From her bureau, where she kept those little objects that had a sentimental attachment for her, she took out the drawing McAlpine had made of her the night he had met her at the radio studio. She put it beside the drawing of “Peggy the Crimper” in the newspaper. On her own drawing were the words “Madame Radio.” The handwriting on both drawings was clearly the same, and each showed the same touch in the free line and the careless ease of the lettering. He might just as well have signed his own name. “Oh, my God!” she whispered, sinking into the chair. Her head began to throb with a sharp pain that was like an attack of migraine she had had years ago, and she was scared, desolate, and lonely.
Yet she couldn’t believe it. It was too incredible. She walked up and down with her long stride, protesting to herself that McAlpine had been the soul of gentleness with her, had even been shy of touching her, and, since no one would call her unattractive, it was therefore incredible to suggest that he would be found tearing the clothes off a worthless girl. What had probably happened was that he and Foley had met someone with the girl in that awful Chalet bar and McAlpine had amused them by drawing the picture.
But she was frightened by her pounding heart. It filled the room. With its steady loud beating it denied her easy explanation. How could she make these rational explanations when her heart throbbed so loud? What did she really know of McAlpine? His deep, careless, warm laugh and his impulsive gestures suggested a passion he had never shown to her; he had kept his secret, withdrawing from her night after night and probably sneaking off to the girl’s room. Now she had that secret that she had longed to possess. She could see him in the room with the girl, going mad with passion for her; she saw it all so vividly she had to clamp her palm tight against her mouth for fear of screaming.
But she had to listen to her pounding heart, and it made her remember a stocky, redheaded young fellow who had struggled with her one night on a beach when she was eighteen. They had struggled on the sand in the moonlight, and she had been terrified as he held her down; but she had been strong enough to get away, and afterwards she had not hated him. Years later, when she had been married, she had wondered about the red-headed young fellow sometimes, even wishing she had not got away from him. That boy had really wanted her; with all his heart he had wanted her as McAlpine must have wanted this girl. Now she could feel again the grip of the boy’s hands on her wrists, and she got all mixed up, looking around and wondering where she was, not knowing whether she was remembering the night on the beach or imagining she could feel McAlpine struggling with the slut of a girl.
She felt wild and confused. She started to pace up and down again, full of hatred for the girl. Yet never before had she hated anyone. She had been proud of being free of malice, of having a well bred sense of sportsmanship, and it had never been necessary for her to be envious of her friends. They had nothing she needed. But she could have given McAlpine everything he wanted: she longed to cry it out. And he knew it, oh, surely he knew it. And if so he could not possibly have touched the girl; there was some explanation; if he could hear her voice he would offer the explanation. She clutched eagerly at the phone on the table by the bed and called the Ritz, but they said Mr. McAlpine had checked out that afternoon. And she trembled and felt cold with fright.
Her eyes began to ache, and she turned out the light. A shaft of moonlight fell across the room. Striding back and forth across this strip of light, she wrung her hands. Gradually, she became aware of the moonlight. She looked at the window. The strip of moonlight reminded her of the redheaded boy. She strode to the window, trembling all over, and slashed the curtain across the light. Then she stood still, trying to make a plan. Outside, the taxis purred along Sherbrooke Street. The whole city hummed while she thought intently. But the plan wouldn’t come, for she remembered how she had lain awake at night wanting McAlpine to touch her as he must have touched the girl. She felt unclean. She hated herself. She made washing motions with her hands. She hated McAlpine. He had only wanted to use her to worm his way into her father’s business. He had involved her in his sordid affair with the drawing he had given her; it was a piece of evidence against him. It would identify him, but it would humiliate her publicly. Her father, too, was involved as were her friends and her whole life. The consequences of her identification of that drawing of the girl in overalls could be appalling.
But she was a strong-minded girl, proud of her own self-respect. Turning on the light, she put on her brown dress, moving slowly and gaining control of herself so her father would have respect for her.
She looked for her father in the drawing room. She found him in the library.
