The Lockwood Concern (26 page)

touching his dead friend, but he did as he was told and they put Chatsworth on the cot. "Cover him," said Revercomb. "Somebody's been sick in here." "Me," said O'Byrne. "Well, I don't blame you, but let's open a window. What do we do now, Constable? I mean the legalities." "I sent somebody for Doc Perry." "He can take as long as he likes," said Revercomb. "He'll do no good here, or any other doctor." "Well, I guess if I write down some more witnesses the next thing is send for the undertaker." "O'Byrne and I, and Bender," said George Lockwood. "We were the first here." "As far as you know," said the constable. "Listen to him!" said a student. "'As far as you know."' "I warned you before, I'll run you in," said the constable. "Shut up, whoever said that," said Revercomb. "Show some respect, please. And you, Constable, bear in mind that you're on University property." "You bear in mind that I was sent for, Professor." "Oh, all right, all right," said Revercomb. "What shall we do? Lock this room till the undertaker gets here? You fellows didn't find a note or a letter, did you?" "I never thought to look," said George Lockwood. "Neither did I," said O'Byrne. "Yes, there ought to be some kind of a letter," said the constable. "They usually leave a letter. Though not always. The women are more apt to leave a letter, those that can read and write. If anybody finds a letter, or a note, turn it right over to me." "You mean now?" said George Lockwood. "Of course, now. I'll look in his pants pockets, and Professor, you go through his desk." The four searched, but no letter was found. "Lockwood, O'Byrne, there's no use your hanging around here any longer. Go on back to your rooms and try to get some sleep. The authorities will notify us if they want You. Inquest, I suppose. I'll stay here till the undertaker comes, and that's about all we can do tonight." "What about his family, Professor?" said O'Byrne. "I'll attend to that. We will. We'll get off a telegram as soon as we have more details. Goodnight, now, boys." "Goodnight, sir," they said. Out in the cold air the friends of Anson Chatsworth walked aimlessly in the shadows of the bare elms. "Do you want to come back to my room?" said O'Byrne. "All right," said George Lockwood. He had two roommates, Lewis and Loomis, but they were not his close friends; propinquity had not created intimacy. "I don't think I'll sleep, do you?" "Well, you can stretch out in the Morris chair. You ought to get some sleep, George. You've had a Christ's-own of an exhausting day." In O'Byrne's room George Lockwood said, "Would you ever do that, Ned?" "Meaning what Chat did? I've thought about it. I'd never hang myself. That's because Judas Iscariot hanged himself, I guess." "I had a friend at St. Bartholomew's, his father was a friend of my father's. He shot himself in the head. I think I'd shoot myself in the heart, or take poison. I wouldn't hang myself, either. Especially after tonight. He shouldn't have looked that way." "He wasn't thinking about how he'd look." "But I would. Wouldn't you? A bullet in the brain they say." "I know, I know." "I'd care about how I looked, and I'd care about the shock to people that saw me." "I guess I would too, and I guess for that reason you or I won't ever do it. Chat was a pretty simple sort of a fellow." "Not stupid." "No, of course not stupid. But not used to worrying, not used to thinking about things the way you and I are all the time. He wasn't used to trouble, and this thing he got into was too much for him." "I guess that was it." "Hear the bell." "Uh-huh. The end of the day. Now it's Monday. The new week is starting." "But not for Chat." "No, not for Chat. It's all over for Chat." "Jesus, I'm tired." "Go to sleep. Don't fight it. Sleep, George." "Think maybe I will." He was asleep before O'Byrne put the blanket over him. Their testimony at the inquest was brief, and they were treated with consideration. George was therefore surprised when O'Byrne, on leaving the borough hall, said: "God, I'm glad to get out of there!" "It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be." O'Byrne looked behind them and said: "I got this in the mail, Tuesday after Chat died. With it was $200, the same money I gave him that Saturday. Read it." Ned: "It's no use. Even if I get the money that will only be the beginning of my troubles. I could not face my family after bringing this disgrace on them. Thank you for being a true and loyal friend. This is goodbye. A. C. They had stopped under a street lamp so that George Lockwood could read the note. He handed it back to O'Byrne. "I don't know whether to keep it or burn it. In a way it's evidence," said O'Byrne. "Yes, but they gave a verdict, the only one they could give. Chat hung himself while of unsound mind, or whatever the wording was. You did the right thing, Ned. If you'd shown them the note they would have asked a lot of questions. It's better to let the whole thing die down." "If the girl's father