THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

looked at my watch and stood up.

      “Twelve minutes to my train.”

      I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work but it was more than that — I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.

      “I’ll call you up,” I said finally.

      “Do, old sport.”

      “I’ll call you about noon.”

      We walked slowly down the steps.

      “I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.

      “I suppose so.”

      “Well — goodbye.”

      We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.

      “They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

      I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white steps and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption — and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

      I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that — I and the others.

      “Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”

      Up in the city I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool as if a divot from a green golf links had come sailing in at the office window but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.

      “I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”

      Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me and her next remark made me rigid.

      “You weren’t so nice to me last night.”

      “How could it have mattered then?”

      Silence for a moment. Then —

      “However — I want to see you.”

      “I want to see you too.”

      “Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”

      “No — I don’t think this afternoon.”

      “Very well.”

      “It’s impossible this afternoon. Various — —”

      We talked like that for a while and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.

      I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

      When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I suppose there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.

      They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this she immediately fainted as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone kind or curious took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.

      Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open and everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him — first four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.

      About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed — he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.

      But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.

      “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?”

      “Twelve years.”

      “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still — I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?”

      The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying so he moved uncomfortably around the office — he knew every object in it before morning — and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.

      “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”

      “Don’t belong to any.”

      “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”

      “That was a long time ago.”

      The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking — for a moment he was silent. Then the same half knowing, half bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.

      “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.

      “Which drawer?”

      “That drawer — that one.”

      Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small expensive dog leash made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.

      “This?” he inquired, holding it up.

      Wilson stared and nodded.

      “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it but I knew it