“What’s this?” he asked when she handed him the newspaper and her own drawing. She was so pale and worried that he leaned forward to examine the drawing. “What’s this, Catherine?” he repeated.
She only pointed at her own drawing. “Jim – McAlpine did it for me,” she said nervously. Then she had to sit down and wait while he studied the drawing.
“I still don’t understand,” he said.
“Oh, can’t you see?” She pointed to the handwriting. Even then for a while it had no meaning. A slow flush mounted to his forehead.
“Good God, Catherine, you don’t mea—” Again he looked closely at the drawing, and, begging for an explanation, he turned to her. “These drawings,” he said. “Why, there’s no doubt they were done by the same hand. If McAlpine did them…” Sinking back in the chair, he protested, “But I liked that young man, Catherine.”
“Yes,” she nodded, holding onto herself beautifully, watching him finger his solid blue tie. Then he looked confusedly around his library. Neither spoke. They both shared the same astonishment that their home and their lives could be smirched by the sordid passions of the meanest neighbourhood in town. She told him that she had been uneasy for some days about McAlpine. She had been aware that he had some secret. She was much calmer than her father. Her self-control astonished him and made it hard for him to realize what had happened.
“But – but it must be awful for you, Catherine,” he said, sighing.
“Of course,” she said crisply. “Just the same, Jim couldn’t really have done it, you know,” she added.
“Why couldn’t he?”
“Well, why didn’t he ever – well – attack me or molest me?”
“Because – well, you’re who you are, of course, Catherine.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Just think,” he said, wanting to be comforting, “how much worse it would be if you were more committed to him – if you had thought of marrying him.”
“He hadn’t asked me to marry him. I doubt if he wanted me to.” In spite of herself her voice faltered.
Her tone aroused him, and he sat up, catching a glimpse of her suffering in her averted eyes. He understood her deep humiliation and he hated McAlpine. So they sat there rigidly, very close together in their wounded pride, yet still finding it incredible that a man they had liked, whom they had offered a chance to share their lives, should have preferred to be mixed up in the life of a debauched girl who drifted around St. Antoine.
“Catherine,” he said, “it’s not only this drawing of yours that involves us in this horrible mess.”
“No?”
“The man was wearing my hat.”
“Yes. Why, yes, so he was,” she said.
“And my initials are in that hat.”
“It won’t matter, will it?”
“Why, the police will look at everything he has. He’ll tell the police it’s my hat. To give himself prestige around here.”
“The police, you say—”
“Of course, Catherine. We have an obligation.”
“But will we go to the police?”
“What else can we do?”
“It won’t end there. People will talk.”
“Yes. Yes, let me think, Catherine.” His neck reddened, his face was angry. “I would have given my right arm for him,” he complained. “I wanted him to
get along.” And as he fell into a monolithic stillness he sought words that would express the necessity of a certain course of conduct, words which would give them both some dignity. “We have to have a sense of responsibility about this, however painful it may be,” he said.
“Yes, a sense of responsibility,” she agreed, knowing all her training was at stake and everything they stood for would be tested by their action at this moment.
“We have here a piece of evidence,” he said.
“Yes.”
“We can’t possibly suppress it.”
“I don’t know.”
“Catherine,” he said sternly, “we’re not cheap little hysterical people who hide in the dark. This is our town. People respect us. We’re not furtive. We’re not ashamed of being involved – if we can be of some help.”
“I understand,” she said faintly.
“It will be painful, Catherine.”
“I know it’s necessary,” she said. “We’re entitled at least to keep our self-respect – to act as if we respected ourselves.”
“You’re a fine girl, Catherine. Just a minute.” And he got up and strode out of the room to the phone. It was only when he was at the door that she looked up and noticed how burning-red the back of his neck was.
