I
HE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual
fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting
plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity of fate.
The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners
till three-thirty—visiting-hour.''
It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a
calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was
hard and mean and creaky. People went through the office
and, he thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent defiance
which broke into a wincing fear of this machine which was
grinding Paul—Paul—
Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name.
The attendant returned with "Riesling says he don't want
to see you.''
"You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him
it's George wants to see him, George Babbitt.''
"Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't
want to see you.''
"Then take me in anyway.''
"Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want
to see you, that's all there is to it.''
"But, my God— Say, let me see the
warden.''
"He's busy. Come on, now, you—'' Babbitt reared over
him. The attendant hastily changed to a coaxing "You can
come back and try to-morrow. Probably the poor guy is off
his nut.''
Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously
past trucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall;
he stopped with a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up
the marble steps to the office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout,
the mayor. He bribed the mayor's doorman with a dollar;
he was instantly inside, demanding, "You remember me, Mr.
Prout? Babbitt—vice-president of the Boosters—campaigned
for you? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well,
I want an order on the warden or whatever you call um of
the City Prison to take me back and see him. Good. Thanks.''
In fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison corridor
to a cage where Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like
an old beggar, legs crossed, arms in a knot, biting at his
clenched fist.
Paul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the cell, admitted
Babbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly:
"Go on! Be moral!''
Babbitt plumped on the couch beside him. "I'm not going
to be moral! I don't care what happened! I just want to
do anything I can. I'm glad Zilla got what was coming to
her.''
Paul said argumentatively, "Now, don't go jumping on
Zilla. I've been thinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy
a time. Just after I shot her— I didn't hardly mean to, but
she got to deviling me so I went crazy, just for a second, and
pulled out that old revolver you and I used to shoot rabbits
with, and took a crack at her. Didn't hardly mean to— After
that, when I was trying to stop the blood— It was terrible
what it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin—
Maybe she won't die. I hope it won't leave her skin all
scarred. But just afterward, when I was hunting through
the bathroom for some cotton to stop the blood, I ran onto a
little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one Christmas,
and I remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then—
Hell. I can't hardly believe it's me here.'' As Babbitt's arm
tightened about his shoulder, Paul sighed, "I'm glad you came.
But I thought maybe you'd lecture me, and when you've committed
a murder, and been brought here and everything—there
was a big crowd outside the apartment house, all staring, and
the cops took me through it— Oh, I'm not going to talk
about it any more.''
But he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane mumble.
To divert him Babbitt said, "Why, you got a scar on
your cheek.''
"Yes. That's where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get
a lot of fun out of lecturing murderers, too. He was a big
fellow. And they wouldn't let me help carry Zilla down to
the ambulance.''
"Paul! Quit it! Listen: she won't die, and when it's all
over you and I'll go off to Maine again. And maybe we can
get that May Arnold to go along. I'll go up to Chicago and
ask her. Good woman, by golly. And afterwards I'll see
that you get started in business out West somewhere, maybe
Seattle—they say that's a lovely city.''
Paul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now.
He could not tell whether Paul was heeding, but he droned
on till the coming of Paul's lawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin, busy,
unfriendly man who nodded at Babbitt and hinted, "If Riesling
and I could be alone for a moment—''
Babbitt wrung Paul's hands, and waited in the office till
Maxwell came pattering out. "Look, old man, what can I
do?'' he begged.
"Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now,'' said Maxwell.
"Sorry. Got to hurry. And don't try to see him. I've had
the doctor give him a shot of morphine, so he'll sleep.''
It seemed somehow wicked to return to the office. Babbitt
felt as though he had just come from a funeral. He drifted
out to the City Hospital to inquire about Zilla. She was not
likely to die, he learned. The bullet from Paul's huge old .44
army revolver had smashed her shoulder and torn upward and
out.
He wandered home and found his wife radiant with the horified
interest we have in the tragedies of our friends. "Of
course Paul isn't altogether to blame, but this is what comes
of his chasing after other women instead of bearing his cross
in a Christian way,'' she exulted.
He was too languid to respond as he desired. He said what
was to be said about the Christian bearing of crosses, and went
out to clean the car. Dully, patiently, he scraped linty grease
from the drip-pan, gouged at the mud caked on the wheels.
He used up many minutes in washing his hands; scoured them
with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting his plump
knuckles. "Damn soft hands—like a woman's. Aah!''
At dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he bellowed,
"I forbid any of you to say a word about Paul! I'll 'tend to
all the talking about this that's necessary, hear me? There's
going to be one house in this scandal-mongering town to-night
that isn't going to spring the holier-than-thou. And throw
those filthy evening papers out of the house!''
But he himself read the papers, after dinner.
Before nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell.
He was received without cordiality. "Well?'' said Maxwell.
"I want to offer my services in the trial. I've got an idea.
Why couldn't I go on the stand and swear I was there, and
she pulled the gun first and he wrestled with her and the gun
went off accidentally?''
"And perjure yourself?''
"Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh— Would
it help?''
"But, my dear fellow! Perjury!''
"Oh, don't be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didn't mean
to get your goat. I just mean: I've known and you've known
many and many a case of perjury, just to annex some rotten
little piece of real estate, and here where it's a case of saving
Paul from going to prison, I'd perjure myself black in the
face.''
"No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I'm afraid it
isn't practicable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony
to pieces. It's known that only Riesling and his wife were
there at the time.''
"Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear—
and this would be the God's truth—that she pestered him till
he kind of went crazy.''
"No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony
reflecting on his wife. He insists on pleading guilty.''
"Then let me get up and testify something—whatever you
say. Let me do something!''
"I'm sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do—I hate
to say it, but you could help us most by keeping strictly out
of it.''
Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant,
winced so visibly that Maxwell condescended:
"I don't like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want
to do our best for Riesling, and we mustn't consider any other
factor. The trouble with you, Babbitt, is that you're one of
these fellows who talk too readily. You like to hear your own
voice. If there were anything for which I could put you in
the witness-box, you'd get going and give the whole show away.
Sorry. Now I must look over some papers— So sorry.''