Compulsion. Meyer Levin

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ to use it,” said Harry Bass, another of our law students. “If they use the third degree, he can repudiate the confession.”

      “Crap,” said Artie. “They’ve got a way that leaves no marks.”

      “Yah, in cheap detective stories!” Harry laughed.

      Artie appealed to me as an expert, about the rubber truncheons that left no marks. Besides, he said, the cops got them in the balls.

      Sure, the police had ways, I said knowingly. Could I go talk to his little brother about Steger?

      His mother had the kid in hiding, Artie told me. All the mothers were scared out of their pants. But he would fix up an interview for me.

      Too keyed up to sit at the dinner table, I decided to go over to Ruth’s. Artie followed me to the door, telling me to be sure to meet him tomorrow. “I’ll give you the benefit of my expert knowledge,” he half jested. And in the same breath he snagged Milt Lewis, who was passing. “Hey, Milt, you want a sure lay? I’ve got a terrific number.”

      Ruth was my girl at that time. Or rather, I should say Ruth was my sweetheart, for there is no period that encompasses my feeling; whenever I think of her, and now as I write of her, the aura of that young love comes back, and I realize that what we then felt was indeed love. We were in love and afraid to know it, and nobody told us it was the true thing. Everybody, all the kids of our time, had endless doubts; we used to analyze ourselves and decide it was only sex attraction, and we didn’t quite have the nerve to test that out either.

      She was eighteen, a few months younger than I, and a sophomore. We had met on campus, and dated, and petted; in the long moony evenings we spent together we would stroke and excite each other and decide that this alone couldn’t be love. She was bright, all A’s, and we would discuss the new poetry of Amy Lowell, and we discovered Walt Whitman together, and read his poems of the body aloud to each other sometimes as we lay close side by side on the grass in Jackson Park. We read them wholesomely, without any suspicion in those days that he could be singing of another kind of love.

      And innocently reading Whitman, we used to discuss whether Ruth should give herself to me—that was how we put it—or whether we should wait. And waiting was vague; I had to go out in the world and become a great writer, or something.

      Ruth’s folks were better off than my family, but still something of the same kind. Her mother, like mine, was always plying you with food, putting a plate in front of you even if you said you had just eaten. I felt comfortable in her house; I called it my second home.

      Pushing the bell, I took the stairs two at a time; Ruth appeared in the doorway. “You’re a nice one!” she said reproachfully. And only then I remembered we had had a date for the afternoon.

      “My God, look at you. Did you even shave today?” her mother demanded, from behind Ruth. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten all day either.”

      “I haven’t stopped going since morning!” I said, bursting to tell my big news, but Mrs. Goldenberg disappeared into the kitchen, immediately fetching a bowl of noodle soup, calling, “Well, you’re lucky Ruth isn’t gone.”

      “Yes,” said Ruth archly. “You might have found me missing, out riding.”

      “Who with?”

      “Oh, a swell machine, a Franklin, stopped at the door,” said her mother.

      “He honked enough for the whole street to hear,” said Ruth.

      “Millionaire’s manners.” Mrs. Goldenberg went back for meat and potatoes.

      “In fact, it was a frat brother of yours,” Ruth teased. “The sheik of the campus, no less, suddenly remembered I was alive.”

      “Artie? I just saw him at the house,” I said. “I didn’t know you go out with him.”

      Oh, Ruth told me, not really. Sometimes, on campus, they kidded around. So it was odd, the way he had appeared all of a sudden today, saying he was lonesome. He had seemed quite upset.

      “It must have been the murder, so close to his house,” I said, and pulled the paper from my pocket, spreading it on the table. I had been waiting eagerly to tell my big news.

      “Oh, I know,” Ruth said. “I read the extra. Isn’t it terrible!”

      It really was, I agreed—after all, I had really seen it. “You mean this was you? The reporter that identified the body! Oh, Sid!” Ruth’s voice hovered between pride and shock.

      “Horrible, a horrible crime!” her mother said, and urged me to eat. Chicago was becoming so terrible, you couldn’t even let a child go out in the street. And it was I who had reported all this, on the front page? Sid was getting ahead!

      “You saw the body? Poor kid.” Ruth was gazing at me, as though she could virtually see the child, through me.

      I told how the teachers had been arrested, and how Artie’s little brother was in the same class.

      “I know. Artie told me. That’s why he was so upset. He tries to act blasé, but I think Artie is really softhearted,” Ruth said.

      “Oh yeah,” I said. “You’d better watch your step with him. That’s how he gets all the girls, with that winsome boyish line.”

      “Do you think he’ll seduce me?”

      “No, but he’ll say he did.”

      Her mother disappeared. Mrs. Goldenberg always said she was broad-minded and if her girl was going to do anything like petting, it was better for her to do it in her own home than out in a dark car on a dark street. So we sat on the overstuffed sofa in the sun parlor, and I kissed Ruth and put my hand over her breast. That was our limit. We fell into a kind of trance, a melancholy dreamy state of yearning love, mingled with a sense of futility, even of the horror of the world.

      “It’s so horrible about that little boy,” she said.

      I remarked that it seemed pretty certain the crime had been done by a pervert.

      We were silent for a moment, and then she said in a classroom-questioning voice, “What exactly is a pervert, Sid? I guess I’m supposed to know, but I don’t.”

      I explained, trying not to reveal that my own knowledge was limited. I said it was like Oscar Wilde.

      “Oh. That was what the scandal was about him?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “But then,” Ruth said, “aren’t they suffering from a sickness?”

      It was the first time in the whole day that I had remained still long enough for this thought to come through. And while I might ordinarily have expected myself to concur in this broader view, I found now that the thought made me almost angry.

      “We can’t forgive crime by calling it a sickness,” I snapped. “It was murder, after all. It was a cold-blooded attempt to collect money from a kidnaping. And the perversion was just an added act of viciousness; maybe it was even a cunning way to disguise the rest of the crime.”

      Ruth had drawn her hand out of mine. I went СКАЧАТЬ