In twenty minutes a detective came, a French Canadian, Paul Bouchard. Forty-two years old, with a respectful elegant manner. He wore a black coat with a brown fur collar. He had a sharp face and a little moustache. Both Mr. Carver and Catherine conducted themselves with dignity. The detective, who was wise and shrewd, admired her manner very much. After he had compared the newspaper drawing with the one that belonged to Catherine he smiled a little. With extravagant respect he questioned Catherine about her relationship with McAlpine. If McAlpine had left the Ritz, where might he be at this hour? he asked. And she said he would probably be at the Chalet Restaurant. Only when she named the restaurant did her eyes glow with hatred. “I’d like you to come along with me,” he said. “Not only to pick him out – but to identify this drawing.”
“Is it necessary?” she asked, her face ashen.
“I think so.”
“Very well.” She hesitated only momentarily.
“I’ll go with you, Catherine,” her father said. “We’ll see this thing through together.”
“You are most helpful, sir,” Bouchard said as he picked up Catherine’s drawing and put it carefully in his inside pocket. “I have a car outside.”
It was like a spring night out. The ice and snow on Sherbrooke Street had been cut by car wheels, and the flowing water in these tracks gleamed in the street lights. Passing cars sprayed sheets of water at the pavement.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Early in the evening McAlpine was in Wolgast’s bar sitting with Foley at the corner table. The bar that night was a cheerless spot. Three strangers, salesmen from out of town, who had been advised to come there and enjoy the cheerful insults they would get from Wolgast, were expressing in whispers their profound disappointment with the place, for Wolgast ignored them. His arms folded and a cigar in his mouth, he leaned against his cash register morosely.
Foley had been trying to think of a comforting observation, but as he looked up his voice trailed off. He realized that no one could console McAlpine. His sickly pallor and the nervous twitching of his hand on the table suggested that he had been drinking. He also had the aloof, untouchable unawareness of a drunk. And yet he wasn’t drunk. All afternoon he had been drinking, but his eyes showed that he was agonizingly sober and would remain so even if he lost control of his limbs. All his grief showed in the worried loneliness of his eyes.
When Bouchard came in, no one even looked up. But when he was followed by Catherine and her father McAlpine noticed them and stood up slowly. Mr. Carver looked like an aloof ambassador. Catherine, raising the collar of her beaver coat, stared blankly at McAlpine. He wore a blue suit, an inch of white cuff showing at the sleeves. He looked very clean and distinguished despite his pallor. He even smiled, for it flashed into his mind idiotically that many years ago when he had been a boy he had dreamed of the Havelocks and people like the Carvers seeking him out, and now they had come.
“Mr. McAlpine?” Bouchard said.
“Of course. You want to see me?” He came from behind the table. “I’ve been half expecting you.”
“Wait a minute,” Foley said sharply. “What’s this about?”
“About? Well,” McAlpine began, glancing at Wolgast, “you might say, in a sense, it’s about Wolgast’s white horse.”
“What? What’s this about me?” Wolgast demanded. But McAlpine was on his way to get his coat and hat.
“Take it easy, Jim,” Foley said excitedly. “Nobody’s going to push you around.”
“I know, Chuck.”
“Don’t think you’re pushing him around,” Foley said belligerently to Carver. “Nor you either, lady. I, too, own a piece of this town.”
Catherine turned her head away, and Mr. Carver made a gesture to Bouchard.
“Nobody’s pushing your friend around,” Bouchard said to Foley.
“Where are you taking him? I’ll have fifteen lawyers there. Can he phone me?”
“Of course he can phone you,” Bouchard said.
“I’ll be sitting right here by the phone. Just remember he’s got friends,” Foley said.
When McAlpine had put on his coat and his hat and had joined Bouchard, who was talking quietly at the entrance with Catherine and her father, he suddenly took off the hat. “This is your hat, sir,” he said apologetically to Mr. Carver. “I had intended to return it before.”
“Sir,” Mr. Carver said, glancing around, sure McAlpine was trying to humiliate him.
“Thanks for the loan of it.”
“As you say, sir,” Mr. Carver said coldly because Bouchard was watching him.
“I shall use the phone,” Bouchard said mildly. “I think Mr. McAlpine would like a cup of coffee.”
