Death Kit by Susan Sontag Page B

Dalton.” After that, Diddy started back for the hotel. He’s walking more slowly (now). Away from life, back to death. True, he’s all but convinced himself that no good would be served by turning himself in to the police. Yet the final step is not in place. Hence, conviction doesn’t arrive. And all his reasoning is sterile. Diddy on the way to confession, humiliation, and imprisonment. He will enter the Rushland, go to his room, and telephone the police. It’s done by taking one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other. But Diddy has yet to cross the whole of the lobby, he’s still twenty feet short of the elevator door, when someone calls “Hey! Hey, Dalton!” Jim Allen of the sales department hailing him. Diddy knew Jim was among the group from New York picked to attend the conference. But how long has he been here? Was it possible that Jim, unperceived by Diddy, had been about the lobby earlier; watching Diddy feverishly scanning the newspaper, finding what he sought, tearing it out, and secreting it in his wallet? “When d’you get in, Dalt?”
    â€œEarly yesterday evening,” replied Diddy, anxiously wheeling around. He was startled to find Jim just behind him. Close enough to be stretching out his arm for a handshake. Diddy managed it. “I took the Privateer,” he continued slowly, not sure whether that was a prudent admission. Hastily, before Jim thinks of an item he may have read in his morning’s paper, adding, “When did you arrive, Jim?”
    â€œA few minutes ago. I caught an Earlybird. I just don’t have the patience for trains any more.”
    What reply could Diddy make to that?
    â€œSay, is Duva coming up for any of this? I can’t ever get a straight word out of that guy. What a cold fish. It beats me how you can work with him.”
    Duva would be up on Wednesday if he came at all, Diddy said. Hardly believing that these were the words coming out of his mouth. In this casual tone.
    Jim grunted. Looked distractedly around the lobby, then at Diddy. “Have you had breakfast?”
    Diddy said he hadn’t.
    â€œCome on then! Neither have I, and we’re due at the plant by ten. They’re sending a car by the hotel at nine forty-five for us and the two other guys … you know, Bill Katz and Fred What’s-his-name.”
    Diddy, drifting from his firm purpose, knew it. What he’s set out to do, what he had to do, was not getting done. Diddy the Delayer. But what could he reply to Jim? “Excuse me, but I must go upstairs to call the police.” “Yeah? Why?” “It’s to turn myself in for a murder I committed yesterday afternoon.” “What! Come off it!” Diddy shakes his head gravely. “C’mon, Dalton, don’t try to put me on.” Until, eventually, in another voice: “For God’s sake. Where?” Diddy’s reply: “On the Privateer. No, off it.” Then a wry joke. “Pity I do have the patience for trains.” Diddy the Comedian.
    Diddy could not perform so clumsy and predictable a scene. Something else, then. Taking a step away from the elevator, hesitating. There, alongside affable gelatinous Jim Allen, was the track of his life stretching out before him. He had only to keep going, not look back. Even though the track curved sharply. But curves are natural. Nobody would know. Only Hester knew Diddy’s truth, without believing it. Why should she (now)? Hardly likely that she was having the local newspaper read aloud to her, cover to cover, at the hospital this morning. And sooner or later the paper would drop the story, if no lunatic with a wild tale jumped forward to make it more interesting. Capt. Mallory’s zeal might flag, or the railroad make it worth his while to abandon the investigation. Then, once the story disappeared from the Courier-Gazette, no chance the girl would ever hear of it. There wouldn’t be