Флетчер Флора - Park Avenue Tramp

Aware after an age that he was on the floor, he decided that the floor was a good place to be. He thought that he would simply remain forever on the floor. Someone, however, did not want him to stay there. Someone was asking him to get up, pleading with him in a crooning voice, but he knew perfectly well that this was only a trick, an effort to get him to do what he did not want to do, and he could avoid this simply by lying very still and pretending that he didn’t hear. This did not work, however, for whoever was talking was now also lifting him to his feet and holding him erect, and he was suddenly ashamed that he was not even capable of standing on his own feet without help. He spread his legs, trying to establish a balance. Deliberately, with a great effort, he raised his head and tried to focus his eyes. It was a foolish and painful thing to do, which would surely accomplish nothing, but he was compelled by an irrational conviction that it was somehow essential to pride and manhood to stand erect and see clearly in that instant.

It was the instant he died. Cupid’s second and last blow detonated above the bad heart that was ready to quit, and Joe collapsed again in a final recapitulation of pain and engulfing darkness. The. pain was as brief as the instant of dying, but the darkness endured with death.

Oliver knocked and opened the door and came into the room. Charity was lying on her back on her bed. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t look at Oliver when he entered. She didn’t stir in the slightest.

“There’s a man here to see you, my dear,” Oliver said.

“I don’t wish to see anyone,” Charity said.

Oliver walked over beside the bed and stood looking down at her. She was fully dressed, wearing even her shoes. Her wide-open eyes were hot and dry and unblinking. They continued to stare at the ceiling.

“I’m afraid you had better see this man whether you want to or not,” Oliver said. “He’s a policeman.”

“Why does a policeman want to see me?” she said. “I’ve done nothing that should be of any interest whatever to a policeman.”

“Of course you haven’t, my dear. He’s only trying to get some information about a man who was killed. This man’s name was Joe Doyle. The policeman seems to have some evidence that you and the dead man knew each other. Naturally, he wants to ask you some questions.”

“Am I required to answer his questions?”

“I think you are. After all, he’s really being very considerate. He might have forced you to go to police headquarters.”

“All right. If I’m required to answer them, I’ll come.”

“I’d like to make a suggestion first, if you don’t mind. Please be very careful of what you say. There’s always a danger that an inexperienced person may incriminate himself or others in these things when there is really no need for it at all. It would be most unfortunate if you were so careless.”

“I know. You needn’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, my dear. Not for myself. I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be with you all the time, supporting you, and I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about. Shall we go in together?”

“Yes.”

She got up and smoothed the skirt of her dress and pushed back the heavy side of her hair. She did not look at Oliver at any time. Walking with a kind of rigidity, as if she had been drinking too much and were exercising the greatest effort to conceal it, which was not true, she walked out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room, where a man rose at once from a chair to meet her. He was slender, below average height, with sparse, sandy hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, and his eyes were covered with thick, rimless lenses. He leaned slightly forward from the hips, which gave him the appearance of peering intently at whomever he was merely looking, and he had, she learned after a moment, an odd habit of pinching the lobe of his right ear with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He did not conform at all to her idea of a policeman. To her, he looked much more like a clerk in a department store, although he was not dressed quite well enough for it, and he was so palpably uneasy that she felt sorry for him and wanted immediately to say something to reassure him.

“My dear,” Oliver said, “this is Mr. Bunting of the police.”

“Lieutenant,” Bunting said.

“Excuse me. Lieutenant Bunting. He would like to ask you some questions.”

“How do you do,” Charity said. “I’m sure I can’t imagine what I could tell you that would be of any help to you.”

“Well, it’s just routine, Mrs. Farnese.” Bunting sounded apologetic. “You know how these things are.”

“No, I don’t,” Charity said. “What things?”

“Oh, police matters in general. It’s necessary to investigate them, you know. I’ll not disturb you any longer than necessary. Perhaps it would be better if we sat down.”

“Certainly. Please sit down, Lieutenant.”

Bunting hesitated with an air of desperation and then sat down slowly in the chair from which he had risen. Afterward, Charity went to another chair and sat down too. They faced each other across five feet of deep pile. Oliver continued to stand.

“I understand that you knew a man named Joseph Doyle,” Bunting said.

“Do you?” Charity said.

“Yes. He played the piano in a nightclub called Duo’s. You’re familiar with the place, I believe. The bartender there told me that you and Doyle became acquainted there one night about a week ago and later left the club together. He said you saw each other at other times.”

“Is he certain of that? That we saw each other at other times afterward?”

“Well, no, he isn’t, as a matter of fact. He can’t prove it, that is. He assumes it, but he feels sure you did.” Bunting shot a glance at Oliver Farnese and looked more apologetic than ever. “I don’t want to embarrass you, of course.”

“I am not embarrassed, Lieutenant. I only want to know if you are accusing me of something just because someone chooses to make assumptions.”

“I am not accusing you of anything for any reason.” Bunting pinched the lobe of his ear, glanced at Oliver Farnese and back to Charity. “I thought it was understood that I’m only after information. I’m not very good at saying things, however, and maybe I didn’t make my position clear. What do you say we start over? Joseph Doyle is dead. Maybe it was murder, but more likely it was manslaughter. He was found yesterday morning in an alley. His jaw was broken and his face and lips lacerated, and several teeth were loosened. He had been struck, from the evidence, by the fist of a strong man. But it wasn’t this blow that killed him. He had been struck a second time in the body. Above the heart. Post mortem showed that he had a bum heart, and it was the body blow that he didn’t survive.”

“He had rheumatic fever as a boy,” Charity said.

Bunting smiled at her, pinching the ear lobe, and silence stretched out for seconds. His attitude seemed suddenly more relaxed, suggesting that everything would now surely be pleasant and productive for everyone since he had clarified his position and his problem.

“That’s fine, Mrs. Farnese,” he said finally. “I knew you would want to cooperate with us when you understood the circumstances.”

“I’m willing to cooperate,” she said, “but I still don’t understand how I can help you.”

“You do admit that you knew Joseph Doyle?”

“What do you mean, admit it? I don’t like the way that sounds. You make it sound as if it were something shameful or incriminating or something.”

“No, no. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. I only want a statement as to whether you knew him or not.”