Compulsion

by Meyer Levin

  In fact, they would conduct their questioning with the utmost deference, and probably apologize to his old man for even calling him in. And the old man would say to him quietly, “You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. What kind of nonsense is this?” But Judd would say, “It’s routine. I’m perfectly willing to answer any questions they ask.” And all that time it would be a howl over the old man and his slow-minded righteousness! For he would be fooling the old man as well as all the inquisitors.

  “I ought to kill you for making such a boner,” Artie said, hurling the newspaper to the floor.

  Judd put the car in gear. Starting homeward, he said, “I agree – if it were entirely my error, I would deserve death.” Indeed, in a superior society, no one capable of such a stupid oversight should have a right to live. Nietzsche would certainly have condemned him, for in the end it was his own fault for having the glasses in his pocket. Thus, the pendulum in him swung to the other extreme, and Judd saw Artie enthroned, with golden wristbands, golden breastplate and greaves, judging him as he knelt abjectly. And the sentence – Artie’s outstretched gold-banded arm, decreeing death. And suppose he went out now with Artie to some dark field and insisted that Artie carry through the sentence – Artie shooting him, his body crumpling – it would be his sacrifice for Artie. They would find his body; he would leave a note acknowledging the glasses as his, the crime as his. That would be part of the sentence, and Artie would be forever safe.

  But aloud, Judd proposed a bold idea. To go directly to the police and claim the spectacles. “I read the story in the papers, and realized that on my last birding expedition-”

  “You’ll bugger it up,” Artie said. “You’ll bugger it up, sure as Christ.” He whistled at a couple of chicks on Michigan, reaching over to pound the horn, and elbowing Judd to pipe the broads.

  The girls went into a building. “Crows, anyway,” Artie said, but his spirits had lifted. “Suppose you go and say they’re your glasses. All right. They give you the third degree. You think you can take the third degree?” he challenged.

  “I’d be glad to help you in any way I can, officer,” stated Judd, looking him unflinchingly in the eye.

  “Watch where you’re driving, you sucker. All right, Mr. Steiner, where were you last Wednesday?” Artie’s restless glance lit on another chick – this part of Michigan was red light.

  “The hell, you want another dose?” Judd remonstrated, then resumed, “Last Wednesday, yes, I recall distinctly, I spent the entire afternoon and evening with Artie Straus, a friend of mine.”

  “All right, so then they pick me up and check your story. I ought to kill you first, you crapper.”

  They rehearsed once more the story they had agreed upon, should they ever be questioned. Artie became suddenly attentive. “All right, we had lunch at the Windermere. That’s a fact. Willie was there with us.”

  They laughed again. Judd felt pleased. They would be using Willie Weiss, and Willie wouldn’t even know how he and Artie together were having a laugh at him. “Then after lunch” – Judd picked it up – “we spent several hours in Lincoln Park, at the lagoon, mostly sitting parked in my car, as I was watching for a species of warbler that arrives in this area late in May-”

  “Hey, give them the scientific name,” Artie said.

  “Dendroica Aestiva, of the Compsothlypidae family,” said Judd.

  Then Artie took over the story. “I went along with Judd Steiner and sat in the car while he did his bird scouting. I thought it would make a good effect on my mother to tell her I spent the afternoon with Judd and his bird science, so she would get the idea I was doing something real studious. But I’m afraid, sir, we had a pint of gin in the car and by suppertime I had too much gin on my breath, so I didn’t think that would impress my mother very well. We stayed out for supper, had supper at the – let’s see-”

  “Coconut Grove,” said Judd.

  “Then we drove around a while, trying to pick up a couple of girls.”

  “You mean, girls you didn’t know?”

  “Yes, sir, you know, just a couple of janes.”

  “Do you frequently engage in this practice?”

  “Well, officer” – winking – “you know how it is-”

  “How did you make out?”

  “Well, we picked up a couple, around 63rd and State. And we drove back to Jackson Park-”

  Judd interrupted. “I thought we were going to say Lincoln Park.”

