— Yes — breathing softly — there’s a question or two I’d like to ask you. If you don’t mind! And before you’ve become too impudent with other people’s affairs! You’ve been following me, and a lot of good may it do you. I’ve known all about it, and watched you at it, and it’s been funny. It’s made me feel a little ashamed. Do you understand that?
— So you thought I was following you!
— Thought!
— Could your question wait till tomorrow? I’m just on my way—
— My dear Julius, you were on my way, if you don’t mind my saying so, but let it pass. My question, which was about razor blades, can wait.
— Razor blades!
— Yes, razor blades. I’ll see you tomorrow.
He turned abruptly, with a slight gesture of the pipe in his hand, left Julius standing under the arc light, was off towards the yellow taxi which he saw at the top of the hill. He listened for the sound of Toppan’s footsteps, heard none as long as he was within range, figured to himself that Toppan must be standing motionless there, standing there fixed and smiling, fixed and thinking, but did not turn to see. To open the taxi door was in itself a dismissal of Toppan and the world, conscious of his height he stooped to enter, sank back and closed his eyes.
This giddiness again — this dizziness — it was the third time. It was queer. The sensation of speed, flowing past him and round him, catching him up and twirling him, with its steady pour of sound, was like a world of bright lines drawn swiftly in parallels, a vast river of bright lines. Amongst and against these rays of arrowy light he was borne rapidly forward in a half-recumbent position, with his eyes closed and his hands tightly clenched; and just above the roof of his mouth, on each half-painful crest of his breathing, was a new and peculiar darkness of helplessness and horror. This too it might be possible to visualize — one could see the shape of it, with a little trouble — but in a sense it was controllable, it could wait. The first thing was to call up Jones, and this could be done with perfect security from Hampden. To summon Jones down from that third-floor bedroom, make an appointment with him—
He dismissed the taxi by the barbershop, went round the corner of Plymouth Street with the phrases shaping themselves on his tongue. At the entrance of Hampden, Jack, the janitor, was standing on the granite steps with a dustcloth in his hand, bareheaded, his white hair bright in the lamplight. He pointed with the cloth towards the hall and said:
— Oh, Mr. Ammen, th-th-there’s a sss-pecial delivery for you in your b-box, you must have missed it.
— Thanks.
— You’re welcome.
He fished out the letter, saw the postmark, Saint Louis, the long blue stamp, slightly sinister in its suggestion of hurry, and his father’s printed name in the upper left-hand corner. This was ugly. It had a meaning, there could be no doubt of that, it was part of the narrowing circle of pressure, the unseen blockade. Damn him! And damn them all. The impulse to tear it in two ran sharply down his fingers, he had already visualized the gesture and felt the contempt in it, but instead he slipped the envelope into his side pocket and went to the telephone by the elevator. With one foot reaching back against the door behind him, he dropped in his nickel, gave the number, waited. Far off, he could hear the repeated double ring, the little rhythmic cricket-cry, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng-zeeng, — zeeng, — zeeng, — it was as if he himself were there in the front room beside the oak table, on which the telephone stood, waiting for Jones to come downstairs. The ringing continued interminably, and then as if very close at hand the operator’s voice said:
— They don’t answer, shall I—
— Try them again, please, there should be someone there.
— I’ll try them again.
The little lost bell went on crying in its widening wilderness; with each repetition of the doubled sound the universe seemed vaster and emptier; it was as if Jones’s front room had become the seed of a world. To be the cause of this, to be sending into the void the small sharp signal from which should radiate such an expansion of significance, was both imposing and frightening. This act of creation-at-a-distance perhaps involved responsibilities: and the wider the expansion of the universe before one provoked an answer, the more freighted with consequences might eventually be the answer itself. Listening, with the receiver loosely held against his ear, he looked out through the small windows towards the garage at the back of Hampden Hall, noted the wrecking car which stood at the top of the concrete runway, and the strong curve of the steel crane, and then suddenly there was a cessation of the ringing, a faint sound as of clearance, and a voice.
— Hello? Karl Jones speaking.
The voice was flat, soft, tired, he smiled affectionately as he heard it, it was as if Jones had come into the room and were about to be greeted with the very warmest of reassurances.
— Ah, Mr. Jones. Perhaps you’ll remember that I called you up a little while ago about some advertising, political advertising.
— Yes?
— Well, now, I’ve had time for a careful discussion with my partner, our plans are fairly definite, and before we go any farther I’d like very much to have a talk with you.
— Yes—
— Now, my partner lives out in the country just beyond Bedford, near Concord, and I wonder if you would care to let me drive you out there, say tomorrow afternoon or evening sometime, to discuss it!
— Not tomorrow, no, I’m sorry—
— No?
— No. You’ll have to excuse me, I can’t talk to you now—
— Oh—
— You see, everything is upset, we’ve had an accident, my wife has just had a stillborn baby — just this evening—
— Oh, I’m very sorry — I’m extremely—
— And tomorrow is impossible, as the funeral is in the morning at Mount Auburn—
— I see, of course—
— Yes, I’m sorry.
— I suppose not for a day or two then—
— No, I’m sorry.
— In that case of course I don’t want to detain you, but would Friday perhaps be all right, do you think?
— Perhaps Friday. Yes, Friday would be all right.
— Suppose then I give you a ring at your office Friday morning, and we’ll arrange a meeting.
— Yes, very well. You’ll have to excuse me now—
— Certainly. I’m afraid I—
— Good night.
— Good night.
He hung up the receiver on its hook, in imagination he listened to the retreating footsteps of Jones, the footsteps hurrying quickly up the stairs to that bright and dreadful bedroom on the third floor, on the ceiling of which the shadows were perhaps now again in motion. The footsteps were running up the stairs, the conversation on the telephone was already forgotten, Jones was returning to that sordid and huddled little human scene. The woman lay on a bed in the corner, a raised hospital bed, perhaps raised on wooden blocks, she was naked, her lifted knees were apart, beside the bed was a white enameled pail, a table with an enamaled tray on which were bloody cloths, steel instruments, forceps. Jones was returning to that stupefying smell of ether, to that hurried and meaningful silence, to the dead child and the unconscious woman, the doctor and the nurse. Sometimes, in such cases, didn’t they use artificial respiration? In another room, in one of the other rooms, one of the bedrooms at the back, the doctor was perhaps working over the small body of the child, blowing into its blue mouth, trying to warm it to life. Outside the door, Jones, as he passed, could hear him working, knew already that it was useless, went on to the front room to help the nurse. The woman lay on the bed in the corner, unconscious, she didn’t yet know, later she would have to be told. In the meantime, the pail must be emptied, its contents must be burned in the furnace. While the nurse stayed with the woman, Jones took the pail and went down to the cellar. In the cellar, he noticed that some one had spilled the wastebasket on the concrete floor, had left it lying there amongst the litter. He paid no attention to it, went slowly towards the furnace.…