It was the D.A.’s wife who answered. He was asleep. But when she heard who it was that was calling she said she’d get him.
The D.A. said, “God damn it all, Clumly, I never heard such a thing. Why the fucking trial’s tomorrow.”
Clumly scraped the ash from his cigar into the green glass tray and waited.
“Well ok,” the D.A. said. “Ok, ok, ok. What have you got?”
“Suppose we had to get it by wire-tapping?” He bent lower over the phone, looking down his nose with sly, glinting eyes like a rat’s.
“Sweet Christ, Clumly, come off it, will you? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“Correct. One o’clock in the morning.”
“Ok ok. Wait a minute. I gotta light a cigarette.” There was a pause. “Ok. I don’t care if you got it by sleeping with his mother. Now let me have it.”
Clumly was sweating. His decision had been clear. But he couldn’t remember now why he’d come to it. A pain began to feel its way out from his abdomen into his groin and stomach, and he racked his brains for a way to stall, think it through again. “I can’t,” he thought, and by accident said it aloud.
“What?”
“I can’t go along with that,” Clumly said soberly. He bit his lip and checked an absurd urge to giggle.
“You what?”
He repeated it. “It’s invasion of privacy,” he said. “You see that piece in the Saturday Evening Post?”
Silence at the other end. He felt as if he were falling, tumbling slowly head over heels, nauseous, and he wanted to howl. A cop hasn’t got opinions, he’d said to Kozlowski. But it was a lie. Kozlowski understood. He wished Kozlowski were here, something to fix on, get steady by, like the lines of a chair when you were drunk.
Then the howling came, but not from Clumly. The D.A. was swearing like a maniac, cursing him up one side and down the other. Clumly hung up.
He sat shaking, with his fingertips pressed to his eyes, the sickness spreading all through him now, like something green and rotten, a primeval sea seeping up in a burnt-out field. You’re digging your own grave, Clumly. For a principle you can’t even get clear. Right. And who’s to decide when holding out for the Whole Truth is warranted by the Truth-Product-Factor? Ha! You. Certainly. The State of New York versus Clumly. Called also God. “You want my job, take it,” he said aloud. They would. Nothing could save him except—He opened his eyes. The Sunlight Man. The old feeling came over him again, the absolute, irrational certainty that the bearded man was the sum total of all Clumly had been fighting all his life. Scrape together the Sunlight Man’s secrets, and you’d have in your hands a collection of horrors, it might be, that would knock a common mortal on his hiney. The pain was suddenly lighter. He’d beat them yet. What could they do to the Police Chief who’d brought down the Sunlight Man?
He relit the cold cigar hurriedly and got up to go around his desk to the filing cabinet. He jerked the drawer open. Mess. Have to clean all this up, get organized. Part of the file was in the manilla envelope, where it belonged, but some of the tapes from their examinations of the prisoner were mixed in with other things, and he couldn’t lay his hand on the picture until he tried the drawer below. He called for Figlow, and after a minute he came in.
“Take this,” Clumly said. “Get a copy to the F.B.I, if they haven’t been sent one. Have ’em check the print file. Rush it.”
“Yessir.” He started to leave.
“One thing more.” He sucked at his cigar, crafty, waiting for the butterflies to settle. “This stuff on the desk.” He jerked his thumb toward it. “Get it out of here.”
“It’s mail, sir. What shall I do with it?”
“Who knows? Give it to the Boy Scouts. Send it to the Mayor and let him draw pictures on it.”
Figlow was wincing, his hand closed lightly around his tie, fiddling with it.
“Oh hell,” Clumly said. “Then leave it where it is.” He gestured toward his visor, still holding the cigar, and Figlow returned the salute. As Figlow reached the door Clumly stopped him. “Word from Miller?”
“Nothing much. A question for you. Wants to know if you want pawnshops checked for the clothes.”
“Certainly.”
Figlow shrugged, but he put off leaving. “You think it was kids, then?” he asked.