  “The first time, the birds, is Lincoln. The second time, the twats, is Jackson. Over by the lake… Only you see, officer, these girls wouldn’t come across, so about ten o’clock we told them to get out and walk.”

  “Can you give us their names, Mr. Straus?”

  “Well, mine said her name was Edna, but you know – we didn’t give them our right names, either. She was a blonde, well built-” He made curves with his hands, and just then spotted a girl in a Paige, passing them. “Hey! Follow her!”

  “Listen” – Judd chased the Paige – “how about if we change the story? If we say they did come across, then it’s even less likely the girls would ever come forward and identify themselves.”

  “All right. Wait a minute. If they came across, then we’d have taken them home. So where do they live?” Judd passed the Paige, but the girl ignored Artie’s waving.

  “We could say they told us to let them off at the corner where we picked them up,” Judd suggested. “That sounds genuine.”

  “Hey!” Artie eyed him cleverly. “How about giving them the story you were out with a nice girl?”

  “You mean, we had a double date with nice girls?”

  “No, just you.” After all, no glasses of Artie’s had been found.

  Judd felt a quiver of grief, more than anger. A feeling of loneliness, as if Artie had actually deserted him and left him with some jane he didn’t even want. But then he finessed the game on Artie. “I could say I was driving, and you had Myra in the back seat. She’d back it up for you. As you say, she’ll do anything for you.”

  “Damn right,” said Artie, still eyeing him in that cunning way.

  Desperately, Judd tried to recapture the mood. “How about we both take her out tonight and rape her?”

  “You’d be scared to try.”

  “Yah? Anything you’ll do I’ll do.”

  “Yah?” Judd knew what it was now in Artie’s look. It was the accusation over what had happened yesterday, at the crucial moment – when they had the kid in the car, and the sudden blows and the blood, and Judd had heard himself crying out, “Oh my God, this is terrible!”

  “You were scared cold,” Artie said with finality. “That’s why you dropped your goddam glasses.”

  In his tone, Judd felt everything possible. Maybe Artie would do it to him. Like things Artie must have done. Maybe Artie coming up behind him, the slug on the skull with the taped chisel, and the quick push off the end of the Jackson Park pier, his body plopping into the dark water, and his own look, upturned to Artie, accepting.

  “I’ll stick to the alibi for a week,” Artie said. “After that, it’s each man for himself.”

  “If a week goes by, we ought to be safe on the glasses,” said Judd.

  He turned on Hyde Park Boulevard. At the Kessler house, police cars lined the curb. Photographers and newspapermen were all over the lawn. Artie was about to hop out. “Stay away from there!” Judd cried.

  Artie chuckled. “It’s only natural I’d be interested. I live practically across the street. Why, poor little Paulie used to play on our tennis court all the time. Why, he’s a chum and classmate of my little brother Billy!”

  “You’ll spill the beans, the way you gab. Keep off of there!”

  “The hell! You going to tell me what to do?” But he remaine in the car.

  Silent, Judd pulled up to Artie’s door. But as Artie started into the house, Judd asked, “What’re you doing later?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll give you a buzz.”

  Jud
d drove on.

  I must have just come back to give Tom the details of the teacher’s arrest when Artie and Judd drove by, for I remember seeing Artie go into his house.

  With the rest of the press, Tom was now outside on the Kessler lawn. It was understandable: they couldn’t have all of us camping in the house, and they couldn’t play favourites.

  Everything was up a tree, Tom said. Anyway, our last replate was gone; if something happened now, we’d read about it in the morning papers. Was there any place around here a man could get a drink?

  I knew a place on 55th Street, where they had spiked beer. As we stood up to the bar, Mike Prager and a couple of other afternoon-paper reporters found the place. We began to trade theories of the crime. I felt I was a full member of the profession. I was drinking with the boys.

