CHAPTER XXV
Roberts woke up with a sticky feeling in his mouth. He felt his wrist. It was still throbbing. With difficulty he repressed a sudden panic brought about by his full consciousness of this last and most horrible link forged in the confused entries of his life. He got up, put his feet in a pair of slippers and went to the mirror. He stuck out his tongue and looked at it carefully. Walking away, he stopped suddenly and glanced over his shoulder at himself. Then he rang for his breakfast and went into the bathroom.
Although he was accustomed to this pale Orient, an atmosphere of mauve with the suggestion of a darker tone enhanced by lights, direct and indirect, it seemed to stimulate him now as though it were a new experience. He took a crystal flagon from its glass shelf and shook the bottle slightly, watching the opalescent liquid as hungrily as though he were going to drink it. Removing the stopper, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, shivering; and as an afterthought, carefully shook two drops upon his fingers and rubbed them into his temples. The astonishing scent filled the bathroom and Robertsleaned against the wall as the odor of stable frost arose about him. Slowly, he removed his pajamas, white as his skin, and let them fall around his feet. The warm water from the shower sprayed off his head. He stuck out his tongue again and swallowed a little of the water. It tasted salty and he spat out what was left. After a careless shave he put on a dressing gown of deep red corded silk, and staring vacantly, sat down in front of the coffee table in his living room.
The boy knocked and entered with his breakfast.
“My paper?” Roberts looked up inquiringly.
“Yes, sir. It’s on your tray, sir,” answered the boy.
“That’s right, my lad. Always a paper with one’s eggs.” The adviser laughed sententiously.
The boy put down the tray.
“Will that be all, sir?”
Roberts looked up again, severely.
“Is that all? Most certainly. Do I ever digress from this routine?”
“No, sir,” said the boy and left.
Roberts mused, his lips spasmodically making little ticking sounds.
“Is that all? What else could he want? The scamp—he acted as if he knew something. A pretty lothecould know—or anybody, for that matter.” The adviser looked around the room, smiling shrewdly. There was a single scarlet geranium on his tray. He picked it up with acaress and held it briefly under his nose before he tore off the petals. Then he looked at his eggs.
“Cold, as usual,” he said bitterly. “And what’s this?—a spot?” He put his spoon into the eggs. “The nucleus, no doubt. Good heavens!—does fertilization confront me even in my breakfast?” He tried to control his anger and nibbled at a piece of bacon and toast. The hot, black coffee he drank greedily.
A short article at the bottom of the front page of his paper attracted his attention. He read through it swiftly. A murder in Greenwich Village. He smiled again, this time his right eye winking slightly.
“Definitely a bad neighborhood, Mrs. Twitchett,” he said amiably. “People who go down there must expect such things, my dear.” Then, with a start, he brought himself up. “You ass!” He spoke harshly to himself. “You giggling, impossible hermaphrodite! Hush!” But unable to repress his amusement he laughed aloud, pressing his finger to his lips secretively. After awhile he picked up the paper again. “What was the name?... Carol?... Yes, Carol Stevens. A young chap,so the papers say. But he’ll be a long time down there. It will bring maturity.... Unfortunately, he might be connected with Martin Devaud? That would be scandalous.” Before the smile reappeared on Roberts’ face he looked at the article once more. Certainly, it would not involve himself. Being merely decent to a homespunlad like that. There couldn’t be any connection there.... He spoke aloud again. “There isn’t any connection, you bloated bunch of rags! You confounded, grayish bunch of rags! This is the time of year to remain in one’s own department.”
He went to the desk and took a sheet of paper. Meticulously he wrote:
To the Police:Using a small caliber automatic and under the pretense of friendship I approached and shot Carol Stevens. The motive was jealousy.Signed:William Roberts.
To the Police:
Using a small caliber automatic and under the pretense of friendship I approached and shot Carol Stevens. The motive was jealousy.
Signed:
William Roberts.
He permitted a slight smile. Then, taking a box of matches out of his pocket he struck one and lit a corner of the paper. After the note had burned he dropped the ashes into the wastebasket.
He took another piece of paper and wrote the same message, stood up and looked at it from a distance, taking his eyes away from it at intervals, for a second at a time. Then he picked up the paper, and waving it around, walked to the other end of the room. After a few moments he walked back, humming, and slowly burned it, too.
Again he wrote the message. This time he left the room. A moment later his face appeared in the doorway. It was tense as he walked rapidly to the desk. But when he saw the message, undisturbed, he smiled again. Hepicked it up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. Leaping after it and retrieving it with a desperate, sweeping motion, he unrolled it with quivering fingers. Hastily he read the words and again the satisfied smile lessened the tension on his face. Then he rolled the paper once more and walked to the inside wall. He stood with his back to the room for a long time, at last throwing the wadded note as far over his shoulder as he could, one hand covering his eyes. Turning around, he looked on the floor. The paper was not there. He began to walk back and forth swiftly, looking on the divan, on the chairs. The message was not to be seen. Finally he stopped in the center of the room, a curiously stupid expression on his face. He felt slightly dizzy and the room seemed to be turning. He walked hesitatingly to a chair, his titubation increasing. Leaning over the chair, he looked at the room from this angle. The paper had apparently vanished. He felt his pulse and was alarmed by its rapid beat. In an attitude of half-fear, half-anger, he went hurriedly over the room again, lifting the pillows from the divan and from the chairs. Then he went to a mirror and looked at himself. The pupils of his eyes were large and startling, set in a pale, grayish face lined with anxiety. Panic-stricken, he ran to his clothescloset and took down another dressing robe. This he hung over the mirror in the living room. Animal-like, he fell to his knees, and crawling around the floor, peered under the fringe of the rug. His shoulder bumped against a chairand he tipped it over angrily. His movements became more and more frenzied. At last each article had been closely inspected, and still there was no message. He ran to the door and locked it securely. Suddenly, he looked at the window. It was open. He drew his hand across his forehead which was covered with perspiration. His knees trembled. He sat down abruptly, the upset furniture swaying around him.
Within this desperate sense of fear he quickly regained his balance. He went to the buffet and drank a small brandy. Unsteadily, but seriously, he dressed. He started to leave the room, hesitated, and as an afterthought went to the window. He leaned out and looked down at the alley-like space between the buildings. Unable to distinguish anything, he closed the window, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator.
Downstairs, he crossed the court, climbed over a low fence and walked down the space under his window. One crumpled white paper drew his attention, but it was an empty cigarette package. Toward the sidewalk he saw another wadded paper. People were passing close by and he picked it up self-consciously, not daring to hope that it was the one he wanted. Walking back to the court he opened it feverishly. His eye caught the first line. It said, “To the Police:—” He read no further, but jammed the note hastily, though carefully, into his pocket and folded his hand around it.
In his apartment, came the reaction. He lay on hisback on the upset divan, his hand still gripped around the paper, and wept softly and bitterly. When he had stopped shaking he went to the desk, smoothed out the paper and read it, a definite horror on his face. Then anger relieved his fear and he struck the note repeatedly with his fist. Throwing it into the metal wastebasket, he tossed burning matches after it until the confessional was alight with flames. Methodically he straightened the room and took the robe from the mirror. Looking into the glass, he held out his hand and with amazing swiftness struck the side of his face.
Later, in the bathroom, he saw with satisfaction the purple outline of his fingers on his cheek.