Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 702
Notterdam’s heart had stood so still that he ached with waiting for it to beat again....
Elspeth’s face was drawn. She put her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘What’s this damnable affair?’ she asked. ‘It’s someone called Lola that wants to speak to Joe... Joe Notterdam... In hell’s name what have you been doing?... Has she murdered her husband for you?... She says he appears to be dead... Locked in the bathroom... It s Lola Porter... You can’t have been monkeying with that....’
CHAPTER III
HENRIETTA FELISE was pale and worried in expression. It could not have been later than half-past eight and she was already in the office talking to Miss Bergenheimer, in Mr. Notterdam’s room. She said:
‘I am worried. Why should he want me so early?... And guilty, too... The doctor says I must take three weeks’ rest from all work....’
Miss Bergenheimer chuckled good-naturedly.
‘When the boss gets his secretary here early,’ she said, ‘it’s usually for an interviewer from the Middle West who wants to make an early connection back... But I don’t know why he should want me. Only he’s eggsitable. That’s what he is. Eggsitable... Someone may want to interview him about the accounts of the House and he may want me for that... But don’chu worry about the three weeks’ rest....’
‘It isn’t for myself that I worry,’ Henrietta said. ‘It’s for him. He may need me just at the start.’
Miss Bergenheimer sank herself, as if pneumatically, into Notterdam’s armchair.
‘I wouldn’t worry over my employer having need of me, she said. It’s the bestest thing can happen to a girl... Most business girls would give their best hats for it... And get free lunches and board, too, if they wanted it for years! She added: ‘See here, kid: he’s a good guy. But I wouldn’t just worry over him. It’s best if you want to keep yourself pure to look at a man like that as if he was any other roll-top desk.’
She added:
‘If you are still pure!’
Henrietta said, with wet eyes:
‘How long am I going to be able to stay so?... What sort of a three weeks’ rest is it going to be?... Doctor Herrman says I may never be able to work again but he’ll tell after I’ve had three weeks with no worries.’ She introduced a startling quality of bitterness into her voice. ‘What sort of world is this for poor girls who can’t work?’
‘Oh,’ Miss Bergenheimer said, ‘there’s worse... With your looks and nice soft nature... And it isn’t my fault you’ve a mother to keep....’
Henrietta said:
‘No! It’s no fault of yours.’
Miss Bergenheimer had crossed her fat calves and said with absent comfort:
‘Poor girls who can’t work have three resources... There’s marriage with poor men... That’s hell... Your looks go at twenty-six and you wrangle for ever about the support for your mother... There’s adopting a sugar daddy: that’s better but bad at the best...You gotter keep yourself straight: you gotter sit at home all day and twiddle your thumbs... At six-thirty most days he rushes in panting and... There’s the boss’s key in the lock... Street-walking’s better. If I had to choose, it’s street-walking I’d choose. It’s the most dignified of the three....’
The outer door swung violently inwards and remained shivering against the wall. Notterdam exclaimed hoarsely to Henrietta: ‘Phone to Pilgrim and Payne at once for a ham... Grapes... Eatables....’
He could not well be canned at that hour and it would have taken a hell of a lot of booze between yesterday and the morning to drive him clean loco... Miss Bergenheimer said to Henrietta Felise:
‘Do it quick. He means it... There’s someone sick...
Notterdam flung off his black overcoat and it dropped sagging on the floor because he missed the hatpeg. The removal of his hat shewed that his hair was very disordered. He was in greenish-brown Harris tweeds, extremely old, with a patch of motor-grease as big as the palm of your hand on his left elbow. His voice was by no means thick. He fixed Miss Bergenheimer and asked with peremptory desperation:
‘What money’s in the safe? Go see... The banks may be closed to-day... Bring all you can....’
He sat down at the table like a dying man; his despairing eyes rested on the young girl. He said with intense weariness:
‘Yesterday was... What’s Thursday in Holy Week.... Maundy Thursday? To-day’s Good Friday... You’d better....’
