Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (48 page)

An appropriate lie at once came into Morgan’s mind, and he replied earnestly: “I think he was pushed down a steep flight of stairs, in Mell.”

“Pushed?
Who pushed him? You mean Mell, the tourist place?”

“I found his body there.”

“What was he doing there?”

“He had gone to fetch out someone he knew.”

“Who?”

“A Laurence Streeter, an American who worked there, an engineer.”

“I know his name, too. And this Divver was killed in the shuffle? Pardon my brusqueness.”

“Yes, that’s about it,” said Morgan. Now, let’s all drop the matter and go home to bed, he thought.

“We won’t get any place this way,” said the tyrant. “I must know precisely what happened. I must render a satisfactory report. Now—your friend was surrounded and attacked? You saw that?”

“No, I didn’t. I was waiting outside the hotel. He went in to find Mr. Streeter, and when a long time passed, I went in to find him. He was lying dead at the bottom of the back stairs. Mr. Streeter drove off in the ministry car.”

“What ministry car?”

“The one we had come in.”

“Were you dispatched to Mell by the Polish Government?”

“No, Mr. Divver just took the car.”

The official looked disgusted. “How did you get back here?”

“Oh, I took the bishop’s car.”

“With the bishop’s consent?”

“No. But he’s never there.”

“I see. Now, let me sum up … The deceased and yourself stole a government conveyance in Tutin and used it for transport purposes to the town of Mell. When did this take place?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And thereafter?”

“We searched the town—until this morning.”

“And this morning you made an entry into the hotel, still in search of Mr. Streeter?”

“That’s right.”

“While Mr. Divver prolonged the search, you saw Mr. Streeter appear. From where?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him until he was almost up to the car.”

“Was he aware of your presence; that he was being searched for?”

“I don’t know. When I called, he didn’t stop.”

“
You,
then, went in search of Mr.
Divver
and found him dead at the foot of the back stairs?”

“That’s right.”

“You are sure of that?”

“My God, yes. His neck was … I think …”

“Then who did this
murder
you mentioned? What makes you think there was a murder? Was there a mob of people in the hotel?”

“No, it was completely empty.”

“There were no Nazis there either … Pardon me, it wasn’t suicide, was it?”

“I don’t see why.”

“Had Mr. Divver previously shown signs of depression?”

“He was often worried; but just as often he was very happy and excited.”

“Up one moment, down the next?”

“Pretty much.”

“Uh-huh …” said the official. His voice was more amiable,
and Morgan had a feeling that they were advancing nicely, in a conspiracy that was infinitely preferable to the sordid facts.

“But in regard to the actual manner of his death,” said the official: “you saw nothing with your own eyes?”

“Nothing.”

“Were the stairs awkward or slippery, do you know?”

“They had no carpets, like the front stairs: sometimes there were splashes of water on them—you know.”

“I think we are getting somewhere now,” said the official. “And what happened to you? How did you get in this state?”

“I guess I lost my head. I fell down.”

“On recovering, you made a forcible entry into a garage and drove off in the bishop’s vehicle?”

“That’s it.”

“Were you conducting any
business
in Mell?”

“No, I was on vacation.”

The official looked at him and sighed. The secretary looked at him, her pencil in the air, and sighed too.

“Did you by any chance see any
notes
beside the body?”

“No. There was just his jacket outside—that one there.”

The official examined the jacket and found Divver’s billfold. “I hope you don’t object to my doing this,” he said, opening the billfold and taking out paper money, photographs, clippings, and stamps. “It’s my job … I notice a cheque here for Mr. Divver signed Laurence R. Streeter? Do you know what that was?”

“Yes, it was a donation to the Zionists.”

“Oh! Mr. Divver was a
Jew
?”

“He was nothing of the sort,” said Morgan sharply.

“Pardon me for asking personal questions,” said the official, continuing through the billfold. “I meant that if he
had
been, Mell would have been the worst place …” He took out an old yellow clipping and read it with interest. “Oh. Mr. Divver was the reporter who made all that stir, years ago in Italy?”

“Yes.”

“Of course: that’s how I know the name. I was then at Civita Vecchia, my first appointment.” A faintly sentimental look came into his ruddy face, but he went on ferreting in the billfold, and held up a photograph. “Wife and child?”

“Yes.”

