Ed agreed.
Clarence was there first, and Ed arrived just after three, hatless, wearing a raincoat. He threw a cigarette out the door before he walked in. Ed smiled.
“Hello, Clarence.” Ed sat down and ordered an imported beer from the waiter who had come at once, and Clarence said he would have the same. “Beer puts on weight and scotch is too strong,” Ed said. “There ought to be more coffee-houses. So—what’s the trouble? Marylyn?”
“No. Well, a little, yes.” Clarence spoke softly. The nearest person, a single man at the bar, was ten feet away. This was a handsome bar with no juke-box, but by the same token it was quiet.
Silence until their beer arrived.
“It’s about Rowajinski,” Clarence said.
“Did you kill him?” asked Ed.
Clarence started, as if Ed had clutched his heart and dropped it. “You guessed that?”
“Not really. I was just—throwing out a guess.” Ed offered Clarence a cigarette, took one himself, and lit them both with his lighter. So Clarence had done it. He and Greta had speculated. Oh, no, Greta has said, Clarence isn’t violent. Ed couldn’t digest the fact at once. Now Clarence was suspected, he supposed. Even accused. Or maybe not accused, or he’d be in custody. Why had Clarence wanted to tell him? What did Clarence want? Ed said in a voice that he tried to make quite normal, and quite normally puzzled, “How’d you come to do it?”
“Well—that Tuesday night—I went down to see Marylyn on Macdougal. When I left around ten-thirty, I saw Rowajinski—turning the corner into Bleecker Street. He’d seen me and he started hurrying away. So I chased him. I thought he’d been hanging around again, snooping. He ducked into a doorway on Barrow Street and I followed him—into the doorway, I mean, and I hit him with my gun. I was carrying my gun. Anyway I lit into him. I hardly remember it. It’s not that I’m trying to excuse myself, I certainly am not.” Clarence glanced around, but no one was watching them. “I felt that I had to tell you this, Mr. Reynolds.”
Absently, Ed said, “You can call me Ed.” He felt dazed by what he’d just heard, as if it somehow weren’t real. “And now you’re suspected? Or what?”
“No. Well, yes, they’re questioning me. Marylyn told the police that I spent the whole night at her place. She told them that without my asking her to, before I even spoke to her about all this.” Clarence said in a quiet rush, “What bothers me is that I did it at all. I lost my head. I wanted to tell you, although I know it’s got nothing to do with you, Mr. Reynolds—Ed.”
And what do you want me to do, Ed wondered. “Marylyn knew right away that you did it?”
“I suppose she suspected, yes.—She hated the guy too. Not that that’s the point. The police weren’t really doing anything about him, you see. That sounds absurd because—” Clarence was careful to keep his voice low. “It’s not for me to kill a person just because I don’t like him. But I hated him and I lost my head.” He looked into Ed’s calm dark eyes, looked away again because he didn’t know how Ed was judging him. Clarence forced his heels down on to the floor. His legs were trembling.
Clarence would finally confess to the police also, Ed thought. In a few days probably. Maybe a few hours. Ed wanted to ask if Clarence intended to confess. “Did anyone see you in the Village? Notice you on Barrow Street?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You went back to Marylyn’s afterwards?”
“No, to my place. East Nineteenth.”
Silence.
“What’s Marylyn’s attitude? She intends to protect you?”
“So it seems.” Clarence smiled and took the first sip of his beer. “She so hates the police—being questioned by them. This is one way to get them off her—to say I spent the night with her and she doesn’t know anything about it. Of course, she may want to get rid of me, too.”
“Oh? You really think so?”
“I don’t know—at this point. She doesn’t want to see me just now.”
So this was a confession simply, Ed thought. Clarence wanted reassurance from someone who had hated Rowajinski also. “Is there any clue against you?”
“Just—circumstances. No one mentioned any real clue. I’ve been questioned.”
“And how seriously—questioned?”
“It might get more serious. So far they seem to believe me—and Marylyn. I don’t feel like confessing. I really don’t.”