She said:
‘I have some salts... For dizziness... Dr. Herrman recommended....’
‘Ring my home number,’ he said, ‘Porter has killed himself... They had not a farthing in the house... No food....’
She looked at him, her eyes wide with terror.
She exclaimed:
‘Your letter... the one Mr. Post signed... Was it over that?’
He answered:
‘I’ve got it here....’
She said slowly:
Pull yourself together, sir, or it will dreadfully hurt the House... Listen... There are two... the two agreements... Here...You have, haven’t you, a pass key to all the locks in the building?... The note of the letter you dictated to Miss Cresswell ordering a cheque to be sent to - oh, the poor man... But the note will be in Miss Cresswell’s pad... Then there’s only... the copy of the letter that reached him to destroy... There’s not a soul in the office yet but Miss Bergenheimer... Wait....’
His body dropped forward on to his arms on the table; his whole torso was shaken. He lifted his head to say: ‘From my own village... You’d have thought I...’ Then his head fell again, and the shaken motions of his torso continued.
She rested her right hand on one of his shoulders and said:
‘There! There!’ She did the like with her left and bending to his ear whispered: ‘It was my fault... I will assume the blame... My dear... My dear man... Don’t!... Thank God, it’s Good Friday....’
Miss Bergenheimer coughed behind her. She said without looking round:
‘What money is in the safe?’
Miss Bergenheimer said that she had phoned Crumpsall, the cashier, who said that there were $527.62.
The girl looked round. She said:
‘Go down to the janitor and get him to give you... No, get it yourself... Two big containers of coffee. Double strength... and a cup... We must sober him...
Miss Bergenheimer said humorously:
‘Seems more like you’re his body servant... All right, cutie, I’m going... What’s the great idea?’ Henrietta exclaimed:
‘While you’re waiting for the coffee, phone again to Crumpsall for the safe-password and then bring us five hundred dollars....’
‘It would appear,’ Miss Bergenheimer said, ‘that blackmail is to-day’s great thought....’
Henrietta acted with extreme speed. Notterdam’s body still heaved spasmodically. She was round the table opposite him with a typewriting machine that she fetched from the ante-room along with the other secretary’s note-book. It was difficult for her to read the other’s shorthand but for what words she could not make out she substituted others. So she had a fair letter with its copy. She exclaimed:
‘You must look up! You must look up! You must sign this....’
He elevated his body hazily and took the pen that she held out to him. She said:
‘Now your pass-key!’
He said:
‘This is the letter of yesterday... It’s too late....’ She exclaimed:
‘Sign it... Sign it before Miss Bergenheimer gets back... It is never too late...’ She was opening his private drawer and extracted the two Porter agreements: ‘This too,’ she said... ‘Sign!’ She witnessed his signature with extreme rapidity.
She sat down and began to write in her notebook; he grew gradually calmer; she tapped on her machine and the familiar sound soothed him still more. He said:
‘You must excuse... The circumstances were very terrible... Unusually terrible... Mrs. Porter and her companion were drunk... And the corpse in there.. Playing solitaire....’
She said:
‘Listen... Does this letter meet the case?’
She read from the sheet on the machine:
‘“Dear Mr. Porter”.’
Notterdam exclaimed:
‘The man’s dead!’ in tones of horror.
‘I have dated it yesterday,’ she said. Miss Bergenheimer was there, a little out of breath, holding a container in each hand and with a tea-cup hanging from her right little finger. Henrietta said:
‘Go get the five hundred... Listen to this letter... But no... The less you know probably the more you’ll like it... Go ring up the evening papers and ask if they’ve heard of a suicide... No, say a death... In Hoboken.... They probably won’t have as it’s Good Friday....’
‘It seems I’d have to know,’ Miss Bergenheimer said, ‘but sure, I don’t want to.... If it isn’t about figures....’
