We walked on down till we came to the river, where the warehouses were and the docks fingered out into the water. The metal roofs of the docks glimmered dully in the rays of the street lamps. Above the pilings of the docks a thick tangle of mist coiled and drifted, broken here and there to show the sleek, velvety, motionless water, which glimmered darkly like the metal of the roofs, or like a seal's black, water-slick fur. A few docks down, the stubby masts of freighters were barely visible against the dark sky. Somewhere downstream a horn was hooting and moaning. We moved along beside the docks, looking out into the river, which was tufted and matted over the blackness with the scraggly, cirrus, cottony mist. But the mist stayed close to the surface of the river, and to look out over it made you think of being on a mountain at night and looking for miles out over clouds below. There were a few lights over on the far shore.
We came to an open pier which I remembered as the place where excursion boats picked up their crowds in summer afternoons for the moonlight ride up the river–big, jostling, yelling, baby-carrying, pop-and-likker-drinking, sweating crowds. But there wasn't any big side-wheeler there now, white as wedding cake, cranky and improbable, with red and gilt decorations, and no calliope was playing "Dixie" and no whistles blowing. The place was as still as a tomb and as blank as Gobi on a moonless night. We walked out to the end of the pier, leaned on the railing, and looked across the river.
"All right," I said.
She didn't answer.
"All right," I repeated, "I thought you wanted to talk."
"It's Adam," she said.
"What about Adam? I asked, evenly.
"You know–you know perfectly well–you went there and–"
"Look here," I said, and I felt my blood getting up and my voice taking on an edge, "I went there and made him a proposition. He's a grown man and if he doesn't like it he doesn't have to take it. There's no use blaming me and–"
"I'm not blaming you," she said.
"You just started to jump me," I said, "but if Adam can't make up his own mind and can't take care of himself, you needn't blame me."
"I'm not blaming you, Jack. You're so jumpy and touchy, Jack." She laid her hand on my arm, on the rail, and patted me, and I felt the head of steam in me drop a few pounds of pressure.
"If he can't take care of himself, then you–" I began.
But she cut in, quick and sharp, "He can't. That's the trouble."
"Now, look here, all I did was to offer him a proposition."
Her hand, which had been laid on my forearm to soothe me and pat down the steam pressure, suddenly clamped on me, driving the fingers damned near to the bone. I jumped, an even as I jumped, I heard her say, in a low, tense voice, almost a whisper, "You can make him take it."
"He's a grown man and he–" I began.
But she cut in again, "You've got to make him–you've got to!"
"For God's sake!" I said.
"You've got to," she repeated, in that same voice, and I was sure that the fingers clenched on my arm were bringing blood.
"You were just now giving me hell because I merely offered him the proposition," I said, "and now you say I've got to make him take it."
"I want him to take it," she said, and her fingers fell away from their grip.
"Well, I'm damned," I observed in the direction of the great interstellar darkness, and then peered into her face. There wasn't much light–I could see the face, an unnatural chalk-white, and the eyes were just dark gleams–but I could tell that she meant what she said. "So you want him to take it?" I said slowly. "And you're Governor Stanton's daughter and Adam Stanton's sister, and you want him to take it?"
"He's got to," she said, and I saw her small gloved hands clench on the railing, and felt sorry for the railing. She stared out over the coiling carpet of the river mist, as from the mountain out over the clouds hiding the dark world.
"Why?" I asked.
"I went up there," she said, still looking out over the river, "to talk to him about it. I wasn't sure he ought to when I went up. I wasn't sure then, but when I saw him I was."
Something about what she was saying disturbed me, like an offstage noise or something caught out of the tail of your eye or an itch that comes when your hands are full and you can't scratch. I was listening to what she was saying, and it wasn't that. It was something else. But I couldn't catch what. So I shoved it onto the back of the stove, and listened to what she was saying.
