Neither Five Nor Three

  She looked at the ’phone. She almost reached out to take it. But she drew back.

  Paul Haydn said, “Whoever is calling you wants to reach you. Are you sure you ought to let—let whoever it is keep ringing?” His voice was expressionless, his eyes pitying. She is still in love with Ettley, he thought.

  “Yes,” she said unhappily, “yes. I’m sure.” How can you marry a man you’re afraid of? The telephone stopped ringing. She took a deep breath.

  “Well,” Haydn said, glancing at his watch, “I’ll get going, now. I’m meeting someone at half-past seven.” He looked at her again. “You know, it might do you good to come along, too. You need dinner, I think.” This wasn’t an evening to work alone in an office.

  “No. But thanks, Paul.”

  He hesitated.

  “You see,” she explained frankly, “I am not going to add to the gossip that has been spread about you.”

  “You mean about Blackworth and you and me?”

  She nodded.

  “Hell,” he said angrily, “are you going to avoid me just because of a rumour?”

  “Haven’t you been avoiding me?”

  “Well...” he said slowly, “I had a reason. I don’t have it now.” He glanced at the telephone.

  Rona’s face coloured.

  He sensed her embarrassment and wished his tongue hadn’t been so quick. “All right,” he said. “Sure you won’t come along with us tonight?”

  At the door, he turned to say, “By the way, you saw the evening paper? Nasty business, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t read very much. It gave me an attack of guilt, somehow. We are just so busy with our own lives—that’s our only excuse, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Although there wasn’t much that anyone could do. He didn’t have many friends, did he?”

  She looked at Paul in surprise. “He?”

  “Charles.”

  “Charles?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember Thelma’s son? The funny little guy with the red hair and the seesaw voice? It’s in the evening paper. Didn’t you—? Look, here it is!” He came back into the office, picked up the paper, and found the paragraph.

  “What?” she said in sudden panic, hardly able to believe what she read. “Charles killed himself?”

  “Jumped out of a window. And he injured a harmless old man on the sidewalk. Sort of pathetic that. Everything Charles did, he bungled, right down to the last moment.”

  She put down the paper. “No,” she kept saying. “Oh, no!”

  He had never seen her so upset. She hid her eyes.

  “Did you know him?” Haydn asked. “Sorry, I didn’t realise...”

  “I only met him that one time,” she said quickly. “On Sunday. And I really didn’t believe him. Not altogether. Perhaps I could have helped. Perhaps I could have—” She broke off. She sat very still.

  “No one could have saved him. Look, here’s the newspaper report. It lets Charles down as lightly as possible, but it’s easy to see he was going to be sent to an alcoholics’ home. And he resisted. He jumped out of a window right in front of the two men who had come to take him away.”

  “What men?” she asked sharply, her voice rising. “And where were they going to take him?”

  “Rona,” he said in alarm. “Take it easy, there!”

  She rose quickly. “That envelope I gave you—it was from Charles.” She was already at the door, hurrying through the main office into the corridor toward his room.

  He followed her quickly. He unlocked the safe and handed her the envelope. She was calm now, calm and determined.

  She said, “I got this letter on Monday morning. Read it. It will explain.”

  He read the letter. “Yes,” he said at its end. He was frowning. He repeated aloud Charles’ sentences: “‘But if anything happens—and I think, now, that it is likely to happen—then the problem is solved for me. It will be at that moment, when I shall be morally free but perhaps not physically free to speak, that I shall need your help.’”

  Too late, Rona thought miserably. Poor Charles... I was of no help.

  Paul Haydn said, “He saw this coming—not suicide, but being shut away in some ‘rest home.’ If his mother agreed to that, then he felt free to speak out.”

  “But when they came to take him away, he jumped from the window of his room,” Rona said. Then, watching Paul’s face, she asked, “Or did he jump?”

  Paul said slowly, “They didn’t need to kill him: they had him, all right.”

  “In a sense they did kill him.”

