by Joe Meno
Now we were in for it. Fool, fool, fool of a DeLancey, I reflected bitterly.
Old Bascom, who had been standing bewildered at the head of the table, looking stupidly from his daughter’s crumpled-up form to the man posted at the door, ejaculated: “God bless my soul, O’Rourke, what’s the matter? What—”
“There’s been crooked work pulled off here, Mr. Bascom,” retorted that individual quickly. “Can’t you see that your daughter’s necklace is gone?” He turned to the group around the table. “Two of you ladies help to bring the countess out of her faint. Some of you men look under her chair. If that necklace isn’t found, you’ll have to step in the next room one by one and be searched.” He looked down the table to the young woman who had been his partner. “Miss Kelly, I’ll detail you to search the ladies if the necklace isn’t on the floor.”
A chorus of indignant protests arose from the ladies. The men gasped and looked from one to the other with manifest suspicion written on their faces. A number of the guests stared at DeLancey, who still stood where he was, passing his hand over his brow.
“I feel,” he stammered feebly, “that this puts me in a rather peculiar light. If—if there’s to be any search made, I suggest that it be made on me first. I—”
But he was interrupted by one of the male guests who pointed down the table and exclaimed: “The countess’s glass of cre—”
That gentleman, however, had no opportunity to finish his statement, for the female detective suddenly broke in: “Look, ladies and gentlemen.” She, too, pointed at the countess’s untouched glass of crême-de-menthe. “The lady’s glass of cordial is the only one on the table that’s been spilled all over the cloth. It might be that—”
“God bless my soul,” said old Bascom again, still trying to collect his wits, “what are you all driving at?”
I lost no time in staring at the point which Miss Kelly was indicating, and I saw what she was trying to call everyone’s attention to. Just as she had announced, the green cordial in the countess’s glass had slopped down the side of the fragile vessel and had made a great sticky stain around the base. And I daresay that everyone else saw it at the same time. Miss Kelly, however, hurriedly crossed around the end of the long table and hooked a businesslike finger to the bottom of the glass. A fraction of a second later I found myself picturing DeLancey’s inward rage when he saw that he had been outwitted by a woman.
For as she raised her hand, something was hanging from the crook of her finger; something that might once have held all the colors of the rainbow, but which now, covered as it was with sticky green syrup, hanging pendant with the clasp opened, covered from one end to the other with crême-de-menthe, dripping green drops that seemed like emeralds being born from more emeralds, showed plainly where the Cordova necklace had gone. With no regard for the white tablecloth, she held it up so that everyone could see.
“The necklace,” she stated slowly and triumphantly, “has not been stolen.” She looked toward Bascom. “An apology is due your guests, Mr. Bascom.”
“God bless my—” he started to say faintly for the third time. But suddenly he seemed to collect his senses. He snatched up a napkin and, unfolding it, leaned over and held it under Miss Kelly’s outstretched hand. Without a word she dropped the necklace into it, and he hurriedly folded it up and placed it safely in his breast pocket. Then he turned to the stupefied butler.
“Harkins, get the countess’s maid and help her to her room.” He glanced angrily at O’Rourke. “O’Rourke, you’ve made a nasty mistake.” He looked at the rest of the assemblage. “I trust, ladies and gentlemen, that you will pardon this affront to your honesty here tonight. This is surely a deplorable happening. Something seemed to have interrupted the city current supply, and in the excitement my daughter must have leaned over, with the result that the clasp of her necklace loosened and it dropped into her glass of cordial. I humbly ask the pardon of one and all of you for the whole occurrence.”
With the sudden entrance of the countess’s maid, the guests quickly adjourned to the drawing room, the gentlemen, apparently by mutual understanding, giving up the usual coffee and cigars. On the way out of the dining room I caught sight of DeLancey and his face appeared as black as a thundercloud. Perhaps the abrupt disclosure that Pinkerton employees were at the table, or else their crude methods in handling the situation, aroused some ire among the ladies, for cabs were called for shortly after and one by one the guests melted away.
