Meyer Levin - Compulsion

Judd saw himself standing before some powerful man – a heavy moustache, an authority – but he remained unflustered, controlled, saying, “A mere coincidence,” as he accepted the spectacles back into his hand and placed them back in this same coat pocket. For no matter who they were, the authorities would know they had to accept the word of Judah Steiner, Jr.

In fact, they would conduct their questioning with the utmost deference, and probably apologize to his old man for even calling him in. And the old man would say to him quietly, “You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. What kind of nonsense is this?” But Judd would say, “It’s routine. I’m perfectly willing to answer any questions they ask.” And all that time it would be a howl over the old man and his slow-minded righteousness! For he would be fooling the old man as well as all the inquisitors.

“I ought to kill you for making such a boner,” Artie said, hurling the newspaper to the floor.

Judd put the car in gear. Starting homeward, he said, “I agree – if it were entirely my error, I would deserve death.” Indeed, in a superior society, no one capable of such a stupid oversight should have a right to live. Nietzsche would certainly have condemned him, for in the end it was his own fault for having the glasses in his pocket. Thus, the pendulum in him swung to the other extreme, and Judd saw Artie enthroned, with golden wristbands, golden breastplate and greaves, judging him as he knelt abjectly. And the sentence – Artie’s outstretched gold-banded arm, decreeing death. And suppose he went out now with Artie to some dark field and insisted that Artie carry through the sentence – Artie shooting him, his body crumpling – it would be his sacrifice for Artie. They would find his body; he would leave a note acknowledging the glasses as his, the crime as his. That would be part of the sentence, and Artie would be forever safe.

But aloud, Judd proposed a bold idea. To go directly to the police and claim the spectacles. “I read the story in the papers, and realized that on my last birding expedition-”

“You’ll bugger it up,” Artie said. “You’ll bugger it up, sure as Christ.” He whistled at a couple of chicks on Michigan, reaching over to pound the horn, and elbowing Judd to pipe the broads.

The girls went into a building. “Crows, anyway,” Artie said, but his spirits had lifted. “Suppose you go and say they’re your glasses. All right. They give you the third degree. You think you can take the third degree?” he challenged.

“I’d be glad to help you in any way I can, officer,” stated Judd, looking him unflinchingly in the eye.

“Watch where you’re driving, you sucker. All right, Mr. Steiner, where were you last Wednesday?” Artie’s restless glance lit on another chick – this part of Michigan was red light.

“The hell, you want another dose?” Judd remonstrated, then resumed, “Last Wednesday, yes, I recall distinctly, I spent the entire afternoon and evening with Artie Straus, a friend of mine.”

“All right, so then they pick me up and check your story. I ought to kill you first, you crapper.”

They rehearsed once more the story they had agreed upon, should they ever be questioned. Artie became suddenly attentive. “All right, we had lunch at the Windermere. That’s a fact. Willie was there with us.”

They laughed again. Judd felt pleased. They would be using Willie Weiss, and Willie wouldn’t even know how he and Artie together were having a laugh at him. “Then after lunch” – Judd picked it up – “we spent several hours in Lincoln Park, at the lagoon, mostly sitting parked in my car, as I was watching for a species of warbler that arrives in this area late in May-”

“Hey, give them the scientific name,” Artie said.

“Dendroica Aestiva, of the Compsothlypidae family,” said Judd.

Then Artie took over the story. “I went along with Judd Steiner and sat in the car while he did his bird scouting. I thought it would make a good effect on my mother to tell her I spent the afternoon with Judd and his bird science, so she would get the idea I was doing something real studious. But I’m afraid, sir, we had a pint of gin in the car and by suppertime I had too much gin on my breath, so I didn’t think that would impress my mother very well. We stayed out for supper, had supper at the – let’s see-”

“Coconut Grove,” said Judd.

“Then we drove around a while, trying to pick up a couple of girls.”

“You mean, girls you didn’t know?”

“Yes, sir, you know, just a couple of janes.”

“Do you frequently engage in this practice?”

“Well, officer” – winking – “you know how it is-”

“How did you make out?”

“Well, we picked up a couple, around 63rd and State. And we drove back to Jackson Park-”

Judd interrupted. “I thought we were going to say Lincoln Park.”

“The first time, the birds, is Lincoln. The second time, the twats, is Jackson. Over by the lake… Only you see, officer, these girls wouldn’t come across, so about ten o’clock we told them to get out and walk.”

“Can you give us their names, Mr. Straus?”

“Well, mine said her name was Edna, but you know – we didn’t give them our right names, either. She was a blonde, well built-” He made curves with his hands, and just then spotted a girl in a Paige, passing them. “Hey! Follow her!”

“Listen” – Judd chased the Paige – “how about if we change the story? If we say they did come across, then it’s even less likely the girls would ever come forward and identify themselves.”

“All right. Wait a minute. If they came across, then we’d have taken them home. So where do they live?” Judd passed the Paige, but the girl ignored Artie’s waving.

“We could say they told us to let them off at the corner where we picked them up,” Judd suggested. “That sounds genuine.”

“Hey!” Artie eyed him cleverly. “How about giving them the story you were out with a nice girl?”

“You mean, we had a double date with nice girls?”

“No, just you.” After all, no glasses of Artie’s had been found.

Judd felt a quiver of grief, more than anger. A feeling of loneliness, as if Artie had actually deserted him and left him with some jane he didn’t even want. But then he finessed the game on Artie. “I could say I was driving, and you had Myra in the back seat. She’d back it up for you. As you say, she’ll do anything for you.”

“Damn right,” said Artie, still eyeing him in that cunning way.

Desperately, Judd tried to recapture the mood. “How about we both take her out tonight and rape her?”

“You’d be scared to try.”

“Yah? Anything you’ll do I’ll do.”

“Yah?” Judd knew what it was now in Artie’s look. It was the accusation over what had happened yesterday, at the crucial moment – when they had the kid in the car, and the sudden blows and the blood, and Judd had heard himself crying out, “Oh my God, this is terrible!”

“You were scared cold,” Artie said with finality. “That’s why you dropped your goddam glasses.”

In his tone, Judd felt everything possible. Maybe Artie would do it to him. Like things Artie must have done. Maybe Artie coming up behind him, the slug on the skull with the taped chisel, and the quick push off the end of the Jackson Park pier, his body plopping into the dark water, and his own look, upturned to Artie, accepting.

“I’ll stick to the alibi for a week,” Artie said. “After that, it’s each man for himself.”

“If a week goes by, we ought to be safe on the glasses,” said Judd.

He turned on Hyde Park Boulevard. At the Kessler house, police cars lined the curb. Photographers and newspapermen were all over the lawn. Artie was about to hop out. “Stay away from there!” Judd cried.