  Haydn nodded. “This letter alters things a good deal. What other witnesses were there? What about the servants? Frankly, I think we’d better hand this letter over to the police.”

  “What about the enclosed envelope? Charles suggested someone like Weidler to open it. Why didn’t he suggest the police?” Rona looked at the envelope in her hand, and then she dropped it on the desk, quickly—as if it were a flame that seared her fingers. She drew back half a pace, looking at the envelope. “Weidler will be home in Westchester,” she said almost to herself.

  “He isn’t even there. He left for Chicago this afternoon. He will be back on Saturday.”

  “But the envelope should be opened at once. Paul, what shall I do?”

  He looked at the envelope, but he didn’t touch it.

  “You take all this seriously?” she asked him.

  “After a death—yes,” he admitted.

  “It must be opened,” she said, still looking at the envelope. Or Charles’ death might mean nothing at all.

  “I know a man,” Paul said slowly. “He would know what ought to be done.” Then he faced her frankly. “There may be nothing of importance in that envelope. But it must get into the right hands, whatever it contains. You agree?”

  “Yes.” Who else could help? she wondered. There was Jon Tyson, there might have been Scott. But the most she could get from them would be advice, just as Paul was advising her. She didn’t need any more advice; she wanted action. “Is your friend in New York?” she asked.

  “Yes. Actually, he’s waiting for me to pick him up now. We planned to have dinner and then go on to St. Nick’s for some wrestling.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Yes. And he knows a lot of people. That may be important for quick action.”

  “All right,” she said.

  Paul Haydn picked up the telephone and began dialling. “You know,” he said as he waited for an answer, “you are trusting me a lot.”

  “Well, you ought to know about this kind of thing. After all you were in Military Intelligence, weren’t you?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Now what gave you that idea.”

  “Why, you were always so silent about your assignment in London, I thought it was hush-hush.”

  “Plenty of hush-hush jobs that weren’t Intelligence,” he said. Then he spoke into the telephone. “Roger? This is Paul. Look, something urgent has turned up. Could you come over here, right away?... Yes... Good... See you.”

  Now it’s all out of my hands, Rona thought. But did I act wisely? What else could I do? Strange that I should have admitted so frankly that I trust Paul Haydn. Eight years ago...

  Paul was saying, “Do you mean to say that you actually believed I was in Military Intelligence? Well, I suppose that’s one flattering rumour to have spread around. Except, it makes me feel I’m getting more credit than I deserve.” He was embarrassed.

  “Oh, I didn’t talk about it,” she said quickly. “Only once, in fact—and that was after you were out of the army, too.”

  He seemed to have thought of something. “Quite recently?”

  She looked at him in amazement, half-smiling. “On Sunday. I was arguing with Scott about something, and I brought up Military Intelligence to prove a point. You know, Paul, you are a bit of a detective.”

  And on Monday, Orpen’s stooge Murray dropped me, he was thinking. Any tie-up? He said with a grin, “Am I?”

  I
t was her turn to look embarrassed. Had he guessed that she had been defending him on Sunday? (Scott had called Haydn an idiot. “Not so much of an idiot or he wouldn’t have been in Military Intelligence.” That’s how it had been.) “How long will it take your friend to reach here?” she asked.

  “About ten or fifteen minutes. Here’s the most comfortable chair. Cigarette?” His voice was suddenly impersonal, matter-of-fact. He began talking about St. Nick’s Arena, a nice safe unembarrassing topic unless you were really interested in wrestling.

  “Do you go there often?” she asked, grateful that she could stop thinking about either Charles or Scott.

  “I’m hoping to write an article on the fine old American myth of the good one and the bad one.”

  “How’s that?” She was beginning to smile.