With DeLancey I climbed into our vehicle, but nothing was said by either of us until we were rolling out of the Bascom grounds and down Sheridan Road. Then he remarked glumly: “Well?”
“Well, I consider that you were mighty lucky to escape with your liberty. Your deal proved a fiasco—just as I felt it would all the time. In fact, you might just as well have taken a megaphone and called the attention of the whole company to the countess’s crême-de-menthe glass, for the stuff was slopped all over the cloth. But one thing I’d like to ask, DeLancey. Did you honestly intend to drop the necklace into the cordial glass—or was that an accident?”
He spoke fully for the first time since leaving the Bascom estate. “My dear T.B.,” he said slowly, “how very, very obtuse you are. Is it possible that you don’t yet know that the necklace which was fished from the countess’s crême-de-menthe glass, and held up dripping and covered with the green syrup for everyone to see, was a paste duplicate that was put together by old Stein and myself in the last three days? Is it—”
But there was no need of his explaining further, for as we passed an arc-lamp and its rays flashed into the carriage, I saw something gleaming and sparkling in the palm of his hand—something that seemed to hold in leash the colors of a thousand rainbows.
Brothers
by SHERWOOD ANDERSON
Douglas
(Originally published in 1921)
I am at my house in the country and it is late October. It rains. Back of my house is a forest and in front there is a road and beyond that open fields. The country is one of low hills, flattening suddenly into plains. Some twenty miles away, across the flat country, lies the huge city Chicago.
On this rainy day the leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are falling like rain, the yellow, red, and golden leaves fall straight down heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They are denied a last golden flash across the sky. In October leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancing away.
Yesterday morning I arose at daybreak and went for a walk. There was a heavy fog and I lost myself in it. I went down into the plains and returned to the hills, and everywhere the fog was as a wall before me. Out of it trees sprang suddenly, grotesquely, as in a city street late at night people come suddenly out of the darkness into the circle of light under a streetlamp. Above there was the light of day forcing itself slowly into the fog. The fog moved slowly. The tops of trees moved slowly. Under the trees the fog was dense, purple. It was like smoke lying in the streets of a factory town.
An old man came up to me in the fog. I know him well. The people here call him insane. “He is a little cracked,” they say. He lives alone in a little house buried deep in the forest and has a small dog he carries always in his arms. On many mornings I have met him walking on the road and he has told me of men and women who are his brothers and sisters, his cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers-in-law. It is confusing. He cannot draw close to people near at hand so he gets hold of a name out of a newspaper and his mind plays with it. On one morning he told me he was a cousin to the man named Cox who at the time when I write is a candidate for the presidency. On another morning he told me that Caruso the singer had married a woman who was his sister-in-law. “She is my wife’s sister,” he said, holding the little dog close. His gray watery eyes looked appealing up to me. He wanted me to believe. “My wife was a sweet slim girl,” he declared. “We lived together in a big house and in the morning walked about arm in arm. Now her sister has married Caruso
the singer. He is of my family now.”
As someone had told me the old man had never married, I went away wondering. One morning in early September I came upon him sitting under a tree beside a path near his house. The dog barked at me and then ran and crept into his arms. At that time the Chicago newspapers were filled with the story of a millionaire who had got into trouble with his wife because of an intimacy with an actress. The old man told me that the actress was his sister. He is sixty years old and the actress whose story appeared in the newspapers is twenty but he spoke of their childhood together. “You would not realize it to see us now but we were poor then,” he said. “It’s true. We lived in a little house on the side of a hill. Once when there was a storm, the wind nearly swept our house away. How the wind blew! Our father was a carpenter and he built strong houses for other people but our own house he did not build very strong!” He shook his head sorrowfully. “My sister the actress has got into trouble. Our house is not built very strongly,” he said as I went away along the path.
