Anthony The Absolute

“Heloise dear,” I said finally, “I don’t know what is best. But I know I can’t let you go. Not yet. Not with everything uncertain, like this. We ’.l look up another hotel in the morning.”

She pursed her lips. Then, with a look of sober relief that she could not altogether control she slipped back into her own room. And I closed the shrunken door behind her, and hung my raincoat over the narrow opening that was left.

April 15th, 11 A. M

WE are in another dingy little hotel – off to the eastward of the Legation Quarter, opposite the German wall. We packed our trunks last night. It is forlorn business, of course. But Heloise has not seemed greatly depressed. I suppose that any activity is a relief to her spirits after the strain.

She is out now; and I am a little worried. The situation has switched about rather oddly, it appears, within the hours, and it is I who must play the passive rôle.

Directly after breakfast we rode over with our band luggage and engaged these rooms. I left Heloise here, and myself went back for the trunks. It took me some little time.

When I returned, I found a note in my room. Heloise had suspended it by a string from my chandelier, where I could not miss it.

There were only a few sentences, penciled in haste. She feels that she must see Crocker herself. And now that he, poor fellow, has lost the advantage of his greater physical strength, they can meet as equals, in a sense.

This is natural, I think – and right. There would have to be a meeting; I can see that now. But it is not so easy to sit quietly here. I can do nothing, except to go on writing until she…

They are calling in the hall. I think they want me at the telephone.

It was Heloise.

I am still to wait. She asks it; and I will. And she is right. It is the only thing to do. This is her task, not mine.

But what a task for her slender hands – alone there in the great hotel where men drink and bargain, where tourists swarm, where women parade!

I wish I could know something of the details, and of what is to be done. If I could only help!

“Anthony,” she said. “He is gone.”

“Gone!” I repeated stupidly.

“He died this morning, Anthony. He was not alive when the automobile arrived here.”

“But,” I blundered on, “I don’t understand – it was a bad fall, but – ”

“It was not the fall,” she said. Then, “Wait there, I shall need you.”

I heard the click that cut me off, but for a moment I just stood there with the receiver still pressed to my ear.

It was I myself who had let him have the knife.

April 15th. Night

HELOISE called me over to the big hotel this noon, and we had a little talk. I was glad to find her completely mistress of herself. She was very grave, but she had a direct, practical way about her that, I could see, had instantly commanded respect among these strangers. One thought that had worried me not a little during the hours of her absence was that she might have difficulty in identifying herself as Crocker’s widow. But it was evident that no such question had arisen.

She told me that there was some uncertainty as to whether the American Minister or the Consul-General at Tientsin should be brought into the matter, and asked me to speak with the manager.

I was down in the main corridor, near the office, waiting for an opportunity to do this, when I encountered the Cincinnati man. He rose from a table, in the lounge, and crooked his finger at me. I joined him.

He glanced about to make sure that no one was within earshot, then said, talking around his cigar: “I saw them bring him in. Is he dead?”

I nodded.

“Looked like it. Too bad.” He lowered his cigar and pursed his lips.

“Do the job himself?”

I nodded again.

“Thought so. The idiots brought him right through here, with the knife lying on top of the robe. Pure luck that it happened to be morning, and nobody much around. I’ve been looking him up. It’s awkward – awkward as hell. I saw his wife. You want to keep her out of the publicity, I take it.”

The man was not unkind. He was studying me with shrewd eyes, – I knew that, – but he was so physically big and solid, and so plainly a man of affairs in that rough, practical world that Crocker himself had inhabited, that I found myself leaning on him. He could help. And, as I returned his quiet gaze, I knew that I could trust him. I realized, all at once, that the code has its good side as well as its bad.

“Has there got to be publicity?” I asked.

He squinted his eyes, took a thoughtful pull at his cigar, and nodded. “Rather,” he replied. “Everybody knows the Crocker family. And this fellow himself has been on the front page now and then. Publicity? Good God, man, stop and think a minute! He’s dead. And death is one thing you can’t hush up so easily. I know our newspaper boys – and I know that… Look here, suppose I take hold with you. Glad to do what I can.”

