Still she did not recognize his presence. She jerked at the door before he could reach it. He ducked through after her.
They crossed the lobby together. The clerk was leaning on the counter, chin in hand, so that his gold seal ring gleamed and his coat sleeve fell back, exposing the gold cuff link.
His eyes ogled them. He opened his mouth—there was the flash of a gold filling—and said, elaborately, “Good evening, Miss Lorish.”
“Good evening,” said Marcia, curtly.
Carr heard the door open and close behind them. Then the footsteps, crisp on the tiling, soft on the carpeting, swiftly over-taking them.
The elevator was waiting. Marcia stepped in and jabbed quickly at the seven button. Carr barely slipped through as the door started to close. Swiftly turning, he saw a hook blotted out by the closing door. The cage started up.
Carr felt a surge of partial relief, but then instantly the bigger fear closed in.
Marcia was ignoring him so utterly. She hadn’t given him a single sign. As if, behind that beautiful impatient face, there was nothing, absolutely nothing…
No, that couldn’t be true, he told himself. Mustn’t be—not with her so close and the two of them locked in this little cage.
And as for Marcia, she was just being cruel. There’d been times before when she’d ignored him as a punishment.
“Darling,” he began.
The cage stopped. Marcia jerked at the door and darted out. Carr hurried after her down the hall.
Marcia had her key out and the door to her apartment open in a single movement. The latter was almost slammed in Carr’s face.
She must be aware of him, or she wouldn’t be acting this way, he tried to assure himself as he pushed in after her. Her quick, angry movements pointed at her realization of his presence.
“Marcia, please stop acting so childish,” he managed to say.
She tossed her handbag in a chair, hurried into the kitchen. He started after her, hesitated, moved around nervously.
She came out of the kitchen. She had a highball in her hand.
She set the drink down on the small table at his elbow, and went on into the bedroom.
Carr could hardly realize it for a moment, his relief was so great.
She was aware of him. Bu that simply action she’d admitted his presence.
All the rest of her behavior had been just temperament, her peculiar captiousness.
He picked up the drink and took a grateful gulp.
But as he did so, he noticed a piece of notepaper near it, covered with Marcia’s handwriting.
His own name was at the top.
Transferring the drink to his other hand, he picked it up.
Dear Carr:
I recognized the power in you, Carr, the fiery cleverness, the talent for the grand gesture. But you would not use them. You could have been a prince. But you chose to be a hireling. Many times I guided you into situations where you would have the opportunity to find your real self. Again and again I got only the equivalent of a slap in the face for my pains. I was patient. I knew you’d been in a rut for a long time and I made allowances. But this last incident was too much for me. When you coldly turned down Keaton Fisher’s magnificent offer—the offer of a man who has got to the top with no more ability than you, without your looks, and in spite of a lot more hindrances than you’ve had to cope with—when I watched you rudely reject that man’s generous offer, I knew it was the end of things between you and me.
Here’s a word of advice, if in the future you should ever decide that you’re tired of being a hireling and would like to attempt the bigger role. If you want a woman to think you a prince, you must act like a prince in all ways. If you want to be with big people, you must be a big person. If you want life exciting and dangerous, you must be the size of danger and excitement.
But don’t try to use that advice to win me back, for it can’t be done. Save it for some other girl. Keaton Fisher isn’t handsome, but he knows how to use what he has and he isn’t afraid of taking risks.
And now, dear, the best of luck
Marcia
When supernatural terror prefaces an emotional wound, the latter is deadened. Still, as the letter dropped from Carr’s hand and he heard Marcia coming from the bedroom, he felt a stab of mingled jealousy and self-pity hard to endure.
Her hand brushed the table beside him, she hesitated a moment, then stood at the center of the room.
Now that she knew he knew, he told himself, she must be waiting for him to go, perhaps preparing herself to reject some final appeal, setting her expression in obdurate lines.
But instead she was smiling. Smiling in a particularly unpleasant, animal-like way.
And gesturing in a peculiar fashion with her right hand.
And still not looking at him.
Carr felt a mounting horror as he watched her.
He tried to tell himself that he didn’t understand what her gestures meant.
Tried to tell himself that they weren’t the movements of someone sipping from a highball glass that wasn’t there.
Tried to tell himself that when her hand had brushed the table, it hadn’t been to take up the drink she had left there.
Because that would mean she hadn’t made the drink for him, but for herself; that she hadn’t recognized his presence; that the terrible delusion that had tortured him back at his room was true.
And that mustn’t be.
“Marcia!” he called sharply.
She licked her lips.
Mustn’t, he repeated to himself. Nothing could write you a letter to hurt you so and yet be a mindless machine.
He moved toward her. “Marcia!” he cried desperately and took her by the shoulders.
Then, under his hands, the moment he touched her, he could feel her muscles go rigid. She began to shake, to vibrate like a piece of machinery that’s about to tear itself apart. He jerked away from her.
Her face was flustered, her features screwed up like a baby’s.
From her lips came a mumbling that grew louder. It was, Carr realized with a gust of horror, exactly like the chattering of the dumpy man.
Or rather, the image sprang into Carr’s mind as he broke away toward the door, like the meaningless noise of a phonograph record running backwards.
Chapter Twelve
Bleached Prostitute
Carr gazed up at huge, grainy photogenic enlargements of women in brassieres and pants painted bright orange. A sign screamed, “Girls and More Girls!”
Around him, lone dreary figures of men slouched purposely.
He realized that he was on South State Street, and that he had been searching for Jane Gregg through the nightmares of Chicago and his own mind ever since he had fled stealthily from Marcia’s apartment some hours ago.
Jane was the only person in the world for him now. The only person who would answer when he spoke. The only person behind whose forehead there was an inner light.
Except for a few others best not thought of.
He had gone to every place he and Jane had been, fruitlessly. Now he had come to one place he remembered her speaking of.
Around him the signs glared, the dance music groaned, the automatons slouched through the dirty shadows. Chicago, city of death, mindless metropolis, peopled by millions of machines of flesh and bone that walked and worked and uttered phonograph words and rusted and went to the scrap heap.
Dead city in a dead universe. Dead city through which he was doomed to search forever, futilely.
He was glad that the nightmares inside his mind had helped to shut it out.