The Wide House

  He said: “Stuart, tomorrow I pay for my Island. My Island. It will be mine tomorrow. It is approved. There will be no more delay.”

  Stuart replied: “Good! Very, very good! Sam, that is delightful news.”

  Sam smiled. His voice shook somewhat when he said: “It will be good news for those who expect only suffering and death. I haf written to those who will help. Soon they will be coming, the men, and the women, and the children.”

  “You are certain the matter is completed?”

  “Yes. Of course. It was signed today. Tomorrow I give the money. It will be taken from the bank, by me.” He paused. “Today I went to the bank. There was Mr. Allstairs. He called me in. We haf not spoken for years. But he was very amiable. He said to me: ‘Sam, it is dangerous just now to do this. Wait a little. I will buy the Island, in my own name, and then you may buy it back from me in a few months, in a year, and pay me only the interest. I will do this for you, a depositor, a client.’”

  Stuart stopped short in the street, and shouted, clenching his fists: “Oh, the dog! The dirty dog! The vile, crawling dog!”

  Sam laid his hand on his friend’s arm. “Hush. You will wake all the street. Let us be quiet. See, they are opening windows now, and peering out. Mr. Allstairs was very friendly. He is an old man, I thought, he must haf forgotten much evil, or repented of it. Perhaps he is sincere. I do not know. Perhaps he thinks of the temper of the people in this city, who prefer tormenting the defenseless to fighting to save their country. I do not know. I no longer think. When a man grows older, he knows there are things he can never know. Only the young ask why. I haf not so many more years, and I shall not waste them in questions. So I only said, with courtesy: ‘No, Mr. Allstairs, I must do it now. But it is kind of you.’”

  Stuart stared at him incredulously. “You said that, you damn fool?”

  Sam smiled again. He shrugged. “It is said that while pleasant words may not avert a blow, or change a man’s mind, neither do they invite a blow nor turn a just man against you. As for the unjust man, he has his plans beforehand, and nothing can put them aside. And again, perhaps he has forgotten much of his evil.”

  Stuart was outraged. “Why, you infernal idiot, you know very well that he is behind the agitation against you, and your plans for the Island! That has been settled by investigation. He paid for the handbills which said ‘No Jew Ghetto near Grandeville! Down with the Jews!’ And dozens of others. It was his hired ruffians who attacked old Grundy, and who have threatened to attack you. It was his hand, through another’s, which sent paving rocks against your doors and through your windows. And yet you can say: ‘perhaps he has forgotten much of his evil’! Don’t you know how malignant he is? He is sleepless. He is like a soft leprous spot in Grandeville, growing larger and larger, eating away at the body of this city!”

  “He can do nothing now, to me, or to my plans,” said Sam with quiet intensity. “Whatever he has tried has, been useless. So I do not worry. I do not even think of him.”

  He added: “Tomorrow, which I forgot to tell you, I am going to New York, where lives a rabbi who is my friend. I shall discuss many matters with him. And I must give you my keys in my house, for my private safe. Do not forget to take them.”

  Stuart grimly reflected that there was probably very little in the safe just now. Sam continued: “There are papers in that safe, too, for the business which will arise in the next few days. I am asking you to care of it, for me. The business about the Islands, and the discussions I haf outlined which I will talk over with the farmers on the Island. Read them, when you can. Perhaps it is possible you may haf suggestions to offer me, which I haf overlooked.”

  “They own the farms?”

  “No. Only on lease. But we can come to amicable agreement, I am sure. I shall not dispossess them, certainly. I wish only to go into details with them about my plan.

  They reached the lonely and silent little house where Sam lived. He looked at it sadly. He missed his dead mother. But she must be glad tonight, thinking of what her son had finally been able to accomplish.

  Stuart looked curiously at his friend’s face in the light of the flickering street-lamp. It was quiet, and peaceful, but full of gentle resolution and fulfilment. The majestic and tender dream of a lifetime shone in his weary brown eyes. Even as Stuart watched him, Sam lifted his eyes to the dark and silent heavens as if in humble and thankful prayer.

