IX

AftertwoyearsIremembertherestofthatday,andthatnightandthenextday,onlyasanendlessdrillofpoliceandphotographersandnewspapermeninandoutofGatsby’sfrontdoor.Aropestretchedacrossthemaingateandapolicemanbyitkeptoutthecurious,butlittleboyssoondiscoveredthattheycouldenterthroughmyyard,andtherewerealwaysafewofthemclusteredopen-mouthedaboutthepool.Someonewithapositivemanner,perhapsadetective,usedtheexpression“madman”ashebentoverWilson’sbodythatafternoon,andtheadventitiousauthorityofhisvoicesetthekeyforthenewspaperreportsnextmorning. Mostofthosereportswereanightmare—grotesque,circumstantial,eager,anduntrue.WhenMichaelis’stestimonyattheinquestbroughttolightWilson’ssuspicionsofhiswifeIthoughtthewholetalewouldshortlybeservedupinracypasquinade—butCatherine,whomighthavesaidanything,didn’tsayaword.Sheshowedasurprisingamountofcharacteraboutittoo—lookedatthecoronerwithdeterminedeyesunderthatcorrectedbrowofhers,andsworethathersisterhadneverseenGatsby,thathersisterwascompletelyhappywithherhusband,thathersisterhadbeenintonomischiefwhatever.Sheconvincedherselfofit,andcriedintoherhandkerchief,asiftheverysuggestionwasmorethanshecouldendure.SoWilsonwasreducedtoaman“derangedbygrief”inorderthatthecasemightremaininitssimplestform.Anditrestedthere. Butallthispartofitseemedremoteandunessential.IfoundmyselfonGatsby’sside,andalone.FromthemomentItelephonednewsofthecatastrophetoWestEggvillage,everysurmiseabouthim,andeverypracticalquestion,wasreferredtome.AtfirstIwassurprisedandconfusedthen,ashelayinhishouseanddidn’tmoveorbreatheorspeak,houruponhour,itgrewuponmethatIwasresponsible,becausenooneelsewasinterested—interested,Imean,withthatintensepersonalinteresttowhicheveryonehassomevaguerightattheend. IcalledupDaisyhalfanhourafterwefoundhim,calledherinstinctivelyandwithouthesitation.ButsheandTomhadgoneawayearlythatafternoon,andtakenbaggagewiththem. “Leftnoaddress?” “No.” “Saywhenthey’dbeback?” “No.” “Anyideawheretheyare?HowIcouldreachthem?” “Idon’tknow.Can’tsay.” Iwantedtogetsomebodyforhim.Iwantedtogointotheroomwherehelayandreassurehim:“I’llgetsomebodyforyou,Gatsby.Don’tworry.JusttrustmeandI’llgetsomebodyforyou—” MeyerWolfshiem’snamewasn’tinthephonebook.ThebutlergavemehisofficeaddressonBroadway,andIcalledInformation,butbythetimeIhadthenumberitwaslongafterfive,andnooneansweredthephone. “Willyouringagain?” “I’verungthreetimes.” “It’sveryimportant.” “Sorry.I’mafraidnoone’sthere.” Iwentbacktothedrawing-roomandthoughtforaninstantthattheywerechancevisitors,alltheseofficialpeoplewhosuddenlyfilledit.But,thoughtheydrewbackthesheetandlookedatGatsbywithshockedeyes,hisprotestcontinuedinmybrain: “Lookhere,oldsport,you’vegottogetsomebodyforme.You’vegottotryhard.Ican’tgothroughthisalone.” Someonestartedtoaskmequestions,butIbrokeawayandgoingupstairslookedhastilythroughtheunlockedpartsofhisdesk—he’dnevertoldmedefinitelythathisparentsweredead.Buttherewasnothing—onlythepictureofDanCody,atokenofforgottenviolence,staringdownfromthewall. NextmorningIsentthebutlertoNewYorkwithalettertoWolfshiem,whichaskedforinformationandurgedhimtocomeoutonthenexttrain.ThatrequestseemedsuperfluouswhenIwroteit.Iwassurehe’dstartwhenhesawthenewspapers,justasIwassurethere’dbeawirefromDaisybeforenoon—butneitherawirenorMr.Wolfshiemarrivednoonearrivedexceptmorepoliceandphotographersandnewspapermen.WhenthebutlerbroughtbackWolfshiem’sanswerIbegantohaveafeelingofdefiance,ofscornfulsolidaritybetweenGatsbyandmeagainstthemall. DearMr.Carraway.ThishasbeenoneofthemostterribleshocksofmylifetomeIhardlycanbelieveitthatitistrueatall.Suchamadactasthatmandidshouldmakeusallthink.IcannotcomedownnowasIamtiedupinsomeveryimportantbusinessandcannotgetmixedupinthisthingnow.IfthereisanythingIcandoalittlelaterletmeknowinaletterbyEdgar.IhardlyknowwhereIamwhenIhearaboutathinglikethisandamcompletelyknockeddownandout. Yourstruly MeyerWolfshiem andthenhastyaddendabeneath: Letmeknowaboutthefuneraletcdonotknowhisfamilyatall. WhenthephonerangthatafternoonandLongDistancesaidChicagowascallingIthoughtthiswouldbeDaisyatlast.Buttheconnectioncamethroughasaman’svoice,verythinandfaraway. “ThisisSlaglespeaking…” “Yes?”Thenamewasunfamiliar. “Hellofanote,isn’tit?Getmywire?” “Therehaven’tbeenanywires.” “YoungParke’sintrouble,”hesaidrapidly.“Theypickedhimupwhenhehandedthebondsoverthecounter.TheygotacircularfromNewYorkgiving’emthenumbersjustfiveminutesbefore.Whatd’youknowaboutthat,hey?Younevercantellinthesehicktowns—” “Hello!”Iinterruptedbreathlessly.“Lookhere—thisisn’tMr.Gatsby.Mr.Gatsby’sdead.” Therewasalongsilenceontheotherendofthewire,followedbyanexclamation…thenaquicksquawkastheconnectionwasbroken. Ithinkitwasonthethirddaythatatel