
“No, that's all right. I want to talk about it. I suppose everyone in town thought I was guilty, didn't they? Things looked kind of bad, I'll admit.”
“No, we never believed it, Mr. Thatcher. Honest we didn't. Even Cavender who used to be across the street said you got a raw deal. And you know how Cavender was. Even Leo Carpenter said you were innocent....”
“Carpenter?” I echoed. “When did you see him? I thought he went to Vienna.”
“Oh he was at the trial. Didn't you know?”
“No,” I muttered. “I didn't.”
“Well, maybe he was only there that one day. He left for abroad shortly after. He's writing books now, you know. Lives in New York six months a year and in Vienna the rest of the time. Doctor Fraser—;you don't know him—;says that his surgical data is very valuable.”
“I heard he was writing books,” I said.
“Funny you didn't know he was at the trial. I saw him right after they brought in the verdict.”
To this day, I don't know why I pursued the subject. Something drove me on—;a curiosity maybe, a desire to discover just what attitude a man would take whose former sweetheart has been allegedly slain by his rival. “What did Leo have to say?”
“He looked angry as the devil. He was cursing, as I remember. I heard him say to someone who was with him that he was positive they were convicting an innocent man.”
“He said that?” I asked in disbelief. Although the doctor and I had never been anything but friendly to one another, it seemed strange that he should adopt that attitude after I had stolen his girl. There was something fishy about it.
“Is that all?”
Murphy scratched his head. “Yes, I guess so. The fellow who was with him tried to comfort him, I recollect. He said that you'd never see the inside of a jail; that your lawyer was sure to appeal and the decision would be reversed. The man said, 'Of course, if they find the body... in that case it might be different.' Leo was getting into his car then. He said something that sounded like: 'They'll never find the body' and drove off, leaving the man standing there. That's all I know Mr. Thatcher.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Can I do anything more for you? You know that if I can be of some...”
“No, I guess that's about all. Goodbye, Tom.”
“Going to be around town again?”
“No, I guess not. But who knows?” We walked back into the store proper. I shook hands with Murphy and noticed that his hand was cold and his grip limp.
Before I left Ithaca on the evening train for New York, I strolled around to my little house... or what used to be my house. From a distance it still looked the same as I had left it; but when I reached the gate to the front yard I felt my heart sink. There was a noticeable sag to the roof as though the supporting beams had been allowed to rot away. The paint on both the picket fence and on the house itself had peeled off, leaving bare, ugly patches. And it was unoccupied. A chipped enamel sign informed the passerby that the property was for sale or rent and that information regarding it could be obtained by telephoning the Mervin Real Estate Company.
It had been my thought to enter the place, asking permission of the owner in the event that someone was living in it. I would have liked to explore the house in hopes of stirring from my fading memory some dormant fact which had escaped notice. Then too, I would have welcomed an hour in the garden down by the lake.
But looking at it a moment longer, I suddenly felt sick. My store, like some fickle child, no longer knew its parent. My house, my wife, my friends were all gone, breaking the last connecting link with the town of my birth.
I withdrew the hand I had reached out to unfasten the gate. I turned back toward the station.
I will not mention where I got the gun because the pawnbroker who sold it to me was breaking the law and
I don't want anyone to get into trouble on my account. My purpose in purchasing the pistol, I need hardly say, was to take yet one more life: my own.
There are some of you who hold that suicide takes a great deal of courage and some to whom it appears a very cowardly act. I am not in a position to argue the point. I merely tell you that I no longer cared to live and the sooner I ceased living the better I would like it.
But I did not sit down and brood like some twentieth century Hamlet. I did not over-dramatize my plight. I only realized that I was unhappy, broke, without friends or family, and with nothing whatever to look forward to but continued mental depression. I had read that ex-convicts find it extremely difficult to find positions and, although I was a registered pharmacist, I had no references to show a prospective employer.
So what else was there for me to do?
If I'd been young, I would no doubt have tried to hold on. When I was twenty, life was precious and I thoroughly enjoyed being alive. But remember that upon my release from prison I had just passed my forty-sixth birthday. You will recall the day, for that was the night of the Hindenburg disaster.
Double Jeopardy Page 11