The Early Ayn Rand

by Ayn Rand

  HASTINGS: Yes. And I can’t. Well, let’s see about the others. Tony Goddard? No reason for him to frame you. Fleming? Possible. Out of fear. Drunkards are not very strong people.

  INGALLS: I’ll vouch for Fleming.

  HASTINGS: Mrs. Breckenridge? No reason. Miss Knowland? . . . Now don’t pull out any notebooks. Steve, don’t refuse to answer this. I’ve got to ask it. You’re in love with Adrienne Knowland, aren’t you?

  INGALLS: Desperately. Miserably. Completely. For many years.

  HASTINGS: Why “miserably” for many years—when she loves you?

  INGALLS: Because neither of us thought it possible of the other. . . . Why did you have to ask this?

  HASTINGS: Because—what, then, was that love scene with Mrs. Breckenridge?

  INGALLS: [Shrugging] A moment’s weakness. Despair, perhaps. Because I didn’t think that I could ever have the woman I wanted.

  HASTINGS: You chose a nice day to be weak on.

  INGALLS: Yes, didn’t I?

  HASTINGS: [Rising] Well, I think I’ll have a little talk with Fleming now.

  INGALLS: Will you be long?

  HASTINGS: I don’t think so. [SERGE enters Right. HASTINGS turns at the stairs] Ah, good morning, Commissar.

  SERGE: [Stiffly] That is not funny.

  HASTINGS: No. But it could be. [Exits up the stairs]

  SERGE: [Sees the papers, hurries to look through them] Ah, the newspapers. Have they the Courier found?

  INGALLS: No.

  SERGE: But that is unbelievable! I cannot understand it!

  INGALLS: Don’t worry. They’ll find it—when the time comes. . . . You have nothing to worry about. Look at me.

  SERGE: [Interested] You are worried?

  INGALLS: Well, wouldn’t you be? It’s all right for Greg to amuse himself with fancy deductions and to believe the most improbable. A jury won’t do that. A jury will love a case like mine. It’s easy on their conscience.

  SERGE: [As persuasively as he can make it] That is true. I think the jury it would convict you. I think you have no chance.

  INGALLS: Oh, I might have a chance. But it will take money.

  SERGE: [Attentively] Money?

  INGALLS: Lots of money. I’ll need a good lawyer.

  SERGE: Yes. You will need a very good lawyer. And that is expensive.

  INGALLS: Very expensive.

  SERGE: Your case it is bad.

  INGALLS: Very bad.

  SERGE: You feel certain that you will be put on trial?

  INGALLS: Looks like it.

  SERGE: And . . . you do not have the money?

  INGALLS: Oh, I suppose I can scrape some together, but you see, I’ve never made very much. Not like Walter. And what I made I put back into the laboratory. Oh, I guess I could raise some cash on that, but what’s the use? Even if I’m acquitted, I’ll be broke when I get out of it.

  SERGE: You are not the type of man who will like it—being broke.

  INGALLS: I won’t like it at all.

  SERGE: And besides, you believe that your own interest—it comes first?

  INGALLS: That’s what I believe.

  SERGE: [Throws a quick glance around, then leans over the table, close to INGALLS, and speaks rapidly, in a low, hard, tense voice—a new SERGE entirely. Even his English is better, but his accent remains] Listen. No jokes and no clowning about what you knew or what you guessed. We haven’t the time. And it’s your neck to be saved. Five hundred thousand dollars—now—in your hands—for that invention.

  INGALLS: [Whistles] Why, Serge, at the rate of fifteen dollars a week, it will take you—

  SERGE: Cut it out. You know. You knew all the time. I knew that you knew. And it didn’t do you any good, did it? There’s no time for showing how smart you are. Now it’s either you want it or you don’t. And it must be quick.

  INGALLS: Well, looks like you’ve got me, doesn’t it?

  SERGE: Yes. So don’t start talking about your conscience or your patriotism or things like that. You and I, we understand each other.

  INGALLS: I think we’ve understood each other from the first. [Chuckles] A gift to mankind, eh, Serge? Just to light the slums and put the greedy utility companies out of business?

  SERGE: We have not time for laughing. Yes or no?

  INGALLS: Do you carry five hundred thousand bucks, like that, in your pocket?

  SERGE: I will write you a check.

  INGALLS: How will I know it’s any good?

  SERGE: You’ll know it when you see on whose account it’s drawn. Beyond that, you’ll have to take the chance. Because I want that graph right now.

