But exactly why, in the midst of this action, had he wanted to deviate from it, to see Gerta? With the revolver in his pocket, and Jones so close at hand, with the scene already so developed and so rich in potentialities, so rewardingly immediate, why step aside from it? The night was still young, the possibilities were immense, anything at all might yet happen. To intercept Jones might not be convenient, but to call him up by telephone, make an appointment, even to meet him later in the evening — what could prevent this, except of course this new development, his mysterious flight to Cambridge?
He watched the swift dance of streetlights, counted them, one, two, three, four, was half-consciously aware presently that they had passed the Technology buildings, crossed Massachusetts Avenue, and that there was still no sign of the other taxi. Perhaps they had gone by Broadway; but it hardly mattered. It would be just as well to keep a discreet distance behind, there was no particular reason for remaining within sight: the odds against his going anywhere but Reservoir Street were tremendous. Moreover, to realize this was to realize also his motive for wishing, at this point, to deviate. It was based on a sense of complete confidence, the feeling that poor Jones was now completely in the bag. In effect, Jones was still as close to him as he had been in his box at the theater: just as near, just as unguarded, just as unsuspecting. The flight from the box, from the theater, the dash to the taxi-stand, and the ensuing swoop on Cambridge, all this was really nothing more than the circumscribed panic of the mouse: the dart from sofa-shadow to chair-shadow. The door was still closed, the mouse was still within the room.
The taxi driver slid back the glass panel and said, without turning his head:
— That’ll be Connor now — yes, that’s him all right. How near will I tail him?
— Just keep him in sight, that’s all. If you lose him, never mind, take me to the corner of Sparks Street and Huron Avenue.
— Sparks Street and Huron Avenue, okay.… Boy, is he stepping on it! You’d think he was going to a fire.
A hundred yards behind, they followed dizzily the bobbing tail-light, lost it for a few minutes when they were held up by the signals at River Street bridge, caught it again as it slowed with glowing brake-light to turn left into Mount Auburn Street. Everything was going like clockwork, there could no longer be any doubt that Jones was on his way to Reservoir Street in response to a telephone call. He had arranged it with the usher, had given his name, and then waited: but presumably he had not really expected to be called, or he would not have come. And all this being the case, what did it mean? Either of two things: either that the child was being born, if that supposition was correct; or, if there was already a child, and the child was ill, that it had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Or was there just a chance — also — that it might be a question of the wife, the mother?
In any case, it could have no bearing on the situation. What had been decided was decided.
The only regrettable feature was that it indicated new avenues for exploration, which, with this sudden increase of pressure — if indeed it was pressure — from Gerta and Sandbach and Toppan, would have to be neglected. If life itself, or destiny, was about to take a hand, and tighten the screws on Jones, it was unfortunate not to be able to take advantage of the enhanced entertainment, even if the enhancement was purely adventitious. To watch his antics in this new predicament, whatever it was, and to observe what changes it might bring about in his habits — this would be of the finest essence of the experience. It would add the last fillip to the thing-in-itself, the perfect chiaroscuro for the projected image, the right silence for the hearing of the cry. And perhaps even now there would be time, it might be managed — the notion of seeing Gerta was not, on second thought, so bad, or even of seeing Sandbach. If too abrupt a transition was avoided, so that they didn’t suspect him of merely acting, of playing a part, they could even now be lulled into inaction and inertia, put off the track. The little ritual with Jones would be by so much deepened and prolonged, yield just so much more of its vital juice. And the further fact that their intervention was actually impending, that they stood there, in the background, ready to protect and save Jones, and only prevented from timely action by their stupidity, this too would add its deliciousness: it would be worth trying. A telephone call to Gerta, perhaps an invitation to S, and the first soundings could at least be taken. And if the signs were propitious, then the time problem would once more have become elastic. He and Jones could proceed with due leisure and affection to their profound little collaboration.…
And this was odd. He saw it against the swift palings of a white fence, the lighted windows of a house, the turning headlamps of a car — he saw it concretely, and with an almost horrible vividness — the form of his sick hatred for that ridiculous trio of people, the three of them plotting while they smiled, bowing while they whispered behind their hands. It was odd, it was loathsome, but it was true, and also it was funny; he began, in the swaying taxi, to laugh a little, then stopped, then laughed again. What it came down to was simply this — that he and Jones were now actually in alliance against Gerta and Sandbach and Toppan: had their private plan, their conspiracy, which those three, bowing among the elm-trees, were attempting to frustrate. He saw them this minute, separately and together; Gerta in the lunchroom at the Museum, talking earnestly with red-haired Toppan; Gerta pausing before the Kwannon with S, Sandbach’s fat little hand on her arm, the sharp tooth showing at the corner of his mouth; Gerta saying at Belmont “then we shall have to do something.” The images came together, fused, lost their identity only to separate again, their nearness so oppressive, and so actual, that he put out his hand toward the taxi window as if to destroy them. But he and Jones together — he and Jones together would defeat them.
The brakes began squeaking rhythmically, eek, eek, eek, eek, they had stopped in the silent emptiness of Wyman Square, the driver was saying:
— Do you want to stop here, Mister? He’s just turning the corner up there. There he goes now.
— Yes. This is all right.
— Baby, was that a ride! I didn’t know old Connor had it in him.
In another moment the striped taxi was reversing sharply to go back to Boston, he listened to the retreating sound, stood with his pipestem against his teeth and stared alternately west and north along Huron Avenue. There was no one in sight. Leaning over a fence at his elbow, almost touching him, a lilac bush was in bloom, the blossoms smoke-blue and artificial in the cold lamplight. The heavy fragrance sickened him, he began walking quickly towards Vassal Lane, debouched from Huron Avenue, looked over his shoulder as he did so to make certain that he was not being followed, and in half a minute had passed the willow tree and was approaching Jones’s house. The taxi, of course, had gone. Instead, the doctor’s car stood before the entrance: just as he had expected. The street was otherwise deserted, everything was quiet, he walked calmly up to the car and touched the radiator-cap with the palm of his hand. It was quite cool. The doctor had been here for some time, perhaps an hour — must have arrived very soon after Jones had set off to Boston. Stepping back, then, to the middle of the street, he looked up at the house.