“Very sad. Shocking for them. Well, they won’t be the last to suffer in this mess, I’m sorry to say … Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall report our conversation and see what to do about
you.
At least,” and he held up Mrs. Morgan’s sheaf of cables, “we can notify your mother that all’s well. Do you have a steamship ticket? Fine. Passport in order? Let me see … Fine. Now, just a minute …”

He went out with his secretary. Morgan laid his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. Divver’s ghost appeared, and he said to it: “I know your neck isn’t broken. But did you expect me to tell the truth? And do you want me to tell it when I get home?”

After a while the official came back and woke him up.

“The vice-consul says you should go straight aboard the
Pride
of
Baltimore,
sailing for New York in two hours. You’ll find a doctor aboard, of course. Good luck; and I am most sorry about this tragic accident. Of course, you know that you and your friend should never have been around in the first place. But you are a citizen of a free country; it’s not for me to dictate to you. Now, just cross the street to the dock and there’ll be a tender along in a few minutes to take you out to the
Pride
of
Baltimore.
Can you see?”

Morgan followed the official finger into the harbour. A crowd of little coastal and fishing boats hugged the sides, but out in the open water he saw the big green and white ship; and hanging down from her deck, a swinging trestle from which seamen were painting on her side, in tall wide capitals, the letters U.S.A.

P
URPLE loosestrife and goldenrod waving downland in a mixed swell; a green pasture running upward to an empty horizon capped with a red barn; poison-ivy mellowing into rust; around a dusty general store, brown grass, papery cornstalks, desultory pumpkins, orange marigolds and zinnias—drawing away from the smutty windows of the smoking-car, but fitting into memory as snugly as the ticket in its metal cleft. Sometimes the train halted at a hot, cramped little station whose existence Morgan had quite forgotten, and which re-entered his heart in a rush of emotion; otherwise, each expected scene advanced properly to meet him, bringing with it something of his old self and making him feel that the hundreds of bits into which he had exploded were spontaneously collecting, in an astonishing re-establishment, into the firm, comfortable shape of an old design. To hear New York Central cinders crackle underfoot again, to trek the length of the train and read at last that SMOKING IS PERMITTED IN THIS CAR, to inhale the overpowering fumes of domestic transport, to watch the grey-haired conductor cry each station and ring down the metal step-top—here was the delusive happiness that makes a homing traveller believe he has attained to a condition of angelic humbleness and will effortlessly speak simple truth for ever after. Into this blissful vision
entered suddenly the sharp white spire of Magister’s Episcopal church; out of a bank of trees, and soon whirling away under the wheels of the train, swept the curving post-road which would carry him home. The conductor cried the news, the train stopped, and he descended onto home ground.

There, at once, was the black face of his mother’s chauffeur, George, advancing to meet him with a grin of love. “It sure is good to see you back, Jim,” said the black archangel; and they clasped hands devotedly. “My, you do look well!” said George, studying him with respect—and Morgan needed no more than this trifle to start thinking that perhaps after all the summer had been well spent.

“Where your bags, Jimmy?” George asked.

Morgan was about to reply casually: “Oh, they are coming later,” when he checked himself stoutly and said: “I got in a panic, George, and left them behind in Europe.” “I’ll bet that
was
some panic,” George replied, looking at him with more respect: “now you come along home: your mother never thought you’d make this train or she’d have been here.” “Er … is she … is she
mad
, George?” “
Mad?
What would she be mad about—you coming home? What you talking about, Jimmy?”; and the chauffeur, smiling at such craziness, led Morgan to a shining station-waggon which bore the name of Elmwood on its door—“a
new
one?” cried Morgan; and George, chuckling with pleasure, rubbed his hands and crooned: “
I
knew you would be surprised … only had it this last month … traded in the old jaloppy … you’ll
like
this one, believe me.” They drove toward the town, and George whispered: “Some day when your ma’s looking the other way, we’ll go off, you and I, and you can try for yourself how she feels to drive”: and he gave a wink which showed his readiness to resume all their old conspiracies; so warm a wink that Morgan didn’t have the heart to announce his reformed character. “I’ve missed you, Jimmy,” George said, “and so
has Rosa and all of us: this place don’t have much life in it without you around. But believe me, I was sorry to hear about poor Mr. Divver.” He shook his head sadly. “Seems there’s no limit to what those Nazis won’t do if you give them a chance. Why, I remember him as well as I do you, always smiling, a friend to everybody. One time, I rode him up to the house on this very road and with his wife and his little boy—a smart little son-of-a-gun, and her a real lady, wearing the prettiest hat I ever saw.” “Yes, it was a terrible thing, George.” “Terrible is right, Jim; I could hardly believe my ears. I guess those Germans have got to where they just can’t tell a good man from a bad one … If you’ll pardon me, there’s a few things your mother wants picked up at Fleischer’s …”