  INGALLS: Now?

  SERGE: I can’t come for it when you’re in jail, can I? [Pulls a sheet of paper and a pencil out of a drawer and throws them down on the table] Now. On this sheet of paper. Before you touch the check.

  INGALLS: Aren’t you afraid of giving me a check? It could be used as evidence against you.

  SERGE: You had evidence against me yesterday. You didn’t use it. You saved me. Why?

  INGALLS: I think you know that.

  SERGE: Yes. There was one thing which you said yesterday—and when you said it, I knew I could have you.

  INGALLS: I know what that was. But Greg Hastings didn’t notice it.

  SERGE: There were many things he didn’t notice. Of course, you and I we know who killed Breckenridge.

  INGALLS: I’m sure one of us does.

  SERGE: It was Adrienne Knowland.

  INGALLS: Was it?

  SERGE: Good God, it’s obvious, isn’t it? But we don’t care who did it, you and I. It was very convenient, that’s all.

  INGALLS: Yes.

  SERGE: Well, do I get the graph?

  INGALLS: I have no choice, have I? I suppose I’ll get used to it in time, but it’s rather uncomfortable—becoming a scoundrel.

  SERGE: That won’t bother you for long.

  INGALLS: No, not for long. . . . Write that check.

  [SERGE takes a checkbook and a pen out of his pocket, sits down at the table, across from INGALLS, writes the check, then extends it, showing it to INGALLS, but not letting him touch it. INGALLS looks at the check, reads:]

  “The Soviet Culture and Friendship Society.” Fancy that! What a coincidence.

  SERGE: [Contemptuously] If I were doing what you are doing, at least I would not laugh about it.

  INGALLS: That’s the trouble with you, Serge. You have no sense of humor.

  SERGE: You are a very contemptible person.

  INGALLS: But I thought you knew that. [Extends his hand for the check]

  SERGE: [Pulls the check back, puts it down on the table in front of himself, and pushes the sheet of paper toward INGALLS] Now get to work. Quick.

  INGALLS: Why quite so much hurry? Can’t you let me degrade myself gracefully?

  SERGE: Shut up! The graph now!

  INGALLS: [Picking up the pencil] Oh yes, the graph. [Taps his chin with the pencil thoughfully] Have you ever thought, Serge, what a strange thing life is? There’s so much about it that we don’t understand.

  SERGE: Hurry up, you fool!

  INGALLS: Oh yes. [Leans over the paper, the pencil ready, then looks up] And when we don’t understand things, we make mistakes.

  SERGE: Shut up! Write!

  INGALLS: What? Oh, the graph. Well you see cosmic rays are tiny particles which bombard the earth from outer space, carrying an electric charge of—[Looks up] For instance, we never understood that incident when someone shot at Walter a month ago. Or did we? [SERGE looks at him. INGALLS holds the glance. Then:] Shall I write?

  SERGE: What about that incident?

  INGALLS: Doesn’t anything strike you as funny, Serge?

  SERGE: What about that incident?

  INGALLS: Oh, I thought you knew that I knew everything. Well, I know, for instance, that what you planned then—has succeeded now. Brilliantly, completely, and as you wanted it. Only much better planned than the first time. And a little late. One month too la
te. [SERGE jumps up] I’m sorry. You want the graph. Cosmic rays, when drawn into a single stream by means of . . . Incidentally, you’re not a good shot, Serge. You’re much better at housebreaking—or at breaking locks on bags, to be exact. You should have searched that bag, though. It would have looked less obvious.

  SERGE: You understood—

  INGALLS: Of course, Serge. If that murder had succeeded, the gun would have been found in my bag. And you wouldn’t have had time to break the lock after the shot. You were very foresighted. But obvious. SERGE: You can’t prove that.

  INGALLS: No. I can’t prove it. And the gun in my bag wouldn’t have proved much, either. Not much. Just enough to put me on trial. And you would have had one man who knew that graph dead, and the other in desperate need of money. But you’re a bad shot. You’re a much better psychologist. The gift to mankind idea worked smoother and safer.

  SERGE: You can’t prove—

  INGALLS: No. I can’t prove anything. And you know, Serge, I don’t really think that you did it, this time. But doesn’t it strike you as funny that someone has done it for you?

  SERGE: I don’t care what you think or know. It worked.

  INGALLS: Yes. It worked.

  SERGE: Then write, Goddamn you!

  INGALLS: If you wish.