I nodded at this, and said – “I wish you would.”

“All right. But tell me first, is Mrs. Crocker all right? The correspondents are sure to get at her, you know. Can she meet them, and keep cool?”

“Yes,” said I, “she can do that.”

His gaze lingered a moment on my face.

“I thought so,” he replied. “She looks like the right kind.”

For a little time he sat back in his chair, smoking and meditating. Then he said:

“I’ll get the Consul-General on the wire and ask him to come over himself. We’ll have to tell him everything, but I think we can satisfy him – I can bear witness that he was drunk and making threats. So can you. The little Frenchman from the other hotel must have seen the thing. He sputtered around like a crazy man.”

“Yes,” said I, “Crocker was alive when they started over here in the automobile.”

“I gathered that. Well, we can give a pretty complete story, among us all. I don’t know just how much you can tell, of course, but I advise you to come out with everything you know. Then, when we are all together, we can agree on what we’ll give to the press. The managers of both hotels will be glad to keep it quiet. And the Consul-General’s all right – he’ll help us out to that extent, I think. You see, there’s no public interest to consider, nothing to hide but news. It’s the lady being involved, you know.”

He smoked a moment longer, then concluded:

“I think we can swing it. You go up now and advise the lady to keep very quiet and follow instructions, while I’m getting Tientsin on the wire. Then meet me here.”

When I came down, twenty minutes later, he met me with a cheerful sort of steadiness and led the way to a corner of the lounge.

“The old boy’s coming himself,” he said, as we dropped into chairs. “I’m dam’ glad. This is no job for student interpreters.”

For a few moments we talked along in a desultory way. We had to wait for a few hours – no escaping that. I could see that the Cincinnati man had assumed the task of keeping me occupied, and I liked him for it.

He gave me his card, by the way. His name is

Hindmann. He has large interests in vaudeville theaters through the Middle West.

As we chatted, my share in this strange drama of Crocker’s life and death seemed to be clearing itself up in my mind and taking form as a narrative. Hindmann had advised me to tell everything to the Consul-General. I was wondering how I could ever do it. For one moment I even thought of handing him my journal and asking him to read it. The next moment, of course, I realized how impossible it would be to do that – for this most intimately personal of my belongings is no longer mine; it is more than a part Heloise’s. And the story I tell the Consul-General must be only my story.

Not an easy thing to do – disentangle my share in the tragic business from Heloise’s and my joint share, and tell only that much while still telling the truth! It is a little out of my line, this lawyer-like sort of thinking.

I must have appeared rather distrait to Hindmann. But if I did, he ignored it. He just sat and smoked – a comfortably fat, round-faced man with shrewd, steady eyes – and talked along in an easy manner. He told me a good deal about his vaudeville business, I remember, and the curious problems that are constantly arising out of the invasion of the entertainment field by the moving pictures. I think I expressed some interest, now and then, even asked an intelligent question or two; but all the time that story was arranging and rearranging itself in the back of my head.

Finally I found myself beginning to tell bits of it to him. After all, why not? He would hear most of it anyway, before night. Then, after a little, it all came rushing out; and I realized that I was making a confidant of this fat man. It had to be, I think. Surely every human being, at certain intense moments of his life, needs a confidant. And I suppose there is never any telling, in a given case, what sort of individual will be chosen for the trust. Crocker chose me – and Sir Robert! I chose Mr. Hindmann, of Cincinnati… sitting there in a corner of the lounge of the Hôtel Wagon-lits, talking in a low voice in order that the little groups of American and British folk and Germans might not hear the details of the love that has so very nearly’ torn my life to pieces. The usual row of Chinese merchants were over against the wall, I remember, with their glorious display of embroidered silk coats and skirts and scarves and squares hung higher than their heads. Once a great Mandarin walked by and bowed impersonally to us, attended by a dozen or more of lesser Mandarins who bowed in their turn; and they all wore stiff-fitting frock coats, and American shoes, and silk hats that came down almost to the tops of their ears!

