Gail Wynand sat on the edge of the bed, slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, the gun on the palm of his hand.
Yes, he told himself, there's an answer there somewhere. But I don't want to know it. I don't want to know it.
And because he felt a pang of dread at the root of this desire not to examine his life further, he knew that he would not die tonight. As long as he still feared something, he had a foothold on living; even if it meant only moving forward to an unknown disaster. The thought of death gave him nothing. The thought of living gave him a slender alms — the hint of fear.
He moved his hand, weighing the gun. He smiled, a faint smile of derision. No, he thought, that's not for you. Not yet. You still have the sense of not wanting to die senselessly. You were stopped by that. Even that is a remnant — of something.
He tossed the gun aside on the bed, knowing that the moment was past and the thing was of no danger to him any longer. He got up. He felt no elation; he felt tired; but he was back in his normal course. There were no problems, except to finish this day quickly and go to sleep. He went down to his study to get a drink. When he switched on the light in the study, he saw Toohey's present. It was a huge, vertical crate, standing by his desk. He had seen it earlier in the evening. He had thought "What the hell," and forgotten all about it.
He poured himself a drink and stood sipping it slowly. The crate was too large to escape his field of vision, and as he drank he tried to guess what it could possibly contain. It was too tall and slender for a piece of furniture. He could not imagine what material property Toohey could wish to send him; he had expected something less tangible — a small envelope containing a hint at some sort of blackmail; so many people had tried to blackmail him so unsuccessfully; he did think Toohey would have more sense than that.
By the time he finished his drink, he had found no plausible explanation for the crate. It annoyed him, like a stubborn crossword puzzle. He had a kit of tools somewhere in a drawer of his desk. He found it and broke the crate open.
It was Steven Mallory's statue of Dominique Francon. Gail Wynand walked to his desk and put down the pliers he held as if they were of fragile crystal. Then he turned and looked at the statue again. He stood looking at it for an hour. Then he went to the telephone and dialed Toohey's number. "Hello?" said Toohey's voice, its hoarse impatience confessing that he had been awakened out of sound sleep. "All right. Come over," said Wynand and hung up. Toohey arrived half an hour later. It was his first visit to Wynand's home. Wynand himself answered the doorbell, still dressed in his pyjamas. He said nothing and walked into the study, Toohey following.
The naked marble body, its head thrown back in exaltation, made the room look like a place that did not exist any longer: like the Stoddard Temple. Wynand's eyes rested on Toohey expectantly, a heavy glance of suppressed anger.
"You want, of course, to know the name of the model?" Toohey asked, with just a hint of triumph in his voice.
"Hell, no," said Wynand. "I want to know the name of the sculptor."
He wondered why Toohey did not like the question; there was something more than disappointment in Toohey's face.
"The sculptor?" said Toohey. "Wait ... let me see ... I think I did know it ... It's Steven ... or Stanley ... Stanley something or other ... Honestly, I don't remember."
"If you knew enough to buy this, you knew enough to ask the name and never forget it."
"I'll look it up, Mr. Wynand."
"Where did you get this?"
"In some art shop, you know, one of those places on Second Avenue."
"How did it get there?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. I bought it because I knew the model."
"You're lying about that. If that were all you saw in it, you wouldn't have taken the chance you took. You know that I've never let anyone see my gallery. Did you think I'd allow you the presumption of contributing to it? Nobody has ever dared offer me a gift of that kind. You wouldn't have risked it, unless you were sure, terribly sure, of how great a work of art this is. Sure that I'd have to accept it. That you'd beat me. And you have."
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Wynand."
"If you wish to enjoy that, I'll tell you also that I hate seeing this come from you. I hate your having been able to appreciate it. It doesn't fit you. Though I was obviously wrong about you: you're a greater art expert than I thought you were."
"Such as it is, I'll have to accept this as a compliment and thank you, Mr. Wynand."
"Now what was it you wanted? You intended me to understand that you won't let me have this unless I grant an interview to Mrs. Peter Keating?"
"Why, no, Mr. Wynand. I've made you a present of it. I intended you only to understand that this is Mrs. Peter Keating."
Wynand looked at the statue, then back at Toohey.
"Oh you damn fool!" said Wynand softly.
Toohey stared at him, bewildered.
"So you really did use this as a red lamp in a window?" Wynand seemed relieved; he did not find it necessary to hold Toohey's glance now. "That's better, Toohey. You're not as smart as I thought for a moment."
"But, Mr. Wynand, what ... ?"
"Didn't you realize that this statue would be the surest way to kill any possible appetite I might have for your Mrs. Keating?"
"You haven't seen her, Mr. Wynand."
"Oh, she's probably beautiful. She might be more beautiful than this. But she can't have what that sculptor has given her. And to see that same face, but without any meaning, like a dead caricature — don't you think one would hate the woman for that?"
"You haven't seen her."
"Oh, all right, I'll see her. I told you you should be allowed to get away with your stunt completely or not at all. I didn't promise you to lay her, did I? Only to see her."
"That is all I wanted, Mr. Wynand."
"Have her telephone my office and make an appointment."
"Thank you, Mr. Wynand."
"Besides, you're lying about not knowing the name of that sculptor. But it's too much bother to make you tell me. She'll tell me."
"I'm sure she'll tell you. Though why should I lie?"
"God knows. By the way, if it had been a lesser sculptor, you'd have lost your job over this."
"But, after all, Mr. Wynand, I have a contract."
"Oh, save that for your labor unions, Elsie! And now I think you should wish me a good night and get out of here."
"Yes, Mr. Wynand. I wish you a good night."
Wynand accompanied him to the hall. At the door Wynand said:
"You're a poor businessman, Toohey. I don't know why you're so anxious to have me meet Mrs. Keating. I don't know what your racket is in trying to get a commission for that Keating of yours. But whatever it is, it can't be so valuable that you should have been willing to part with a thing like this in exchange."
2.
"WHY didn't you wear your emerald bracelet?" asked Peter Keating. "Gordon Prescott's so-called fiancee had everybody gaping at her star sapphire."
"I'm sorry, Peter. I shall wear it next time," said Dominique.
"It was a nice party. Did you have a good time?"
"I always have a good time."
"So did I ... Only ... Oh God, do you want to know the truth?"
"No."
"Dominique, I was bored to death. Vincent Knowlton is a pain in the neck. He's such a damn snob. I can't stand him." He added cautiously: "I didn't show it, did I?"
"No. You behaved very well. You laughed at all his jokes — even when no one else did."
"Oh, you noticed that? It always works."
"Yes, I noticed that."
"You think I shouldn't, don't you?"
"I haven't said that."