  [There is the sound of a door opening upstairs. SERGE whirls around. INGALLS slams his right hand, palm down, over the check on the table, as HASTINGS comes down the stairs]

  HASTINGS: [Notices INGALLS’ hand at once, says lightly:] I’m not interrupting anything, am I?

  [SERGE stands by the table, doing a very bad job of disguising his anxiety. INGALLS is perfectly calm]

  INGALLS: No. No.

  HASTINGS: Imagine finding the two of you in a friendly tête-à-tête.

  INGALLS: Oh, we were discussing going into vaudeville together. In a mind-reading act. We’re very good at reading each other’s mind. Though I think I’m better at it than Serge.

  HASTINGS: [Looks at INGALLS’ right hand on the table, imitating his tone] You have an interesting hand, Steve. Ever had your palm read?

  INGALLS: No. I don’t believe in palmistry.

  HASTINGS: [Takes out a cigarette] Give me a light, Steve. [INGALLS reaches into his pocket, takes out his lighter, snaps it on, and offers it to HASTINGS—all with his left hand] Didn’t know you were left-handed.

  INGALLS: I’m not. I’m just versatile.

  HASTINGS: Come on, Steve, how long are you going to play the fool? Lift that hand.

  INGALLS: Well, Serge enjoyed it. [Lifts his hand as SERGE leaps toward it, but HASTINGS pushes SERGE aside and seizes the check]

  HASTINGS: [Reading the check] “Pay to the order of Steven Ingalls . . .” Well, well, well. Had I come down a minute later, you’d have been half-a-millionaire, Steve.

  INGALLS: Yes. Why did you have to hurry?

  SERGE: [Screams at the top of his voice, whirling upon INGALLS] You swine! You did it on purpose!

  HASTINGS: [In mock astonishment] No?

  SERGE: [To INGALLS] You lied! You betrayed me! You never intended to sell yourself! You’re unprincipled and dishonest!

  INGALLS: You shouldn’t have trusted me like that.

  [HELEN and TONY enter hurriedly at the top of the stairs]

  HELEN: [Anxiously] What’s going on here?

  HASTINGS: Nothing much. Just Serge throwing five-hundred-thousand-dollar checks around.

  [HELEN gasps. TONY follows her down the stairs]

  SERGE: [Screaming defiantly to INGALLS and HASTINGS] Well? What are you going to do about it? You can’t prove anything!

  [FLEMING hurries in Right and stops short at the door]

  HASTINGS: [Reproachfully] Now, Serge. We can prove that you’re defrauding the Refugees’ Committee out of fifteen bucks a week, for instance. And we can prove that I’m right about people who have no motive.

  TONY: [Almost regretfully] Gee, I hoped it wouldn’t be Serge. I hate having to be grateful to Serge for the rest of my life.

  [ADRIENNE comes in from the garden, followed a little later by DIXON]

  SERGE: What motive? What can you prove? That I tried to buy an invention from a murderer who needed the money—nothing else. It’s just a simple commercial invention. Isn’t it, Mr. Ingalls?

  INGALLS: Yes.

  HASTINGS: Goddamn it, we’ve got to find that newspaper!

  SERGE: Now you understand, Mr. Hastings? Prove that I wasn’t in Stamford! Prove it! I don’t care whether you find that paper or not! Your own dear friends will have to swear they saw it!

  HASTINGS: They don’t know what edition it was.

  SERGE: That’s right! They don’t know! Then how do they know it wasn’t the last one? Prove that!

  FLEMING: [Looking around the room uselessly, frantically ] We ought to tear this house down and find the lousy sheet! [TONY joins him in searching]

  SERGE: Prove that I lied to you! Find a jury, even a dumb American jury, that will want to look at me, when they hear of this very heroic genius—[Points at INGALLS]—alone in the garden, leaving his fingerprints on the gun!

  [During the last few speeches, INGALLS takes out his cigarette case, takes a cigarette, takes a match folder from the table, strikes a match, lights the cigarette and tosses the lighted match into the fireplace. ADRIENNE, who has been looking at him, follows it with her eyes, screams suddenly, and dives for the fireplace to put out the fire set to the charred, rolled remnant of a newspaper]

  ADRIENNE: Steve! Look! [Rises from her knees, with the rolled newspaper in her hand. HASTINGS seizes it from her. He unrolls it frantically, looks for the upper front page. Stands perfectly still and silent for a moment. Then raises his head to look at the others, and says quietly, almost wearily:]

  HASTINGS: The early edition of yesterday’s Courier.