Hindmann said very little – just listened, and smoked. Then, when I had finished, he turned away, looked rather steadily out the window, and muttered something about its being a queer world.

Later on, when it was about time for the Consul-General to arrive, he advised me to tell only of my earlier acquaintance with Crocker, of his drinking and his declared intent to do murder, of my happening to be on the stairway in the Hôtel de Chine when he came running up with a knife in his hand – and the rest in full.

“But,” I protested, “the Consul-General will suspect. There are too many coincidences in that story.”

“Of course there are,” said Hindmann. “And of course he’ll see through them. He was n’t born yesterday. But he won’t say anything about that. Neither will you. And there you are.”

The Consul-General, with his secretary, arrived at four o’clock. He took possession at once of Crocker’s effects, locked them in his room and put a seal on the door. Then he called all of us before him in the manager’s private office – the two hotel men, Hindmann and myself – and in the course of an hour’s steady questioning drew out the story.

After which I and the hotel men withdrew, leaving him with Hindmann for another hour. I don’t know what was said; Hindmann has not referred to it since. But a messenger was sent to the Legation and I know that the Consul-General himself did some telephoning.

One curious fact came out during the examination in the manager’s office. Before the automobile had got out of the little Chinese street on the way from the Hôtel de Chine, Crocker borrowed a pencil and wrote a few hasty sentences on the back of an envelope. The Consul-General asked for the paper; but no one had thought to look for it. It proved not to be in Crocker’s pockets. The automobile was called; and there, sure enough, it was, on the floor of the tonneau, just where he had dropped it.

He had written – “Don’t send me home. Bury me in China.” It was dated, and signed. The Consul-General thought this over and finally suggested a temporary interment at Tientsin, unless Mrs. Crocker should have other plans. He said that the matter of a lot could easily be arranged.

Hindmann told me at dinner that the Consul-General is perplexed over Heloise’s standing in the matter. While outwardly he is considerate to a fault, he explained privately to Hindmann that he can not recognize her in any official way. He is going to send Crocker’s effects home under seal, for the courts to dispose of as they may decide. He suggests that Heloise employ counsel to look after her interest in his property. There is, of course, no hurry about this; it will be a year, or two, or three, before the estate can be wound up.

Hindmann was right about the newspaper correspondents. It seems that several of the largest American papers have their own men here. The great news agencies are represented, of course. And all these men got at us to-day.

I find this experience perhaps the most disturbing of all. They are very insistent, these reporters. They make me curiously uncomfortable. Underlying all their questions is a morbid eagerness to uncover a sensation, to make their “stories” as thrilling as possible. Several of them, I think, firmly believe that Crocker was murdered. They have picked up something of his recent history. They know that he was pursuing Heloise, and that he was drinking. Fortunately, none of them appears to connect me with the story in any intimate way. They are all on the trail of that other man, the man with whom she came to China. I realized to-day the curious fact that I do not so much as know the name of that man I am glad I don’t.

But they will have to accept our version, I believe – the simple fact that Crocker took his own life in a fit of despondency. There are only seven persons alive who know further details, and only four who know the whole story.

Two of the reporters forced their way to Heloise this evening. It was just after eight. I was in the lounge, waiting for Hindmann. I could n’t bear to think of dinner, but was trying to drink some coffee and eat a little toast. The usual evening crowd was swarming about me, talking every language under the sun. A China boy brought a chit. It was just a line asking me if I could come upstairs, signed “H.”

I went up instantly.

The management had given her the use of a small suite on the second floor. The door to her parlor was ajar, and I heard voices. I knocked, and she called to me to come in.

There were the two reporters, hats in hand. Heloise was standing by the table. She was pale, but very erect and composed. She had put on a black tailored suit. It was this, perhaps, that emphasized the ivory whiteness of her skin, and subdued the blue in her eyes.

I think she saw on my face indications that I was about to speak indiscreetly. For I was. The sight of the reporters in that room, trying to pin Heloise down to the details of this dreadful story, angered me. But before I could utter a word she took command of the situation.