Morgan sat alone in the car. A certain qualmishness rolled up in his stomach; and the secret which he had hoped to be able to forget rolled into mind again as if it had been merely lying in wait for this moment. But he had scarcely had time to consider the significance of George’s obituary when out came Mr. Fleischer himself, rolling down the path in his usual old apron, shouting: “Well, well, well! I be damned! Look who’s here! Jimmy Morgan! Welcome, stranger! We thought you’d never come back … Martha. Look who’s here”—and out came Mrs. Fleischer and beamed at the traveller, saying promptly: “Why, Jimmy, you look like a grown-up man!” At this, George, hugging a carton of groceries and forgetful of Divver, burst out laughing; and Mr. Fleischer, after hee-hawing a moment, turned into a serious man, and said: “From what I hear on the radio, you did well to get out, Jimmy. Welcome home, and come to see us just as soon as you’re settled.”

“Thanks, Mr. Fleischer,” he replied; and as the car moved on he waved back warmly to that lovable embodiment of square-dealing, happy that Mr. Fleischer’s simplicity had not been scorched by Divver’s dead ashes. And now he recognized
another old friend, and shouted “Hi, Macky! Me,
Jimmy
!”; but Macky only looked up at the flying station-waggon with such a puzzled expression that Morgan burst out laughing. George put the car into a slow wide swerve, and now Morgan was the one to look astonished: “Isn’t that old Miss Hunter?” he cried; “mean to say they let her walk about alone these days?” “Seems like they do, Jimmy; don’t ask me why. I only do hope it’s some other car hits her.”

The station-waggon turned into the driveway; the gravel rattled like buckshot under the fenders; he felt a sinking fear as the lawn unrolled beside him.

He saw his mother appear in the antique doorway and stand beside the electrified medieval lamp-holder, shading her eyes with one hand. George slapped his palm up and down, and the horn blew happy squeals. Mrs. Morgan threw up her hands and started down the steps: he saw with relief that her worried face was full of eager emotion. He stepped on to the threshold and felt her arms hugging him, hot tears running onto his face. “My dear boy; my dear, precious Jimmy: oh, if you knew how happy … oh,
what
a time you have had! Come in, come straight in: how clever of you to get here just in time for lunch, you smart boy; Agnes has cooked your favourite pie.” “Sure, I knew he wouldn’t miss his lunch,” cried the cook; and he gave Agnes a big hug and kiss. “And this … Annie, this is my son Jimmy who gave you so much trouble sending cables: Jimmy, this is Annie Wilberforce, who came to my aid when little Peggy abandoned me—I don’t know
what
I would have done without Annie.” Shaking her hand, he gave Annie the quick once-over of a connoisseur, and thought briefly:
Not
my type. His mother suddenly seized and kissed him again: he was touched to the heart and responded with a hug that was all the stronger because of its weakness in the past. “Father! Jimmy’s here!” she cried, and the old man came down the passage, working his jaws passionately. Morgan
crushed him in an even more loving hug, nostalgic tears filling his eyes as he inhaled Ulysses Grant’s No 1 Prime Burley Blend. “Now, let’s all sit down,” ordered Mrs. Morgan, taking her son’s arm and leading the way into the dining-room: “dear boy,” she whispered, “you mustn’t mind my being
so
happy to see you, even though …”—and he knew of course that she was trying to tell him that, whatever her principles might be, she could not but be thankful that the Forces had chosen Divver rather than her son: “
later
, we’ll talk it
all
over,” she concluded: and with Divver honourably postponed, she broke into smiles again, while her son nodded understandingly and sighed. “George has got your suitcases, I suppose?” she said. “I’m afraid not, mother. I’m afraid we’ll never see
them
again.” “Well, we won’t let
that
spoil your homecoming,” she said, squeezing his arm; and then her face became wondering; she stepped back a few feet saying: “Let me see how you
look,
dear boy … why, you look terribly mature!”

Her bright, commanding eyes seemed to dart instantly into his most masculine secret, and he blushed feverishly; at which —she, in fact, seeing Divver’s dead body where he assumed she was seeing Harriet’s lively nude—she looked self-reproachful and again approached him confidentially, murmuring: “Jimmy, dear, no one feels it more than I do; but to have you safe is too much for me; try to excuse my happiness. I’ll just say, for your comfort,” and a hard glint came to her eyes, “that the State Department will not get away with this.”

