NINE

CHARACTERISTICALLY, he sat upright on his hard chair, arms folded upon his chest, his knees crossed, his eyes boring into me from behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. Once or twice, in an unconscious gesture, his fingers would sharpen the crease of his trousers, and he would nod his head as if he had heard what I said many times.

I was talking about Guinevere, recounting in detail everything which passed between us. McLeod listened, a small smile upon his lips, chuckling from time to time in a manner I found disconcerting. Only once did he make a comment.

“What’s this about Jehovah’s Witnesses?” he asked.

I repeated some of the gospel she had preached, and McLeod shook his head. “She was making it up,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“She was.” He fingered his lean jaw for an instant. “I’ve known her for some time, and I’ve never heard her speak about them. It’s inconceivable. She probably read something in a magazine, and then fed it back to you.”

“Well, what about her husband?” I protested. “She says he’s religious.”

McLeod chuckled again. “I don’t believe I’ve met the gentleman,” he said lazily.

I went on with my story, and under McLeod’s scrutiny, so dispassionate, so balanced, I found myself admitting details which normally I would have found distasteful. In his presence I could find enthusiasm for the balm of confession as if nothing I might relate would ever provoke a dishonest reaction. The story launched upon the ways, I searched out facets I had almost forgotten, recalled conversations with an accuracy which startled me.

McLeod listened, soberly and quietly, a tight smile pinching his thin lips. When I had finished, he removed his eyeglasses, wiped them carefully, took out a comb and smoothed his straight hair. “Well,” he murmured. Abruptly, he began to shake with laughter. He controlled himself by an effort and murmured in a slow unsteady voice, “So you’re finding it hard to work, eh?”

This tipped his mirth again. Jeering at me, he continued to laugh. “What a woman she is,” he said at last, and then with a look at me, “What a duet.” He replaced his eyeglasses, stared through them at me. “The fat ghost and the pale ghost,” he stated. “Tell me, Lovett, do you think she’ll bestow the ultimate pleasure upon you?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “And by now I don’t think I care.

“Oh, you’ll care again. She’ll expire before she’ll let you get indifferent. She needs a spy.” With a transparent pleasure, he paused before he spoke again, his finger uplifted. “Tell me, Lovett, will you go and report our conversation to her? That’ll round out the picture, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

He shrugged, his face impassive. “It’s conceivable, it’s conceivable.”

I disregarded what he had said; other questions pressed upon me more. “Look, what do you make of her?” I asked.

“Lovett, I’ll give you some of my wisdom,” McLeod drawled. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. Not everything can be learned by taking a pill.”

“Well, thanks.”

He grinned. “I’ll give you a tip to further your scientific inquiries along. If you want to know about her, you’ve got to imagine what her husband is like.”

“But neither of us has ever met him.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you have to fabricate a picture of him. When you do that, you’ll be able to see her better.”

I applied myself to the speculation. “He must be a retiring man, overshadowed by her.” But this game was impossible. “He could be just as easily seven feet tall with a big red face, and whip her every night.”

McLeod chuckled with glee. “You know, Lovett, you’re not bad.” He touched his finger tips together. “I’ve constructed a somewhat similar portrait, putting the two together. A man, therefore, who minds his own business, who’s meek. You’d never notice him, but when he’s alone with her, she’s terrified of him.”

“Why?”

“Ah!” He raised his arms and quivered them in a parody of a meek man in a fury. “Because he could murder her when they’re alone.” A moment later he was talking once more in his slow mocking voice. “Now, that was as far as I got for a while, but it don’t satisfy me. Why did the gentleman marry her? Why?”

I shrugged. “He found Guinevere attractive.”

“A profound observation,” McLeod said with a grimace. “He was attracted to her. And you”—his words flicking me—“being also attracted to her find that completely comprehensible.” A pedagogue reaching the climax, his hands went up in the air. “Why are people attracted to each other? Because they fulfill things reciprocally, be they nice things or sentiments which don’t bear examination. Now, I don’t have too much to do. I have my work, and when I get back I do a little reading, or I sit here and think. And one of the subjects which occupies me now and again is why a certain Mr. Guinevere, whose last name nobody has ever discovered, decided to marry her, and then set it up for the kind of relationship it is, one where he is never present, and she is practically a queen bee. What kind of individual do you think he is?”

