“No,” Mr. Fenley grunted; he turned abruptly back into his apartment and a moment later reappeared in the doorway, adjusting his spectacles to his eyes and peering toward the door of Mrs. Blake’s apartment. “Nothing serious is the matter, I hope.”
“If what Mrs. Westerman says is true, it’s awful,” Erskine told him. “She says that Mrs. Blake’s son fell off the balcony...”
“Good Lord,” Mr. Fenley breathed, his eyes bulging.
“Oh, Henry, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Fenley’s voice called from inside the apartment.
“Something’s happened to that Blake child, it seems,” Mr. Fenley turned and spoke to his wife who was still inside the apartment. “They say he fell from the balcony—”
“Oh, no!”
“When did this happen?” Mr. Fenley asked Erskine.
“This morning, I think.”
“This morning?” Mr. Fenley echoed.
“Presumably so,” Erskine said.
Mrs. Fenley, frail, tall, clad also in her bathrobe, came to the door, her mouth open, her eyes staring at Erskine.
“Good morning,” she greeted Erskine tensely. “What’s all this about little Tony?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fenley,” Erskine answered her. “I don’t know, really. Westerman says that Tony fell from the balcony and was killed...”
“Good God! From the balcony...?”
“Seems so. That’s what they say. Westerman and his wife are now inside with Mrs. Blake—“ He gestured toward the open apartment door.
Westerman came out of Mrs. Blake’s apartment in time to overhear Mrs. Fenley’s request for information.
“Little Tony fell from the balcony; he was crushed,” he told them. “He must have been killed as soon as he hit the pavement...”
“The balcony on this floor?” Mrs. Fenley asked. “Yes; I think so,” Westerman said.
“Oh, dear! That poor little child,” Mrs. Fenley moaned, clutching her throat and turning to her husband. She swung around, as though suddenly remembering her duty. “That poor woman...How she must be suffering—“ She ran to the open door of Mrs. Blake’s apartment and entered.
Erskine saw Fenley stoop and gather up the bulk of his Sunday paper and at once Erskine did the same. Surreptitiously, he tried to smooth out his crumpled wad...The elevator door had been left open and from it came the insistent sound of buzzing.
Westerman stepped to the elevator and closed the door.
“Is there anything we can do?” Mr. Fenley asked Westerman.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Westerman replied. He looked worried, stunned. “I want to see that balcony,” he said at last, frowning.
“Then it was from this floor?” Mr. Fenley asked.
“I guess so,” Westerman mumbled. “It was where he played most of the time....”
“Goodness,” Erskine breathed.
Erskine’s legs were trembling. He had a hot impulse to tell Westerman right then and there what had happened for, maybe, they’d find it out sooner or later and blame him...for what? What could they blame him for? And if he had anything to tell, should he not have told it already? To try to tell now was awkward...And yet the longer he waited, the more impossible it would be to tell. And it all had too much the air of a wild dream to make sense. Yes; he’d follow Westerman and see how he reacted when he saw that loose iron railing jutting off the balcony into space...He pushed the lever on his lock and, as he did so, he cursed himself for having forgotten to do so earlier this morning. If he’d done that, all of this would not have happened; Tony would be alive, yelling, beating his drum...He walked behind Westerman, still wearing his bathrobe, holding his Sunday newspaper...
“But what happened?” Erskine asked Westerman.
“We don’t know, sir,” Westerman replied vaguely. “I always was kinda scared of that balcony. Too small for kids to play on.”
“But is the child really dead?” Erskine asked. “Maybe they could still help him, save him.. Erskine swallowed; he could feel that his voice carried a note of a man not wanting to believe what he had heard.
“He’s dead,” Westerman told him flatly. “The cop said he was DOA—dead on arrival.”
Westerman came to the open door giving onto the balcony and stood staring for a moment. Erskine, standing directly behind Westerman, had to tiptoe and peer over the man’s shoulder to see the tumbled tricycle and the overturned electric hobbyhorse which now lay near the iron railing, having been pushed there by Erskine’s naked feet when he had hoisted himself upward into the bathroom window. The iron railing was conspicuously loose; one end had been torn from the brick wall and was now extending out into space...