Notterdam was sitting with his head very low down over his crossed forearms. He said he would like to speak to his wife. She answered that she would rather first have his approval of her letter... Then she could go on with the enclosures whilst he spoke to Mrs. Notterdam. She began again to read:
‘Mr. Notterdam has asked me to mail you the enclosed duplicate copies of contract duly signed by him. Also letter and cheque for $2,000.00 (two thousand dollars).... It has occurred to me that, to-morrow being Good Friday and the directors being absent for the weekend, I may have some difficulty in getting the cheque signed and you might have to wait till Tuesday. I am therefore taking the liberty of substituting for the cheque the sum of $500.00 which I will send together with the other enclosures by a trusty messenger early to-morrow morning. I would have phoned you but we are unable to find your name in the book. You shall receive the cheque for the balance first thing on Tuesday. Trusting that this will meet your convenience, this being the end of the business day and Mr. Notterdam not here to instruct me.
Cordially,
HENRIETTA FAUKNER FELISE
Private Secretary to Mr. Notterdam.’
Notterdam said:
‘I don’t understand so very well... I have been shaken... I had an accident with the car...’ By now his voice had become husky. He continued: ‘Isn’t it dangerous?... It appears to me to be dangerous....’
She explained patiently:
The letter from the House, signed by Mr. Post and turning Porter violently down was, he had said, in his, Notterdam’s, possession. Miss Cresswell’s note-pad was in hers. There was therefore no trace of the letter over which they thought Porter had committed suicide. She had typed out the rather cordial one which Notterdam had first dictated and had added a sentence to the effect that they were returning the manuscript in the hope that Mr. Porter would see his way to concurring in some suggestions for excisions that Mr. Notterdam would make to him later, when he would be less engaged.
Notterdam said:
‘So that... so that the effect....’
‘The effect will be that the poor man committed... died....’
‘There is no doubt he killed himself,’ Notterdam said heavily. ‘He turned on the gas in the geyser of the bath and sat down to play solitaire till it killed him....’
Her face grew rigid.
‘It’s dreadful to think that I... But no purpose would be served...’ She closed her eyes for several seconds and then exclaimed:
‘No, no... We have to go on with it... We must make it appear the poor man died... Oh, possibly by my delaying the answer... Why, it will even be better for his memory if it appears... If the reporters put it that it was death on the eve of success... We must make his posthumous work a success... And his old books too... We must preserve his memory....’
Notterdam said huskily:
‘Yes, yes, we must preserve his memory... It will appear that cheque was delayed. Because of Good Friday... Why, to die on the verge of success is almost glory... Yes, yes, yes. I see... I had vaguely the idea...’ He passed his hand over his eyes. ‘The idea, you understand, of concealing the reason... To preserve our credit... That was why I took the letter... It lay under the playing cards... The first thing I saw... But then - driving here - I thought it was mean....’ She said:
‘No, no... It isn’t mean... A man who commits suicide because of failure is a commonplace coward. But to die on the verge of triumph... That’s glory... The one would be just forgotten: the other is romantic... We must get the papers to take that view....’
Miss Bergenheimer was in the room with a little sheaf of notes: Henrietta Felise inserted them with all the other enclosures in a great envelope. She said to Miss Bergenheimer: ‘You must get to Eleventh Street, Hoboken, as quick as you can. You must deliver this envelope to Mr. Porter personally...’ She paused for an appreciable moment. Miss Bergenheimer said:
‘Well!’ with her usual self-possession, and the girl went on:
‘Or if not to Mr. Porter, then to his wife... You will please say that it is I who send the letter, not Mr. Notterdam. That is very important. You will please not say to anyone that you have seen Mr. Notterdam. If you wish to know why these measures are to be taken, Mr. Notterdam will explain to you. But I believe you Would rather not.’
Miss Bergenheimer said:
‘Why, sure I have a weak heart, like you and anyone. If it’s in the nature of blackmail....’
‘It’s of the most urgent - the most terrible - importance to the House...’ Henrietta Felise said. She added: ‘And you have shares like all the other employees of standing....’