He turned cold, and shuddered, looking quickly out over the lawn toward the woods to which he had so often fled for shelter. “I have a lot to tell you, mother.” “Of course you have, but we must build you up a little
first
… Father, please go and wash your hands … Was it a calm crossing? Annie tells me the
Pride
ships are all very seaworthy. She went on one of them once.” “Only a short cruise to the Virgin Islands,” said Annie. “The boat seemed very stable,” said Morgan,
looking around vaguely. “Do you
notice
anything?” asked his mother. “Notice what?” “
There
, Annie: I told you he wouldn’t! My dear boy, the whole room has been repainted another colour since you left. So
like
a man!”

They took their seats; but even as he felt the chair of the past under his buttocks he knew that the joy of homecoming had been discomposed almost before he had had time to feel it. “Try not to brood
too
much,” his mother murmured softly, shuffling two chops on to his plate; “and onions and lima beans?”

They smiled at his large, masculine appetite with a happy femininity that made him turn his eyes toward his grandfather, who, he guessed, had been warned that the welcome home contained tragedy as well as joy, and that exuberance must be restrained. But, as the meal proceeded, the old man’s memory of the tragedy’s exact nature seemed to diminish, and he was further misled by the jaunty remarks which Mrs. Morgan and Miss Wilberforce tossed over the table to distract his grandson from broodiness. So, soon he became impatient, and cried recklessly: “And how were the Polish girls, boy? When are you going to start telling us all about your trip?
Did
you
have
a
good
time,
that’s what
I
want to know!” “
Please
, father!” said Mrs. Morgan indignantly: “
such
a question at
such
a
time! You should be
ashamed
!”
“Please leave him alone, mother,” said her son sharply, and replied politely: “Thank you, Gramf; I had a swell time. I was happy every minute.”

The old man was very pleased. So were Mrs. Morgan and Miss Wilberforce: the former was struck with admiration of her son’s courageous sweetness; for the same reason, the latter was obliged to lay down her fork. “Telephone, ma’am,” said Rosa; and Mrs. Morgan, dabbing her eyes with her napkin, hurried to the library, returning soon too affected not to explain.

“It was from Washington—that dear, hot-headed Mike Thalberg, swearing that we had only to give the word and he’d throw a picketline of his local around the State Department. At such times you find who are your
real
friends—where there are hearts as well as intellects … Annie, dear; you will note that Mike will send in a little item for the Divver issue?” “How long, Mrs. Morgan?” “I told him four hundred words was the very maximum.” “I hope we can squeeze it in, Mrs. Morgan.” “We
shall
squeeze it in, Annie, if the heavens fall or the printers walk out … Jimmy, dear, it’s the next issue of
Forward
we are talking about: it will be dedicated to Max and have a black border.”

“To
Max
?”

“Yes; a small memorial tribute to his life and work.”

He felt the strength go out of his body: above him loomed a black cloud in which truth and deceit tussled over Divver’s corpse and appealed to him for judgment. “And since we
are
on the subject,” continued his mother, “let me simply assure you that Lily has borne up wonderfully. As soon as I heard the news I went straight to the ’phone and begged her to put all worry about
money
and the
future
out of her mind.”

“Oh, that was kind, mother.”

“But she insisted that they … she … had some little savings in the bank, and that she had decided to go straight out and find a job, just as soon as she could find a maid for the little boy: a maid is
the
problem, of course, these days. I assured her that
Forward
would
always
have a place for her; but she said, very naturally and touchingly, that she would feel more at ease somewhere else—a place with no
memories,
she meant … Oh, dear, dear! … Mr. Waters is sure he knows of a place for her in some cultural-relations office of a friend of his:
he,
of course, is still his old, dear self; a
little
boring sometimes, but
always
kind and good … Well, eat up
your pie now, and we’ll all have coffee on the sun-porch: I’m sure you want to stretch out in a comfortable chair.”

“Mother, I’m in perfect health.”

“Of course you are: I just thought you might be tired.”

Miss Wilberforce reached the sun-porch a few steps ahead of them, and murmuring casually, “Just clear things a little bit,” briskly swept some papers off the table—so briskly that he knew they were the rough elements of the Divver issue. He raised his hand to restrain her, faltered, dropped into a chair. “A little Scotch or Bourbon to go with your pipe?” his mother asked. “Scotch, mother? Pipe?” “Oh, I just thought you might have come home with a pipe; most young men do.” She looked at him proudly and said: “We shall have to take you to New York to buy you winter clothes.”