Neither Five Nor Three (Helen Macinnes) (46 page)

This is not the real world, Scott would have said, echoing Orpen. This is as false as a dream, a myth, a pretence, a surface lie. A snare and delusion, Orpen would say. These people are the enslaved masses, the prisoners of the capitalist system, the victims of exploitation; this is not the real world. Yet no one walked here as if he were afraid; no one looked over his shoulder before he spoke; no one felt the cold fear that now attacked Rona herself as she thought of Orpen’s world. No, Rona thought, his is the dream, the nightmare world. This is the real. Real, because its faults are human faults. But Orpen’s faults, and the faults of all men who believe as he does, are inhuman. That’s the difference, I have only to take one step inside his world and I can feel its cold shadows, as black and cold as the iron shadows under which I’m passing now. She crossed Third Avenue quickly, stepping once more on to a pavement filled with window-shoppers, housewives carrying groceries, children playing, men in overalls returning from work.

“Rona!” a voice called, and a hand caught her arm. Rona stared blankly at the girl, in black slacks and expensive suede sandals and a slickly tailored white linen jacket, who was holding back a red setter at the end of a bright green leash. It was Mary Fyne, her pretty face smoothly powdered, her lips a deep coral to match her nails, a smile in her green eyes, her head tilted to show her excellent neck and the charming fall of her smooth red hair. She was giving all her attention to Rona, but the black flickering eyelashes were quite aware of the admiring stares from the men and the disapproving looks from the women who passed by. She pulled the dog closer with a sharp jerk on the leash. “Meet Hasdrubal!” She pointed to the setter with pride. “One of my beaux gave him to me last week, and all I do now is water and air the brute. It’s a bit of a bore. But he looks kind of cute, doesn’t he?”

She eyed Rona carefully. That dress didn’t fit properly, and why choose navy to wear with black shoes and a black handbag? Rona’s taste was slipping. She had even forgotten her gloves. Her shoes needed polishing. Mary Fyne smiled generously and decided to stand awhile and talk. She pointed one foot, ballerina style. “What
have
you been doing with yourself? I never see you nowadays. How’s Scott? Oh—I forgot! I was so sorry to hear you’d ended your engagement, I really was.” She gave Rona’s face a sidewise glance. “Too bad. They say poor Scott is quite broken up about it.”

Rona’s silence seemed to irritate her. She leashed in the setter still more, her lips tightening. “Careful!” She sharply warned away a small boy who had come too near. “He’s kind of cute, but he likes to bite. Just a playful nip,” she explained to Rona. “By the way, do you ever see Paul Haydn?”

“He works at
Trend
, too,” Rona reminded her.

“My dear,
what
a cold you have! I wondered why you were throttled with a scarf on a hot day like this. Better rush home and gargle. And take my advice about Paul Haydn—don’t waste your time on him.” You’ve wasted enough time on Scott Ettley, the green eyes said. Then she laughed, throwing back her head just enough to show the excellent line of her jaw. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Haydn’s a bit of a queen,” she added lightly, with just a hint of venom in the smooth voice. “No doubt he picked it up in Germany.” The leash tightened suddenly. “Goodbye,” she called over her shoulder as the setter suddenly lunged toward a hydrant. “Hasdrubal just adores Third Avenue. Such interesting smells!”

Rona walked on. Two more blocks to go. And the thoughts she had been trying to arrange had mixed themselves up again. Mary Fyne will blame Scott’s suicide on the broken engagement, she suddenly realised. And so will most people. Scott’s father? Yes, probably he, too. And Paul, what would he think when he heard?... And if I were to tell any of them that this was Scott’s last revolt, a revolt against himself, who would believe me? Scott, she thought sadly, Scott has tied me to him. Will I ever cut myself free?

She felt sick, cold, and tired. She hesitated at the corner of Orpen’s street, and stood suddenly irresolute.

Even if no one else will ever know the truth about Scott, she thought, I want to know. I must know. Then I can try to forget. Without knowing, there is no forgetting. I’ll be tied to worries and doubts. No peace of heart, no freedom of mind...ever. She began walking toward the row of houses that faced the grimy wall of garage and warehouse.

