“I think you’re exaggerating.” But she was scared.
“By the way, if I’m not being indiscreet, just what were you doing at Miles’ apartment that night?”
“I had a message for him, from Magda.”
“Who paid a call on him later, after he was dead.”
“I know … but she wanted me to see him and tell him something. Her family was watching her like a hawk and she told me she wasn’t able to get away and would I please go and see him.”
“This was before Don Ameche’s invention of the telephone or the establishment of a national post office.”
“I wish you wouldn’t try to be funny.”
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
“Then act like it.”
“I am acting like it … God damn it.…” We snarled at each other for several minutes; then she told me that Magda had not been able to leave her room for several days, that her family did not let her near the phone. Except for one stolen visit, Miles was not allowed to see her; as a matter of fact, the family had been reluctant to let her see even Jane.
“What did Magda want you to tell him?”
“What difference does it make now? … the whole thing’s finished.”
“Come on … what did she want you to tell him?”
“It was about the child. She wanted to know if Miles would like her to have an abortion.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said no, that they were going to get married as soon as the trial was over.”
“How was he when you saw him?”
“High as a kite … he didn’t make much sense … he kept rambling about the new ballet … I mean about Eclipse and Mr. Washburn … he was angry at him. I don’t know why.”
“Had Washburn been to see him?”
“No, not then.”
“How did you know he did see him that night?” I was like a district attorney, ready for the kill. But it didn’t work.
“Because I saw Mr. Washburn outside in the street when I left and he asked me how Miles was, if he was high or not.”
“That was an awfully busy street that night, with half the company running in and out of Miles’ apartment.”
“Oh, stop trying to be smart. You sound like a movie.”
“That may be,” I said somberly. “Was Mr. Washburn upset when he saw you?”
“He was surprised; after all, we were both supposed to be at the party.”
“He didn’t swear you to secrecy …”
“Oh, stop it, will you? I don’t think it’s funny.”
“I don’t either. As a matter of fact it may be very serious … your having gone there without telling Gleason about it.”
“He didn’t ask me. After all, I didn’t lie to him.”
“What did he ask you?”
“Just a lot of questions … general things.”
It was no use; when Jane decides to be vague it is like collecting fragments of quicksilver from a broken thermometer to get a straight story out of her.
“You better go and tell Gleason what you told me.”
“I certainly won’t now that everything’s finished.”
“Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
At three o’clock I went to the office of the ballet and she went to rehearsal and neither of us was in a good mood. I was both angry and worried at what she had done. I wondered whether or not I should tell Gleason myself. For a number of reasons I decided not to. I did wonder if Mr. Washburn had told Gleason. This possibility had not occurred to me before; now, when I thought of it, my worry turned to alarm.
I found Mr. Washburn in his office playing with some silly putty which an admirer had given him; in case you haven’t come across it, silly putty is a pink substance which, if rolled in a ball, will bounce better than rubber, which will shatter if you hit it with a hammer and which will stretch to an unbelievable length if you pull it … there is no point to silly putty and I took it as a serious sign that Mr. Washburn should now be stretching a long pink rope of it, like bubble gum, across his Napoleonic desk.
“I told you you could have the day off,” said my employer, unabashed, beginning to plait the substance. Had his mind snapped under the strain?
“I thought I’d drop by and take care of a few things. Toledo wants some photographs, so I thought …” I watched, fascinated, while Mr. Washburn made a hangman’s noose.
“Wonderful house last night,” said Mr. Washburn. “The best so far.”
“Good press this morning.”
“Gratifying … gratifying. Did you ever see this stuff before?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful idea … relaxes the nerves.” He rolled the putty into a ball and bounced it on the carpet where it sank deep; Mr. Washburn had to duck under his desk to retrieve it.
“By the way,” I asked, “have you decided if you’ll open the Chicago season with the new Wilbur ballet?”
“Mid-season … we’ll do it our third week. I haven’t picked the day yet.”
“Shall we do anything about Miles’ funeral tomorrow?”
Mr. Washburn draped the silly putty over his upper lip like a mustache, only it looked more like some awful cancerous growth; he frowned. “Better do nothing about it, Peter. The quicker this business is forgotten the better. Besides, it’s going to be a family affair. A couple of aunts and a grandmother appeared on the scene, from Jersey, and they’re in charge.”
“Are you going?”
Mr. Washburn shook his head and returned the silly putty to its egg-shaped plastic container. “I don’t think I will. I passed word on to the others that I thought it might be a good idea for them not to go either … papers would be sure to print a picture of Eglanova at the funeral, and give it space.”
“Then I won’t go either.” I was relieved. I don’t like funerals. Then I asked him, very casually, if he had said anything to the police about seeing Jane at Miles’ apartment the night he died.
Mr. Washburn looked at me gravely. “She was a very unwise young lady not to tell the police she was there.”
“Did you tell them?”
“No, I didn’t. Which was unwise of me I suppose, but I have no intention of losing Garden just as she’s begun to dance like a real ballerina. Under the circumstances I don’t think the police are very much interested. After all, it’s to their advantage to have the case finished.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“By the way, what did you tell that man from the Veterans’ Committee yesterday?”
“I told him that it was up to them to prove Wilbur was a Communist.”
Mr. Washburn chuckled. “You will be happy to know that you have been accused of being a Communist-sympathizer, a party-liner, a fellow-traveler and a degenerate by one Abner Fleer … have you got anything to say in your defense?”
“Nothing at all … except that I was driven into the hands of the enemy by Mr. Fleer and his kind in the days of my youth; even before my America First button had begun to tarnish, I found myself disenchanted with the keepers of the flame.”
“I sympathize with you. The charges against Wilbur are getting serious, though. The columnists are beginning to take up the question, and, frankly, I’m worried about Chicago. It’s not like New York. The Veterans’ Committee is a joke here but out there it carries a lot of weight and we may be in trouble if they decide to blackball us.”
“What can we do?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Couldn’t we take an ad and say that he’s already been cleared twice?”
“We’ll have to do something like that. Think about it, anyway. That’s your big assignment for the next week … getting Mr. Wilbur, and us, off the hook.”