  When Judd dropped him at the house, Artie ran in with the Globe extra, to make a sensation. His mother wasn’t there. She would be at some meeting, doing good. By the time she got home, she’d know. He felt cheated. Something always cheated him, with her. Mumsie, you know what happened to the Kessler kid! She’d have gone white. It could have been Billy! Why, Mumsie, Billy was right there playing with Paulie on the baseball lot. I saw them myself! No. Maybe better not go that far.

  Artie leaped up the stairs. Billy’s room was empty. There, for an instant, Artie’s mind stood blank, with some weird confusion. As if the room were of course empty because it had been Billy they – Then he told himself, Hell, the kid was over in that crowd at the Kesslers’, soaking up all the excitement; he’d give a full report before his big brother could get in a word – a bright, cute Billy-boy report.

  They should really have snatched him, the brat, as they had once planned. Only Judd had taken it as a joke. Artie saw it now as if they had done it, grabbing Billy, feeling the kid in his arms in a squirming struggle, like sometimes when they playfully wrestled. And if it had been Billy, Artie wondered, would he himself have wanted to weep?

  Then his imagining switched suddenly to a jail. He was behind bars, and people passed, grimacing at the monster killer; and he grimaced and made faces back at them, stuck out his tongue, made funny faces, pranced like an ape. Some fun!

  On Billy-boy’s bed was an open box of chocolates. Artie grabbed a handful and ate them. The images of the jail went on. They were giving him the third degree.

  He heard a gasp. The maid was in the doorway. “Oh, it’s you, Artie! I didn’t hear anyone come in.” She looked scared stiff. “We’ve all got the heebie-jeebies today. You know what happened to poor little-”

  “Yah, it’s in the papers. Where’s Billy?” he asked with concern.

  “Oh, he’s safe! Your mother went with the car the minute we heard something was wrong, and took him out of school. She wouldn’t leave him there another minute. Your mother took Billy along with her to her meeting. It’s in the papers, is it?”

  “Sure.” He showed her the headline.

  “It must have been a fiend that did it,” Clarice said. “He could be someone in that school!”

  “That’s right, and they come back to the scene of their crime,” Artie said. She was excited, moistening her lips with her tongue. She was always asking for it, brushing against him. But once he made the push he’d have to go through with it, and maybe the disgust over her would hold him down so he couldn’t do anything. Then he’d always have that funny feeling, having her around, knowing. The hell with her.

  “I hope they catch him,” she said. “No one will feel safe until they catch him. That poor little Paulie, I hope he didn’t suffer.”

  The delivery bell rang, and she had to go. Artie picked up Billy’s bow and arrow, thrown on the floor. No Miss Nuisance to make Billikins pick up things. Mumsie herself took care of her precious little boy.

  The image returned. He was in the jail. They had him. Two huge dicks with rubber truncheons. He bent over, and they delivered the blows. He took all the blows, on his shoulders, on his ass. But he kept silent. They could never prove anything on him. He was the master criminal and they knew they had him, but they could never prove it on him! What a guy! At last they had to let him go. They followed him, the stupes, as though he would lead them to his gang. He gave them the slip. He got to his headquarters, in the basement hideout, and now he would take care of that rat, Judd. A couple of his strong-arm men brought in Judd and hurled him on the floor. Leaving his goddam glasses!

  With Judd lying prostrate at his feet, in the hidden cellar headquarters, Artie arose to give judgment. He stretched out his arm. The surge of power was in him. He pointed his finger downward at the quivering traitor. It is my will that you cease to exist. And the power passed like unseen lightning through the form of Judd, and life was gone from him.

  Or else, take him with the pistol in his back to the pier, maybe late tonight. You see, Judd, this makes everything perfect. You have to agree, this is the perfect solution and therefore I am obliged to carry it out. That would be slick, using Judd’s own crappo philosophy on him. Judd would agree – they had found his glasses, they would find his body floating in the lake, a suicide. Q.E.D.

  Suddenly Artie felt the fear. The fear, the heebie-jeebies, the unbearable shrieking thing coming up in him – he’d snap! Someone – to be with someone, to keep him from – Not Judd. He tried to call Willie Weiss, but Willie wasn’t home. Piling out of the house, Artie strode across the street, passed right against the Kessler place. The lawn was clear; all the reporters were gone. But police cars were still there.

