She wants, by some magic womanly touch, to dispel his ache. Yet it is not her ignorance or even her own innocence, she feels sure, that impedes her. This trouble of his is something uncommon, as Judd is uncommon. This intensity of pain is not merely what other men feel.
She draws his head down to her bosom. “Tell me, tell me,” she whispers, desperate over her own inadequacy – a girl trying to play the rôle of a woman. He is silent, caught in some bleak indescribable horror.
Her dress has small buttons all down the front, and in a chaotic wish to help him, Ruth undoes the buttons and draws down the edge of her chemise. His cheek rests against her bare breast. As it touches her, Ruth feels a warm pulse through her entire body, and in her sex, and she wonders whether now, now she will become a woman. His lips touch, and she wishes that her body could draw from him all the hurt, all the grief of living. She places her hand on his head. She feels a slight shudder going through his body. Is he weeping?
Judd sees the boy. For the first time, he sees the face of the dead boy – a kid’s face gazing up at him from the night-time water. And staring at him with a child’s unblinking candour, the face becomes his own.
Ruth is white-faced. She sits utterly still. And she hears Judd say, “I wish I had never been born.”
The words stagger Ruth; there is a strangeness in the intonation. It is not the way people usually say this.
She can only press his head tightly, feeling in herself a great distress that she cannot help this man, a great tugging to relieve his suffering, and a frightened wonder – can this be love?
Judd puts his hand on the gearshift. With an effort of will, he starts the car. Once the machine is in movement it is easier. He even is able to tell himself he has done a noble thing. He could have had Ruth tonight, and he refrained. Perhaps it will count, in a kind of bargain exchange with his fate. Perhaps it will help him not to get caught.
On the next day – the day Lieutenant Cassidy secured the list of Seemore spectacle owners – Judd was telling Artie how he had made Ruth. Judd assured himself he was talking that way only to keep himself from really talking about her to Artie. So he told how he had lifted her out of the car. Artie’s face wore a loose, sceptical look; no one was taking him in. That meant he was believing it. “You bastard!” Artie cried. “Why didn’t you take me along? You know I always had my eye on her; I knew she was tail. Let’s the two of us get her tonight-”
Judd shrugged. He wasn’t interested in her any more, he said.
“Okay, you bullshitter. I don’t believe you ever laid her.”
That was when the maid came in to say some gentlemen wished to see Judd.
Artie and Judd were in the library playing casino, not even for money; the débris of the engagement party was still around them. Now Artie sank far down in his chair, holding his cards in front of his face.
Two large men entered. Obviously they were not entirely at ease in this imposing house. Their hands hung stiffly.
“Who is Judah Steiner, Jr.?”
Judd arose. Let Artie see he could handle it. After all, he had been through it once; Artie hadn’t.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Judd said.
“The state’s attorney wants to talk to you, Mr. Steiner. We’ll take you downtown.”
“Is this about the Kessler case?” he said blandly, watching their faces. One of them reacted as though he had been handed a confession.
The other looked suspicious. “Huh?” he said.
“Well, I’d be glad to tell the State’s Attorney all I know about it, although I already talked to Captain Cleary out in the South Chicago station last Saturday.”
“Captain Cleary?” They exchanged glances.
“Yes,” Judd said. “Out there where the poor kid was found. I go birding out there, and the captain asked me if I could help out, give him any ideas as to who might habitually visit the swamp out there.”
The impassive look came back over their faces.
Then this was more. This time it must be the spectacles. The second detective said, “We don’t know about all that. We’re just supposed to-”
“-bring me in,” Judd said easily, and they all chuckled. “Sure, let’s go.”
He glanced toward Artie. All kinds of things were on Artie’s face. It was almost the way Artie looked when playing drunk, pretending he didn’t quite know what was happening, and wasn’t really taking part. “Artie,” Judd said, “would you tell my folks, should they want to know my whereabouts?” Then he introduced the cops. “This is Artie Straus, a friend of mine, Mr.-”
“McNamara,” the first one introduced himself. The other said his name was Peterson.
A third dick was at the wheel of the car. Judd sat in the rear with McNamara. He offered cigarettes. No conversation started, so he tried the Carpentier fight as an opener. The cop thought the Frenchman would win. He hoped he could get there, but he might be busy.
“This case is keeping you on the go, I’ll bet.”
“You said it.”
“Perhaps it will be solved by then.”
The dick said nothing.
This was more serious than last Saturday, Judd felt sure. But assume they did have the glasses traced to him. Or suppose it was something that hadn’t been thought of at all? Fingerprints? Anything. The telltale atoms in the universe. Each atom left its trace.
But apparently they still had nothing on Artie. Artie should stay out unless caught. There was the wish for Attie to be with him, and a sly kind of counterwish, to be alone, to suffer punishment that would make him worthy of Ruth.
No, no sentiment. It was his mistake. The glasses in his pocket where they could fall out.
He was a stoic. He knew that all in the end was fated badly. A man should combat the putridity of life to the limit. Therefore he would go through everything without changing, without breaking. He would show himself consistent in his beliefs. Even to the execution.
But not Artie. Not Artie, dead. A wave of emotion returned as from some far distance, engulfing and washing out everything Judd might have felt for Ruth, his silly puppy love of the last few days, making him ashamed of the moment a few nights ago, after the whorehouse, when he had loathed Artie’s face. He saw Artie now, the laughing, easy college guy whom everyone loved – Artie standing at Judd Steiner’s execution, watching, talking with clever pity about the poor Judd he had known, a deranged genius. With the old quick pleasure, Judd saw himself on a scaffold, his hands tied behind him – on the scaffold as on a platform where slaves were sold in ancient times, sold or executed. Multitudes stood below, and great, immortal words of parting came from him, his legacy to mankind.
Ruth would weep.
Crap. He would not be defeated, not by such clods as were beside him. Now was the real test; now he would outwit everyone. Now was the chance to prove to himself that he was of another mental calibre, of another orbit entirely.
When the car stopped in front of the La Salle Hotel, Judd was surprised. The men escorted him through the lobby. “We’ve got a suite here,” Peterson offered. “The State’s Attorney don’t want to expose people, you know, if the papers get hold of it.”
It was a dead giveaway, then. They didn’t have anything for sure. The outcome depended on himself.
It was not only to protect innocent people from publicity that Horn had moved over to the hotel. There had been no such consideration for other suspects during the previous week. But after that frustrating, killing week, here was at last a hard clue. And Horn was simply at nerves’ end. His staff was exhausted. He didn’t want any distraction while he dealt with this one good lead. Because if this one petered out, the case seemed hopeless.