Читать книгу Compulsion - Meyer Levin - Страница 15

AT THAT MOMENT, Judd was sitting on a bench in the waiting room of the grimy old I.C. station. A bareheaded college boy, alert-looking, with intense dark eyes, he kept one hand in his jacket pocket, on the final instruction envelope. He had just printed on it the words MR. CHARLES KESSLER, PERSONAL. Now he kept his eyes on Artie, who was at the ticket window. Artie would come toward him in a moment for the letter. And then Artie would board the Michigan City train, staying only long enough to deposit the letter in the telegraph-blank box in the last car. Then Artie would get off the train. They would phone Kessler, giving him only the address of the drugstore near the 63rd Street station. Kessler would have precisely enough time to get to the store and receive their second call, instructing him to board this train as it arrived at 63rd Street and to look in the telegraph-blank box in the last car.

The man would just have time to rush aboard, find the letter, and read its instructions to go out to the rear platform and watch for the large building on the right-hand side, with CHAMPION MANUFACTURING printed on the wall. When the train came alongside that building, near 75th Street, the father was to toss the ransom package, as hard as he could, toward the factory. By then, Judd and Artie would be waiting in the Willys near where the package must fall.

Having the package thrown from the moving train had been Artie’s contribution. He had come running over with the idea, all excited, one night about a month ago. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The perfect end to the relays. And the beauty of it, Artie had explained, was that even if the victim’s father tipped off the cops, the two of them could be watching at 63rd Street to make sure no one but the father got on the train. And even if the cops knew what train it was, how could they, in that last moment, watch the entire length of the tracks all the way to Michigan City? The cops couldn’t drive alongside, either; there was no road directly alongside! Foolproof!

All evening they had examined the plan. Great—the work of a mastermind, a superman! Judd had congratulated his friend while suppressing, in himself, the little question, Hadn’t Artie got the idea out of one of his detective magazines?

Then, once this main part of the problem was solved, the foolproof system found, Artie had become impatient to set the day. “Let’s do it. Let’s do it.” But Judd had said that it had to be done perfectly; they had to pick the right train; they had to make a test run.

Together they had come down to this station and chosen an afternoon train, so that there would not be too many passengers, and they had chosen a short-line train, going only to Michigan City, so no one would be likely to use the telegraph-blank box. And they had tested the train, sitting together—Artie by the window and he pressing against Artie—to get a good look, to select a spot for the “delivery.” There were mostly women on the train, biddies on their way back to Gary or Michigan City after their downtown shopping. There they sat with their packages—as the victim would today sit with his package of ransom—and how could those biddies have known what was being whispered and laughed about by those two college boys! That was the delight of the entire adventure. On that ordinary train, among the dull little women on their everyday errands, he and Artie had been picking the spot where a ransom should be tossed to them!

Or now, sitting here in the railway station, watching Artie, with his easy smile, stooping to the ticket window, and knowing why. And only the two of them knowing! You could go through life carrying always your extraordinary deeds between you, sealed off from all the little people, and sealed together by your doing and your knowing!

And sitting with his eyes on Artie, Judd must have told himself that he felt no different than on all their previous trips to this station. Just as during the months of planning it had seemed as if the thing would never happen, so it seemed now as though it had not happened. The thought habit of those months was stronger than the occurrence of a single day. All yesterday was a void, an intrusion, for yesterday had been a part of the deed that they could not have rehearsed. And today was like a going back to before the thing was done, like another rehearsal, a repetition of the part of the deed they had so often rehearsed in this station.

The rehearsal with the dummy package, to see where it would land when thrown from the moving train . . . A few weeks ago, together on the train, watching the package land in an alley near that factory . . . And Artie crying happily, “Let’s do it, Jocko! Monday!” And he had told Artie, Wait. What about picking up the package? How could they be sure the alley would be clear? How could they be sure it wasn’t a spot where a flying package would attract attention?

“Christ, people are always throwing crap out of trains—pop bottles and crap.”

Still, Artie had agreed to another delay, for another test. They would separate, one on the train, the other on the ground. How heavy would ten thousand dollars be? A whole evening they had spent, laughing conspiratorially as they prepared an exact dummy package. Judd had calculated the weight in ones, fives, tens, twenties, calculated the best combination to fill a cigar box, for a box would sail good and solid. He had taken one of the old man’s perfecto boxes, and a magazine of the right weight to stuff inside. That awful Literary Digest. The next day, Artie had taken the package and boarded the train.

Judd had posted himself in the alley, behind the factory with the windowless back wall. To test everything precisely, he had left his car only two hundred feet away with the motor running. And there came the moment when he saw the train, and Artie emerging to him on the rear platform, Artie first throwing away a cigarette, and then tossing the box. It rolled down the embankment almost to his feet. In a few minutes he was in the car, and at the next station meeting Artie. Still, he had temporized, “Maybe it’s not the best place. Someone could have seen me from the street.”