"When I saw how he was," she was saying, "I knew. I just knew. Oh, Jack, he was all worked up–it wasn't natural–just because he had been asked. He has cut himself off from everything–from everybody. Even from me. Not really, but it's not like it used to be."
"He's awful busy," I objected lamely.
"Busy," she echoed, "busy–yes, he's busy. Ever since he was in medical school, he has worked like a slave. There's just something driving him–driving him. It's not money and it's not reputation and it's not–I just don't know what–" Her voice drifted off.
"It is very simple," I said. "He wants to do good."
"Good," she echoed. Then, "I used to think so–oh, he does good–but–"
"But what?"
"Oh, I don't know–and I shouldn't say it–I shouldn't–but I almost think that the work–even the doing good–everything is just a way to cut himself off. Even from me–even me–"
Then she said, "Oh, Jack, we had an awful row. It was awful. I went home and cried all night. You know how we've always been. And to have a terrible row. You know how we've been? You know?" She insisted, and clutched my arm, as though to make me agree, to make me tell her how they had been.
"Yes," I said, "I know." I looked at her and was afraid for a second she was going to cry again, but she didn't, and I should have known it, for she was the kind that did her crying on the midnight pillow. If she did any.
"I told him," she was saying, "I told him that if he wanted to do any good–really do any good–here was the time. And the way. To see that the Medical Center was run right. And even expanded. And all that. But he just froze up and said he wouldn't touch the thing. And I accused him of being selfish–of being selfish and proud–of putting his pride before everything. Before doing good–before his duty. Then he just glared at me, and grabbed me by the wrist and said I couldn't understand anything, that a man owed himself something. I said it was his pride, just his pride, and he said he was proud not to touch filth, and if I wanted him to do that I could just–" She stopped, took a breath and, I guessed, a new grip on her nerve to say what she was about to say. "Well, what he was going to say was that I could get out. But he didn't say it. I'm glad–" she paused again–"I'm glad he didn't say it. At least, he didn't say it."
"He didn't mean it," I said.
"I don't know–I don't know. If you had seen his eyes blazing and his face all white and drawn. Oh, Jack–" she grabbed my arm again, and shook me as though I were holding back an answer–"why won't he do it? Why is he this way? Doesn't he see he ought to? That he's the man and he's got to? Why, Jack? Why?"
"To be perfectly brutal," I said, "it is because he is Adam Stanton, the son of Governor Stanton and grandson of Judge Peyton Stanton, and the great-grandson of General Morgan Stanton, and he has lived all his life in the idea that there was a time a long time back when everything was run by high-minded, handsome men wearing knee breeches and silver buckles or Continental blue or frock coats, or even buckskin and coonskin caps, as the case may be–for Adam Stanton isn't any snob–who sat around a table and candidly debated the good of the public thing. It is because he is a romantic, and he has a picture of the world in his head, and when the world doesn't conform in any respect to the picture, he wants to throw the world away. Even if that means throwing out the baby with the bath. Which," I added, "it always does mean."
That held her for a moment. She turned her face from me and looked out over the misty river again. The she murmured, "He ought to take it."
"Well," I said, "if you want him to do it, you've got to change the picture of the world inside his head. If I know Adam Stanton." And I did know Adam Stanton, and at that moment I could see his face with the skin drawn back tight over the bone and the strong mouth like the neatly healed wound and the deep-set blue eyes blazing like pale ice.
She hadn't answered me.
"That's the only way," I said, "and you might as well settle for that."
"He ought to do it," she whispered, looking over the river.
"How much do you want him to?"
She swung to me, and I peered into her face. Then she said, "As much as I want anything."
"You mean that?" I said.
"I mean it. He's got to. To save himself." She grabbed my arm again. "For himself. As much as for everybody else. For himself."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure," she said, fiercely.
"I mean sure that you want him to do it? More than anything?"
"Yes," she said.