‘I could see that it’s important with my eyes shut,’ the other answered, ‘and I’m not going to do anything to bear my share interests that I worked fifteen years with the House to deserve. So you can bet your hat, cutie, that the lock-combination on the safe is a trifle to open compared to my lips.... Why, Mr. Notterdam knows....’
Notterdam said:
‘Hurry... Hurry... Hurry!... I must telephone to my wife!’
Henrietta said:
‘The reporters have not yet got on to the death... We have time to think...’ He exclaimed:
‘I must get on to my own house... Please ring... Mrs. Porter is literally starving and without clothes....’
‘She will have five hundred dollars in half an hour,’ the girl said with a slightly acid tone. ‘If Mrs. Porter cannot make out on that till Tuesday....’
‘She must be looked after,’ Notterdam said. ‘The shock has been terrible....’
The girl said:
‘Here is Mrs. Notterdam... But if it will help you feel better you may as well know that Mrs. Porter was notoriously unfaithful to that poor man and had the worst toughs in any borough you can name for friends... It went to my heart to send her five hundred... Mr. Notterdam will take the phone... Yes, I am Henrietta... I will look after him the best I know... In pretty poor shape....’
Within the half-second from remote distances Notterdam found himself hearing his home voices. He was pleading with the cool voice of Elspeth to take Lola Porter into her home; to send Giovanni with the two-seater to fetch her. The Chesapeake he had left, all balled up.
Elspeth was more cool than he would have imagined. She had to be assured three times that Lola Porter was not his mistress. She said:
‘You shan’t creep to women in the night in my house!’ He said:
‘You don’t understand: it has been terrible, terrible. It might spell awful discredit...’ A silence that seemed long maintained itself on the wire. At last the voice said: ‘Let me speak to Henrietta Felise!’
Henrietta had poured him out some coffee and he sat whilst she talked into the instrument. The hot, cardboardish flavour gave to the remembrance of his night associations that he was never afterwards to lose....
The nightmare....
The hideous drive across back blocks beneath the lachrymosely gibbous moon: the panic at the heart: the fear of driving a car that he did not know well... The landscape of his and Porter’s natal Wessex that obscured the very driving... The endless waiting, be-muddled with the alcohol he had drunk to keep up his spirits. He had thundered again and again on a door that recalled to him the door of the lodging in a London square near Limehouse Docks. He had lived there two weeks before he could get a master to sign him on for a voyage... He had run away from home unable to bear the nagging of his father and the death of his mother....
Fragments of the conversation of Henrietta with his wife mingled with the recollections of the night. He heard her fluting tones that she reserved for the telephone:
‘No... I’m sure not... A taste only for toughs and low life... From one of the West Indian Islands. No, a real widow... No, I surely am not... It’s very nice of you... It seriously will help... If only a week...’
What was the matter with his youth that it perpetually got between him and his present?... His piling up the Chesapeake against the street railings of a perfectly deserted street had almost entirely been due to that... Downtown in Greenwich Village a street of little basement-houses... He had seen the reflection of his own face among the other reflections on the glass of the windshield. He had been going dead slow but it had so confused him that he had crashed her clean through the flimsy railings. If there had been a policeman about he must have been arrested for being drunk whilst driving... What an escape... My God, what an escape! His brow prickled with the sweat of remembered fear... He had hardly been able to walk to the garage. He remembered to have stopped there for petrol once at four in the morning - on Seventh. By the grace of God... He must, when he had time, pray to God... God must somehow be in this affair, for it was as if he perpetually saw his double - perhaps with the gift of his ancestor, Nostradamus. He had an idea that to see your double was a presage of harm... And hadn’t it presaged harm!... That fellow standing by the telephone... It must be God... or acute nervous indigestion... In any case it presaged harm....
Henrietta was saying:
‘It isn’t what one likes to ask, but I rather beg you.
... And is it likely that I’d connive at an intrigue between her and your husband? Oh, but that is different... For the sake of the House... For the sake of us all... For the sake of...You see, it is so important to divert public suspicions that it is a case of suicide... I’ll ask him...’
