So I looked across at Judge Irwin, and liked him suddenly in a way I hadn't liked him in years, his old shoulders were so straight and the dog-toothed smile so true. But I knew I had to know.
So, as he studied me–for my face must have been something then to invite a reading–I met his gaze.
"I said there wasn't much," I said. "But there is something."
"Out with it," he said.
"Judge," I began, "you know who I work for."
"I know, Jack," he said, "but let's just sit here and forget it. I can't say I approve of Stark, but I'm not like most of our friends down the Row. I can respect a man, and he's a man. I was almost for him at one time. He was breaking the windowpanes out and letting in a little fresh air. But–" he shook his head sadly, and smiled–"I began to worry about him knocking down the house, too. And some of his methods. So–" He didn't finish the sentence, but gave his shoulders the slightest shrug.
"So," I finished it for him, "you threw in with MacMurfee."
"Jack," he said, "politics is always a matter of choices, and a man doesn't set up the choices himself. And there is always a price to make a choice. You know that. You've made a choice, and you know how much it cost you. There is always a price."
"Yes, but–"
"Jack, I'm not criticizing you," he said. "I trust you. Time will show which of us is wrong. And meanwhile, Jack, let's don't let it come between. If I lost my temper that night, I apologize. From my heart. It has cost me some pain.
"You say you don't like Stark's methods," I said. "Well, I'll tell you something about MacMurfee's methods. Listen, here is what MacMurfee is up to–" And I lurched and ground on like a runaway streetcar charging downhill and the brakes busted. I told him what MacMurfee was up to.
He sat and took it.
Then I asked him, "Is that pretty?"
"No," he said, and shook his head.
"It is not pretty," I said. "And you can stop it."
"Me?" he demanded.
"MacMurfee will listen to you. He's got to listen to you, for you are one of the few friends he's got left, and he knows the Boss's breath is hot on his neck. If he really had anything of more than nuisance value, he would go on and try to bust the Boss and not haggle. But he knows he hasn't got anything. And I'll tell you that if it comes to a pinch the Boss will fight in the courts. This Sibyl Frey is a homemade tart, and we can damned well prove it. We'll have an entire football squad in there, plus a track team, and all the truckers who run Highway 69 past her pappy's house. If you talk MacMurfee into sense, there might be some chance of saving his shirt when the time comes. But mind you, I can't promise a thing. Not now."
There was nothing but shadow and silence and the faint odor like old cheese for a spell, while what I had just said all went through the hopper inside that handsome old head. Then he shook the head slowly. "No," he said.
"Look here," I said, "there'll be something in it for Sibyl, the tart. We can take care of that side of it, unless she's got ideas of grandeur. She'll have to sign a little statement, of course. And I won't conceal from you that our side will have a few affidavits from her other boy-friends salted away just in case she ever gets gay again. If you think Sibyl isn't getting a square deal, I can reassure you on that point."
"It isn't that," he said.
"Judge," I said, and caught the tone of pleading in my own voice, "what the hell is it?"
"It's MacMurfee's affair. He may be making a mistake. I think he is. But it is his affair. It is the sort of thing I am not mixing in."
"Judge," I begged, "you think it over. Take a little time to think it over."
He shook his head.
I got up. "I've got to run," I said. "You think it over. I'll be back tomorrow and we can talk about it then. Give me your answer then."
He put the yellow agates on me and shook his head again. "Come to see me tomorrow, Jack. Tomorrow and every other day. But I'm giving you my answer now."
"I'm asking you, Judge, as a favor to me. Wait till tomorrow to make up your mind."
"You talk like I didn't know my own mind, Jack. That's about the only thing I've learned out of my three score and ten. That I know when I know my own mind. But you come back tomorrow, anyway. And we won't talk politics." He made a sudden gesture as though sweeping off the top of a table with his arm. "Damn politics anyway!" he exclaimed humorously.
I looked at him, and even with the wry, humorous expression on his face and the arm flung out at the end of its gesture, knew that this was it. It wasn't the dabble of the foot in the water, or even the steady deep pull of the undertow or the peripheral drag of the whirlpool. It was the heady race and plunge of the vortex. I ought to have known it would be this way.
Looking at him, I said, almost whispering, "I asked you, Judge. I near begged you, Judge."
A mild question came on his face.
"I tried," I said. "I begged you."
"What?" he demanded.
"Did you ever hear," I asked, my voice still not much more than a whisper, "of a man named Littlepaugh?"
"Littlepaugh?" he queried, and his brow wrinkled in an effort of memory.
"Mortimer L. Littlepaugh," I said, "don't you remember?"
The flesh of the forehead drew more positively together to make the deep vertical mark like a cranky exclamation point between the heavy, rust-colored eyebrows. "No," he said, and shook his head, "I don't remember."
And he didn't. I was sure he didn't. He didn't even remember Mortimer L. Littlepaugh.
"Well," I questioned, "do you remember the American Electric Power Company?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I? I was their counsel for ten years." There wasn't a flicker.
"Do you remember how you got the job?"
"Lt me see–" he began, and I knew that he didn't for the moment remember, that he was in truth reaching back into the past, trying to remember. Then, straightening himself, he said, "Yes, of course, I remember. It was through a Mr. Satterfield."
But there had been the flicker. The barb had found meat, and I knew it.
I waited a long minute, looking at him, and he looked straight back at me, very straight in his chair.
"Judge," I asked softly, "you won't change your mind? About MacMurfee?"
"I told you," he said.
Then I could hear his breathing, and I wanted more than anything to know what was in his head, why he was sitting there straight and looking at me, while the barb bled into him.
I stepped to the chair which I had occupied and lean down to pick up the manila envelope on the floor beside it. Then I moved to his chair, and laid the envelope on his lap.
He looked at the envelope, without touching it. Then he looked up at me, a hard straight look out of the yellow agates, with no question in them. Then, without saying a word, he opened the envelope and read the papers there. The light was bad, but he did not lean forward. He held the papers, one by one, up to his face. He read them very deliberately. Then he laid the last, deliberately, on his lap.
"Littlepaugh," he said musingly, and waited. "You know," he said marveling, "you know, I didn't remember his name. I swear, I didn't even remember his name."
He waited again.
"Don't you think it remarkable," he asked, "that I didn't even remember his name?"
"Maybe so," I said.
"You know," he said, still marveling, "for weeks–for months sometimes–I don't even remember any of–" he touched the papers lightly with his strong right forefinger–"of this."
He waited, drawn into himself.
Then he said, "You know, sometimes–for a long time at a stretch–it's like it hadn't happened. Not to me. Maybe to somebody else, but not to me. Then I remember, and when I first remember I say, No, it could not have happened to me."
Then he looked up at me, straight in the eye. "But it did," he said.