Erskine lifted his head and his eyes anxiously searched the window ledge for blood spots. There were none. Thank God...! Only a miracle had kept that window ledge free of blood stains, and he had forgotten to inspect it until this very moment...
“Jeeeesus,” Westerman breathed. “That railing came smack out of that wall...How on earth could that happen?”
Westerman advanced upon the balcony now.
“Could he have fallen against it?” Erskine asked him in a low, charged tone.
Westerman did not reply; he bent forward, got to his knees and examined the gaping hole from which the railing had come.
“God, the cement’s loose; that’s why the railing came out,” Westerman spoke as though to himself. He then looked up to Erskine. “See?” he asked, pointing.
Erskine shuddered but kept his face straight. True, the cement had been somewhat loose, but he knew in his heart that Tony’s weight and the blow dealt that railing by the hobbyhorse would not have torn that railing from that brick wall; it had been his added weight of two hundred pounds—accidentally thrown against the railing—that had made that railing sag and give way...
“Yes,” Erskine murmured.
Westerman got to his. feet and stared about. “He must’ve been playing on that horse and fell, maybe...He went against that railing. That damned horse is heavy. I’ve lifted it many a time to bring it out here for Tony.” Westerman lifted the horse. “Feel this, Mr. Fowler,” Westerman said to Erskine.
Erskine hesitated, then took hold of the horse and lifted it; it weighed nearly sixty pounds.
“It’s kind of heavy,” Erskine allowed himself to admit.
“You’re telling me?” Westerman said scornfully. “Why in God’s name they want to make toys as big and heavy as that, I don’t know.” Westerman scowled in disgust. “If he had fallen against that railing alone, it wouldn’t have pulled loose; but when he and that damned horse, the two of them, hit that railing, it gave...Don’t you think so?”
“Looks like it,” Erskine said with a dry throat. He felt that he was speaking the truth.
Cautiously, Westerman peered over the edge of the balcony, then drew back, his eyes full of pity, horror, and wonder.
“Makes me dizzy just to look down there,” he mumbled, sweat standing on his brow.
Erskine heard dull footsteps behind him; he glanced round and saw Mr. Fenley, pale, concentrated, tense, advancing toward the balcony, his thin lips hanging open and the sparse, blond and gray hair on top of his head tossing in the wind.
“No child should be allowed to play on a balcony as tiny as that,” Mr. Fenley snapped with indignation. He turned and was about to leave when he almost collided with a uniformed policeman.
“Which of you is Mr. Westerman?” the policeman asked.
“I am, sir,” Westerman said. “This is awful—”
“Is this where he fell from?” the policeman asked. “I guess so,” Westerman mumbled. “These are his playthings. And this was where he played all the time—”
“Hmmnn,” the policeman grunted, staring about. “That iron railing...Was it always loose, like that...?”
“No, sir,” Westerman replied stoutly. “That’s the first time in my life I’ve seen it like that” The man’s voice rang with conviction; he was frowning and staring at the loose cement. “Th
at railing was certainly not like that yesterday, sir. I washed windows on this floor and I’d have seen it, if it had been.”
“Who else comes out on this balcony?” the policeman asked.
“Nobody but Tony; he played here a lot,” Westerman said.
“Whose window’s that?” the policeman asked, pointing to Erskine’s bathroom window.
“That’s my window,” Erskine told him.
“Did you hear anything out here this morning?” the policeman asked him.
“I heard the child beating his drum,” Erskine said. “Was there anybody with ‘im?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did the child make any strange outcries?”
“I heard him shouting, playing—”
“But no sounds as though he was hurt or anything?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Did any of you see the child this morning?”
“I did,” Westerman said. “I unlocked the door and brought the horse out—”
“That balcony door...You say you unlocked it. Why?”
“Well, you see, sir,” Westerman explained, “that door’s locked at night, always. We’ve had a lot of robberies, sir. We didn’t want anyone climbing into apartments through bathroom windows. I unlocked that door this morning at six, so Tony could play-”
“Was anyone on the balcony when you came out here then?”
“Absolutely not, sir. If there had been, I’d have seen them.” Westerman was positive in his statement.
“And the child was playing alone?”
