by A. J. Cronin
"I'm sorry," Dunn mumbled. "I started the machine and that's what came out."
McEvoy was silent, reflecting on the queer contradiction: that this heavy and embarrassed young man, with not a word to say for himself in conversation, who probably couldn't tell an after-dinner story to save his life, should be, on paper, a very lion of verbosity, a spouting geyser, a volcano in eruption, with a flow of sentient expression which swept away the ordinary reader, tugged at the heartstrings, made him laugh and weep.
McEvoy stood up.
"It's the worst story I've had in a twelvemonth. But tomorrow it's going on the front page." While Dunn gazed at him in a muddled manner, he smiled. "I want you to come to supper at my house on Sunday evening."
That was the end of Luther Aloysius Dunn's connection with the world of sport and the real beginning of his career. McEvoy sent him first to the police courts, which vielded much of that human incident so particularly suited to his pen. Then he be^an
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to move about the country and to do regular half-page feature articles. Since the comedy of his names was now no secret to McEvoy, the editor had hit upon an excellent pseudonym for his leading reporter. Henceforth Dunn's articles were always signed: "The Heretic." And the series which he produced, entitled: "Burning Questions," followed by: "Further Burnings at the Stake," attracted wide attention — besides evoking two libel actions which the paper successfully defended. The circulation of the Chronicle spasmodically increased, as did the friendship between the Heretic and his editor, a relationship which was strengthened in 1929, when McEvoy's tall and rather stately sister Eva, who had for a long time bent her limpid eyes modestly towards Dunn, finally took possession of him.
The marriage, though it did not cure Dunn of his fondness for beer and old clothes, was a steady success and produced two little girls who were secretly doted upon by their father. Eva was a nice swan-like woman, with a fondness for ivory beads, lavender sachets and long drop earrings. Dunn allowed his wife to manage everything and since she was sincerely religious, he accompanied her to Mass with the children in orthodox fashion. They were, indeed, often publicly held up in the parish of St. Joseph as an exemplary family. But Dunn's heart was not in it, something had happened to him, inside, when he was a child. He set little store upon outward form, holding of greater importance what lay in the heart of every man. If he had a motto it was: "Live and let live," and in his own life he was always eager to redress a wrong, always ready to champion the underdog.
Such inherent sentimentality made him highly vulnerable, especially to himself, for even at the age of forty his nature was still essentially as retiring, as sensitive as in his adolescence. He could not endure to be regarded even remotely as a spiritual "uplifter," a reformer with a message. He was simply a newspaper man doing his job. Therefore he developed and covered himself with a protective veneer of melancholy cynicism, the sort of boredom which members of his profession are popularly supposed to acquire. It was a pose, a perpetual act which probably deceived no one but Dunn himself. There were, so to speak,
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always tender patches of sentiment showing beneath the tough skin grafts, but this good fellow did not see them and, like the ostrich, he felt himself secure.
His contact with Lena has already been recorded. He had kept in touch with her during the past year, often calling in at her counter for coffee and a bun on his way to the Chronicle office in Arden Street. Therefore, when she came to him at his house on Hassock Hill, late on the night of Paul's arrest, he did not fail to recognise her distress and listened to her with attention. Nevertheless, on the following morning as he accompanied her to the police court he fancied he was setting out upon a wild goose chase. What he had seen there had shaken this belief. Then had come Paul's narrative, delivered in great distress, unmistakably authentic, without a single false note, complete from first to last.
Dunn had trained himself never to jump to conclusions, but all his instincts told him that he had stumbled upon the one great story of his life. He was a placid man, rendered somewhat lethargic by his girth, but as he walked home that night, a sudden boil of excitement made him step as briskly as a youth.
He said nothing to James McEvoy for a week. During that time, although he did not once appear at the newspaper offices, he was extremelv occupied, and took several extensive journevs. Then, after eleven o'clock on the night of the following Thurs-day he came, noticed only by the night porter, to the Chronicle building and locked himself in his office. He was tired and travel-stained but his eyes were bright, no longer bored, as he took off his coat, his jacket and waistcoat, ripped open his collar and sat down in his braces at his desk. He remained in meditation for some time, then slowly, with a rapt expression, he spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and drawing his typewriter towards him, set its keys clicking with his own inimitable blend of sentiment and sensation.
In the damp darkness of the condemned cell, in this great city of Wortley, an innocent man sat waiting to be hanged. Outside, in the prison yard, he could hear the sounds of hammering as they erected the scaffold. In a few hours they would come, pinion his hands behind his back, lead
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him out into the cold dawn. Then, beneath the gallows the rope would be cast around his neck, the white bag slipped over his head. . . .
Next morning, at nine, he rolled drowsily oft the office sofa. Bleary and unshaven, still in his shirtsleeves, he took his typescript into McEvoy.
"Here," he said, "is the first of the new Heretic articles. Also a complete synopsis of the other nine that make up the series. Read it. I'm going out for breakfast."