I studies her face. It was a beautiful face–or if not beautiful, better than beautiful, a tense, smooth, spare-modeled, finished face, and it was chalk-white in the shadow and in the eyes were dark gleams. I studied her face, and for a moment just did that and let all the questions just slide away, like something dropped into the mist and water below us to slide away in the oily silence of the current.
"Yes," she repeated, whispering.
But I kept on peering into her face, really looking at it for the first time, after all the years, for the close, true look at a thing can only be one snatched outside of time and the questions.
"Yes," she whispered, and laid her hand on my arm, lightly this time.
And at the touch I came out of what I had been sunk in.
"All right," I said, shaking myself, "but you don't know what you are asking for."
"It doesn't matter," she said. "Can you make him?"
"I can," I said.
"Well, why didn't you–why did you wait–why–"
"I don't think–" I said slowly–"I don't think I would have ever done it–at least, not this way–if you, you yourself, hadn't asked me."
"How can you do it?" she demanded, and the fingers closed on my arm.
"It is easy," I said, "I can change the picture of the world he carries around in his head."
"How?"
"I can give him a history lesson."
"A history lesson?"
"Yes, I am a student of history, don't you remember? And what we students of history always learn is that the human being is a very complicated contraption and that they are not good or bad but are good and bad and the good comes out of the bad and the bad out of the good, and the devil take the hindmost. But Adam, he is a scientist, and everything is tidy for him, and one molecule of oxygen always behaves the same way when it gets around two molecules of hydrogen, and a thing is always what it is, and so when Adam the romantic makes a picture of the world in his head, it is just like the picture of the world Adam the scientist works with. All tidy. All neat. The molecule of good always behaves the same way. The molecule of bad always behaves the same way. There are–"
"Stop it," she ordered, "stop it, and tell me. You are trying not to tell me. You are talking so you won't tell me. Now, tell me."
"All right," I said. "You remember I asked you about Judge Irwin being broken?" Well, he was. His wife wasn't rich, either. He just thought she was. And he took a bribe."
"Judge Irwin?" she echoed. "A bribe?"
"Yes," I said. "And I can prove it."
"He–he was father's friend, he was–" She paused, straightened herself, swung her face from me and looked out over the river, then, after a moment, in a sturdy voice, as though not to me but to the whole wide world over there beyond the mist: "Well, that doesn't prove anything. Judge Irwin."
I didn't reply. I, too, stared out over the coiling mist, in the dark.
I was aware, though I didn't look when she turned toward me again.
"Well, say something," she said, and I heard the tension in her voice.
But I didn't say anything. I stood there waiting; and waiting, I could hear, in the silence, the tiny suck and lapping about the piles down in the mist.
Then she said, "Jack–was my–was my father–was–"
I didn't answer.
"You coward!" she said, "you coward, you won't tell me."
"Yes," I said.
"Did he take a bribe? Did he? Did he?" She had grabbed my arm and was shaking me, hard.
"Not that bad," I said.
"Not that bad, not that bad," she mimicked, and burst out laughing, hanging on my arm. The she suddenly released me, thrust my arm from her as though it were foul, and shrank back. "I don't believe it," she announced.
"It's true," I said. "He knew about Irwin and protected him. I can prove it. I have documents. I'm sorry, but it's true."
"Oh, you're sorry! You're sorry. You dug it all up, all the lies–for that man–for that Stark–for him–and you–you're so sorry." And she began to laugh again, and swung away, and was running down the pier, laughing and stumbling as she ran.
I ran after her.
I was just about to grab her, at the end of the pier, when the cop stepped out of the shadow of the warehouse, and said, "Hey, buddy!"
Just then, Anne stumbled and I grabbed her by the arm. She swayed in my grasp.
The cop approached. "What's up?" he demanded. "What you runnen that dame fer?"
"She's hysterical," I said, talking fast, "I'm just trying to take care of her, she's had a few drinks, just a couple, and she's hysterical, she's had a great shock, a grief–"
The cop, heavy, squat, hairy, took one waddling stride toward us, then leaned and whiffed her breath.