“Forgive me for calling you in this peremptory way, Mr. Eckhart,” she said, “but I cannot talk to these men. You were good enough to offer to help, and, since I am alone here, I am forced to take you at your word.” Then she turned to the reporters, adding, “Mr. Eckhart knew my husband. You will please talk with him.”

Her voice was steady; but my quick eye caught a familiar, listless gesture of her left hand as she finished.

“But, Mrs. Crocker,” persisted the older man, “it has been said that – ”

I threw the door wide, and sprang directly in front of Heloise, facing the reporter.

“Get out!” I said.

He frowned, but backed toward the door, as I advanced on him. Thus I got them out into the corridor. I was all ablaze. But at the door I turned for one brief glance at Heloise. Her lips were compressed. She gave me a swift look of warning. This steadied me. I closed the door, and walked down the corridor after the reporters.

“Come downstairs,” I said, “and ask your questions of me.”

So I myself came nearer to an outbreak than have any of the others. But I shall not lose my head again. And after one or two days, Hind-mann tells me, the news value of the episode will have flattened out, and they will let us alone.

April 16th. Morning,

WE are going down to Tientsin on the forenoon train for the funeral. Then back here before night.

Heloise herself has seen to all the little necessary arrangements. She had me get what few flowers I could last night. And I believe we can get more in Tientsin. She wants to do everything she can for his memory in these last hours.

I think she is very fine about it. She exhibits no weakness. She shirks neither from what she regards as her duty in this tragic time nor from the results of her own acts. It has all come back to her, of course, in a thousand memory-shapes. It must have. But she does not speak of that.

The Minister sent over a large bunch of lilac blossoms last night, cut from the bushes in the Legation compound.

April 17th

WE came back to Peking on the late afternoon train – Heloise, Hindmann and I. But Hindmann stayed in the smoking car most of the way.

Heloise and I sat in our compartment without saying much of anything. The sober spell of the funeral service was on us both. I bought some magazines at Tientsin, and laid them on the seat close to her hand. She picked one up, and turned the pages, but without much interest. In a few moments she laid it aside. Most of the way she rested her head back in the corner of the seat and watched the little brick stations flit by, and the Chinese farms with their mud-walled compounds.

After a time I went forward and joined Hindmann. I thought Heloise would be glad of a little solitude. Then there was a chance that she might sleep a little. But I don’t believe she did, for when I looked in on her, half an hour later, she was sitting forward, chin on hand, studying the flat brown countryside with its occasional squares of green millet-spears.

She gave me a faint smile.

“Don’t go away again,” she said, her eyes back on the brown and green fields and the dingy gray compounds.

And since she was not looking at me, and seemed not to expect a reply, I just dropped down opposite her and myself gazed out the window.

After a little she spoke again, with some uncertainty in her voice.

“I’ll move my things back to our little hotel – first, Anthony.”

I must have shaken my head, for she added, more resolutely —

“I must, Anthony.”

“It would be trying for you to stay on at the Wagon-lits, of course,” I began.

“It isn’t only that,” said she; then stopped.

It was not only that, of course. The poor child was, is, penniless. But this was something I could not talk about. For the first time in many days there was an awkwardness between us. Certainly I felt it, and I think she did. We could n’t quite think out what to say. We had been in the presence of death, and love seemed a petty, selfish thing. And back of this, something had happened that I don’t quite understand now. We have no longer the poignantly intimate sense of apartness from the world that we had during those strange, wonderful days at the Hôtel de Chine. The world has thrust itself between us. I can see now that we were a million miles away from actual life, over there in our two little rooms with the shrunken door between. We did not know it then; but we were. We have become self-conscious. Many things flitted into my mind to say, but I could not say them. They were all unpleasantly flavored with Consuls-General, and big, noisy hotels, and newspapers, and legal disputes. It was depressing to think that we could no longer slip unnoticed about the quaint, barbaric old city. We are known now; conspicuous, even.

And woven through all these thoughts, deep in our common consciousness, hovered that brooding mystery of death.

