“There’s something that bothers me,” he said. “When Sergeant Tromp talked with you last night, you said something about your hair. The color of your hair. What did you mean by that, Miss Gait?”
So that was it. That was what she had said, and the memory of saying it must have lingered beneath the level of her conscious mind, because the fear of having said something was in her when she awoke, and it was something that had disturbed her in all the hours since.
“I don’t remember saying that. I guess I was just talking crazy. As I said, I’d been drinking.”
“I believe you asked the sergeant if he’d come to arrest you for the color of your hair. Don’t you think that’s a strange thing to say even if you’d had too much to drink?”
“I guess so. I don’t know. I don’t remember anything about it.”
He dropped his eyes and began to talk softly to the top of his desk, and she was in the first instant back in the quiet library long ago with the slender book in her hands, and then she was in her bed every night before sleeping and every morning after waking in all the depression periods that had happened to her since, and the words were in her mind before they were on his tongue.
After he was quiet, he went on looking at the desk for a while, and then he looked up and said, “Only it’s murder now, Miss Gait.”
She almost told him everything at that moment — how it started and how it happened and how it had been afterward. But then, because evasion had become such a chronic technique in her adjustment to life that she could not immediately overcome it, she said nothing whatever, and after waiting for her, after giving her a long chance, he said tiredly, “You may go home now, Miss Gait, but you are not to leave the city. Please don’t try again.”
Incredible as it seemed, he was offering her freedom of a sort when she had really expected none of any sort, and she retrieved it, however precariously, with a strange feeling of dread at being turned out to loose ends. She stood up and said, “Thank you,” and went out quickly into the hall, the door closing behind her.
He sat at his desk and watched her shadow vanish from the glass, and he thought, You could have held her. There’s evidence enough, and before long there will be more than enough. It’s only a matter of getting it together. Better than that and much easier, you could have broken her down. She’s confused and tense and hanging on by a thread, and only a little pressure would bring the break. Why didn’t you hold her? Why didn’t you apply the pressure, James J. Ridley?
The J was for Jasper, but he hated the name and was ashamed of it and therefore never used it. His mother had wanted him to be a minister, and sometimes he wished he had been one, but the reason he hadn’t was that all the ministers he had ever known had had black and white minds. As for himself, he had never had any faith in the ancient battle of good and evil except as it was fought by the individual within himself, and he had always been conscious of living among his fellows in a glass house. So he had eventually become a policeman instead of a minister. He was always fascinated and depressed by the complex and tragic pattern of neural and glandular processes, or whatever you wanted to call the essential function that made a man what he was, and he had long ago learned to accept with bitter resignation the simple truth that the soul was a strange bed that accommodated strange bedfellows. Sometimes he would remind himself of the scriptural admonition that a man is as he thinketh in his heart, and then he would look into his own and look quickly away. Hunting disturbed and depressed him, and his job was hunting, and it was often a great burden. He was disturbed and depressed because he had no real belief in arbitrary and ruthless categories of transgressions or in pat prescriptions for their treatment, and when, as an agent of retribution, he tried to convince himself that the security of the group required the castigation of the aberrant and the apostate, he would inevitably begin to weigh against each other in his mind the transgressions of the individual against the group and the transgressions of the group against the individual, and this only deepened his depression. He was, in brief, the best kind of policeman, a very good policeman of the highest type, but for his own sake he should have been almost anything else in the world.
When he was a kid at home, his father used to set mousetraps in the pantry at night. In his room just off the kitchen, lying there stiffly in the darkness that seemed to gather and hover, he could hear his father moving around out there, his tread heavy and measured on the hard linoleum, and it was easy to follow him by ear to the kitchen cabinet where the spring traps were kept on a top shelf, across to the icebox for rat-trap cheese, back to the cabinet for the baiting, the final preparation of the little machines of death, and so finally into the pantry where the traps were placed strategically on the dark shelves. And at last, as if it were the terrifying eclipse of all hope and compassion, the sudden erasure of the crack of light under the door to the kitchen.
Then he was alone in total darkness with proximate death. The wall between his bedroom and the pantry was thin, and the sound of the springing traps seemed to be amplified rather than reduced by the passage through, so that the sharp snaps, when they came, were like the terrible crashing of summer thunder.
The waiting was bad, very bad. Sometimes, when he was lucky, he fell asleep before the first trap snapped, and then in the morning it was all right, and it was possible to reduce the experience to the vague status of something that has lost the little meaning it ever had. Other times. Though, the sound of the springing traps preceded sleep, and he was filled with the strange terror and torture of conflicting griefs — for the small animal that acquired in violent death a significance greater than itself, and for the man, his father, who had perpetrated the dark violence.
Then there were the times when the waiting was not to be endured. The times when he got out of bed, the floor cold and hard under his bare feet, the intimate environment corrupted by the evil of darkness, and walked softly through the kitchen to the pantry to release the traps, holding each strong spring carefully with a thumb and letting it move over and down slowly in a release of tension. The black threat removed, sleep came easily, for the time, in an armistice that never developed into final peace.
Next morning, of course, the accounting. His father, anger modified by bewilderment in the face of behavior he could in no way understand, looking at him with the shadow of his bafflement in his eyes. His mother, the gentle interventionist, saying, “Now, dad, now, dad.” His father, shoulders lifting in exasperation and defeat, saying, “Oh, well, then, let the damn things take the place,” and walking away with the relief one always feels in discarding responsibility for the unnatural.
It’s a long way from a mouse to a man. It’s a long, long way from exorbitant sorrow for the death of a tiny rodent to exaltation in the killing of a human. And in the interim between there must be the painful development of mental toughness and resiliency, the capacity to take the world as it is without the burden of personal responsibility or distorted guilt.
Take the time on Leyte in the wet bleak days when the last line of Japanese defense cracked under hammering and fell apart, the enemy scattering and fleeing in small groups over the rough face of the island. He was on patrol. He remembered quite clearly, though he would have liked to forget, the complete sequence of events — the squad resting on the crest of a bill, the shabby Filipino hut in the valley below, lonely in desertion. The sequence running to its end — the waft down the slope into the valley in the high grass, the cautious approach to the hut and the sudden breathless suspense when the rhythmic tapping became audible, at last the view of the Japanese soldier, seen with stark clarity beyond the sight of a rifle, as he sat cross-legged at the front of the hut pounding in his steel helmet rice for the meal he would never eat. Oh, it was great fun, that kill. The Jap never knew James Ridley was there, no danger whatever to Ridley’s security. Just a ragged, dirty, lonely and beaten man, jerking up in a posture of horrible surprise when the bullet struck him, and then slumping over in utter immobility, as if, in the end, he couldn’t die fast enough.