Conrad Aiken - King Coffin

— And did you?

— Yes. At his house.

There was a pause, and as Toppan said nothing in reply to this, he turned and looked at him. His hand was over his eyes, his head was bowed a little forward. Perhaps he was tired — perhaps he was playing ’possum. The right foot, slippered, the veined instep showing below the green pajama leg, jigged up and down, mechanically, slightly, with the beating of his heart. Otherwise he was motionless. Looking down on him like this, one could see the white scalp through the disordered red hair: the hand across the forehead, by contrast, looked very living, very vital. Toppan’s consciousness was perhaps in his hand.

— But never mind that. Are you awake?

— Of course.

— What I want to know is, what can I do next.

While Toppan pondered this, kneading his forehead with his fingers, Ammen filled and lit his pipe: he watched Toppan over the flame, began to wonder whether the whole thing wasn’t a mistake, a miscalculation. Toppan was being a little too wary, and, as his diary had made clear, he perhaps now suspected a shade too much for comfort. He had begun to step out of his role as mere satellite, wanted to enjoy detecting the detective. If he and Gerta should now, as seemed not impossible, put their heads together—

— I said, what can I do next.

— It depends on what you want. And of course on how much you’ve already got. I take it you’ve already observed all that can be superficially observed—

— Yes. I know his daily habits, as I’ve told you, his clothes, his shoes, the papers he reads, the day he puts out the ash can, and so on. I know what he’s like. A thoroughly commonplace and somewhat conceited little person, a sort of unconvinced failure. Certainly nobody you’d want to waste five minutes with, otherwise. You ought to see the house, for instance — a dreary two-family thing, one of millions, you know without going into it exactly what it will be like — cheap carpets that look as if they’d been designed in vomit, bead curtains, a wallpaper in the bathroom meant to look like tiles, a mission clock, a gas log fire. But all this is general — I want now the specific. You understand? And of course without meeting him.

— Not so easy. But there might be ways—

— What.

— If you want to go into the house, you could pretend to be canvassing for something. There’d be a risk in it but not much — if you went in the daytime, which you would, you’d see only his wife, or whoever lives there, and even if—

— What.

— Even if in your supposed role as an eventual murderer you later kill her husband she would have, presumably, no special reason for connecting you with it, or even for recalling your visit.

— Not a bad idea. But for one thing, I’m beginning to be uneasy about appearing in that neighborhood too much — as you’ve probably noticed, there is always a postman about, or a policeman. What about that.

— Yes, I know. It’s not too easy. Have you thought of using a car?

— A car?

— Yes, a car. It’s of course one of the recognized devices — you sit in the car a little way off, it prevents your having to dodge about behind telephone poles day after day, and so on. I told you I used one that time in Brookline.

— I hadn’t thought of it — it might be a good idea. You mean, hire one.

— Yes.

— I’ll keep it in mind.

— Or if there happens to be an apartment vacant across the street—

— There isn’t.

— How long do you propose going on with it, anyway? After all, there isn’t much to gain after a certain point—

— My dear Toppan you’re sometimes very stupid. In a pure study of this sort there can be no limit.

— Incidentally, that time you had him call you on the telephone — isn’t there a weakness there?

— You mean he’d have a record of the number? No. The occupant of that apartment has been carefully instructed, if Kazis calls again, to say that the whole project is off, and without mentioning any names. It would be a dead end in any inquiry — completely.

— Do you think it’s quite fair to use Gerta for that?

— Did I say it was Gerta?

— It’s fairly obvious.

— You’re quite mistaken. It isn’t.

— In that case I’m relieved.

— Keep the change.

There was a pause — he walked to the piano, touched one note, felt a little defrauded, the thing was not going exactly as planned, the tone was wrong, as out of key — somehow — as this too-vibrant c-sharp. He said:

— I’m afraid you’re not much help, but thanks just the same. There’s one thing further — I must remind you that I expect you to treat all this in the strictest confidence. And since you mention Gerta, I’ll repeat what I said to you before, I think perhaps you’re forgetting it a little — I don’t want any interference there. I won’t go into details, but there is a very delicate and peculiar situation between Gerta and me, of great importance to both of us, and I don’t want any meddling with it — is that clear?

— Perfectly.

— Then why do you blush?

— As I said once before, that’s my innocence.

— All right. Keep it. And keep out .

— Just as you say, professor!

— If you don’t, I shall know it — I shall make it my business to know it. And I don’t think you’d enjoy the consequences.

— My dear fellow—

— Thanks for the smell of whisky. Good night.

Arrived on the top floor, he felt a little breathless, a little stifled, he suddenly discovered that he was holding his pipe too hard, and with a perspiring hand. The whole thing had been somehow forced —it had not come naturally, was not natural now; the effect was of a slight jangling. The map still hung there, with its marginal notes, the list of dates and scenes, it was all just as clear as before, just as orderly; but there was also a queer something which was changing. For one thing, he had not, as he now saw he had intended, presented Jones to Toppan, and this had seemed important. He had wanted — that was it — to make Toppan vividly aware of him — as vividly as he was aware himself. He had wanted to photograph him for Toppan — tweed hat, fur collar, ash can, and all: the mole, the perpetual smirk, the mustache, the jaunty little vulgarity of bearing. Curious he hadn’t seen that — his purpose had not been so much to ask advice as simply to talk about Jones; and in talking about him — was that it? — to take further possession of him . But for some reason, this project had broken down; Jones seemed if anything farther off than before; the excitement had cooled.

It must be simply that he was tired.

From the window he looked obliquely down at the deserted and lamp-lit stillness of Massachusetts Avenue, then, as always, lifted his eyes to the one mysterious light which always burned nightlong in an upper room of Boylston Hall. What secret was in that room—?

And at once, as always, when he thought of it, the vision returned; dimension after dimension rolled off soundlessly to disclose depth above depth, height below height; where vapor had been, the tree of clouds began once again to thrust upward with swirling boughs.

This was good, he could laugh again, Jones was still there. Let the clocks go as madly as they liked, Jones would still be waiting for him, waiting calmly.

The little procession was monstrous, it was absurd, it was mad and meaningless, and as he watched it from the safe interior of the car, which was filled with tobacco smoke, with his black hat pulled down over his eyes, the pale afternoon sunlight seemed to emphasize and isolate each element in it as grotesquely as if it were merely an outlandish figure in a dream.