“All right, Heloise,” said I, “we will get your bags back to-night. The first thing. And we won’t hurry about straightening out our plans. Wait a few days, until you feel more like facing things. What you need now, I think, is some rest.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need rest, Anthony. Goodness knows I have strength enough for six women. I can face things. No, let’s plan now. What do you want me to do?”

I sat there for several long moments, trying to think how to say it. I remember that I rubbed my forefinger back and forth along the windowsill, through the dust, and followed it intently with my eyes.

Finally she asked, still gazing out the window —

“Do you think I ought to go to Paris, Anthony?”

I nodded. Then, as she was not looking at me, said – “Yes, I do.”

“But how, Anthony? How on earth can I? Everything is mixed now.”

“I know,” said I. “But I’ve been thinking that out. We can do it.”

“Yes,” said she; “but don’t you see – ”

It was not becoming easier. So I broke out with my conclusions:

“In its essentials, dear, our plan is not changed at all.”

“That’s absurd, Anthony!”

“No. What has happened has merely deferred the payment of that money. Ultimately it will have to come to you. Something, surely. I will advance it.” She moved restlessly. I hurried on. “You will give me your note and an assignment of your claim on the estate. I – I will charge you interest, Heloise. It will be perfectly businesslike. These things are done every day. Really.”

It was no good talking on. She had turned her face away, and, under pretext of resting it on her hand, was hiding it from me. I forgot what she had said about not leaving her again, and stumbled out of the compartment and went back to Hindmann.

I did not return until he told me that we were approaching the outskirts of Peking.

She smiled, as she had before. Then I helped her on with her coat, and gathered up the magazines. We stood there, awkwardly.

Finally I said – “Well, we are n’t quite there yet. We may as well sit again.”

Then the train slowed down, and dallied along by jerky stages.

“Anthony,” said she. “I’ve been thinking, you never saw him in his younger days. He was a very likeable man, dear. He got on with people. And he was a good business man. Big and bluff, you know, and strong. I – I’ve been thinking – we should n’t have married, he and I. That was a mistake. I was too young to know what marriage means. And he was very positive. But I can’t help wishing you had seen him – before. I really think you would have liked him, Anthony. Strong men always did… You don’t think it strange of me?”

“Heloise, dear,” said I, “I’ve been thinking the same strange thoughts. I did like him. He never really knew what he was doing. Even after what happened – what he tried to do – I have n’t been able to feel any hatred. No, not even anger. Nothing but a queer sort of sorrow.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she breathed, her eyes shining. “Do you feel that way?”

Then she said – “I’ve wanted to ask you… It’s difficult… did he know about – us, Anthony?”

I could n’t say much now. But I nodded.

Her eyes were on mine; her lips were parted. “You told him, Anthony?”

I nodded again.

“Oh,” she cried softly – with immense relief on her dear face – “oh, Anthony, I’m so glad. Because he never could have felt in that terrible way toward you. He did n’t, Anthony, did he?”

I shook my head.

The train rolled into the station-shadows, and stopped.

“Because,” she was saying in my ear, as we moved slowly out into the corridor, “hard as he was sometimes, and positive, and all shaken and tortured, even he knew the real things when he found them, Anthony. It would have hurt him, but he would have been fair – once he could really get it clear.” And she whispered, right there in the corridor of the car, with passengers crowding behind us and before – “I’m so glad he knew it was you!”

Hindmann tells me that we passed Sir Robert to-day in the railway station at Tientsin. It seems that that old man and I actually brushed sleeves.

I did n’t know this. Did n’t see him at all, in fact. But Hindmann says he looked straight at me, without the slightest sign of recognition – first at Heloise and then at me.

He had a young woman with him; a rather good-looking girlish person, very thin, but “with a way about her.” Hindmann has seen her before. He thinks she ran a gambling club in Macao when he was last on the Coast.

Sir Robert himself impressed him as looking extremely old and not a little feeble, with a slight paralysis that has twisted his face up curiously on the left side.

I am glad I did not see him. I hope I never shall.