  Stuart said good night, and went on his way, humming abstractedly to himself. Sam went to the side of the house, and fumbled for the key in his pocket. There were thick masses of shrubbery here, flowering shrubs all golden and white in the spring, which had been Mrs. Berkowitz’ joy. Sam found his key, and prepared to put it into the lock. He heard a slight rustling sound, and by the dim light of the moon saw that he was confronted by two huge men, bulking and bending towards him like gigantic apes.

  His flesh prickled, his lips turned cold. But he faced the intruders with quiet resolution. “What is it you wish, please?” he asked politely, his hand on the door.

  One of them took a menacing step towards him. “Are you the Jew, Berkowitz?” he asked, in a low rumbling voice. His companion moved swiftly and silently behind him.

  Sam hesitated. Then he said: “I am.”

  For one last blinding moment he saw the upraised club above his head; by the moonlight he saw the snarling and bestial face. And then the universe exploded all about him in a torrent of fire and bursting stars.

  CHAPTER 64

  Stuart had gone only a few short streets when he remembered that he had not taken the keys of which Sam had spoken. He swore under his breath. Sam, no doubt, would be compelled to go to the shops to give Stuart those keys, and so delay his pressing business. Stuart swung about and went back rapidly the way he had come.

  He was puzzled to see that Sam’s house was still in darkness. Surely in those ten minutes he had not been able to prepare for bed and retire for the night. Also, Stuart knew his friend’s habits. Sam sat up far past midnight every night, to read. But there was not a single light in the dark little house with its blank windows, and the shadows of the wavering trees rippling across its white front.

  Stuarts exquisite intuition caused his heart to pound with sudden terror and warning. He stood on the walk before the house, trying to control himself, to halt the roaring in his head. But his hand grasped his cane with involuntary firmness. What nonsense! The night was lovely. Perhaps Sam, at the last moment, had decided to take a quiet walk by himself before going to bed, or reading.

  “I’ll try the door, anyway,” Stuart muttered to himself. He went to the side of the house. There was no sound but the thin rustling of the trees, the soft sighing of the wind. The thick heavy shrubbery leaned over the flagged walk, made a pool of darkness along the path. Another window, black and empty, stared at him like a blind eye as he passed it. Insects blundered against his face. His feet crunched on some dry and fallen leaves. He moved cautiously, his hair rising with nameless fear.

  Suddenly he stumbled. His groping foot had struck against something soft. He recoiled. He stood, frozen, trembling with strange premonition, and icy sweat broke out over his face. His hand, finally, fumbled in his pockets. It felt like a hand of wood, without joints. It stuck in the lining of his pocket, came away numb, with his packet of lucifers in it. He struck a match. He saw Sam lying at his feet, his head crushed, his quiet face covered with blood, his eyes closed.

  The burning match fell from Stuart’s hand. He uttered a great loud cry, then fell to his knees beside his friend. He lifted him in his arms, implored him frantically. He threw back his head and called frenziedly for help. All over the neighborhood windows were suddenly flung open, voices called shrilly. “Murder!” Stuart shouted. “Murder! Police!”

  Everything darkened about him, swayed, rolled, tilted. His arms were weak and flaccid. He held Sam against his breast, and called incoherently to him, prayed to him, begged him for a word. For the first time since childhood, he wept. He felt t
he scalding sting of tears on his eyelids; he heard his voice groaning and uttering terrible imprecations. He did not know when he was surrounded by panting men with lanterns in their hands, men half-dressed, demanding, shouting, exclaiming. He did not know that his own hands were wet and running with Sam’s blood. He did not feel the grasp of those about him, who were shaking him, commanding that he help them carry Sam into the house.

  He knew only that Sam was moaning, stirring feebly in his arms. He held his friend tighter, wiping away the blood that streamed over his face. “Sam! Sam! Tell me. You must tell me. Who did it, Sam? Who struck you down?”

  The wan and swaying lantern-light wavered over the dying man in Stuart’s desperate arms. It wavered over shocked craning faces and leaning shoulders and rustling shrubbery.

  Sam stirred again, opened his eyes, looked blankly through dark mists at his friend. “Stuart,” he whispered at last. “Stuart.”

  “Yes. Yes! Stuart. Sam, who did it?”