Three children raced each other on roller skates. Two women with shopping bags on their arms talked about the price of meat. A young girl in a wide drooping skirt kept guard beside a baby sleeping in its carriage, while she watched three workmen beginning emergency repairs in the street. A mechanic leaned against the doorway of the garage and smoked a cigarette and watched them, too. At this hour of the day, the lines of parked cars had thinned; a scattered trail of pedestrians, intent on their own business, followed the sidewalks. An automobile came slowly through the street, skirted the nose of a truck backed up against a loading stage in the warehouse, and swerved round the patch of roadway lined off with red flags where a pneumatic drill was driving its first bite into the pavement.

Rona flinched at the sudden clatter of the drill. She looked up. A workman grinned and gave a nod of his head. It was all so natural an incident, something that had happened so often to her before, that she welcomed it. She smiled back, almost gratefully. She felt as if she had stepped from the coldness of an icy hall into a room where a fire burned cheerfully. Then she halted, looking now at the number on the glass pane above the nearest doorway. She glanced along the street, noticed its mild bustle and everyday noises for the first time, and—as if reassured—she ran up the flight of stone steps. She hesitated again when she couldn’t find the name she was looking for.

The workmen seemed to pay no attention to the girl in the navy dress who was standing at the doorway above them. One was concentrating on the vibrating drill, another was answering the questions of the small girls who had skated up to watch, the third was directing operations in general. Yet they were all noting the facts. Girl in blue dress, white scarf at throat—dark hair, even features, large eyes, pleasant smile—medium height, about 120 pounds, high-heeled shoes, excellent legs, walks well. And who was this guy following her? Quiet suit, grey felt hat, dark face. He had been keeping some distance from the girl, but now he quickened his pace as she ran up the steps. He stopped at the garage, though, to ask a question of the mechanic. Is he one of ours? the man with the drill wondered. Or is he another of that crowd? The workman straightened his back—a good excuse to glance along the street at a placid white-haired man who was half-hidden behind the loading truck, and then at a middle-aged woman who was sitting in the sunshine on a camp stool, placed near the warehouse wall, while she rocked a baby carriage gently and looked at the street scene with patient boredom. I wonder if they’ve guessed as much about us as we’ve guessed about them? the workman wondered. Orpen’s a popular guy this morning. That’s one clear fact, anyway.

The girl in the navy dress had pressed one of the bells at last—the superintendent’s bell, for a man in overalls and a dirty shirt opened the door. For a moment or two, the pneumatic drill was silent as a new spot for its attack was carefully chosen. The girl’s question was too low to be heard. The superintendent nodded; he stepped aside and let the girl enter the house. He didn’t close the door for a few moments. He came out and stood, as if enjoying this excuse for some fresh air. He lit a cigarette as he turned back to the house. So the girl had gone up to visit Orpen.

The men at work studied the roadway. The man in the quiet suit and grey felt hat had come to collect his car from the garage, for he followed the mechanic through the wide doorway, and halted just within its deep-shadowed cave. Farther along the street the white-haired man sat on a hydrant, his back against the warehouse wall, and lighted a pipe while he watched the loading of a truck with a critical eye. Beyond him, the sitting woman smoothed a light cover over the sleeping baby.

The man working the drill had a thought that amused him. There was Orpen, sitting quietly in his room, refusing to answer either telephone calls or any doorbells. Down here, in this ordinary little street scene, were two groups of people, both watching and waiting, both interested in the man upstairs who probably didn’t even know that they were there. And now the girl in the blue dress was climbing the stairs to his door. What group did she belong to? To them or to us? Or to neither? If she belonged to them...

The same thought had struck one of his companions. He moved close to the drill and said, “Better lay off that, it’s too noisy. We’ll hear nothing.” He was worried.

The man laid down the drill and picked up a shovel. He pointed to the cracked surface of the road and said, “I guess the superintendent knew that Orpen wouldn’t let her in unless he trusted her.”

The third man nodded, examining the pavement. “The bastard is probably safe enough.” But how do you protect a man who won’t even let you get in touch with him, far less accept an invitation to escape safely with escort arranged? The only way, he thought gloomily, to get hold of Nicholas Orpen will be to arrest him. But on what charges? He must have broken enough laws, but without legal proof we can’t act. The workman reached for a pick-axe, spat on his hands, and then threw a quick glance along the street at the white-haired man near the truck, at the woman who gently rocked the baby carriage. All they can do is wait, too, he thought with relief. They probably can’t pull any stunt as long as we are here—too many people around for any quiet kidnapping.

