第27天 ! 草草结案

Chapter9

Aftertwo years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day,only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in andout of Gatsby's front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and apoliceman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that theycould enter through my yard and there were always a few of them clusteredopen-mouthed about the pool.

Someonewith a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression "madman" as he bent over Wilson's body that afternoon, and the adventitiousauthority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.

Mostof those reports were a nightmare--grotesque, circumstantial, eager and untrue.When Michaelis's testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson's suspicionsof his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racypasquinade--but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn't say a word. Sheshowed a surprising amount of character about it too--looked at the coronerwith determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers and swore that hersister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with herhusband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convincedherself of it and cried into her handkerchief as if the very suggestion wasmore than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man "deranged bygrief" in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And itrested there.

Butall this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby'sside, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to WestEgg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, wasreferred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in hishouse and didn't move or breathe or speak hour upon hour it grew upon me that Iwas responsible, because no one else was interested--interested, I mean, withthat intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at theend.

Icalled up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively andwithout hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, andtaken baggage with them.

"Leftno address?"

"No."

"Saywhen they'd be back?"

"No."

"Anyidea where they are? How I could reach them?"

"Idon't know. Can't say."

Iwanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay andreassure him: "I'll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don't worry.

Justtrust me and I'll get somebody for you----"

MeyerWolfshiem's name wasn't in the phone book. The butler gave me his officeaddress on Broadway and I called Information, but by the time I had the numberit was long after five and no one answered the phone.

"Willyou ring again?"

"I'verung them three times."

"It'svery important."

"Sorry.I'm afraid no one's there."

Iwent back to the drawing room and thought for an instant that they were chancevisitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But as they drewback the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued inmy brain.

"Lookhere, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me. You've got to try hard. Ican't go through this alone."

Someone started to ask me questions but I broke away and going upstairs lookedhastily through the unlocked parts of his desk--he'd never told me definitelythat his parents were dead. But there was nothing--only the picture of DanCody, a token of forgotten violence staring down from the wall.

Nextmorning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem which askedfor information and urged him to come out on the next train. That requestseemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw thenewspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon--butneither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived, no one arrived except more police andphotographers and newspaper men.

Whenthe butler brought back Wolfshiem's answer I began to have a feeling ofdefiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.

_DearMr. Carraway.

Thishas been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believeit that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us allthink. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important businessand cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do alittle later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when Ihear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.

Yourstruly

MEYERWOLFSHIEM_

andthen hasty addenda beneath:

_Letme know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all._

Whenthe phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling Ithought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man'svoice, very thin and far away.

"Thisis Slagle speaking...."

"Yes?"The name was unfamiliar.

"Hellof a note, isn't it? Get my wire?"

"Therehaven't been any wires."

"YoungParke's in trouble," he said rapidly. "They picked him up when hehanded the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving 'emthe numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey? Younever can tell in these hick towns----"

"Hello!"I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here--this isn't Mr. Gatsby.

Mr.Gatsby's dead."

Therewas a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation...then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.

Ithink it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived froma town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately andto postpone the funeral until he came.

Itwas Gatsby's father, a solemn old man very helpless and dismayed, bundled up ina long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuouslywith excitement and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began topull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in gettingoff his coat. He was on the point of collapse so I took him into the music roomand made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn't eatand the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.

"Isaw it in the Chicago newspaper," he said. "It was all in the Chicagonewspaper. I started right away."

"Ididn't know how to reach you."

Hiseyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.

"Itwas a mad man," he said. "He must have been mad."

"Wouldn'tyou like some coffee?" I urged him.

"Idon't want anything. I'm all right now, Mr.----"

"Carraway."

"Well,I'm all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?"

Itook him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there.

Somelittle boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when Itold them who had arrived they went reluctantly away.

Aftera little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his faceflushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He hadreached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, andwhen he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height andsplendor of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other roomshis grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroomupstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangementshad been deferred until he came.

"Ididn't know what you'd want, Mr. Gatsby----"

"Gatzis my name."

"--Mr.Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body west."

Heshook his head.

"Jimmyalways liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Wereyou a friend of my boy's, Mr.--?"

"Wewere close friends."

"Hehad a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man but he had a lotof brain power here."

Hetouched his head impressively and I nodded.

"Ifhe'd of lived he'd of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill.

He'dof helped build up the country."

"That'strue," I said, uncomfortably.

Hefumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and laydown stiffly--was instantly asleep.

Thatnight an obviously frightened person called up and demanded to know who I wasbefore he would give his name.

"Thisis Mr. Carraway," I said.

"Oh--"He sounded relieved. "This is Klipspringer."

I wasrelieved too for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby's grave. Ididn't want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd so I'd beencalling up a few people myself.

Theywere hard to find.

"Thefuneral's tomorrow," I said. "Three o'clock, here at the house.

Iwish you'd tell anybody who'd be interested."

"Oh,I will," he broke out hastily. "Of course I'm not likely to seeanybody, but if I do."

Histone made me suspicious.

"Ofcourse you'll be there yourself."

"Well,I'll certainly try. What I called up about is----"

"Waita minute," I interrupted. "How about saying you'll come?"

"Well,the fact is--the truth of the matter is that I'm staying with some people uphere in Greenwich and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In factthere's a sort of picnic or something.

Ofcourse I'll do my very best to get away."

Iejaculated an unrestrained "Huh!" and he must have heard me for hewent on nervously:

"WhatI called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it'd be toomuch trouble to have the butler send them on. You see they're tennis shoes andI'm sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.----"

Ididn't hear the rest of the name because I hung up the receiver.

Afterthat I felt a certain shame for Gatsby--one gentleman to whom I telephoned impliedthat he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one ofthose who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby'sliquor and I should have known better than to call him.