The Whisper on the Stair/Chapter 6
Under his light, unmoved exterior Val was deeply concerned about the affair. His emotions were varied and complex. In the first instance, he was deeply attached to old Masterson—one of those smooth, placid, deep affections that come sometimes between old and young, an affection built solidly on intimacy, sympathy and understanding. It had been as though out of all the youth in the world Mat Masterson had picked Val out; as though he had said: “Here, from out of the millions of young men, is the one I specially love; for behold, he mocks me not, saying ‘Go to, gray-beard loon’ or words to that effect. That is, here is one bird I really can stand.” And it was as though Val had said: “Here, out of all the millions of old men in the world, is one who does not think that a man who has youth must necessarily be a fool; for lo, am I not able to speak to him of the enthusiasms of youth. That is to say, I’m certainly strong for that old guy.”
Not that either of them had ever formulated the matter thus succinctly. Men don’t do that at all, and women never do unless they don’t mean it. Yet the feeling ran true between these two. Mat typified all of age and the venerable to Val, and on his part Val was youth eternal to Mat—he was all of youth, a sort of a composite picture of all the beauty and fire and dreams in the world.
And now Mat was gone; the import of it came to Val keenly, oppressively and almost overwhelmingly as he stepped out of the bookshop into the sunlight. Mat was gone; Val felt that a definite era in his life had closed—something had been done that could never be done again. New things were before him, Val felt—a new phase of life, perhaps. And he was standing in sunlight that Mat would never again see. For a moment every nerve in him cried out for vengeance.
And yet, what would the apprehension of the murderer mean? Thought raced through his brain like lightning across a summer sky. It would mean the dragging in of the girl with copper burnished hair, his lady of the bookshop. He knew, of course, that she was in no way guilty of the deed, yet regardless of the circumstances, she must inevitably be connected with the affair in the papers—her name dragged through the mire of publicity. He remembered her eyes—that strange look—was it terror?—of the night before. Curious, wasn’t it, how a man could remember a fleeting, evanescent glance in a woman’s eye—and not remember the color of the clothes she wore? Now, as Connolly might say⸺
Now he had to find her. It might seem that he was going to a great deal of fuss and trouble about a girl he had only seen for a moment. That is, it might seem so to you. But it did not seem so to Valentine Morley. It was quite simple. He had seen, for an instant, a woman he really thought worth while. He had lost her again in that same instant. It was obvious that the thing for any sane man to do was to find her again.
‘Wait a minute, Eddie,” he said to his impassive man. “Wait’ll I see where we’re going.”
He stepped into his limousine and picked up a telephone directory which he had brought along for just that purpose. Pomeroy . . . Pomeroy . . . he thumbed the pages rapidly until he came to the one he wanted. He found it. M-m-m . . . Pollock . . . Polonsky . . . Polsky . . . Pomerantz . . . ah, here it is, Pomeroy. He selected one that looked promising on West Sixty-eighth Street, told Eddie his destination, and settled himself back to his dreams and his reflections as the car throbbed under him and glided out into the roadway.
It was not going to be hard. All he had to do was to keep going until he had exhausted the possibilities of the telephone book and the city directory. Even if he did not come across her directly, surely some Pomeroy in the city would be able to direct him to Jessica Pomeroy. There could not be many Jessicas, could there? No; he answered his own query. There could only be one—that is, always supposing that her name was really Jessica Pomeroy—a fact which he was taking for granted.
He got no satisfaction, nor did he get any information, at the first Pomeroy on West Sixty-eighth Street. She was an old maiden lady who knew nobody of the name of Jessica Pomeroy and probably would not have told him if she did know. From her manner, she regarded him as possibly somebody who was without the law—a creature going around trying to pick up unprotected women. She strained her Peke closer to her thin breast as she coldly closed the door on him.
The next place was East Ninety-second Street. He found that it overlooked the East River. He also found that the neighborhood was poor and squalid, peopled with crying babies and unkempt adults. He also found that the person who answered to the name of Pomeroy was a person of color, a negress who leered at him filthily, a black, shapeless mass who blended perfectly with the dead and gone odors that filled the dark, uncarpeted halls.
At the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth Pomeroy his luck was no better and at two o’clock in the afternoon he found himself at upper Broadway, nearly out of gasoline, hungry, and just about beginning to be angry. It was a curious thing that people all had to go and pick out one name—as though there weren’t enough to go around. Now here was Jessica Pomeroy—anybody seeing her would know that the name belonged to her and her alone—why go out of your way, that being the case, and pick on the name Pomeroy when you could just as well select Cohen or Flanagan or Rocco or something equally flagrant? Val was beginning to be exasperated with people—they showed so little originality!
They stopped at a restaurant to eat—Eddie eating lunch with his employer. This was nothing new. Eddie often lunched with his employer when they were alone. There was more between them than is usual between master and man. They had served on the western front together, they had quenched their thirst in muddy water out of the same canteen and they had cursed the same second lieutenants together. The friendship between them was only thinly disguised by the superficial veil of conventionality that present day social custom had thrown over them.
Over their meal Val explained to Eddie just what it was he was trying to do and how he was going about it. During the recital a newsboy came in with the early afternoon editions of the papers.
“Let’s see what my newspaper has to say about it,” remarked Val, calling the newsboy and buying a copy of the Planet, Although it was not largely known, Valentine Morley was the largest individual stockholder in this immensely profitable enterprise, having been left a block of stock by his father that comprised forty per cent of the entire stock in existence. To celebrate his personal interest in the paper Val permitted himself, occasionally, to read the sheet. That, so far, had been all the interest he took in it, although he was Vice-President of the corporation and journeyed down to Park Row twice a year to sign his name to papers which he was assured by his lawyer were fitted to be graced by his classic signature.
The Planet, as might have been expected, had a great deal to say about the matter, which it called The Mysterious Bookshop Murder, the idea conveyed being, presumably, not that the bookshop was mysterious but that the murder was mysterious. The woman in the case was called The Lady of the Bookshop, and the papers expressed the opinion that it would not be long before she was in the hands of the police. It was agreed that her apprehension was necessary if the police were to start untangling the dark snarl. She, undoubtedly, could throw light upon the matter.
Mention was also made, of course, of Val—information gleaned from the coroner or Sergeant Connolly, no doubt. The account ended with a demand on the part of the Planet that the police do something—that the crime wave was becoming wavier every day; a permanent wave, as it were—and that it was up to the police to locate the mysterious lady.
“Well, we’ll just about have to beat the darn old police to it, Eddie,” remarked Val when they had thoroughly digested what the newspapers had to say concerning the affair. Eddie nodded his head gravely.
“Considering your feelings in that quarter, sir, we’ll just about have to lay a barrage all around her. We haven’t tried the Bronx yet,” remarked Eddie.
“The Bronx!” ejaculated Val. “Eddie, how often do I have to tell you that it’s bad form to kid your employer—that it just simply is not done in our best circles.”
“Just the same, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you never can tell,” persisted Eddie. “You’ve exhausted all of Manhattan, haven’t you?” Val nodded.
“Well, then!” Eddie said this respectfully, as one should say such things to one’s boss, but there was a touch of triumph in it, too. He was human—and he knew this was one argument he would win.
He did. Val capitulated with very little argument—he certainly was not going to give up the search simply because it led him into the upper reaches of the Bronx—one should be prepared for hardship, he said. If any residents of the Bronx read this, it is understood that no offense was intended by Val—he simply did not know that people lived there, that was all.