“Epidemic of it,” Clumly said. “You know that yourself. A sign of the times.” He pushed the drawer shut and leaned on it. “What’s the matter, don’t you read the papers? All over the world there’s kids gone wild. Sweden for instance. Juvenile Delinquency’s tripled in the past fifteen years … main age of offenders is fourteen. Thefts, burglary, willful destruction of property, the same as Batavia. And the same kind of truck. Clothes, office equipment, things like that. Or they vandalize public telephones, park benches, schoolrooms, playgrounds, bus seats. Police can’t solve but a third of the cases. Talk about car thefts! Thirty thousand cars in the past five years—in five years a fifty per cent increase. And why? Well I’ll tell you what the article says—a piece in Look. Urbanization, the rapid growth of towns. Unemployment. Parents have been raised in the country or in towns like Batavia use to be, and they got small-town or country values, but the kids want to live the way city kids live, or the way they think they do. They think cities take toughness, and so pretty soon the kids are at war with the parents, as well as with everybody else. Psychologist’s opinion. I recommend you read it.”
“And that’s what it was tonight, eh?” He was so incredulous he took the cigarette out of his mouth.
Clumly waved. “All over the world, Figlow. Even in Russia and China, where the cops outnumber the people. Take Leningrad. The vodka sales went up thirty per cent in the past five years, almost all the increase to juveniles. When the cops ask the drunk-and-disorderlies why they did it, over sixty per cent of them say it was ‘for kicks.’ Little thing, you thinking? You thinking, Anybody can get stoned? Fifty-eight per cent of the criminal offenses in Leningrad this year were committed by drunken kids. And what are the offenses? They steal clothes and office equipment and household gadgets. It was all in the paper. Or they wreck public telephones and park benches and schoolrooms and playgrounds and bus seats. But the reason’s different in Russia, you understand. Capitalist liquor sellers.” He laughed like a murderer. “Or you take London.”
Figlow said, “But this shooting tonight, I don’t know.” Then, detaching himself, replacing the cigarette, “Maybe you’re right.”
Clumly scowled and went over to the window. The light was off in the Mayor’s office now. He sucked at the cigar. Then he turned to study Figlow with small icy eyes. “Right,” he echoed. He laughed. “You think I’m crazy? He cut that telephone wire to give himself two, three extra minutes—the time it would take a man to run to a phone at his neighbor’s. That’s no panicky kid, Figlow. When they check that bullet, they’ll find it’s from Salvador’s gun.” He turned back to the window as though he were finished.
Figlow said, “So it was him.”
Clumly grunted. “Who else goes in and out of locked doors like they were nothing? It was locked when Hodge got there, according to Hodge—I don’t think Hodge has realized the importance of that just yet.”
“How?” Figlow said quietly. “How did he do it?”
Clumly looked up past the firehouse roof at the clouds. The roof tiles gleamed from the rain. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I’ll tell you my guess. My guess is, he opened the door with Will Hodge’s key.”
“Is it possible?”
“Who knows what’s possible?” He looked at his watch. “I’d better go home. Poor wife will be out of her head.”
In the car he thought: Hodge’s key. It had hardly seemed worth considering until Figlow had asked. But now it seemed beyond speculation. It was not possible, but that was irrelevant. It wasn’t possible, either, for a man who stunk like a backed-up sewer to sneak up on a cop who was sitting at his desk and bind him and gag him and blindfold him and never leave so much as
an impression of who the assailant was, though the cop had smelled him often.
“So he’d bathed and changed,” he said aloud.
That too was incredible. Bathed where? At the Y.M.C.A.? The sink in some church? He’d have to have washed his clothes, too. Or changed them. Where?
When he stopped for the light at North Lyon Street it came to him that he wasn’t alone in the car. There was someone crouched in the back seat behind him. Slowly and carefully, heart burning in his throat, he jerked around to look. There was no one. The boy and girl in the car beside his were looking at him, solemn. He pulled the visor of his cap lower and set his jaw firmly. “Little hooligans,” he said. When the light changed the couple took off fast. He thought of switching on the siren and hauling them in. But this was where he turned, thank God. They couldn’t see him any more. In the rear-view mirror the lights of Main Street, though the stores had been closed for hours now, fell away yellow, blue, green, white, like the eyes of watchful dragons.