And Artie had stormed, “It’s nearly summer, you sonofabitch. We’ll never do it if you keep on crapping around!”

Judd wondered, now. Had he really meant that it should never happen? That one thing or another should delay them until the day he would be going away on his trip to Europe? And Judd was a little ashamed of his own past hesitations. For everything was working fine. Here now was Artie coming from the ticket window, wearing the easy smile whose meaning was known only to the two of them. As always, Judd felt illuminated by Artie’s smile. The real collegiate carelessness about Artie, the jauntiness of him in that jacket with the half-belt in back, the quality of ease that Judd himself could never acquire, no matter how he handled himself, no matter how thoughtfully for insouciance he selected his clothes . . .

Artie scooted past him as if they didn’t know each other. (Railway stations are full of detectives; best not be too conspicuous.) Judd arose, walked over to the magazine stand, and brushed against Artie, feeling as always the contact pulse through his entire body. But in that moment he had slipped Artie the letter, and now he watched Artie going through the wicket, having his ticket punched.

Judd sat down again. Now the machinery was in motion. The minute Artie, having planted the letter, slipped off the train, they would phone Kessler. Michigan 2505. Judd couldn’t quite picture the man. A skinny twerp, Artie had said. Until yesterday he had been Mr. A, for Adversary. Now he had a name. That too had been wonderful, sitting and drinking the old man’s liquor while playing over names of possible victims. Anyone you had a hate on for a day, you could put down as the victim. Of course it was a platitude to say that the greatest fun was in anticipation, but it had to be admitted that platitudes were grown out of experience.

Evening after evening, playing the game, picking out victims, discussing the size, the maximum weight of a victim practical to handle . . . Nobody too large—a struggle would be abhorrent. And then the long arguments—almost fights—he had had with Artie, trying to convince him that it should be a girl. The image of it swept back on Judd: making it a girl, and raping the girl, would have been part of it. From the beginning he had seen it that way, the image of the rape always sweeping through him like a dizziness.

But Artie had eliminated the idea of a girl. He had no really valid reasons. He was simply against it. A boy, then. A small one.

After that, they had spent evenings debating the amount of the ransom. If you asked for a hundred thousand, Artie said, every cop in town would be on the job. How much would a man risk, and keep away from the police, just to get his son back?

“How much would your own old man give?”

“Hah! That depends on which son!” And, eyes snapping, Artie had begun to stutter as he did only when he was extremely excited. “Billy now! Billy, the baby, the cutie! They’d pay a hundred thousand, a million for him! Hey! Why not really kidnap Billy?”

For a moment he had been serious, Judd was sure. But then they had dismissed it as impractical. Artie would be surrounded by police all over the house. It would be too difficult to collect the ransom.

For a whole evening their game had followed that vein. Suppose they staged a kidnaping, one with the other? “My old man would give a hundred thousand simoleons and say, ‘Keep the punk!’” Artie had kidded. And he had pictured where he would send his old man to pick up messages. His dignified pater. A message in a ladies’ toilet! That had convulsed him.

Judd had in turn pictured how his own father would react. Oh, he’d pay; he was proud of his prodigy! The boy ornithologist! Judah Steiner, Sr., had to have his prodigy’s achievements to brag about at the club. As if the old man understood the first thing about ornithology, or anything at all but bills of lading!

Then Artie had produced an even better idea: kidnaping their own old men, in person! They had fallen over each other with laughter. Artie, imitating his father—dignity outraged! Judd could just see Randolph Straus, the richest Jew in Chicago: “Boys! What is the meaning of this!”

Even now, sitting waiting for Artie, Judd had to smile at the thought. As if the whole thing were still to be done. And then he saw it as his own father, the old man’s bewilderment as they tied him up and took off their masks. “What are you doing to me?” the old man would demand in his ponderous way. Ah, there would be a crime for posterity!

But the thing was already done, Judd reminded himself. Though if they got away with this, Artie might want him to— No. For when he returned from Europe and went to Harvard, he would be different; maybe he wouldn’t feel this way about Artie any more . . .

Judd drew in his breath, and looked fearfully toward the wicket, as if by this disloyal thought alone he might lose Artie.

In a moment Artie would be coming out. Judd rehearsed the Kessler phone number, the address of the drugstore, and told himself he must now be sure not to tell the Adversary to go to the Help Keep the City Clean box. That was eliminated, and there jumped into his mind the other thing about the box, the final, macabre idea Artie had proposed, a skeleton popping up as the lid was opened, or maybe—his eyes darkening—even better than a skeleton, a severed hand!