keeps quiet." "No use making trouble now." "With Chat's family." "Chicago's a long way from New Brunswick. I just don't think he'll make any more trouble. What would be the use? Even if he went to Chicago Chat's family wouldn't have to believe him. It would never hold up in court, I don't think." "I wish I knew the girl's name," said O'Byrne. "What would you do?" "I probably wouldn't do anything, but it doesn't seem right. You realize that you and I are probably the only ones here that really knew why he did it." "That's a blessing. Let's keep it that way." "All right. Shall we take an oath? I solemnly swear that I will never reveal or divulge what I know about the death of Anson Chatsworth." "I solemnly swear the same thing," said George Lockwood. Their oath was tested on the following day. Each of them was called into Revercomb's office on the campus. "Lockwood, Mr. Chatsworth is coming here in the next few days and he'll want to know all there is to know. Is there anything you would care to tell me?" "No sir." "Nothing at all you want to tell me? You know more than you told at the inquest, of that I'm sure." "Why are you sure?" "Don't answer me with a question. You know why Anson took his life." "I have nothing to say, sir." "Well, I'm not going to make any threats. But you were under oath at the inquest." "All they asked me was to describe what I saw." "And to tell the whole truth, et cetera. You're fencing with me, Lockwood." "You're entitled to your opinion, sir. But I was away all day Sunday, in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. The last time I saw Chatsworth was the Friday before he died." "Don't start building up a big alibi, Lockwood. All I care about now is whether you have anything to tell me that might be of some comfort to Chatsworth family." "No sir, I haven't." "By inference, of course, you know something that would not be a comfort. Well, all right. You may go." "Thank you, Professor." George Lockwood got to his feet, took a few steps toward the door. "Lockwood," said Revercomb. "I had a visitor last week. A man from New Brunswick." "Did you sir? From Rutgers?" "You know he wasn't from Rutgers, not this visitor. He was a nice man. A working-man, and he spent his own money to come here. He told me that he'd been to see Chatsworth. He even told me why." "He did?" "Yes. I want you and O'Byrne to know that when Mr. Chatsworth comes here, I'm going to tell him about my visitor, and after that it's up to him, Mr. Chatsworth. We're not taking any official position in the matter. Chatsworth is dead. But I want you and O'Byrne to know that personally, not officially, but speaking for myself, I can't help admiring your loyalty to your friend. Carry that into the world when you leave Princeton." "I'll try sir. Thank you." George Lockwood and Ned O'Byrne compared their experiences they had had in Professor Revercomb's office. They were very nearly identical. "I asked him to tell me the name of the man from New Brunswick." said O'Byrne. "And?" "He said it was none of my business. He was right, too," "I'd just as soon not know," said George Lockwood, "On thinking it over, me too," The death of Anson Chatsworth had served to divert the young lovers from the distressing effects of George's scene with the judge. Lalie was eagerly and perhaps excessively sympathetic; her thrice weekly letters in the fortnight following Chat's suicide made no mention of her father, her brother, or of the anguish she had been caused by her father's outburst. Instead she wrote of the sadness of death, the mystery of suicide, the advent of spring and new life and hope. The first of these letters was welcomed; the others seemed forced, insincere, strategic, and for a stretch of five days George could not bring himself to answer her. His silence disturbed her; she sent one of her rare telegrams: MISS YOUR LETTERS HOPE ALL IS WELL LOVE. He showed the telegram and explained the circumstances to O'Byrne. O'Byrne shook his head. "I'm sorry, George. I don't want to say anything." "I don't want advice," said George Lockwood. "Yes you do, and I'm not giving any." "I just want to talk about it." "You want to get me talking about it. Please don't ask me to, because whatever I say will be wrong. It's your problem. Write a letter. Write several letters. Write a half a dozen. And don't show them to me. Pick out the one that says what you think, what you feel, and send it off by special delivery mail. The few pennies extra won't break you." "Are you inferring that I'm stingy?" "The word is implying, as you should know from your St. Bartholomew's Latin." "Implying, then. Are you implying that I'm stingy?" "I haven't seen you light your cigars with ten-dollar notes, not lately." "I haven't seen you with a ten-dollar note since Chat died." O'Byrne jumped to his feet, but even with that much warning George Lockwood was not quick enough to ward off the blow, a punch to mouth and nose that blinded him. "Only a bastard would say a thing like that," said