* * *
For a month, two months, the Chicago newspapers, which are delivered every morning in our village, have been filled with the story of a murder. A man there has murdered his wife and there seems no reason for the deed. The tale runs something like this—
The man, who is now on trial in the courts and will no doubt be hanged, worked in a bicycle factory where he was a foreman and lived with his wife and his wife’s mother in an apartment on 32nd Street. He loved a girl who worked in the office of the factory where he was employed. She came from a town in Iowa and when she first got to the city lived with her aunt who has since died. To the foreman, a heavy stolid-looking man with gray eyes, she seemed the most beautiful woman in the world. Her desk was by a window at an angle of the factory, a sort of wing of the building, and the foreman, down in the shop, had a desk by another window. He sat at his desk making out sheets containing the record of the work done by each man in his department. When he looked up he could see the girl sitting at work at her desk. The notion got into his head that she was peculiarly lovely. He did not think of trying to draw close to her or of winning her love. He looked at her as one might look at a star or across a country of low hills in October when the leaves of the trees are all red and yellow gold. She is a pure, virginal thing, he thought vaguely. What can she be thinking about as she sits there by the window at work?
In fancy the foreman took the girl from Iowa home with him to his apartment on 32nd Street and into the presence of his wife and his mother-in-law. All day in the shop and during the evening at home he carried her figure about with him in his mind. As he stood by a window in his apartment and looked out toward the Illinois Central railroad tracks and beyond the tracks to the lake, the girl was there beside him. Down below women walked in the street and in every woman he saw there was something of the Iowa girl. One woman walked as she did, another made a gesture with her hand that reminded of her. All the women he saw except his wife and his mother-in-law were like the girl he had taken inside himself.
The two women in his own house puzzled and confused him. They became suddenly unlovely and commonplace. His wife in particular was like some strange unlovely growth that had attached itself to his body.
In the evening after the day at the factory he went home to his own place and had dinner. He had always been a silent man and when he did not talk no one minded. After dinner he with his wife went to a picture show. There were two children and his wife expected another. They came into the apartment and sat down. The climb up two flights of stairs had wearied his wife. She sat in a chair beside her mother groaning with weariness.
The mother-in-law was the soul of goodness. She took the place of a servant in the home and got no pay. When her daughter wanted to go to a picture show she waved her hand and smiled. “Go on,” she said. “I don’t want to go. I’d rather sit here.” She got a book and sat reading. The little boy of nine awoke and cried. He wanted to sit on the po-po. The mother-in-law attended to that.
After the man and his wife came home the three people sat in silence for an hour or two before bedtime. The man pretended to read a newspaper. He looked at his hands. Although he had washed them carefully, grease from the bicycle frames left dark stains under the nails. He thought of the Iowa girl and of her white quick hands playing over the keys of a typewriter. He felt dirty and uncomfortable.
The girl at the factory knew the foreman had fallen in love with her and the thought excited her a little. Since her aunt’s death she had gone to live in a rooming house and had nothing to do in the evening. Although the foreman meant nothing to her she could in a way use him. To her he became a symbol. Sometimes he came into the office and stood for a moment by the door. His large hands were covered with black grease. She looked at him without seeing. In his place in her imagination stood a tall slender young man. Of the foreman she saw only the gray eyes that began to burn with a strange fire. The eyes expressed eagerness, a humble and devout eagerness. In the presence of a man with such eyes she felt she need not be afraid.
She wanted a lover who would come to her with such a look in his eyes. Occasionally, perhaps once in two weeks, she stayed a little late at the office, pretending to have work that must be finished. Through the window she could see the foreman waiting. When everyone had gone she closed her desk and went into the street. At the same moment the foreman came out at the factory door.
They walked together along the street a half-dozen blocks to where she got aboard her car. The factory was in a place called South Chicago and as they went along evening was coming on. The streets were lined with small unpainted frame houses and dirty-faced children ran screaming in the dusty roadway. They crossed over a bridge. Two abandoned coal barges lay rotting in the stream.