  “Well, in wrestling as it is done over at St. Nick’s, the hero begins by losing. That’s the way you know he’s the good one. Also, he’s got a fine innocent face. He fights clean—no fouls. And he falls for all the bad one’s tricks, unless the public yells its warnings. He’s taken in, sometimes, even when they do warn him. He can’t believe, a fine upstanding guy, that there could be any malice aforethought in a friendly handshake. So he takes a lot of punishment. But he doesn’t give up. Meanwhile, the bad one is being booed all around the ring. The public yells its hate at him. The more he wins, the more he’s hated. And then, just in the last couple of minutes, the good one suddenly loses his temper and starts winning. The crowd cheers itself hoarse, and everyone goes home feeling fine: that’s the way life should be—the good one winning, the bad one losing, and the public being wise to it all, right along.”

  “A comforting myth,” Rona said.

  “Harmless, too, unless you confuse it with reality.”

  She had been studying his face. He’s changed so much, she was thinking. “Paul,” she said suddenly, “what kind of work did you do in the army? Or can’t you talk about it?”

  “Sure. But no one has wanted to listen.” He laughed. “That’s what they call the veteran’s readjustment problem.” Then he began to talk about Brittany and the resistance movement there. “When D-Day came,” he ended, “and the Bretons found that Normandy had been chosen, they couldn’t believe it. They were all prepared for a landing in Brittany, you see. Every bridge, right down to the smallest foot bridge, had been mapped, and a unit was waiting to attack it and hand it over to the Allies. Every crossroad, every junction was marked. The demolition squads were alerted, the men were well trained, they had collected stocks of weapons. And then the news came through—not Brittany but Normandy. Normandy, where the comfortable farmers had no complete scheme ready to put into operation. The Bretons—well, I saw men break down and weep. That’s the kind of people they—”

  He heard footsteps in the corridor. He rose and went to the door. “This way,” he called.

  Rona turned to see a small, thin, white-haired man enter the room. He looked at her with alert brown eyes. He didn’t seem surprised by anything. As Paul introduced him, he gave a reassuring smile and a firm handshake. Some of her nervousness and hesitation subsided.

  Paul was saying, “Why not tell us how you first met Charles? And what he said to you? We’ll begin from there.” He smiled reassuringly.

  Rona nodded. She began the brief story.

  * * *

  Roger Brownlee listened, as quietly as he had entered the room. Then he read Charles’ letter to Rona. And then this evening’s newspaper report which Paul laid before him. Finally, he looked at the envelope lying on the desk.

  “I’d like you to open it,” Rona said. And somehow she hadn’t any more doubts. She rose, smiling to Paul. “I think I’ll go back to my office and clear up my desk,” she said to him. “This matter is all out of my hands, now, isn’t it? And to tell you the truth, I’m glad.” She glanced over at Brownlee’s serious face. He had slit open the envelope and he was glancing through its contents quickly. He was frowning, his lips pursed.

  He looked up suddenly. “This matter is out of all our hands, I think. It’s clearly something for the Federal Government to consider.”

  “As serious as that?” Rona stared at Paul.

  Brownlee held up three sheets of paper, closely written. “This is a detailed report. It’s extremely serious, Miss Metford.”

  And no questions to be asked about it, Rona realised from his face. And although she was still curious, she was relieved too: this left her completely in the clear. She could forget about the sealed envelope.

  “Will you tell what you know about this man Charles?” Roger Brownlee asked.

  “Would that be important?”

  “Yes. It would explain his letter, just as his letter is made clear by the report he enclosed. You will be a witness on his behalf, you see. His handwriting will be another witness, and so will the postmark on the envelope addressed to you. This man couldn’t have been drunk on Sunday as everyone supposed. He wasn’t in any state of alcoholism that would justify his being sent to any institution. Actually, he begins his report by saying that he found drunkenness was a very useful act to put on—it let him be taken for a harmless idiot. All the evidence we have here supports that.”

  “Poor Charles,” Rona said slowly, pityingly.

  “He may have the last word, after all,” Paul reminded her.

  “Is this ’phone switched on to a direct outside line at night?” Brownlee wanted to know. When Paul nodded, he began dialling. “We’ll have to cancel this evening’s plans. And I think Miss Metford had better go along with us.”