“I have no idea.”

“He’s almost dead, that’s what he is. Why does he marry her? Because she gives out an emanation, call it what you will, that makes him think he’s close to something alive. He knows he’s frozen, and he wants to be laid against a body that’s nice and warm. He sees it as an experiment on himself. That’s the kind of man he is, I’m convinced. Only what he doesn’t know is that she’s frozen too.”

“Why did she marry him?” I asked.

“A good question.” He held up his hands again. “Why? That’s a chestnut, isn’t it? Well, maybe she needed security. Economic matters have to be taken into account, foreign as they may be to your way of thinking.” He removed his spectacles again and squinted judiciously. “But that doesn’t account for it all. The mental goes along with the economic, and I keep returning to Mr. Guinevere. A moral man, I’m convinced. He wanted to punish himself, so he married her, and therefore she in turn, we might suppose, wanted to be in a position to punish somebody. And that’s only half of it. I’ll tell you,” he said, virtually talking to himself, “I picture him further as a gentleman who can see through her. He sees through her, and yet he doesn’t. I don’t suppose you could understand how much that means to the lady in question. He keeps her in place, but she can still fool him from time to time.”

“I should think she’d resent him for holding up the mirror.”

“Oh, does she? I should say so. But that’s it. Nothing is perfect. And if she’s afraid of him, that’s fine too. She’s always wanting to be made a woman.”

“Has she ever approached you?” I asked.

He clucked his tongue noncommittally, and grinned. “Now these hypotheses I leave to you, Lovett. You can do what you will with them.”

McLeod started to yawn, but he did not finish.

For someone scratched upon the door.

It was one of the most curious sounds I had ever heard, light, rapid, and with a persistence that spoke of an animal’s claw. McLeod revolved in his chair, his body stiffened, an attitude of intense concentration upon his features. What he expected I could not guess, but his reaction was extreme—all blood left his face. He sat transfixed for many seconds while the scratching repeated.

With what effort he replaced his eyeglasses, adjusted them upon his nose. “It is Hollingsworth then,” he whispered incomprehensibly. And all his will and all his strength apparently necessary for the next action, he straightened himself in the chair, and froze his face into a surface of composure, his lips supporting a mild distaste. “Come on in,” he called suddenly in an even voice.

Hollingsworth proffered his polite smile as a token of admission. He eddied toward us, dressed in his tidy fashion, a clean shirt, light summer pants, and for the jaunty note, a pair of black-and-white sport shoes. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” he said in his remote voice, “but I heard people talking, and I thought that I might share in whatever you’re saying.” To me, he nodded. “How do you do Mr. Lovett? It’s nice to see you again.”

“Take a chair,” McLeod told him.

He sat down after hoisting his trousers carefully, and for over a minute we gazed judiciously at one another in unavoidable proximity. Except McLeod. He consumed Hollingsworth with his stare.

I wondered if Hollingsworth had left his place in the same clutter I had seen it last, the clothing upon the floor, the bureau drawers jammed and overflowing. I could see him giving a last survey, and then convinced everything was in order, turning the key, pausing to listen to us, and scratching for entrance.

He cleared his throat now, and leaned forward, his hands cupped over his knees, the palms arched to avoid deranging the crease of his pants. “If you fellows don’t mind,” he said without preamble, “I wonder if we could discuss politics.”

McLeod grinned, but weakly. “Anything we can clear up for you in a couple of minutes?”

He considered this seriously. “It’s hard to say. I’ve noticed that political discussions have a way of becoming very long and drawn out if you know what I mean.” When we did not respond to this, he said, “It’s mainly about the Bolshevists I’d like to talk. I heard Mr. Wilson and Mr. Court discussing them at the office the other day, and I realized I have a great deal to learn on the subject.” With modesty, his opaque blue eyes upon us, he added, “I have to keep well informed on all subjects, and it makes a fellow hop sometimes.”