When he reached the end of his driveway he was afraid to open the garage doors. He didn’t even fight it. Some fights were worth the trouble and some were not. He left the car sitting where it was, locked up, and went up on the porch. He was afraid to look for the newspaper. Why should he? He bent toward the door to listen. The house was all dark. A car came around the Oak Street corner and very slowly passed his house. His heart was hammering. It was the Mayor! But it wasn’t. He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door just wide enough that he could slip his hand in and flick on the light.
“Is that you, Fred?”
She was sitting on the couch waiting up for him, working on that sewing she’d been at all these years. It must be every thing she did on it she had to undo and do over. Her glass eyes glittered.
“Just me,” he said. The strength had gone out of his legs. He sat down quickly on the arm of the couch, the door still open behind him.
“You look sick,” she said. She got up and came toward him. He would have sworn the glass eyes could see.
“Be quiet,” he said. “Listen.”
It was only the rain starting up again, whispering in the leaves. He saw once more the glittering eyes of the dead woman sitting by the wall.
“Just tired,” he said.
“Let me fix you a nice cup of tea,” she said.
“Yes, do,” he said. One final shudder went down his back and it was over, he felt all right. “I’ll come with you,” he said. Halfway across the room he remembered that the door was still open and went back to close it. Though both of them had been here in the room all the time, his fear was back. He was convinced that someone had slipped in, invisible, and was somewhere in the house.
“You’re jumpy,” she said. She had turned as if to look at him. She stood, tipped and lean as a beanpole, bony hands folded like a singer’s, prepared to be frightened.
“No, no,” he said. Then, with conviction: “Everything’s fine. Tired as a dog, that’s all.” He gave a laugh.
“Good,” she said. “You had me worried.”
He took a deep breath, then unbuckled his holster belt and hung it in the clothespress, where it belonged. He followed her into the kitchen, rubbing his hands as he walked. The muscles of his face were frozen to a cheerful smile.
3
The Sunlight Man had gone upstairs. To sleep, they imagined; but they were wrong. While Nick Slater sat at the livingroom window, shoulders hunched, brain numb, watching the storm as he would have watched some foreign movie without subtitles, full of dark scenes of ominous import, monstrous faces, branches of trees like scratches on a sky from which all life had sunk away, his two hands lightly closed around the gun, the Sunlight Man was overhead in the front bedroom, sitting in blackness like a Biblecover, thinking.
He could not see the vanity mirror he knew stood solemn and indifferent before him like a messenger with news already known, no longer a matter of sorrow, much less shock. Let it be as it was. He felt like a man come back from the dead to find the world less than he had one time imagined but not for that reason drab; more glowing than before. “Millie,” he said, perhaps aloud. Not fondly, not with horror either, merely as one might try out a word in an unfamiliar language, torturing it toward sense. He had not seen her for a long time and had not known he had any particular feeling for her; his brother’s wife, simply; a sword in his brother’s side but not in his, a matter of sad indifference. “So get rid of her,” he’d said easily when Will Hodge sat suffering in the chair by the bookshelf, wooden-faced as an Indian but boiling within with grief and outrage, some latter-day Hrothgar, mighty and patient and beyond all human counsel. Will said nothing, merely moved his hand a little as if toward his face, then thought better of it. He had said, “It’s up to you, Will. Anybody else would.” But he had not felt quite as callous as that. He knew his brother. What would have been for himself or Ben or Art Jr a matter of snapping the fingers was for Will a case of vast difficulty and subtlety, a labyrinthine question of justice. Was I wrong? Was she wrong? Where is the guilt? And though the question was absurd, the asking was noble, and Taggert Hodge had looked away, understanding his uselessness. He might have laughed, measuring his brother’s troubles against his own; but to each man God gives the test he can endure.