  Sam’s head fell back. His eyes closed again. But his lips moved. He whispered faintly: “Allstairs. They would not let me haf it—”

  Stuart’s arms slackened. He looked up at those surrounding him, saw them for the first time. And as they looked at him, they involuntarily shrank at the sight of such a frightful expression. One or two, in fear, stepped backwards with their lanterns, as if to hide that face.

  But he said only: “Help me. We must carry him in. And someone go for a doctor, at once.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Reality had taken on the substance, horror, darkness and terror of a nightmare. Sometimes, as he rushed through the quiet midnight streets, Stuart would pause, trembling, staring up at the sky, and repeating aloud: “It is a dream! It is only a dream!” He would look at the heavens, filled with circles of bright silver light, at the rushing plumes of the trees, at the guttering street-lamps and the black houses hidden in their shrubbery, and a hideous long quaking would go over him, a mortal sickness, an insane rage, and he would implore that he might awake and find himself safe in his lonely bed in his own house. The people, in their beds, heard his maledictions, his thin wild exclamations and blasphemies and cried, and would turn over restlessly, muttering, cursing the “drunkard” who had disturbed them so incontinently. And then they would hear his disordered running footsteps, echoing in the warm, wind-filled silence.

  Two soldiers passing him on a lonely corner flickering in lamplight, saw his face, and involuntarily they shrank back. They looked after him, uneasily. They saw his tall swift figure moving rapidly into the darkness, and one of them touched his forehead, and the other shrugged. “He’s after somebody,” said the younger man. “God help him, whoever he is.”

  But Stuart saw nothing but the face of Joshua Allstairs. He felt himself walking through a long blind tunnel, unaware of the streets about him, seeing only Joshua at the end of it, crouching, waiting, unable to move. He reached Joshua’s dark house, the tall dank trees fluttering their leafy shadows over the polished narrow windows, which stared out like empty mirrors. He lifted the knocker and struck it again and again, until all the narrow and deserted street was filled with clattering echoes. And then he banged on the door, over and over, with the head of his cane. He said aloud, quietly: “You must let me in. You cannot hide from me now.” Finally he heard dim exclamations behind the door. It opened a crack, and he saw the frightened face of Joshua’s butler peering out at him. “What do you want?” quavered the old man. “Go away. Are you crazy? Who are you?”

  Stuart without haste set his hand against the door and hurled it inwards. The old man fell back with a thin screech, and retreated. The frail moonlight flooded into the hallway, showing the servant in his frayed dressing-gown. “Police!” he screamed, faintly. “Police! Murder!”

  Stuart seized him by the throat with his left hand, and lifted his cane. For one instant the old man saw his face, and he closed his eyes with an incoherent prayer. His legs failed him. Stuart flung him aside like a rag-doll, and went up the stairway. The steps were edged with flame; the whole stairway crawled and undulated before him like a shadowy serpent. He went up steadily, firmly, his lifted cane in his hand.

  Above, every room was dark. But from behind the door of one there were querulous exclamations, and then under its edge appeared the wavering light of a lamp. “Who is it? What is it?” exclaimed Joshua. “Judson? Judson? Who is it? At this hour?”

  Stuart seized the handle of the door. But the door was locked. He set his shoulder against the stout wood. It resisted him. He did not hurl himself against it. He closed his eyes, and thrust with his shoulder, implacably. His legs bent; his head sank into his shoulders. In that warm darkness he could feel the muscles of his body and of his legs swell, arch, strain. He said softly: “I am coming in, Joshua. I am coming to kill you, Joshua.”

  There was a sudden ringing silence in the room. Then Joshua screamed. Stuart heard the scrabbling of his ancient feet as they rushed towards the window. He heard the window open. He heard Joshua’s shrieks: “Murder! Murder! Police!”

  Stuart pressed against the door. It began to creak and groan. It trembled in its frame. “Come now, come now,” Stuart urged it, in the gentle suppressed voice of madness. “A little more, just a little more.”

  In the room beyond, Joshua was screaming, beating his hands together with a frenzied clapping sound, as he leaned from his window. There were sounds from the street, running footsteps. Stuart did not hear them. He heard only Joshua’s cries, and as he strained, and the door quailed under his superhuman strength, he laughed aloud.