“His mother said he was, sir,” Westerman said. “I just spoke to her. She lives in apartment 10C. She’s there now...”
“Did anyone see the child fall?” the policeman asked.
Erskine’s body tightened. What good would telling the truth do now? And he wasn’t guilty of anything. But telling what had happened would make him seem somehow guilty...But ought he to lie? And remaining silent was lying...Suddenly he was resolved to stay clear of Tony’s death, but he didn’t want to lie baldly. How could he do that? He knew that, in a legal sense, he was not guilty; but to say that he’d seen the child fall meant becoming entangled in something that would harm him no end, and to no purpose. Was this not an exception to the general rule? Yet, didn’t he have a sacred duty to tell the truth? To describe exactly what had happened? But if he did, if he said that he’d been naked and had frightened the child, wouldn’t the idea leap into everybody’s mind that he had been up to something “perverse”? Did telling the truth mean that one had to expose one’s self uselessly to slander of that sort? But why was he so certain that others would think him “perverse”? Erskine’s experience as an insurance man had taught him that man was a sneaking, guilty animal, always prone to excesses, to outlandish attitudes. Common sense urged him to hold his tongue, and he was positive that no motive other than that of prudence was prompting him to silence.
“I was in my apartment,” Mr. Fenley explained. “I saw nothing. I heard a commotion and looked out of my door and saw Mrs. Blake crying and yelling...
“I was taking in my paper when I heard Mrs. Blake scream,” Erskine found words at last. “God, it’s a pity—”
“You folks mustn’t touch anything here,” the policeman said. He went to the balcony and peered down, then to left and right.
Mr. Fenley went back into the hallway and Erskine followed him.
“It’s awful,” Erskine said to Mr. Fenley.
“It’s that mother of his, if you ask me,” Mr. Fenley said sotto voce. “She was sleeping, she said...Imagine! She ought to be whipped to let a child play out there.”
“Guess you’re right,” Erskine found himself eagerly clutching at a scapegoat.
“And she’s weeping,” Mr. Fenley said in disgust. “She ought to.”
Mrs. Fenley came out of Mrs. Blake’s apartment, followed by Mrs. Westerman who was leading the weeping Mrs. Blake by the arm. Mrs. Blake had dressed, but her tumbling black hair spread wildly over her shoulders, half hiding her face and spilling down to her waist. The door of Mrs. Blake’s apartment slammed shut and Erskine stared at it as though hypnotized, recalling how, just less than an hour ago, he had been standing naked and terrified before his own door that had slammed shut.
“Will she be able to get back in?” the policeman asked, coming forward.
“Don’t bother,” Mrs. Westerman said. “I’ve got passkeys to all the apartments in the building. I’ll let her in when she comes back.”
Mrs. Blake walked with difficulty, her knees sagging. She paused as she passed Erskine and stared blankly before her. Erskine imagined that, for half a second, her large, limpid, brown eyes were resting upon him. Or had they? He grew tense. He had to be careful and keep a tight hold on himself....
Mrs. Fenley went to her husband’s side and clutched his arm nervously, staring at Mrs. Westerman and Mrs. Blake. The two women, Westerman, and the policeman entered the elevator; the door closed and the elevator sank.
“Poor, poor woman,” Mrs. Fenley murmured in awe.
“I wonder if there’s anything we can do?” Erskine spoke uncertainly.
“Well, the police are taking care of everything now,” Mr. Fenley said. “It’s too bad...Come, dear.”
He took his wife’s arm and led her into their apartment.
Erskine stood alone in the hallway, hugging his bundle of Sunday papers. Suddenly he was afraid to enter his apartment. He dreaded being alone now. When supported by the presence of the others, everything had seemed natural, his not telling had had a normal aspect. But the moment he was alone and face to face with himself, he felt that he ought to tell. But how could he? He stood brooding, biting his lips.
The elevator door opened and Miss Brownell, her arms full of groceries, came out with wide eyes and a pale face.
“Oh, Mr. Fowler, do you know what has happened?” she demanded, running up to him.
“About little Tony? It’s awful, awful...I can’t believe it,” he told her.
