Роберт Уоррен - All the king's men

"It was an accident," she repeated, drawing back into herself.

"No," I said, "he did it, but it was not his fault. He was driven to it." I watched her face. "He had given years to that company, then they threw him out. To make room for a man who had done a wicked thing. Who drove your brother to his death. Isn't that true?" I got up, and took a step toward her. "Isn't that true?"

She looked at me steadily, then broke. "He did! He drove him to it, he killed him, he was hired because it was a bribe–my brother knew that–he told them he knew it–but they threw him out–they said he couldn't prove it, and threw him out–"

"Could he prove it?" I said.

"Oh, he knew, all right. He knew all about that coal business–he knew long before but he didn't know what they were going to do to him–they treated him fine then and knew all the time they would throw him out–but he went to the Governor and said–"

"What," I demanded, "what did you say?" And stepped toward her.

"To the Governor, he–"

"Who?"

"To Governor Stanton, and the Governor wouldn't listen, he just–"

I grasped the old woman's arm and held it tight. "Listen," I said, "you are telling me that your brother went to Governor Stanton and told him?"

"Yes, and Governor Stanton wouldn't listen. He told him he couldn't prove anything, he wouldn't investigate, and that–"

"Are you lying?" I demanded, and shook the matchwood arm.

"It's true, true to God!" she exclaimed quivering in my grasp. "And that killed my brother. The Governor killed him. He went to the hotel and wrote the letter to me and told me, and that night–"

"The letter," I said, "what happened to the letter?"

"–that night–just before day–but waiting all night in that room–and just before day–"

"The letter," I demanded, "what happened to the letter?"

I shook her again, as she repeated, whispering, "Just before day–" But she came up out of the depth of the thought she was in, looked at me, and answered, "I have it."

I released my grip on her arm, thrust a bill into her clammy hand, and crushed her fingers upon it. "It's a hundred dollars," I said. "Give me the letter, and you can have the rest–three hundred dollars!"

"No," she said, "no, you want to get rid of the letter. Because it tells the truth. You're that man's friend." She stared into my face, prying into it, blinking, like an old person prying with feeble fingers to open a box. She gave up, and asked helplessly, "Are you his friend?"

"If he could see me right now," I said, "I don't imagine he would think so."

"You aren't his friend?"

"No," I said. She looked at me dubiously. "No," I said, "I'm not his friend. Give me the letter. If it is ever used it will be used against him. I swear it."

"I'm afraid," she said, but I could feel her fingers under my arm slowly working the bill I had thrust there.

"Don't be afraid of the insurance company. That was long back."

"When I went to the Governor–" she began.

"Did you go to the Governor, too?

"After it happened–after everything–I wanted to hurt that man–I went to the Governor–"

"My God," I said.

"–and ask him to punish him–because he had taken a bribe–because he had killed my brother–but he said I had no proof, that the man was his friend and I had no proof."

"The letter, did you show him the letter?"

"Yes, I had the letter."

"Did you show Governor Stanton the letter?"

"Yes–yes–and he stood there and said, 'Miss Littlepaugh, you have sworn that you did not receive that letter, you have sworn to a lie, and that is perjury and the penalty for perjury is severe, and if that letter becomes known you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.' "

"What did you do?" I asked.

The head, which was nothing but gray hair and yellow skin stuck on bone, and old memories, wavered on its thin stalk of a neck, lightly and dryly as though touched by a breeze. "Do," she echoed, "do," shaking her head. "I was a poor woman, alone. My brother, he had gone away. What could I do?"

"You kept the letter," I affirmed, and she nodded.

"Get it," I said, "get it. Nobody will bother you now. I swear it."

She got it. She clawed into the mass of yellow and acid-smelling papers and old ribbons and crumpled cloths in a tin trunk in the corner, while I leaned over her and fretted at the palsied incompetence of the fingers. Then she had it.

I snatched the envelope from her hand and shook the paper out. It was a sheet of hotel stationery–the Hotel Moncastello–dated August 3, 1915. It read: Dear Sister, I have been this afternoon to see Governor Stanton and told him How I have been thrown out of my job like a dog after all these years because than man Irwin was bribed to let up on the suit against the Southern Belle Fuel people and how he now has my place at a salary they never paid me and I gave them my heart's blood all these years. And they call him vice-president, too. They lied to me and they cheated me and they make him vice-president for taking a bribe. But Governor Stanton would not listen to me. He asked me for my proof and I told him what Mr. Satterfield told me months ago how the case had been fixed and how in our company they'd take care of Irwin. Now Satterfield denies it. He denies he ever told me, and looks me in the eye. So I have no proof, and Governor Stanton will not investigate.

I can do no more. I went as you know to the people who are against Governor Stanton in politics but they would not listen to me. Because that blackguard and infidel McCall who is their kingpin is tied up with Southern Belle. At first they were interested but now they laugh at me. What can I do? I am old and not well. I will never be any good again. I will be a drag on you and not a help. What can I do, Sister?

You have been good to me. I thank you. Forgive me for what I am going to do, but I am going to join our sainted Mother and our dear Father who were kind and good to us and who will greet me on the Other Shore, and dry every tear.

Good-bye until the happy day when we shall meet again in Light.

MORTIMER

P. S. I have borrowed against my insurance a good bit. On account of bad investments. But there is something left and if they know I have done what I am going to do they will no pay you.

P. S. Give my watch which was Father's to Julian, who will respect it even if he is only a cousin.

P. S. I could do what I am going to do easier if I were not trying to get the insurance for you. I have paid for the insurance and you ought to have it.

So the poor bastard had gone to the Other Shore, where Mother and Father would dry away every tear, immediately after having instructed his sister how to defraud the insurance company. There it all was–all of Mortimer Lonzo–the confusion, weakness, piety, self-pity, small-time sharpness, vindictiveness, all of it in the neat, spidery, old-fashioned bookkeeper's sort of hand, a little shakier than ordinary perhaps, but with all the t's crossed and the i's dotted.

I replaced it in the envelope and put it in my pocket. "I am going to have it photostated," I said, "and you may have it back. I'll have the photostat certified. But you must make a statement before a notary about you visit to Governor Stanton. And–" I went over to the table and picked up the two bills and handed them to her–"there will be another one coming to you after you make your statement. Get you hat."

So I had it after all the months. For nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost. There is always the clue, the canceled check, the smear of lipstick, the footprint in the canna bed, the condom on the park path, the twitch in the old wound, the baby shoes dipped in bronze, the taint in the blood stream. And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us.