O'Byrne. "Put up your fists." "I can lick you, O'Byrne. But I shouldn't have said that." "You're only bigger. You can't fight better. I want to fight you for that." "No." George Lockwood, taller and at least as strong, pinioned O'Byrne's arms to his sides and shoved him to his cot. Then he left the room, and there was blood from his nose on his handkerchief. An hour later he heard O'Byrne's voice through the open window. "Lockwood? I want to talk to you." "Go on down and talk to him. We're trying to study," said Lewis, one of the roommates. O'Byrne was standing in the light from the entryway lamp. "I brought you your telegram. And my apologies." "Nobody behaved very well," said George Lockwood. "The fact of the matter is that you hit a sore spot, and I didn't know it was there." "Do you need money?" "No. Let's walk, and I'll tell you." They set out in the direction of Kingston, marching silently in step for the first few minutes. "I hit you because the truth hurts. I'm not broke. But I was counting on my winnings to take me to Africa. I ought to know better than to count on winnings." "There's still Davenport." "There's Davenport and a rich sophomore that transferred from Ohio State. But I no longer want to play. There's a game tonight I could come out winners, I'm sure. There I go again, but I could. But I've lost interest. Ever since Chat died I haven't wanted to play. I used to like to play with him. I took his money, he had plenty of it, and we always had a jolly good evening." "Do you blame yourself because he didn't have enough money that time?" "No. It isn't that. You had money in the bank and we were on our way to give it to him." "True." "No, I don't blame myself that way. It's just that the fun's gone out of it. If I sit down and see a deck of cards and a stack of chips, I'm afraid it'd be too much for me. I don't think I'll ever want to play cards again. Gambling - yes. That's too much a part of me to give that up. But not cards. The irony is that cards are the only gambling I'm good at." "How much do you need to go to Africa?" O'Byrne shook his head. "No thanks, George. I'll never go to Africa, either. That was part of it, don't you see? Chat. Poker. Africa. All part of the same get-rich-quick scheme." "Yes, I can see how that would be." "Did you ever stop to think of these things, George? Chat went up to New Brunswick. Met a young woman that took his fancy. Gave her one too many cockloads, and now she's bearing him a child that will grow up a bastard. The terrible thing that happened to Chat, the grieving his mother and father are left with, forever asking themselves why, why, why. And of considerably less importance, one Edmund O'Byrne, Class of 1895 Princeton University, is unable to conquer the diamond fields of Africa. Take a look at that bluish ball up there, hanging in the sky, and think of all we know about it. The argument is that the Intelligence that created it wasn't concerned with you and me and the like of us. But the great complications and all the inevitability of them George, the things that do happen to you and me - to me they're better proof of that intelligence than the big, big bluish ball. The argument is that we're too infinitesimally small, George, but it seems to me the smaller we are, the greater the proof of that Intelligence. Who short of God could make so much trouble? This is the kind of talk my mother's Jesuits blame on Princeton." "Well, you certainly didn't learn it here. As far as I know, God is supposed to be so big, so powerful that it's no problem for Him to invent, I mean create, the moon and you and me." "My friend, that's another argument, but it doesn't argue anything. That's just a statement of faith. I'd rather put one theory up against another instead of making one theory into a great universal truth. You'll never get any fun out of your intellect if you don't argue with yourself. And you'll never argue with yourself if you take what the theologians give you, all wrapped up in ribbons. Red for the Sacred College of Cardinals. Orange and Black for Princeton. Blue for the moon and Yale." "You never saw a Yale-blue moon." "And please God, I never want to. I like this God damn place. After four years of throwing horse turds at it I find that I'm getting reluctant to leave. I feel the same way about Ireland, except that I know I'll go back there." "You'll come back here." "No. And even if I do? Ireland is forever. Princeton is only four years of my life, and Princeton means nothing to me but four years of my life. Princeton without the four years of my life doesn't mean anything to me. Ireland does mean something, would if I'd never been there. Ireland is instead of the church that I gave up, my mother that bores me, the songs I never wrote but had going in my head." "I wish I had something like that." "Maybe you have, and don't know it." "No. My father may have it, a little. But I haven't." "Well, you can live without it - although I wouldn't want to. You have something else, I guess, to