  [Silence. Then SERGE lunges for the paper]

  SERGE: You’re lying!

  HASTINGS: [Pushing him aside] Oh no, you don’t!

  [DIXON steps to SERGE’s side. HASTINGS extends the newspaper headline toward SERGE, but at a safe distance]

  See for yourself. But don’t touch it.

  SERGE: It’s not the paper! It’s not the same paper! It was the last edition! I know it was! I looked for the mark when I got it! It was the last edition that I specially wanted!

  HASTINGS: [Shaking his head] And that, Serge, proves I’m right about people who have good alibis.

  SERGE: Who put it in that fireplace? Who burned it like this? I didn’t do that! [Whirls on INGALLS] He did it! Of course! I gave it to him! When I arrived I gave the paper to him! He changed it for this one! He put it there in the fireplace and—

  HASTINGS:—and almost burned the evidence, just now, that’s going to save his life? Come on, Serge, how much do you expect me to believe?

  SERGE: But I didn’t—

  HASTINGS: You did. But very badly. Like all the rest of it. You were in a hurry when you started burning that paper. You were interrupted. So you stuck it there, hoping to get it later. But you couldn’t—not with my man here all night. . . . Well, I’m almost as big a fool as you are. Do you know why I took that alibi of yours seriously? Because I didn’t think you’d have the guts to pull what you pulled. You could shoot a man in the back all right. But to risk showing a paper to all those people—when your life depended on whether they’d notice the edition or not—that took the kind of courage you haven’t got. Or so I thought. I owe you an apology there.

  SERGE: But you can’t prove I did it! You can’t prove this is the paper I brought!

  HASTINGS: All right, produce the other one.

  SERGE: You can’t convict me on that!

  HASTINGS: I can have a pretty good try at it.

  SERGE: [Real terror showing in his face for the first time] You’re going to—

  HASTINGS: I’m going to let you explain it all to a jury.

  SERGE: [Screaming] But you can’t! You can’t! Listen! I’m innocent! But if you put me on trial, they’ll kill
me, don’t you understand? Not your jury! My own chiefs! All right! I am a Soviet agent! And they don’t forgive an agent who gets put on trial! They’ll kill me—my own chiefs at home! Don’t you understand? Even if I’m acquitted, it will be a death sentence for me just the same! [Pulls a gun out] Stand still, all of you!

  [SERGE whirls around and rushes out through the French doors. DIXON flies after him, pulling out his gun. They disappear in the garden, as HASTINGS starts to follow them. There are two shots. After a moment, HASTINGS comes back slowly]

  HASTINGS: That’s that.

  HELEN: Is he dead?

  HASTINGS: Yes. [Then adds:] Perhaps it’s best this way. It saves us from a long and painful trial. The case is closed. I’m glad—for all of you. [To HELEN] I hope, Mrs. Breckenridge, that when you’ve been a neighbor of ours longer, you will forgive us for giving you on your first day here—

  HELEN: I shall be a neighbor of yours, Mr. Hastings—perhaps—later. Not this summer. I’m going to sell this house. Harvey and I are going to Montreal.

  TONY: And I’m going to Gimbel’s.

  [HASTINGS bows as HELEN exits up the stairs with TONY. FLEMING exits Right]

  HASTINGS: [Walks to door Left, turns to INGALLS] It’s as I’ve always said, Steve. There is no perfect crime.

  INGALLS: [Who has not moved from near the fireplace] No, Greg. There isn’t.

  [HASTINGS exits Left. INGALLS turns to look at Adrienne]

  ADRIENNE: What are you going to do now, Steve?

  INGALLS: I’m going to ask you to marry me. [As she makes a movement forward] But before you answer, there’s something I’m going to tell you. Yesterday, when you looked at those fireworks and suddenly thought of something—it was not of me or of Helen, was it?

  ADRIENNE: No.

  INGALLS: I know what you thought. You see, I know who killed Walter Breckenridge. I want you to know it. Listen and don’t say anything until I finish.

  [The lights black out completely. Then a single spotlight hits the center of the stage. We can see nothing beyond, only the figures of the two men in the spotlight: WALTER BRECKENRIDGE and STEVE INGALLS. BRECKENRIDGE is operating the levers of a portable electric switchboard. INGALLS stands beside him. INGALLS speaks slowly, evenly, quietly, in the expressionless tone of an irrevocable decision]