When they went out, Bouchard told Catherine that he would like her to come down to detective headquarters in about an hour; in the meantime, he would try to sober McAlpine up. She could identify the drawings in McAlpine’s presence. He bowed to her. But when he took McAlpine by the arm she whispered, “Jim,” and she put out her hand. Her father caught her arm sternly and she straightened and turned her head away, ashamed.
In the car McAlpine waited for Bouchard to speak. All that concerned Bouchard was that passing cars were spraying slush on the windshield.
“I’m under arrest, of course,” McAlpine said.
“Who said you were under arrest?”
“Have I made one statement calculated to deceive you, sir?”
“It is a fact. You haven’t.”
“Why then should you deceive me? I’m under arrest.”
“When you are feeling better we will have a talk.”
“I am upset,” McAlpine agreed. “But I am aware of my situation.” And then he lay back in the cab in a stupor, the lights flickering on his face. Bouchard, believing he was drunk, wondered whether he should let him sleep or keep him awake and moving until his mind cleared. He had a mild impersonal manner and was proud of having no rancour for any of the criminals he arrested; he was also proud of being a cultivated citizen with sophisticated perceptions of his own. McAlpine obviously was a cultivated man, and therefore, within a certain sphere, his intellectual comrade. It was possible McAlpine would have emotions about the girl that would be stimulating, if corrupt. Bouchard had been Chief of Detectives but had made himself too difficult; he was unforgivably impartial in his arrests. He was on the way down in the department and knew it.
“Try and keep awake, my friend,” he said, shaking McAlpine. “It will be easier. You are doing fine.”
McAlpine, raising his head, looked out the window. “I wasn’t sleeping. Where are we?” They were on their way to the Champ de Mars, Bouchard said. “Of course,” McAlpine said with great understanding, recognizing the appropriateness of a ride throu
gh the old financial district where he had had his dreams of influence. “I would not like anyone to get the impression I drink too much. I never show the effects of liquor,” he said stiffly. “I’ve been upset all day. I don’t think anyone should drink who can’t hold it. Excuse me.” And he concentrated.
Going into Headquarters, then into the detectives’ room, he was erect, and only when he sat down and leaned back with a sigh did he look around miserably.
It was a bare, shabby brown room with a long table. A stenographer, a plump dark young girl with glasses and a severe expression, brought in two cups and a quart jar of coffee. When McAlpine saw the coffee, he asked, “Would you mind, sir, if I washed my face with some very cold water?” “Not at all,” Bouchard said with equal politeness. He took him to the washroom; he waited and even handed him a towel.
They returned to their coffee. McAlpine’s hands were trembling; he drank the coffee greedily. When he was taking the third cup he saw Bouchard drop the drawing of “Madame Radio” on the table.
“If you please – if you please,” McAlpine said in a lofty tone. “Never mind the ritual. Please don’t be clever about this. I did that drawing. I also did the drawing you saw in the newspapers. I know how I’m in this. I know what I’m saying. I know it’s my fault, but didn’t want it. It shouldn’t be like this. It’s all wrong.”
“And you killed the girl?” Bouchard said doubtfully.
“The way it is, it’s my fault she’s dead.”
“And you were with her last night?”
“Of course I was.”
“And you were involved in her death?”
“I told you it’s my fault she’s dead.”
“What time did you get back to your hotel?”
“At twenty-seven minutes after two. Why is that important?” McAlpine asked impatiently. “Who’s trying to fool you?”
“No one. I like to know these things. I’m curious. Drink some more coffee. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Bouchard’s tone was sympathetic; he gave McAlpine a friendly pat on the shoulder and, his eyes bright with curiosity, he went out. Left with his coffee, McAlpine put his head in his hands and sighed. It was awful to be left there alone. All day long he had tried to avoid being alone. Bouchard, of course, was playing with him by leaving him alone. Yet there was the black coffee; but he pushed the mug away. More of it would make him sick. He felt bloated. It was better to concentrate on the scratches on the long table and realize he was to be left there endlessly shivering with the pain of his own recollections because they believed he wanted to conceal something.
The Loved and the Lost Page 24