No man who has passed a month in the death cells
believes in capital punishment
No man who has passed a month in the death cells
believes in cages for beasts
And so, confronting her face to face, finding that the leftward veer of her chin, the way she held her glass, stood with one strong foot thrown forward, weight squared and balanced like a fencing master’s—finding that above all the music in her voice, however deadly to a man armed only with a shield of wood—rekindled the past more violently than Batavia’s streets or the stink of its water or the hellish heat that lay on it in August like a dying beast—he had been shocked to a sudden pain of love or anguish or something between, a vacuum of feeling between two fires: an intense upsurge of memory and hopeless desire.
But he was calm now, beyond his first rage and love-hate to reflection and the abstract knowledge of his fear. The feeling he’d experienced long ago in his father’s house was back, yet strangely not inside him: it had gone out to penetrate and shine in things external—in Millie, in the boy he had not known except as a child of three or four, in the Indian boy he had found in jail, of whom he had heard in the letters that Millie had written neither for his sake nor for hers but because he was a source of torment to Will. The feeling had gone out into objects as well, they were alive as if with his memory of them, though he’d never seen them before in his life: the swaybacked couch, the rug, the cheap old andirons and scuttle by the fireplace, in ashtrays, magazines, pieces of paper—a glow as if of brute sensation, shining in one thing more and in another less, he could not tell why. And he felt, as he had felt in his childhood, that there were things he knew, great mysteries, a knowledge too deep for the power of memory to pull down or dredge up, a light moving through subterranean passages, drawing to a focus around God knew what queer images—crosses, circles, his mad wife’s eyes?—something outside the limits of his mind.
He had felt then for a moment that he knew. She was looking at something, her eyes fixed with a stare like an eagle’s, and now he too seemed to see, not so much an image as a center of pain, like an iron just brought blinding white from the forge. And then, drawing back, he had fixed his eyes not on what she was seeing but on her.
“Poor bitch,” he whispered when she fled.
The doctor said nothing. A gentle spring breeze came in off the patio of the therapy cottage, but no sound came with it. Beyond the walls of the hospital grounds there would be traffic moving, business as usual, but not here. Wherever she may be . The grass was smooth and clean as only grass officially kept can be. Like her mind, officially kept in the neat regulations of her madness. The doctor said, “These treatments—” He paused, studied Taggert’s face, decided to co
ntinue. “They’re a distressing sight, as you can see.” Taggert Hodge nodded. “You understand the principle, of course. But until you’ve seen one …” He smiled. “Good though, those boys of mine. You saw their reactions. Like lightning!” He snapped his fingers. “They have to be of course, but it’s impressive just the same. The first time I saw it—I was interning; I remember as if it was yesterday—I just plain couldn’t believe it. Well, takes time, of course. What it comes down to, you know, is you have to think like a madman. They’re just as quick thinkers as anybody else, understand. Quicker. You get so you can think like them, and then you’ve got to go beyond that. You’ve got to control them, lead them where you want them to go, block them. Take chess now. A simple game, compared to this. You’ve got hours to think out every move—and just as many conditions as we have to deal with here—and even if you lose, what is it? A game. But every move we screw up—” He glanced at Hodge again, then smiled. “But we don’t.”
Hodge nodded, doubtful. The man was tall and heavy, with slow, shallow eyes, a dark brown suit. He did not look like a chess player. “She recognize me?” Hodge said.
“Hard to say,” the doctor said. He was evading some long explanation. Then: “Ah. I think they’re coming back. Have a seat?”
Hodge sat down again. It was a comfortable room. It didn’t smell lived-in. This time, walking between the two attendants, Kathleen did not even glance at him: neither did she glance at the doctor. It came to him that it was from the doctor she’d tried to run, to Taggert Hodge she was as indifferent as to the walls, the stale smell of flowers. His heart shrank around the recognition. She was haggard; once beautiful. Her eyes, once dazzling with Irish humor and gentleness, were dazed now, the eyes of a sleepwalker. She walked slowly, lightly, as though all substance had drained out of her with her sanity. “And in her looks …” What was the line? He clung to the question as to the arms of his chair.