Clarence’s blue eyes looked steadily at Ed. “Well, I didn’t send any flowers to his funeral. I appreciate your telling me, Clarence.” Ed smiled, wryly, at his own words which seemed absurd, even mad. “A detective came to see me this week. Morrissey, I think his name was.”
“Yes. He told me. At your apartment or your office?”
“The apartment. He asked if I had any idea who did it. I said no—quite honestly. He asked me about you and the five hundred dollars. I said I hardly knew you, and that you’d tried to help us when Lisa was stolen.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes. He didn’t make any remarks against you.”
But Homicide never talked, Clarence knew, only asked questions. Clarence drank more beer. His throat felt half-closed. “I especially went to see Marylyn to tell her—about this. I wasn’t trying to keep it from her.”
Ed was thinking that Marylyn was probably on the point of breaking with Clarence, despite her protecting him. And Ed imagined also that Marylyn, actively or passively, had contributed to the murder. “Why don’t the police do something?” Marylyn would have asked. Rowajinski had been annoying Marylyn at her apartment. She must have felt that Clarence had brought Rowajinski down on her himself, which, of course, he had. “You can trust me not to tell anyone. I won’t tell Greta, if you prefer I don’t, though she can keep a secret.” But even as he spoke, Ed was aware of an aversion to Clarence, a positively visceral dislike of him. He had killed someone. He looked a pleasant young man, his clothes and his nails were clean, yet he had passed, somehow, that unspeakable border. Ed’s thoughts were not clear to himself, because what had come to him was a feeling: Clarence was odd. Or maybe he was odd. He just didn’t look odd. Ed’s clearest thought was that he ought not to trust Clarence too far, and that he ought to keep a safe distance from him. But was he right in this? Was his attitude intelligent, really? Did you know the Pole was dead when you left him, Ed wanted to ask. But he felt it was a detail.
Ed had nothing more to say, Clarence supposed. Clarence had had a great deal to say this morning, an hour ago, but where was it all now? “Thank you for talking with me,” Clarence said.
Clarence suddenly seemed to Ed young and tortured and honest. Honest to a fault, perhaps. In a curious way that defied all the principles of civilization and rectitude, Clarence had come to speak with him in hope of a word of reassurance, even of praise or gratitude for what he had done—essentially avenged the killing of Lisa. Suddenly to Ed, Clarence was a young man who had lost his temper against an evil that no one else was doing anything about. The aura of the sinister left Clarence as if blown away by a wind. Ed said, “You don’t have to thank me for anything.—Would you like to bring Marylyn to the house some evening? For a drink or coffee? Maybe it would help. That’s up to you.”
“Yes, I would like to. Thanks.” It would help, if Marylyn would agree to come. Clarence’s brain whirled, and he shook his head. He had not finished his beer and certainly wasn’t tipsy. It was because he had entered a different world, he felt, a world in which a person like Ed Reynolds shared a dangerous and intimate part of his own world.
“Are you going to tell Marylyn that you talked to me?” Ed asked.
“Yes. I think I would like to. You don’t mind?”
Baffled for a second, Ed said, “No, no,” casually. But what would Marylyn think of him for not reporting it? Or did such things matter any more? Especially to someone anti-fuzz, or revo
lutionary, as he gathered Marylyn was? “Want to ask her this evening? I think we have people coming at eight, but six is fine.”
Clarence was afraid tonight would be too short a notice for Marylyn in the mood she was in. “Could I ask her for tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Tomorrow at six, six-thirty?” Ed gave Clarence the address.
“I’ll speak to her as soon as I can and confirm it.” Clarence pulled out a five-dollar bill and insisted on paying.
On the street, where the rain came down harder now, Clarence had an impulse to accompany Ed back to his apartment building, but felt he would appear to be clinging if he did.
Ed extended his hand. “Cheer up. See you tomorrow, maybe.”