  There was a sudden thunderous report, a long splintering cracking, a crash. The door burst inwards at the hinges. Stuart was precipitated into the room, like a charging bull. Staggering, he recovered himself. Joshua was crouching against the window, trembling, whimpering. His old face was a death’s head of mortal terror, of craven, gibbering fear. His pale eyes were distended, glimmering wildly in the dim lamplight, and his long white night-shirt hung on his withered frame like a shroud. He looked at Stuart, and then he could not even whimper. His stark dry mouth opened soundlessly, webbed with saliva, and the nostrils of his predatory nose sank inwards. He dwindled, his body bent, pressing itself against the window frame.

  Stuart looked at his enemy, the man who had killed his friend. He looked across the room at him, and said, very gently: “Pray, Joshua. I am going to kill you.”

  The shrunken form at the window stirred slightly. The white night-shirt blew in the night wind that came from the windows. Joshua’s claw-like hands gathered his garment about him. His large gray head shook as if with palsy. His mouth moved, and he whispered: “They will hang you, Stuart. They’ll drag you up a scaffold, and put a rope around your neck.”

  Stuart smiled. It was like a flash of lightning on his dark and twisted features. “You will not see it, Joshua. You will be in your grave by then.”

  He lifted his cane, and took one step towards Joshua, who, recovering his voice, screamed madly, over and over. And then Stuart paused. He smiled again. “You killed Sam Berkowitz tonight, Joshua. You hired murderers to strike him down. He had done you no harm. You hated him, for no reason. You are an old man, Joshua, but your greed is not old. You could never have enough, could you, Joshua? And because you could never have enough, you killed my friend. He died in my arms. Look at me, Joshua. Do you see this blood on my hands, on my clothing? It is Sam’s blood. I carried him into his house and laid him down. He did not die too soon, however. They thought they had killed him, your hirelings. But before he died, he told me—”

  Joshua was groaning. He wrung his hands together. He was slipping along the wall like a gray shadow, his eyes blazing with terror. He moaned: “It’s a lie. A dastardly lie. I sent no one to kill him. They lie. Stuart, believe me. I had nothing to do with it. You wouldn’t kill me, Stuart? I’m your wife’s father, Stuart. I’m your little girl’s grandfather. They’ll hang you, Stuart. That will be the end of you. They’ll hang you by the neck until you die. S
tuart!” he screamed, as Stuart advanced silently towards him, crouching a little, head thrust forward. But it was the look on Stuart’s face, rather than his advance, that inspired Joshua to emit shriek after shriek of gibbering, inhuman terror.

  He clasped his hands together. He continued to sidle along the walls, aimlessly pushing small articles of furniture between himself and Stuart, little tables, a chair, a small commode. His hands fluttered over each article. He shrank behind it. If he could just reach his great poster bed he might slide under it, draw himself together, writhe out of Stuart’s murderous grasp. In the meantime, he continued to shriek, his voice cracking, breaking. And the lamplight shone dimly on that scene of horror, the fleeing old man, the younger man gliding silently but without haste after him, their long trembling shadows following them on the high white ceiling and along the floor.

  The crazed terror of death was upon Joshua. Between his shrieks, he mouthed lunatic pleas to Stuart, even while he busily thrust small objects between himself and the avenger, and slipped along the walls toward his bed. He sidled into a hanging cabinet of rare old objets d’art. The cabinet swayed, then crashed to the floor, with a thin tinkle of shattering glass and china. The gleaming fragments twinkled in the lamplight. And over them, crunching them beneath inexorable feet, came Stuart, closer and closer.

  Suddenly he saw what Joshua intended. He stopped, flung back his head and laughed. At that awful sound, Joshua was petrified. He shrank against the white wall. He lifted his shrunken arms and spread them. His failing legs bent. He stood in an attitude of crucifixion, his gaunt head sinking forwards, his fearful eyes fixed on Stuart. He was an old and wicked man, and he had been condemned to death.

  He knew, now, there was no hope for him. He sank to his knees. He became a heap of bones covered by a nightshirt. He could not even whimper. He was all silence. But he wound his skeletal arms over his head and waited the blow that would kill him.