Half an hour later when Dunn returned, the editor was at his desk, so immobilized by thought he did not immediately stir. Then he turned his head slowly. He was a neat, spare man in a blue business suit, thin-faced, his dark hair greying at the temples, parted precisely in the middle, wearing rimless pince-nez and a white pique piping to his waistcoat. He prided himself upon his imperturbability. But now he was labouring under stress. In fact, though he tried not to show it, he was staggered.
"How in the name of God Almighty did you get this?"
"I didn't get it."
"Then who did?"
"Mathry's son. He got it all."
"Where is he now?"
"Out on bail, in bed, and damnably ill."
"Are you sure it's right?"
"Positive. I've checked everything I've written."
McEvoy rubbed his thin jaw. He was worried, undecided, and deeply excited.
"Can we print it?"
Dunn shrugged. "Please yourself."
"But, Almighty God, it goes right through the top judiciary to the Secretary of State. And how about . . . how about Mr. O.? We can't come out with that. What about libel? We'll be sued for a certainty."
"Not a chance. Don't you see how I've planned it? We save him till the end. We don't particularize. We simply say Mr. O. — or better still Mr. X. Then we sit tight and watch what happens.
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Oh, God, it's terrific. It's the biggest thing that's ever come our way. Think of it . . . here's a man, fifteen years in Stoneheath . . . and for nothing."
"Maybe he d-did it?" In his excitement the precise McEvoy actually stuttered.
"No, I'll swear he's innocent."
"They'll never admit that, never."
"We'll make them." Dunn began to walk up and down the room. "We'll show them the power of a free press. And the strength of public opinion. I'm going to launch such an attack that the parties concerned will be shamed out of their official defences. We'll make them re-open this case. We'll force them to hold an inquiry. For months young Mathry has been battering at their doors and they haven't opened up an inch. Why? Because they know they've made a mistake. And they're trying to keep it stowed away down in the cellar. What the hell's the good of calling ourselves a democracy if we let ourselves be dragooned by a lot of bureaucra
ts. From that it's only one step on to communism. If we want to keep our democracy we've got to put our house in order. We've got to have progress and orderly advancement. If we clamp the lid down even on one case of injustice, if we suppress free speech even for a second, then we're done for. The weevils will burrow into us and destroy us. Look what nearly happened to this young Mathry. With a little help
— he nearly went over the edge, and he may still go. And why? Because everything that was done to him suppressed his right to be heard. If we are a free country, and want to stay free, a man must be able to raise his voice. . . ."
"All right, all right," McEvoy said sourly. "Don't quote the whole article. We'll print it, if it ruins us. And it will!" With sudden determination he pressed the bell on his desk.
Dunn went back to his office, put on his jacket and waistcoat, his hat, his overcoat. Down below, the presses were beginning to run, a heavy thrumming note which vibrated through all the building. He rubbed his hand reflectively across his rough chin
— Evie was always worrying him about his appearance — he had better get a shave. It would freshen him up. He was thirsty too.
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His eyes brightened: it was nearly eleven, he would drop in at Hannigan's for a beer.
CHAPTER XI
ON the previous Wednesday afternoon, when Dunn left Ware Place, Lena saw that Paul had fallen back on his pillow and was asleep.
Gazing at him with a furrowed brow, she was forced to admit that he looked ill, quite ill, in fact. Nevertheless, a strange feeling, which she could not restrain, made her want to keep him here, in this refuge, quiet and secure, beside her. At least she would try. Her nature, crushed by the brutality that had made her shrink from the very thought of love, was now fully awakened, stirred to the depths by an emotion she had believed herself incapable of experiencing. How little had she imagined, as she strode through life, a sad young Juno, hurt and solitary, shunning all men with nun-like misgiving, that love would come to her, and come like this, transforming her, filling her heart with sweetness and anguish. Yet this pain gave her strength.
She sat down on a chair by the bed, her eyes not moving from his face. At intervals she rose and wiped the heavy perspiration that gathered on his brow. She took this to be a sign that the fever had broken and was partly reassured. Towards evening she gave him some hot milk and a beaten egg. As she left him for the night she felt hopeful that she might go to work next day. She did not wish to lose her job at the Bonanza.
On the following morning when she roused him, Paul told her that he felt better and could look after himself, but when she was dressed for the street and had put some soup on the stove for his lunch, she suddenly felt his hand. It was burning. Her expression did not change, but she felt in her breast a sharp sinking of dismay. She stood in her beret and raincoat, one hand on the door.
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"Perhaps I should stay home, atter all?"
He shook his head.
"I'll be all right."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
She went reluctantly, and all day, as she moved about behind the counter, her thoughts were bent uneasily upon him. At lour o'clock she brought herself to ask Harris if, as a favour, she might go. His brows lifted, and he smiled at her in his offensive style, but he raised no objection. She hurried out of the store, and paused at a greengrocers to buy some stores. As she came up the stairs she felt a most unusual oppression in her throat — it was the surging of her own strong heart.
