The Accused - Harold R. Daniels (best novels for students TXT) 📗
- Author: Harold R. Daniels
- Performer: -
Book online «The Accused - Harold R. Daniels (best novels for students TXT) 📗». Author Harold R. Daniels
He hurried back into the living room to hear her say, “Do you like what you see, Mr. Martin? Would you like to see more?” With the words she pulled her skirt higher.
Morlock said, “Stop it, Louise,” and wheeled to explain to Martin. Martin, when he turned, was laughing.
“Let her alone, Alvin,” Martin said. “I want to see what she’ll do next.”
She turned suddenly sullen* “Books,” she said. “All you know about is books, either one of you.” Her voice became more shrill. “You think I’m just an ignorant Dago from Federal Hill, don’t you? I’m not as ignorant as you think.”
Morlock stepped over to put his hand on her arm.
“Don’t, Lolly,” he pleaded. “Nobody thinks anything of the kind.”
She flung his hand away. “What do you know about it?” she snapped. “You’re not so much. You’re not even any good in bed.” She laughed sharply. “You’re a fairy, that’s what I think. Both of you. A couple of fairies.”
She began to cry. Martin stood up. “I think I’d better go, Morlock,” he said coldly.
Morlock turned away from Lolly. “I think you’d better,” he answered. “I’ll get your coat.” He got the coat from the closet and handed it to Martin, not holding it out for him to put on. When Martin was ready, Morlock opened the door to the hall and snapped the light switch. The dingy hall remained dark. “The bulb is probably burned out,” he said. “I’ll see you to the street.” He turned back to glance at Lolly who was huddled in her chair, still crying. “I’ll be right back,” he called gently.
He preceded Martin to the street and walked a few paces from the door with him. “Martin,” he said, “that was one of the crudest exhibitions I ever saw in my life. If I was half a man I would have thrown you out of my house when you started dissecting her.”
Martin paused. “Oh, come, Morlock,” he said. “She_ is_ an ignorant Dago from Federal Hill. And a drunkard. I didn’t make her what she is.”
“She was all right,” Morlock said. “She was trying to be nice and entertain you because you were my friend. She really tried, you dirty bastard. Don’t ever even say good morning to me again.” He was annoyed with the childish sound of his ultimatum, and he wheeled away from Martin without saying more.
When he was a few steps from the tenement entrance he saw Lolly rush out of the door, and he called after her. When she did not turn, he ran after her. She entered a building that was gay with neon tubing and he followed after her so swiftly that he had to fling up his hand to keep the door from hitting him in the face. Fast as he was, she was already seated at the bar when he closed the door behind him. He walked to her side, feeling he had had enough scenes for this day. “Come on home, Lolly. I told him off. The whole thing was his fault.”
The bartender brought her a drink, putting it down warily.
She turned to face Morlock. The tears had spoiled her careful make-up but she was no longer crying. She laughed and cried shrilly, “Get away from me, you damn fairy.”
Pleading with her would accomplish nothing; Morlock was certain of that. In the face of the hostile, staring faces in the room he could only retreat as quietly as possible.
He waited until past two o’clock for her to come home, and finally fell asleep in a kitchen chair. She could probably never sustain the excitement of getting ready for a visitor over any period of time. Martin was probably right—she was a drunk and there was no chance for this marriage. He hated Martin for destroying what chance there had been—if there had been a chance—because it had not been Martin’s right. He was certain that there would not be another chance.
Gurney: I call Francis Macomber to the stand. For the record, now that you have been sworn, will you give your occupation?
Macomber: I am a second class patrolman on the Warfield Police Force.
Gurney: You have a regular tour of duty—a beat?
Macomber: Yes. It takes in Kosciusko Street north and south to Main and Chestnut.
Gurney: Do you know an Anna Carofano?
Macomber: I do. She owns a couple of tenements on my beat.
Gurney: Do you know the accused in this case?
Macomber: I do now.
Gurney: Did you ever see him prior to this trial?
Macomber: I did.
Gurney: Officially—in the line of duty?
Macomber: Yes. On the evening of April 17.
Gurney: What happened on that occasion?
Macomber: It was about six o’clock. I was making the rounds, checking doors and like that, when I saw a woman sitting on the steps of one of Mrs. Carofano’s tenements. The accused was standing beside her. I was a block away. I couldn’t hear anything and it didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary at first. Then I saw him—
Gurney: Who?
Macomber; The accused. Morlock. I saw him lift his hand and slap her across the face. I ran up to where they were. She was crying. He hit her at least three more times before I could reach him and grab his arm.