"–she's had a sock, and it has upset her so she took a drink, and she's hysterical. I'm trying to get her home."
His beefy, black-jowled face swung toward me. "I'll get you home," he allowed, "in the wagon. If you ain't careful."
He was just talking. I knew he was just talking to hear himself, for it was late and he was bored and dull. I knew that, and should have said, respectfully, that I would be careful, or have said, laughing and perhaps winking, that sure, Captain, I'd get her home. But I didn't say either thing. I was all keyed up, and she was swaying in my clutch, making a kind of sharp, broken noise with her breathing, and his God-damned beefy, black-jowled face was there in front of me. So I said, "The hell you will."
His eyes bugged out a little at that, the jowls swelled with black blood, and he lunged one step closer, fingering his stick, saying, "The hell I won't, I'm gonna right now, both of you, by God!"
Then he said, "Come on," prodded me with the stick, and repeated, "Come on," herding me toward the end of the pier, where no doubt, the box was he would use to call.
I took two or three steps forward, feeling the prod of the stick in the small of my back, dragging Anne, who hadn't said a word. Then I remember, "Listen here, if you want to be on the force in the morning, you better listen to me."
"Listen, hell," he rejoined and jabbed my kidney a little harder.
"If it weren't for the lady," I said, "I'd let you go on and bust yourself. I don't mind a ride to headquarters. But I'll give you a chance.
"Chance," he echoed, and spat from the side of his mouth, and jabbed again.
"I'm going to reach into my pocket," I said, 2not for a gun, just for my wallet, so I can show you something. Did you ever hear of Willie Stark?"
"Sure," he said. And jabbed.
"You ever hear of Jack Burden," I asked, "the newspaper fellow who is a sort of secretary to Willie?"
He reflected a moment, still prodding me on. "Yeah," he said then, grudgingly.
"Then maybe you'd like my card," I said, and reached for the wallet.
"Naw, you don't," he said, and let the weight of the stick lie across my lifted forearm, "naw you don't, I'm gitten it myself."
He reached in for the wallet, took it, and started to open it. As a matter of principle.
"You open that," I said, "and I'll bust you anyway, call the wagon or not. Give ii here."
He passed it over to me. I drew out a card, and handed it to him.
He studied it in the bad light. "Jeez," he said, with a slight hissing sound like the air escaping from a child's balloon, "how wuz I to know you wuz on the payroll?"
"You damned well better find out next time," I said, before you get gay. Now call me a cab."
"Yes, sir," he said, hating me with the pig's eyes out of the swollen face. "Yes, sir," he said, and went to the box.
Suddenly Anne pulled herself loose from me, and I thought she was going to run. So I grabbed her again. "Oh, you're so wonderful," she said, in a harsh whisper, "so wonderful–you're grand–you bully the bullies–you cop the cops–you're wonderful–"
I stood there holding her, not listening, aware only of a weight in my middle like a cold stone.
"–you're so wonderful–and clean–everything is so wonderful and clean–"
I didn't say anything.
"–you're so damned wonderful–and clean and strong–oh, you're a hero–"
"I'm sorry I acted like a son-of-a-bitch," I said.
"I can imagine to what particular thing you are referring," she whispered in mock sweetness, underscoring the _particular__, setting it meticulously in my hide like a banderilla. Then she swung her face from me, and wouldn't look at me, and the arm I clutched might as well have belonged to a dummy in a show window, and the cold stone in my stomach was a stone in a deep well covered with slime, and the pig's eyes in the swollen, black-jowled face came back and hated me in the dull, mist-streaked night, and a horn moaned down the river, and in the cab Anne Stanton sat back in one corner, very straight and as far from me as possible, and the light from the street lamps we passed would flicker across her white face. She would not speak to me. Until we came to a street with a car track on it. Then she said, "Get out. You can catch some car here. I don't want you to take me home."