  Artie forced himself away, circled back to his own house. His brother Lewis’s Franklin was in the driveway. Go screw yourself, Lewis! Behind the wheel, Artie felt somewhat easier. He swung the car down Hyde Park Boulevard. Not to Myra ’s house – screw Myra… string bean with her long stringy fingers, she gave you the jitters. Halfway across the Ingleside intersection, he swung the car violently into a left turn, barely missing a flivver and causing a couple of old ladies who were crossing the street to squawk and scramble exactly like hens. Artie laughed out loud, feeling better as he braked in front of Ruth’s house.

  She was exactly the one, with her round face, milky and smooth. Have Ruthie sitting here beside him as he coasted out by the lake. Tell her a big story. She swallowed everything. Like the bootlegger act. The time he shot a hole in a shirt and wore it, showing her the hole, telling how he went bootlegging for the kick of it, and had to shoot it out with some hijackers. As if to prove she never believed the story, she would always ask how his bootlegging was getting along. But she was one of those who swallowed it. He’d tell her now that it was he who had kidnapped the Kessler kid! “Oh, yes, uh-huh,” she would say, with her serious eyes fixed on his, while keeping a you-can’t-fool-me-again note in her voice.

  Looking in, through the window of her father’s drugstore, Artie could see that Ruth wasn’t downstairs. Their flat was on the second floor. He sounded the horn. Three, four times. Then Ruth appeared. Artie blew again.

  She pulled up the window. “Artie, is that nice?” she said, not too reproachfully. “Are you too lazy to get out and ring the bell?”

  “Hey, come on down,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Well, you may come up if you wish.”

  “Come on down.”

  Ruth closed the window, and a moment later came out of the hallway.

  She looked good enough to eat. Her round, soft face had a glow, and her reddish hair glowed, drawn back from her forehead under a green velvet band, and fluffed out behind.

  “Hey, come on for a ride,” Artie said.

  “Artie, you’re cuckoo. I can’t go now.”

  “Sure. Come on.” He gave her the boyish grin. “I feel lonesome.”

  “What’s happened to all your girls?”

  “Oh, I got sick of the whole bunch of them. I thought of you.”

  “Well, that’s not very complimentary. The bottom of the list.”

  He blew the horn. “Come on.”

  “I can’t. I
’m helping Mother. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Sure you can. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “No, really I can’t just now,” she said in that way girls have, when you know damn well they can. He let his face fall, moody, serious. It worked. She asked, “Is anything wrong, Artie?”

  It was the shock of that thing in his block, he said, that horrible thing. Right across from his house. It could have been his own kid brother!

  “I know,” Ruth sympathized. “It’s ghastly. Such an incredible, fiendish thing.” For a moment, he had her. But then she shook her head and said, “I really do have to go upstairs. But another day, if you like, Artie.”

  Hell with her. She was a wet rag. He slammed the car into gear and drove away, glad of the surprised, almost dismayed look on her face as he left her there on the sidewalk.

  Artie pulled up at the frat, ran in, told the big news, talking a mile a minute about the crime, his brother, the ransom, then suddenly, in that way he had, shifting his attention to a bridge game.

  Leaving Tom Daly, I decided to stop at the frat for supper before I went over to see Ruth; I suppose I wanted to display myself and collect glory for my scoop. A bridge game was in progress in the lounge, and Artie was pulling his usual act of jumping from one side to another, handing out advice.

  I tossed the paper on to the bridge table. “Hear about the big story? Kid got murdered.” And to Artie: “Say, he lived right near your house.”

  “They’ve got my whole street blocked off!” Artie cried. “You never saw so many cops! I was just telling everybody-”

  “Blocked off? I was just there,” I said, irked by his habit of exaggeration. “Didn’t run into any street blocks.”

  The fellows were exclaiming over the news. “You on this story, Sid?” Milt Lewis asked with awe.