Paul was sitting up in bed, with the pillow wedged behind him, staring out through the window at the rows of roof-tops. His face lost its distant and harassed expression, and cleared faintly as she entered. Nevertheless, her immediate glance told her that the symptom which had alarmed her was, if anything, worse. On each of his cheekbones there was a bright round flush. He greeted her with a catch in Ins breath.
"Surely you're early?"
"We had a slack day." She took off her raincoat slowly. "Shouldn't you be lying down?"
"I feel better propped up."
"Did you take your soup?"
"I drank a cupful."
She straightened out the coverlet, trying to hide her anxiety.
"I brought you a sponge cake . . . and fruit. Would you like some lemonade?"
"Very much." He suppressed a cough. "I'm thirsty. But I couldn't eat a thing."
All at once her breast gave a great heave.
"Paul," she said. "I think I'll fetch the doctor."
"No," he protested. "I'd rather be left alone. If you onlv knew . . . after everything . . . just to be left alone. ..."
She looked at him in strained indecision, torn between her sound common sense and her own aching; desire to be with him, undisturbed. For his sake she did not welcome the thought of
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outside interference which might place him in fresh difficulty, even land him back in the hands of the police. Oh, what was she to do?
Still irresolute, she lit the gas and pulled the curtain across the window. He watched her with a detachment that made her movements oddly unreal. He had dozed, off and on, all day, and in between, his thoughts had been of Dunn. He had little hope that this newcomer would help him. Indeed, as he reviewed his own strivings during the past months the conviction settled upon him that it was all quite useless. He had reached the end. He could do no more.
In this mood of unutterable despair he had thought, with unexpected pain, of Lena. Her close friendship with Dunn and the obvious understanding existing between them left little doubt in his mind as to their relationship. He acknowledged to himself that this unobtrusive, middle-aged, married man was the father of her child and still undoubtedly her protector. It was a conclusion which made him wince, caused him an actual physical distress, that somehow intensified the sharp stab that came with every respiration. A compelling desire to seek further hurt drove him to speak.
"Lena . . ."
"Yes?"
"You've done a lot for me. I keep asking myself why?"
She turned away abruptly.
"Why does one do anything? I just did it."
"I'd like you to know that I'm grateful."
"It was nothing."
A brief silence fell.
"I suppose you've known Dunn for some time."
"About three years."
"He's been good to you?"
"Yes. I owe everything to him."
"I see."
He seemed to read a challenge in her proud sad eyes. Yet at the same time her pinched features expressed so mysterious a resignation he was overcome with a sort of terror. He turned his face to the wall.
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"Anyhow," he said, "it makes no difference. I knew already."
She started and turned pale, made as though to speak, while her eyes questioned him with a miserable smile that unconsciously implored him. It was her only moment of weakness. Firmly she closed her lips.
There was a longer silence. He closed his eyes, suppressed a short throaty cough.
"I'm afraid I do feel rather seedy."
Now she did not hesitate. Without a word, she hurried into the hall, put on her raincoat and went out.
Doctor Kerr's surgery was the nearest, only two hundred yards along Ware Street. He was a young man, not long qualified, who had recently put up his plate and was trying to build up a practice in the district. She had heard that he was pleasant and competent.
When she reached the surgery it was closed, but on the door was a printed notice giving the telephone number at which Dr. Kerr might be called. She went into the public booth at the street corner and dialed that number. It was a woman who answered. She told Lena that the doctor was out at an urgent case, but she promised to give him the message whenever he returned.
Lena came out of the booth with a white and anguished face. Had she done right in leaving the call on such an indefinite basis? Should she not rather have sought out another d
octor in the neighbourhood? After her procrastination, for which she bitterly blamed herself, it now seemed imperative to have medical advice without a second's delay.
Back in the room, she found Paul apparently asleep. She waited in unbearable suspense, straining her ears for the sound of the doctor's approach. Shortly after eleven o'clock when she had almost reached the breaking point, he arrived. She saw that he was tired — his sharp features were peaked, his questions to her abrupt — but he gave Paul a careful examination. When he had finished he withdrew from the bedside and looked at his watch.
"What is it, Doctor?" She could barely articulate the words. "Is it serious?"
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His day had been hard and he had missed his dinner, but he answered with exemplary patience.
"He's had a dry pleurisy — that was the pain. Then came the exudate — lots of fluid pressing on the lung."
"Pleurisy?" It did not sound so bad.
But he gave her a quick look then glanced away.
"I'm afraid there may be pus there. Empyema. That means hospital."
Her colour changed. She pressed her hand against her side.
"You couldn't treat him here?"
"Good heavens, no. This requires a rib resection. The whole cavity must be drained. A six weeks' job. Have you a telephone in the house?"
"Yes. In the hall."
He went clattering downstairs. She could hear him telephoning, stressing the gravity and urgency of the case. Palely, she followed him down.
The doctor was having great difficulty in finding a vacant bed: many of the free hospitals were full, and, since he was not yet properly established in the district, he received scant consideration from most of the receptionists. But, at last, he was successful, and after making the arrangements, he turned from the phone with a sigh of relief.