So I got out.
Five nights later I heard Anne Stanton's voice on the telephone.
It said, "Those things–those papers you said you had–send them to me."
I said, I'll bring them."
It said, "No. Send them."
I said, "All right. I've got extra photostat of one thing. Tomorrow I'll get photostat of the other paper and send them together."
It said, "A photostat. So you don't trust me."
I said, "I'll send them tomorrow."
Then there was the click, in the little black tube. Then the tiny, windy, humming sound which is the sound of space falling away from you, and of infinity, and of absolute nothingness.
Every night when I came into my room, I would look at the telephone. I would say to myself: _It is going to ring__. Once, even, I was sure that it had rung, for the tingle and stab of its ringing was in all my nerves. But it hadn't rung. I had merely fallen asleep. Once I picked up the thing and held it to my ear, listening to the tiny, humming sound which is the sound of the various things I have already mentioned.
Every night, at the desk in the lobby, I asked if there have been any numbers left for me. Yes, sometimes there were numbers. But never the right number.
Then I would go up to my room, where the telephone was and the brief case with the photostat and the affidavit from Memphis. I hadn't given that to the Boss yet. I hadn't even told him about it yet. Not that I was thinking about not giving it to him. I would give it to him. That was in the cards. But not yet. Not quiet yet. After the telephone had rung.
But it didn't ring.
Instead, after about a week, one night as I turned the corner of the corridor, I saw a woman sitting on the bench down beyond my door. I fumbled for my key, inserted it in the lock, and was about to enter when I was aware that the woman stood beside me. I swung toward her. It was Anne Stanton.
She had made no sound on the deep carpet. Not with her light foot.
"You gave me heart failure," I said, and swung the door wide, and added, "Come in."
"I thought you were so careful about my reputation," she said. "At least you claimed to be. Once."
"I remember," I said, "but come in anyway."
She walked into the room and stood in the middle of the floor with her back to me while I shut the door. I noticed that she had a brown manila envelope in her hand, with her bag.
No turning to me, she stepped to the desk by the wall and flung down the envelope. "There it is," she said. "The photostats. I brought them back. But I would have brought back the originals if you had trusted me with them."
"I know it," I said.
"It was awful," she said, still not turning to me.
I went across to her and touched her shoulder. "I'm sorry," I said.
"It was awful. You don't know."
I didn't know how awful. So I stood there just behind her and didn't dare to touch her again, even with the weight of my finger.
"You don't know," she said.
"No," I said, "I don't."
"It was awful." The she turned to put her wide eyes on me, and I had the impression of stumbling into a well. "It was awful," she said. "I gave them to him–those things–and he read them and then he just stood there–he didn't move–he didn't make a sound–and his face was white as a sheet and I could hear him breathing. Then I touched him–and he looked at me–he looked at me a long time. Then he said–he looked at me and said, 'You." That was what he said, 'You." Looking at me."
"God damn it," I said, "God damn it, what's he blaming you for, why doesn't he blame Governor Stanton?"
"He does," she said. "Oh, he blames him. That is what is so awful. The way he blames him. His father. You remember–you remember, Jack–" she reached out and laid her hand on my forearm–"you remember–our father–how he was–how he used to read to us–how he loved us–how he taught Adam and how proud he was on him–how he took all that time to teach Adam himself–oh, Jack, he sat there in front of the fire and I was a little girl and he would read to us and I put my head against his knee–oh, Jack–you remember?"
"I remember," I said "Yes," she said, "yes–and mother was dead and father did all he could–he was so proud of Adam–and now Adam–and now–" She released my arm, and stepped back and lifted her hands, putting her fingers to her forehead in a distracted gesture. "Oh, Jack, what Have I done?" she whispered.
"You did what you thought you ought to do," I said firmly.
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, that was it."
"It's done now," I said.
