"Yes," I said, "it did."
"Yes," he nodded, "but it is difficult for me to believe."
"It is for me, too," I said.
"Thanks for that much, Jack," he said, and smiled crookedly.
"I guess you know the next move," I said.
"I guess so. Your employer is trying to put pressure on me. To blackmail me."
"_Pressure__ is a prettier word," I averred.
"I don't care much about pretty words any more. You live with words a long time. Then all at once you are old, and there are the things and the words don't matter any more."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Suit yourself," I replied, "but you get the idea."
"Don't you know–your employer ought to know, since he claims to be a lawyer, that this stuff," he tapped the papers again with the forefinger, "wouldn't stick? Not for one minute. In a court of law. Why, it happened almost twenty-five years ago. And you wouldn't get any testimony, anyway. Except from this Littlepaugh woman. Which would be worthless. Everybody is dead."
"Except you, Judge," I said.
"It wouldn't stick in court."
"But you don't live in a court. You aren't dead, and you live in the world and people think you are a certain kind of man. You aren't the kind of man who could bear for them to think different, Judge."
"They couldn't think it!" he burst out, leaning forward. "By God, they haven't any right to think it. I've done right, I've done my duty, I've–"
I took my gaze from his face and directed it to the papers on his lap. He saw me do that, and looked down, too. The words stopped, and his fingers touched the papers, tentatively as though to verify their reality. Quite slowly, he raised his eyes back to me. "You're right," he said. "I did this, too."
"Yes," I said, "you did."
"Does Stark know it?"
I tried to make out what was behind that question, but I couldn't read him.
"No, he doesn't," I replied. "I told him I wouldn't tell him till I'd seen you. I had to be sure, you see, Judge."
"You have a tender sensibility," he said. For a blackmailer."
"We won't start calling names. All I'll say is that you're trying to protect a blackmailer."
"No, Jack," he said quietly, "I'm not trying to protect MacMurfee. Maybe–" he hesitated–"I'm trying to protect myself."
"You know how to do it, then. And I'll never tell Stark."
"Maybe you'll never tell him, anyway."
He said that even more quietly, and for the instant I though he might be ready to reach for a weapon–the desk was near him–or ready to spring at me. He might be old but he would still be a customer.
He must have guessed the thought, for he shook his head, smiled, and said, "No, don't worry. You needn't be afraid."
"Look here–" I began angrily.
"I wouldn't hurt you," he said. Then, reflectively, added, "But I could stop you."
"By stopping MacMurfee," I said.
"A lot easier than that."
"How?"
"A lot easier than that," he repeated.
"How?"
"I could just–" he began, "I could just say to you–I could just tell you something–" He stopped, the suddenly rose to his feet, spilling the papers off his knees. "But I won't," he said cheerfully, and smiled directly at me.
"Won't tell me what?"
"Forget it," he said, still smiling, and waved his hand in a gay dismissal of the subject.
I stood there irresolutely for a moment. Things were not making sense. He was not supposed to be standing there, brisk and confident and cheerful, with the incriminating papers at his feet. But he was.
I stooped to pick up the papers, and he watched me from his height.
"Judge," I said, "I'll be back tomorrow. You think it over, and make up your mind tomorrow."
"Why, it's made up."
"You'll–"
"No, Jack."
I went to the hall door. "I'll be back tomorrow," I said.
"Sure, sure. You come back. But my mind is made up."
I walked down the hall without saying good-bye. I had my hand lifted to the front door when I heard his voice calling my name. I turned and took a few steps toward him. He had come out into the hall. "I just wanted to tell you," he said, "that I did learn something new from those interesting documents. I learned that my old friend Governor Stanton impaired his honor to protect me. I do not know whether to be more glad or sorry, at the fact. At the knowledge of his attachment or the knowledge of the pain it cost him. He had never told me. That was the pitch of his generosity. Wasn't it? Not ever telling me."
I mumbled something to the effect that I supposed it was.
"I just wanted you to know about the Governor. That his failing was a defect of his virtue. The virtue of affection for a friend."
I didn't mumble anything to that.
"I just wanted you to know that about the Governor," he said.
"All right," I said, and went to the front door, feeling his yellow gaze and calm smile upon me, and out into the blaze of light.
It was still hotter than hell's hinges as I walked up the Row toward home. I debated a swim or getting into my car and heading back to town to tell the Boss that Judge Irwin wouldn't budge. Then I decided that I might wait over another day. I might wait on just the chance that the Judge would change his mind. But I wouldn't swim till later. It was too hot even to swim now. I would take a shower when I got in and lie down till it had cooled off enough for a swim.
I took my shower and lay down on my bed and went to sleep.
I came out of the sleep and popped straight up in the bed. I was wide awake. The sound that had awakened me was still ringing in my ears. I knew that it had been a scream. Then it came again. A bright, beautiful, silvery soprano scream.
I bounced off the bed and started for the door, realized that I was buck-naked, grabbed a robe, and ran out. There was a noise down the hall from my mother's room, a sound like moaning. The door was open and I ran in.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a negligee, clutching the white bedside telephone in her hand, staring at me with wide, wild eyes, and moaning in a spaced, automatic fashion. I went toward her. She dropped the telephone to the floor with a clatter, and pointed her finger at me and cried out, "You did it, you did, you killed him!"
"What?" I demanded, "what?"
"You killed him!"
"Killed who?"
"You killed him!" She began to laugh hysterically.
I was holding her by the shoulders now, shaking her, trying to make her stop laughing, but she kept clawing and pushing at me. She stopped laughing an instant to gasp for breath, and in that interval I heard the dry, clicking signal the telephone was making to call attention to the fact it was not on its rack. Then her laughter drowned out the sound.
"Shut up, shut up!" I commanded, and she suddenly stared at me as though just discovering my presence.
Then, not loud now but with intensity, she said, "You killed him, you killed him."
"Killed who?" I demanded, shaking her.
"Your father," she said, "your father and oh! you killed him."
That was how I found out. At the moment the finding out simply numbed me. When a heavy-caliber slug hits you, you may spin around but you don't feel a thing. Not at first. Anyway, I was busy. My mother was in bad shape. By this time there were a couple of black faces at the door, the cook and the maid, and I was damning them to get Dr. Bland and stop gawking. Then I raked the clicking telephone up off the floor so they could use the one downstairs, and let my mother go long enough to slam the door to keep those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes off what was happening.
My mother was talking between her moans and laughing. She was saying how she had loved him and how he was the only person she had ever loved and how I had killed him and had killed my own father and a lot of stuff like that. She was still carrying on when Dr. Bland arrived and gave her the hypodermic. Across her form on the bed, from which the moans and the mutterings were now subsiding, he turned his gray, gray-bearded owlish face and said, "Jack, I'm sending a nurse up here. A very trustworthy woman. Nobody else is to come in here. Do you understand?"