‘What a ghastly, horrible thing!” Miss Brownell sang out as she closed her eyes. “I had to walk ten blocks to buy something for lunch, and when I passed down there I thought I’d faint when they told me that that was little Tony lying there all smashed...The poor little thing was all covered with a sheet or something. I couldn’t even bear to look in his direction. They’re taking him to the hospital now—”
“The hospital?” Erskine repeated her words. “But I thought the child was dead...” Had he spoken too abruptly, in too surprised a manner?
“He is,” Miss Brownell assured him quickly. “But it seems that they take ‘em to the hospital anyway. Mr. Westerman says that the Medical Examiner has to decide if the death was accidental or not. But, of course, it was...Just a formality, you know? Oh, things like this unnerve me no end...And that Mrs. Blake lost her husband in the war, you know? How did poor Tony fall?”
“Nobody seems to know,” Erskine said uneasily.
“That Mrs. Blake,” Miss Brownell pronounced the woman’s name in a sudden, sober manner, biting her lips and shooting a meaningful glance at Erskine.
“Yes,” Erskine said quietly, agreeing.
They had both passed a moral judgment upon the mother of Tony. Her arms loaded, Miss Brownell was now trying to open her door, fumbling awkwardly with her key.
“Here; let me help you there,” Erskine said, advancing.
“Oh, thank you,” Miss Brownell said, surrendering her key.
Erskine unlocked her door and handed her her key.
“You re so kind,” Miss Brownell murmured, smiling at him.
“Not at all,” Erskine mumbled.
“I just can’t seem to get that poor child out of my mind,” Miss Brownell wailed.
“I know what you mean,” Erskine said, nodding sympathetically. He felt sweat breaking out again over the skin of his body.
“Well, goodbye,” Miss Brownell called, smiling sadly.
“Good morning, Miss Brownell,
” Erskine said.
Miss Brownell’s door closed and Erskine turned and headed for his door. He stopped. He was staring at a copy of Mrs. Blake’s New York Times that lay in a neat, folded heap at her door sill. And his copy of the New York Times was crushed under his arms, damp, crumpled...Yes; he’d exchange the newspapers...Mrs. Blake would be too upset to notice that her copy was not fresh, was damp and wadded....She’d surely not read the paper today; and even if she did notice that her papers were soiled, wouldn’t she think that Tony had been playing with them...?
Stooping quickly, he let his paper fall softly to the carpet and then picked up her paper; he glanced round; no one was in sight. He sighed, still trembling slightly, then went back into his apartment, shut the door, and leaned weakly against it. He stifled a groan. He was feeling a terror that he had felt a long, long time ago, feeling it but not understanding it. He felt alone, abandoned in the world—abandoned and guilty. Why?
“God, it wasn’t my fault.” He spoke aloud in a stern, resentful, and insistent voice.
PART TWO: AMBUSH
...one thing is the thought, another thing is the deed, and another thing is the idea of the deed.
—Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra
...is there really such a world of difference between the wish and the deed?
—Theodor Reik’s The Unknown Murderer
In the beginning was the deed.
—Goethe’s Faust
* * * * *
NUMBED, shaky, Erskine went to his bedroom window and stared down into the street, feeling that something grossly unfair had happened to him. The crowd had dispersed and the sun lit to distinctness the dark, irregular smudge where Tony’s body had lain in its pool of blood.
How utterly stupid it all was! With a violent reflex action he spun round, his face contorted with rage; he smote his right fist into his left palm; then his knees sagged from pain. He’d forgotten that he had cut his hand. Blood began to flow again from the wound; he went to the bathroom, washed it, and sealed it with adhesive tape.
He sank into a chair, brooding. His mind strenuously protested the potency of that accident. If only he hadn’t foolishly failed to flick the lever on his lock; if only that lazy, good-for-nothing Mrs. Blake had been looking after her child properly; if only he hadn’t left his bedroom window open, a draft of air would not have pushed his door shut; if only he’d taken time and looked on that balcony before rushing out; if only, when he’d gone down nude in the elevator, those two young girls hadn’t been waiting there; if only that cursed newsboy hadn’t come at that time; if only he’d gotten out of bed the moment he’d opened his eyes, instead of lolling and daydreaming—none of this would have happened! But who, in the name of God, could have foreseen such a concatenation of events?
Savage Holiday Page 6