Then at that moment, the woman rose and stretched herself. She shook down the wrinkles in her cotton dress, folded the camp stool and hung it over the handle of the baby carriage. She looked at her watch and shook her head, as if she had sat too long in the sunshine and her husband’s dinner would be overcooked. Then she began pushing the carriage, bending over it slightly as she talked to the baby, walking quickly toward the East River.

Perhaps she’s genuine enough, thought the workman as he swung the pick-axe high above his head. Either she’s genuine enough, or else it’s a good act. Or perhaps I’m just too damned suspicious. He brought the pick-axe down on a crack in the pavement. And then he realised that the girl in the blue dress had not come out of the house. The woman, stumping quickly eastwards, had noted that too. No, he thought, you can’t be too suspicious on this kind of job.

“She hasn’t come down,” he said to the man working beside him.

“Then she’s the only person in New York he seems to trust.”

He raised his voice. “Look out, Joe. Car coming!”

The man who had entered the garage was bringing his car out slowly. He drove it carefully past the excavation, leaning well out the window as he watched its fenders.

“Okay, boys,” he said. And it wasn’t a question. The car slowed down still more as he avoided a red flag. “They may play rough now,” the quiet voice said. And the car moved on.

“Time for chow,” the pick man said, downing his axe. They opened their lunch boxes, sitting on the debris they had created. And in between grumbling loudly and good-naturedly (time and a half was good pay, after all) at Saturday afternoons that were ruined, they had a laconic conference. The girl in the blue dress was a friend of Orpen’s. The girl in the blue dress had been recognised by the woman with the baby carriage (or by the white-haired man who could have signalled the woman). The girl in the blue dress had been okayed by the agent in the car. Just where did that place the girl in the blue dress?

A man, tall, well-dressed in a casual way, had been waiting at the corner of the street near Third Avenue. Now he turned away impatiently, and came along toward the little group of men at lunch. He had dark hair greying at the temples, grey eyes that had a quick direct look, a good brow, a strong jaw, and a well-cut mouth. But he was too worried to even pretend to smile as he stopped and asked, “Has a girl come along this way? Did she go into this house just behind me?”

“A girl?” One of the workmen took another mouthful of sandwich and looked at the others. “Several girls went past here.”

“Dark-haired? Pretty?”

“What was she wearing?”

“God knows,” Paul Haydn said. What had Rona worn this morning? He could only remember the face that had avoided his eyes. Either she got here before I could stop her, he thought, or she’s had an accident.

“No use getting worried,” one of the workmen advised him. “You know what dames are. Probably gone shopping.”

Paul Haydn hesitated. Then he mounted the steps and rang the superintendent’s bell. The superintendent opened the door slowly; and before he answered he looked past Paul’s shoulder into the street. Just for a moment, just long enough to get a careful signal. He shook his head in reply to Paul. He couldn’t say.

“Well, I’ll try upstairs,” Paul said. “Where’s Orpen’s place?” He was already inside the hall. The superintendent shrugged his shoulders and lighted a cigarette as he gave him directions. Then he followed Paul up the stairway.

“Careful kind of guy, aren’t you?” Paul asked angrily, looking at the dirty shirt and the stubble of beard on the man’s chin. He was just the type who wouldn’t notice Rona’s arrival—probably he had been having a short beer in the bar round the corner—and now was making up for his carelessness by officiousness.

“Sure,” the superintendent said, looking at Paul’s suit, “I’m a careful guy.”

Paul turned and went on upstairs. As he neared Orpen’s landing, he halted again. “This right?” he asked sarcastically, pointing to the only door there was.

“Sure,” the man said. He halted, too, half a flight down. He waited expectantly.

Paul approached the door. He could hear no voices. He looked over his shoulder at the waiting superintendent. He had begun to feel he had been too quick to lose his temper with the man. He pushed the bell, half-angrily, half-defiantly.

There was no answer, no movement from the room.

He rang again. Then he knocked heavily. “Rona!” he called. He knocked again. “Rona!”