He went by her side walking heavily and striving to conceal his hands. He had scrubbed them carefully before leaving the factory but they seemed to him like heavy dirty pieces of waste matter hanging at his side. Their walking together happened but a few times and during one summer. “It’s hot,” he said. He never spoke to her of anything but the weather. “It’s hot,” he said. “I think it may rain.”
She dreamed of the lover who would some time come, a tall fair young man, a rich man owning houses and lands. The workingman who walked beside her had nothing to do with her conception of love. She walked with him, stayed at the office until the others had gone to walk unobserved with him because of his eyes, because of the eager thing in his eyes that was at the same time humble, that bowed down to her. In his presence there was no danger, could be no danger. He would never attempt to approach too closely, to touch her with his hands. She was safe with him.
In his apartment in the evening the man sat under the electric light with his wife and his mother-in-law. In the next room his two children were asleep. In a short time his wife would have another child. He had been with her to a picture show and in a short time they would get into bed together.
He would lie awake thinking, would hear the creaking of the springs of a bed where, in another room, his mother-in-law was crawling between the sheets. Life was too intimate. He would lie awake eager, expectant—expecting what?
Nothing. Presently one of the children would cry. It wanted to get out of bed and sit on the po-po. Nothing strange or unusual or lovely would or could happen. Life was too close, intimate. Nothing that could happen in the apartment could in any way stir him; the things his wife might say, her occasional half-hearted outbursts of passion, the goodness of his mother-in-law who did the work of a servant without pay—
He sat in the apartment under the electric light pretending to read a newspaper—thinking. He looked at his hands. They were large, shapeless, a workingman’s hands.
The figure of the girl from Iowa walked about the room. With her he went out of the apartment and walked in silence through miles of streets. It was not necessary to say words. He walked with her by a sea, along the crest of a mountain. The night was clear and silent and the stars sho
ne. She also was a star. It was not necessary to say words.
Her eyes were like stars and her lips were like soft hills rising out of dim, starlit plains. She is unattainable, she is far off like the stars, he thought. She is unattainable like the stars but unlike the stars she breathes, she lives, like myself she has being.
One evening, some six weeks ago, the man who worked as foreman in the bicycle factory killed his wife and he is now in the courts being tried for murder. Every day the newspapers are filled with the story. On the evening of the murder he had taken his wife as usual to a picture show and they started home at nine. On 32nd Street, at a corner near their apartment building, the figure of a man darted suddenly out of an alleyway and then darted back again. The incident may have put the idea of killing his wife into the man’s head.
They got to the entrance to the apartment building and stepped into a dark hallway. Then quite suddenly and apparently without thought the man took a knife out of his pocket. Suppose that man who darted into the alleyway had intended to kill us, he thought. Opening the knife he whirled about and struck at his wife. He struck twice, a dozen times—madly. There was a scream and his wife’s body fell.
The janitor had neglected to light the gas in the lower hallway. Afterwards, the foreman decided that was the reason he did it, that and the fact that the dark slinking figure of a man darted out of an alleyway and then darted back again. Surely, he told himself, I could never have done it had the gas been lighted.
He stood in the hallway thinking. His wife was dead and with her had died her unborn child. There was a sound of doors opening in the apartments above. For several minutes nothing happened. His wife and her unborn child were dead—that was all.
He ran upstairs thinking quickly. In the darkness on the lower stairway he had put the knife back into his pocket and, as it turned out later, there was no blood on his hands or on his clothes. The knife he later washed carefully in the bathroom, when the excitement had died down a little. He told everyone the same story. “There has been a holdup,” he explained. “A man came slinking out of an alleyway and followed me and my wife home. He followed us into the hallway of the building and there was no light. The janitor has neglected to light the gas.” Well—there had been a struggle and in the darkness his wife had been killed. He could not tell how it had happened. “There was no light. The janitor has neglected to light the gas,” he kept saying.