Clarence walked home, heedless of the rain. It seemed less than a minute since he had left Ed when he arrived at his doorway. He had hardly thought of anything during his walk except of the excellence of Ed Reynolds, the rarity of a man like him in New York, of Ed’s kindness, and of how lucky he was to have made the acquaintance, possibly the friendship, of two persons like Ed and Greta. He dialed Marylyn’s number.
She answered.
“Darling, can you come for a drink at the Reynoldses’ tomorrow around six? He’s asked us.”
“Us?”
“Well, I’ve told him about you. It’s very close to you, on East Ninth. I’ll pick you up just before six, all right?”
“It’s a party?”
“I don’t think so. Just us for a drink. You’ll like them both. Just for a few minutes, if you’ve got work.”
“Can I wear anything?”
“Oh, sure! They’re not stuffy!”
19
Clarence went to Marylyn’s apartment at 6 p.m. She greeted him casually. She was still putting on make-up, a long process when she bothered with it, because she experimented, and never looked the same twice.
She was wearing bell-bottom black pants, flat yellow shoes, a yellow jersey blouse, and a long necklace that bore a huge oval pendant of pink—probably something that she had picked up at the thrift shop on Macdougal. Some of the furs in this shop looked actively verminous to Clarence. So far, Marylyn had not bought any of the so-called mink coats or jackets which had patches missing in them. All in all, Marylyn looked pretty tonight, not as far out as Clarence had thought she might, and anyway, would the Reynoldses mind? No.
“Marylyn, I have to tell you before we go. I told Ed Reynolds about the Pole.”
She turned from the mirror. “Really?” Her eyes looked especially startled, because of their black outline. “Was that wise?”
“He understands. He’s a wonderful fellow. That’s why I want you to meet them. My God, you don’t think he liked the bastard, do you? He said something like. ‘Well, I didn’t send any flowers to his funeral.’ He’s not going to tell even his wife, he said. But I wanted you to know before we went there.” It was of the greatest importance to Clarence, but he didn’t want to hammer the point. Was Marylyn casual and cool about it or not? Should he be calm and unworried also? Life was cheap in New York, in a sense, and Rowajinski had been obnoxious, and yet the police dug and came up with the murderers more times than not. It was the legwork by Homicide that counted, and they expended it on the most worthless corpses. Was he safe? Clarence put the question out of his mind for the moment.
“Are they saying anything at the pig-pen?”
“Not a thing. Otherwise I’d tell you,” Clarence said.
They walked to the Reynoldses’ apartment house.
“I’m going to take some business management courses at NYU starting in January,” Clarence said. “I’ll stay on in the force till then and resign after Christmas. Maybe before Christmas or it’ll look as if I’m trying to get the bonus.” He smiled, but she didn’t see it. “No tramping the beat in the cold this winter.”
“You’ve got enough dough?”
“Oh, sure.” Clarence had just enough. It had crossed his mind to give up his apartment and live with his parents. A long subway ride, and he would lose the independence his apartment gave him, but after all, Marylyn had spent only two nights there with him. She didn’t like to be away from her own place, from the telephone that brought her jobs. Clarence was hoping he could stay frequently with Marylyn on Macdougal.
The Reynoldses’ apartment house was a modern one some ten stories high with a grass terrace in front and a doorman. Greta opened the apartment door for them, and Clarence introduced Marylyn to her.
“Let me take your—cape,” said Greta with her faint accent. “Oh, how glamorous this is!”
“Thrift shop,” said Marylyn. She stooped to pet a small white poodle who was wriggling around her feet.
The cape was new to Clarence, dark blue and lined with the Vietcong flag, he now noticed.
Greta led Marylyn into the living-room and introduced her to Ed. “What may I offer you, Marylyn?” Greta said. “We have whisky, gin, rum, beer, Coca-Cola—and wine.”
Ed beckoned Clarence into the hall that led to the front door. “I told Greta. I hope you don’t mind. It’s the same as your telling me. I thought things would go better tonight if she knew.”
Clarence nodded, a little startled.
“It won’t go any further. Not from this house.”
“All right.” Clarence followed Ed back into the living-room. Greta was giving Marylyn what looked like a gin and tonic.