"Yes, it is done," she said, out loud, and her jaw closed with an expression which suddenly made her look like Adam, the mouth firm and sealed, the skin drawn and tight on the flesh, and she lifted her head to stare the world down, and I felt like bursting into tears. If that had been my habit.
"Yes," I said, "it's done."
"He'll do it," she said.
And I almost demanded, What, do what? For, for the moment, I had forgotten the reason that I had told Anne the facts, the reason that I had given her the photostats, the reason that she had shown them to her brother. I had forgotten that there was a reason. But I remembered now, and questioned, "You persuaded him?"
"No," she shook her head slowly, "no, I didn't say anything. I gave those things to him. He knew."
"What happened?"
"What I told you. He looked at me hard, and said 'You.' Just like that. Then I said, 'Adam, don't say it that way, you mustn't, Adam, you mustn't!' And he said, 'Why?' And I said, 'Because I love you, because I love him, love Father.' And he kept on looking at me, then said, 'Love him!' Then, 'Damn his soul to hell!' I called out, 'Adam, Adam,' but he turned his back on me, and walked across the room to his bedroom door and went in and shut the door. Then I went out and walked by myself, in the dark, for a long time. So I could sleep. For three days I didn't hear from him. Then he asked me to come to see him. I went, and he gave me back those things." She pointed to the manila envelope. "He told me to tell you that he would do it. To arrange it. That was all."
"That was a good deal," I said.
"Yes," she said, and moved past me toward the door. She put her hand to the knob, turned it, and drew the door ajar. She looked back at me, and said, "Yes, it was a good deal."
And went out.
But she stood with her hand on the doorjamb. "One thing," she said.
"What?" I asked.
"A favor," she said, "to me. Before you ever use those things, those papers, show them to Judge Irwin. Give him a chance. At least, a chance."
I agreed to that.
The big black Cadillac, the hood glistening dully under the street lamps–as I could see even from the back seat–eased down the street, making its expensive whisper under the boughs which had new leaves on them, for it was early April now. Then we got to a street where there were not any nice trees arching over.
"Here," I said, "that place on the right, just beyond that grocery."
Sugar-Boy put the Cadillac up to the curb, like a mother laying Little Precious down with a last kiss. The he ran around to open the door for the Boss, but he boss already on the curb. I uncoiled myself and stood beside him. "This is the joint," I remarked, and started in.
For we were going to see Adam Stanton.
When I told the Boss that Adam Stanton would take the job and that he had sent me a message to arrange things, the Boss had said, "Well." Then he had looked at me from toe to crown, and said, "You must be Svengali."
"Yeah," I had said, "I am Svengali."
"I want to see him," the Boss had said.
"I'll try to get him up here."
"Get him up here?" the Boss had said. "I'll go there. Hell, he's doing me a favor."
"Well, you're the Governor, aren't you?"
"You're damned right I am," the Boss had said, "but he is Doc Stanton. When do we go?"
I had told him it would have to be at night, that you never could catch him except at night.
So here we were, at night, entering the door of the crummy apartment house, climbing the dark stairs, stumbling over the kiddie car, inhaling the odor of cabbage and diapers. "He sure picked himself a place to live," the Boss said.
"Yeah," I agreed, "and lots of folks can't figure out why."
"I reckon I can," the Boss said.
And as I wondered whether he could or not, we reached the door, and I knocked, entered, and confronted the level eyes of Adam Stanton.
For a half moment, while Sugar-Boy was easing in, and I was shutting the door, Adam and the Boss simply took each other in, without a word. Then I turned and said, "Governor Stark, this is Dr. Stanton."
The Boss took a step forward and put out his right hand. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I noticed a shade of hesitation before Adam took it. And the Boss must have noticed it, too, for when Adam did put out his hand, the Boss, in the middle of the shake, before any other word had been spoken, grinned suddenly, and said, "See, boy, it's not as bad as you thought, it won't kill you."
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