“What makes you think I know anything about it?” McLeod asked. Color was returning to his face, but he was still pale.

In the ingenuous voice of a child, Hollingsworth said simply, “Well, you’re a Bolshevist, aren’t you, Mr. McLeod?”

“Do you mean a Communist?”

Hollingsworth looked perplexed. “They’re the same thing, aren’t they?”

McLeod yawned violently. “Call it the egg and the dinosaur,” he said, closing his lips in a cryptic smile.

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Hollingsworth said. “And you’d say you’re both?”

Once again McLeod could dissect him with his eyes. There was a pause, and behind the impassivity of their faces, I could sense the rapidity with which their minds were working. “Yes, both,” McLeod said. “Yes, absolutely both. Absolutely.”

His face was impassive, his body draped carelessly upon the chair, but like a safety valve shrilling its agitation, his foot—so disconnected from him—tapped ever more rapidly, ever more nervously upon the floor.

“Well, then you can answer some of my questions,” Hollingsworth said pleasantly.

“Possibly I can,” McLeod admitted. “Yet first let me ask one. What made you decide to do it this way?”

Hollingsworth looked puzzled. His eyes seemed to pinch the thin flanks of his nose as he pondered, and his answer was not exactly responsive. “Oh, I couldn’t say. You talk sort of differently.” He glanced about the room. “And the other time I was here when we talked about the bathroom—I’m awfully sorry we’ve never been able to work out a schedule for that—I noticed you had so many big books on the shelf.” He had withdrawn a tiny pad of paper from his jacket, and this he balanced on his knee, his pencil playing over it in the motions of a man sketching idly. “Would you say then that you’re an atheist?” he asked politely.

“Yes.” The pencil flicked lightly upon the pad.

McLeod, a grin cemented to his jaw, murmured, “As a matter of fact, I’m more than that. I’ve been head of the church dynamiting section in my time. We’ve knocked over several in the past.”

“And you’re against free enterprise?”

“Completely.” As if passing from acceptance of the game to active encouragement, McLeod delivered himself of a long exposition, his voice never altering from the acrid tone with which he began. “You might say that I am against free enterprise because it sucks the workers dry, turns man upon his brother, and maintains the inequities of a class society. This poison may only be met with poison, violence with violence. A campaign of vigorous terrorism must be undertaken to wrest the seats of power from the buh-geoisie. The president must be assassinated, and congressmen imprisoned. The State Department and Wall Street must be liquidated, libraries must be burned, and the filthy polluted South must be destroyed nigh unto the last stone with the exception of the Negroes.” McLeod halted, and lit a cigarette for himself. The first match went out, and he struck another one, brought it to the tip, his hands cupped in an excess of care. “Do you have any more questions?” he asked.

Hollingsworth scratched his head. “Well, you’ve given me a great deal to think about. This is all extremely interesting I should say.” Carefully he brushed a cowlick from his forehead. “Oh, yes.” He leaned forward, phrased the next question diffidently. “Would you feel that your first allegiance is not to the Stars and Stripes, but to a foreign power?”

McLeod betrayed no humor. “I would admit that is generally correct.” He stared at his hands in a curious way, as if resigning himself to whatever he saw portrayed there. After a moment he looked up. “Does this conclude the political discussion?” he asked.

Hollingsworth nodded. “I must say you have it all at your finger tips.”

“I’ve prepared it,” McLeod said. “For years.”

“I appreciate your co-operativeness.”

McLeod leaned toward him. “Wall Street is interesting, isn’t it?” he asked in an amiable tone.

“Oh, yes. Very much so. I really feel as if it’s an education.”

Subtly, perhaps unconsciously, McLeod was parodying him. “Yes, that could be said.” With a sudden motion, he reached forward and flipped the pad from Hollingsworth’s knee. “Don’t mind if I look at this, do you?” he asked.