“I hear you are a freelance typist and you live on Macdougal. Very near here,” Greta said to Marylyn.
It was obvious to Clarence that Greta meant to be friendly.
“What’ll you have, Clarence?” Ed asked. “Not just a beer, I hope. Beer doesn’t give a lift.”
“A scotch, thanks.”
The puppy sat on the big sofa between Greta and Marylyn, and her black nose turned from one to the other as they spoke, as if she were following everything they said. This apartment was bigger, lighter, and more cheerful than the Riverside Drive place. Clarence, still standing up, noticed a long wooden table in a front corner of the room that held a buffet spread—platters of cold meats, a salad bowl, wine glasses. He wondered if it was for them.
Greta said in her high, clear voice, “We were hoping you and Marylyn could have a bite with us, Clarence. I know you haven’t much time, so I made a buffet.”
“Really it looks like a banquet!” Marylyn said.
“I’m not on duty tonight,” Clarence said, “My schedule changes tomorrow and tonight’s sort of a bonus.”
“Oh, marvelous!” said Greta. “When are you on duty now?”
“Noon to eight p.m. now. Saturdays and Sundays off. Almost normal hours,” Clarence replied.
Ed sat down on a hassock. “Park yourself somewhere, Clarence.”
“. . . after our last one,” Greta was saying to Marylyn. “We had to get another dog very soon, so now we have Juliette. Eddie thought it was best and he’s right.”
“I know about your other dog,” Marylyn said. “Clare told me.”
“Ah, well.” Greta’s small figure was settled comfortably in the arm of the big sofa. “Lisa, yes, she is no more.” She looked at Clarence and said, “Eddie told me the story, Clarence. About the Polish man. We can keep secrets. I will not tell anyone, even my best friend. I know you know, too, Marylyn.”
Marylyn nodded. “Yes.”
Clarence felt that Greta, as she looked at him now, was looking through him, not thinking of him but of something in her own past, more complex and important than the present situation.
Greta said, “I also have some secrets to keep. My family history isn’t pretty. Not a bedtime story either!” She laughed with sudden merriment and glanced at Ed.
“One would think she meant things she ought to hide,” Ed said. “I’m afraid Greta, being half-Jewish, was more on the receiving end than the dishin
g out.”
“But still,” said Greta, “some things are too horrible to speak about later, even much later.”
Clarence was silent. He did not know where they were headed. He was more interested in Marylyn’s reaction than in anything else. She looked merely polite and serious, and soon she and Greta were discussing a ring. Whose ring on whose finger? Each was showing the other a ring that she wore. Marylyn seemed at ease with Greta, and Clarence realized she had no reason not to be at ease, not to be detached from all this, because she could detach herself from him whenever she wished, starting tonight, starting even now.
“You know, Marylyn,” Ed said, “If I may call you Marylyn—Clarence told me you were upset by the story of the Pole. It’s very understandable. But if ever a man deserved it—”
“Oh, Eddie, don’t say that,” said Greta. “Don’t put it that way.”
“Well, why not?” Ed said. “I mean to say, I might’ve been capable of it myself, if I’d met him on the street. If like Clarence I’d known he was annoying and deliberately scaring a friend of mine—you, Marylyn—not to mention if he’d accused me of taking money to let him go.” Ed leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. “I think I might’ve lit into him for all I was worth, on the street or anywhere, if I’d run into him.”
“Eddie, you’ll make yourself upset,” Greta said.
“I’m not upset, darling! I’m just trying to say something. I’m saying what I might’ve done in anger. I can speak for myself, because I was—furious enough after Lisa, you know that. And why shouldn’t I have been? And neither the police nor Bellevue locking him up. I’m not saying it’s right to beat him up or kill him, but I’m saying what I might have done. I might’ve attacked him even with people watching me. And what I wanted to say to you, Marylyn,” Ed went on, trying to finish and not to make too much of an oration of it, “is that I understand it was a shock for you to hear about. About Clarence killing someone. Just that fact. It might as well have been me, however, and I don’t think I’m a murderous type.”
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