“You’ll give the guy heart failure; we’ll never collect!” Judd had said. “Besides, where would you get it?”

And Artie had given him that look, as if, despite all they had done together, Judd really wasn’t in on the real, the inside things. “Oh, I could get it all right.” Laughing, he added, “From a medical student. From Willie.”

And Judd had felt a fear, a sadness, that gripped him again even now as the scene came back to him; Artie’s merely naming Willie Weiss had brought the convulsed feeling around his heart that there were things Artie did with others, maybe with Willie, activities, secrets, from which he was excluded. He had even tried to turn it, to make Willie the victim.

“Willie!” he had exclaimed, but with a fear in watching Artie’s reaction. “Hey, he’d be a good one. How about him?” For a moment Artie had joined in the idea. Had it been to tease him? Picturing Willie, the astounded look on his face, Willie trying to talk his way out of it and his cleverness failing him, Willie with the gag in his mouth, then dead between them. But finally Artie had said no, because Willie’s old man was a notorious tightwad. He’d never pay. Artie had got out of making it Willie . . .

There was Artie, coming from the train, smiling, as if he were just stepping out to buy a magazine before his train left. Now was the time to make the phone call. Judd pictured Mr. A by a phone, waiting. It was again a man like his own father. Still, it was better, purer, that nothing personal had guided them in their final choice. To have left blank the address on the ransom envelope, even as they prowled the street for the victim—that had been a superb affirmation. It proved destiny was accidental. Yes, they themselves had proved it; they had made a destiny, purely at random. Wouldn’t that settle forever the silly argument about any meaning in life? Concatenation of circumstances—admitted—but meaningless, meaningless . . .

Judd arose to the gladness of Artie coming toward him. Now they were continuing. Yesterday had been an intrusion. Now, the game was continuing.

He had already changed a nickel for a telephone slug, as each public phone had its own token. With the slug ready in his hand, Judd waited for Artie to crowd in beside him in the booth. They heard the busy signal together. Artie yanked the receiver from Judd’s hand, and slammed it back onto the hook. “Sonsabitches! They’re violating our instructions!” His eyes were yellow. Judd knew these sudden rages Artie could have. But after all . . . “Maybe somebody called them, by accident,” he said.

“Let’s get out of here!”

They hurried from the station. Artie, with his long stride, was already starting the car when Judd caught up with him. “Let’s call again from a drugstore,” Judd said. The note was on the train, the train would soon be on its way.

Pulling up at the nearest drugstore, on Wabash, Artie was out of the car before it had completely stopped. He snapped his fingers at the clerk for a couple of slugs. The clerk was busy with some blobby-faced woman over shades of rouge. Stupid little things like this, Judd muttered to himself, could wreck a plan of perfection.

But Artie turned on his charm. “Excuse me,” he said to the lady, “I don’t want to keep my girl waiting by the phone.” She broke into a fat coy smile, while the clerk changed Artie’s dime.

Hurrying into the booth, Artie took the phone; Judd seized it from him. Kessler might know Artie’s voice. “I was only going to get the number,” Artie snapped.

The ringing began.

Charles Kessler seized the phone almost thankfully. “Yes, this is Charles Kessler personally. My boy is all right?” The kidnapers were keeping their word; they were calling. Surely that newspaper reporter was crazy. Paulie was safe. The transaction would be completed, and in a few hours Paulie would be home safe.

“Do you have the money ready, according to our instructions?”

“Yes, yes. Is Paulie all right?”

“Your boy is safe. A cab will shortly call at your door. Proceed in the cab to the drugstore at 1360 East 63rd Street. Wait for a call in the first phone booth from the door. Is that clear?”

Kessler tried again, about the boy. Could he talk to Paulie?

“Remember, the address is 1360 East 63rd Street. You will receive further instructions at that time.” Their receiver clicked down.

“Wait! Wait—”

Judge Wagner seized the phone. “Operator! Operator—” But it was too late to trace the call. If only they had not been afraid, and had allowed the police to listen in.

“He told me a drugstore, on 63rd Street . . .” Then, despairingly, Kessler clapped his hand to his head. He couldn’t remember the address of the store.

From the phone next to Judd’s, Artie had meanwhile sent off the cab. Judd felt anew the pleasure in the whole thing, a kind of duet with Artie, the smoothness of their working together.

The woman had selected her rouge, and now she turned to them with a naughty-boy gleam. “Well, whose girl is it?” she asked coyly.

“Oh, it’s a double date,” Artie said, giving her his smile.

Judd looked at his watch. “Come on, we can just make it.” This time he took the wheel. Artie’s wild driving might get them into a smashup. Especially if he had an idea he was racing a train.