But Hollingsworth performed the ritual of a man who obviously did mind. He started in his chair, his arm extended in pursuit of the pad, his fingers closed and opened to articulate his frustration. Slowly his tongue licked over his lips. “Do you think a fellow ought to play that kind of trick on one?” he asked me quietly, his neutral voice washed faintly by righteousness.

I was watching McLeod. He sat back in his chair and studied what Hollingsworth had written. From time to time he chuckled without amusement. Then he passed me the pad, and I read it with my heart beating stupidly. Hollingsworth had made the following list:

Silently, I handed the pad back to McLeod. In a flat voice, not without mockery, he said to Hollingsworth, “You made a mistake. I never advocate the use of poison.”

Hollingsworth had recovered. Diffidently, but not without firmness, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t like to disagree with a fellow, but you did say that. I heard you.”

McLeod shrugged. “All right, leave it in.” He took a long puff at his cigarette. “Tell me, old man,” he drawled, “is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Why, yes.” Hollingsworth adjusted the belt of his trousers. He leaned forward again, and his face which had been in shadow entered the cone of light cast by the bulb hanging from the ceiling. Upon his mouth he exhibited his apologetic smile.

But there was little of apology in his other movements. Firmly, he pointed to the pad. “I wonder if you would affix a signature to this,” he said formally. “I would like to keep it as one of my souvenirs, and that would”—he searched for a word—“enhance the value thereon.”

“Sign it?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

McLeod smiled, tapped the pad upon his knee for a moment, and then to my astonishment, took a pen from the breast pocket of his shirt, scribbled a few words, and scratched his signature. He read aloud, “Transcript of remarks made by William McLeod—signed—William McLeod. Does that do?”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Hollingsworth said. “It’s nice to meet people who are so co-operative.” When neither of us replied, he looked at his watch with great seriousness. “My, I’ve stayed longer than I thought.” He stood up, and took the notes which McLeod extended to him. “Well, I’d like to thank you fellows for being so nice about it all.”

“Any time we can help you, any time,” McLeod nodded.

Hollingsworth still remained at the door, fingering the pad. With a certain gentleness, he ripped off the top sheet on which they had written, and tore it in two. “You know,” he said, “on second thought perhaps I really don’t want this souvenir.”

“It is valueless,” McLeod drawled again.

“Yes, so it is.” He dropped the pieces to the floor, and was gone.

When the door had closed, McLeod rested his head on his hands and laughed wearily. Upon his head beat the glare of the light bulb, seeming to burn through the frail thin hair at the peak of his scalp, and thrusting beyond him across the floor a distorted shadow of himself, elongated and bent, eloquent in its shadowed head and emaciated forearms. I became aware that the shades were down, and in this stifling room, nothing moved, nothing stirred, the books along the wall in silent witness beside myself. He raised his head and stared at the light as if he must excoriate himself like a fakir searing his vision into the sun.

With what seemed an intense effort, he tore his eyes from the light, and looked at his hands. “You ever wait for anybody?” he asked quietly.

I did not understand at first what he meant, but from some recess of my mind leaped again the image of the stranger, the door opening, the obscured face hovering above my bed. “I don’t know,” I said.

He stood up and leaned against the bookcase, the end of his cigarette still pinched against his fingers. When he looked at me there was small recognition in his eyes. “One thing I’d like to find out,” he said. “Which team does he come from?”

“I don’t follow you,” I said.

Something flickered in his stare. Perhaps he was aware of me again. “That’s right, you wouldn’t know, would you, Lovett?” And then for an instant he grasped my wrist. “Of course it’s one of the techniques to leave the innocent behind, and he’s the one who carries away the valuable piece.” But as I met his look, he relaxed his grip upon me. “No, you’re not in it, I’m certain of that.” He snickered. “I suppose I have to be.”

I stammered out a question and McLeod made no response. Instead, he laughed again to himself. “I’ll tell you, Lovett,” he said, “I’m tired. Do you mind leaving here? I want to think for a while.”

I went away with McLeod sitting in the chair in the middle of the room, the light bulb above his head, his eyes looking without expression at the peeling plaster upon his wall. I had the impression he would remain in this position for hours.