  He didn’t say where, but Rona made her guess. If her statement could be of real help, she’d give it. It was, she thought, like seeing a street accident. If it was only a matter of insurance or a smashed fender, most passers-by melted away to avoid any trouble. Who wanted to get into a police-court case? But if someone was hurt, people would stop to help pull him free of the car. They didn’t think of avoiding the nuisance of being a witness in court, then. “I’ll wait for you in my office,” she said.

  She walked slowly down the corridor, her head bent, her face troubled. She was still thinking of Charles.

  She met Mrs. Hershey bustling toward the washroom. “It’s always the nights I’ve promised to baby-sit that I find I’ve got to stay late,” Mrs. Hershey said breathlessly, smiling quickly, rushing on, her grey curls bobbing with excitement.

  “How’s your grandson?” Rona remembered to ask.

  “Fine, just fine,” Mrs. Hershey called back. “Three years old next month.” My, she doesn’t look like a girl that’s getting married in June, Mrs. Hershey thought “Oh, congratulations! I nearly forgot!” She smiled and hurried into the washroom.

  Congratulations... One solitary typewriter, pecking away half-heartedly in a remote room, echoed the word mockingly. Congratulations...

  * * *

  Roger Brownlee finished telephoning, and swung round in the chair to face Paul. “All sewed up,” he said, with considerable satisfaction. “I got the man I wanted. Nothing like going as near the top as possible. He was getting ready for a dinner-party. But we needn’t keep him long. All we have to do is to tell what we know about Charles and turn over his letter and statement.”

  “Where do we see your man?”

  “At his house, to save time. Eight o’clock. He will have rounded up a stenographer and a couple of his agents, by then.”

  “Charles’ report had better be good,” Haydn said, thinking of the men whose evening plans were now being altered. It was hard to believe that Charles could furnish anything important. He couldn’t even stand on a piano stool without falling into the piano. He couldn’t even jump out of a window without crippling an old man. He bungled everything he did.

  “Have a look for yourself,” Brownlee suggested, pointing to the sheets of paper on the desk. “You’ll be interested. Friend Orpen’s name leads all the rest.” And then as Haydn still hesitated, he added, “You’ll have to look at this material, Paul. You’ve got to be able
to confirm it when we hand it over this evening.”

  Paul nodded. He sat down at the desk and began reading.

  Charles had arranged his statement in numbered paragraphs, neatly and tightly written. There were signs of speed in the way he had used short phrases, punctuated with dashes, instead of sentences. But his words were vivid and exact, and when he talked about himself—as if to explain his motives and establish his honesty—much could be read between the lines. The information enclosed was certainly startling, probably valuable. But Haydn found, as he finished reading the three closely written pages, that it wasn’t only the facts that interested him. Strangely enough, it was Charles himself who held his attention.

  Paul handed the statement over to Brownlee. Then he leaned back in his chair, seemingly looking out of the window. But the yellow light of the setting sun on the brick and concrete walls formed only a vague image in his mind, a background to the vivid picture of Charles’ terror, his indecision and weakness and amazing courage.

  It was obvious from what Charles had written that he was still trying to protect Thelma as far as he could. She always had been a woman who took up one fad after another. Since the death of his father fifteen years ago, Charles had become accustomed to being exposed to Thelma’s whims. He had become accustomed to seeing their apartment filled with peculiar acquaintances, to having no real friends of his own.

  Six years ago, Thelma suddenly discovered politics and social significance. Charles, then nineteen years old, waited for that fad to pass, too. Instead, Thelma’s interest deepened. The people who came now to her apartment were most admiring and respectful. She felt, for the first time in her life, that she was not only accepted but even sought after. Charles tried to convince her that the new friends—all Communists and fellow-travellers—were only finding her useful for her money and for her large apartment in a respectable building. Thelma didn’t listen. Instead, she became a Party member and an intimate friend of Nicholas Orpen. It was then that Charles began to drink heavily, to leave New York on unexpected trips, to spend weeks and months with strangers in parts of the country where he was unknown.