Gurney: Were there any witnesses to this sorry business?
Macomber: You know how people are. If they see a cop move fast they figure something has happened and they swarm around. I guess maybe a dozen people were there.
Gurney: What happened then?
Macomber: I said to him, “Cut that out. I’m a police officer.” The woman got up and ran up the steps and into the house. Morlock—the accused—just stood there and looked after her. Then I said, “I don’t want any woman beaters on my beat, Mister. What’s your name?” He gave me his name and I asked him if the woman was his wife. He said that she was. So I started to make out a report on the fight. I asked him if he lived in the tenement where the woman ran in, and where he worked. He told me he lived there and that he was a teacher at the college.
Gurney: Go on.
Macomber: We have sort of a rule about college people and professional men. People that publicity would hurt. I told Morlock to get in the house and that I didn’t want to ever hear about him laying a finger on her again or I’d pinch him. He didn’t say anything, just went tearing up the stairs after her. I hung around a few minutes but I didn’t hear anything so I called in to the desk sergeant. He told me to write it off as quelling a domestic disturbance without using any names, and I did.
Gurney: And how many times did you say the accused struck his wife?
Macomber: At least four.
*
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Alvin Morlock. Direct testimony of Patrolman Francis Macomber.
On the day following Paul Martin’s visit, Louise awoke with the sun streaming in the window. She glanced at the clock in some surprise; it was almost two o’clock. She had come in at four a.m. Her head throbbed and her throat burned. Her clothes were piled neatly on a chair beside the bed. Al must have undressed her when he got up to go to work. She swung her feet down and reached for a robe behind the bedroom door. In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and scrubbed her teeth. The living room was orderly and neat. He must have picked up and emptied the ash trays and rinsed the glasses they had used. It wasn’t going to buy him anything. The hell with him and with his fairy friend, she thought.
He had left the coffeepot ready. All she had to do was light the burner underneath it. While she waited for the water to percolate, she opened the cabinet above the stove where they kept what liquor they had in the house. The whisky and the brandy bottles were gone. He had hidden them but he had left a little red wine. She wasn’t going to be bothered hunting around for wherever he had hid the stuff. She poured a little of the wine into a water tumbler and drank it. It seemed tasteless and insipidly sweet. She turned off the burner under the coffeepot. While she waited for the coffee to settle she was struck by a sudden and fearful thought. She hurried to the bedroom and snatched up her pocketbook.
There was a bulk of bills in it and she laughed in sudden relief as she counted the money. If he was going to cut her off from the family funds she would have to watch herself. More than once money had been stolen from her purse in one barroom or another but her more immediate fear had been that Morlock might have rifled the purse to keep her from going out. What he didn’t know, the dirty Shylock, was that she could have a tab at Fagin’s any time she wanted one.
There were eleven dollars in the purse. She snapped it shut and went back to the kitchen where she poured coffee and drank it swiftly, an urgency growing in her to be away from this place and seated at the shining bar in Fagin’s place.
She put on the black dress she had worn to please Morlock and his friend. She would show him. She posed in front of the mirror, pulling in her stomach and throwing out her breasts. Not all done by a long way. Men still looked after her when she walked by, wanting her, thinking how it would be to sleep with her.
Fagin’s was almost deserted; two or three regulars and Frank, the bookmaker, sat at the bar. Eddie, the good-looking boy with the dark hair and the clear brown eyes—he was now accepted as her regular shuffleboard partner—whistled when she came in.
“Some doll,” he said admiringly. “Where you been, Louise—to a wedding?”
Jimmy, the bartender, brought her a drink. “On Fagin, Louise,” he said. “Not to a wedding, not in black. Black is for wakes.”
She relaxed, content with their admiration, soothed by the easygoing familiarity of these men. “I had this on last night,” she said.
Jimmy nodded. “I heard you were in,” he said, not mentioning Morlock.
She drank her drink quickly. “Let me have another,” she said. “Give Eddie one, too. I feel like getting tight.”
Jimmy and Eddie waited politely for an explanation. “I had a fight with my husband last night,” she said. “He came in here after me and I told him to get away and leave me alone. To hell with him.”
Eddie said, “Sure, Louise. To hell with him. How about a game? Billy and Jimmy against you and me.”
She shook her head. “Let’s sit here and talk, Eddie. I don’t feel like playing right now.” She was feeling the warmth of the whisky already. Today the whisky didn’t seem to make her gay as it usually did. Encouraged by the sympathy
Comments (0)