I explored the littered apartment though, I was more careful, and worked with the thickness of my handkerchief wrapped over the fingers of my right hand.
The appalling filth and disorder of Merkle’s rooms were both an asset and hindrance in my search. There were very few places where Merkle might file or hide anything, yet he had only to lay an envelope down and it would disappear into the general confusion. However, my search did not turn it up. Before leaving the apartment, I switched off the lights and, with my handkerchief, wiped the doorknob and iron grille, and closed them behind me.
To face my feelings honestly, I could feel little sorrow for Merkle. The life he had led, and the future which he could expect, were not worth the living. Merely to cling to life in order to be able to breathe, to eat for the purpose only that one’s organs may continue to function, is not enough. Perhaps Merkle was happier; at least, he would not be as unhappy.
Nor did I feel that I should assume the responsibility for his death. Merkle had thrust his friendship upon me which I had not particularly desired, although I had accepted it, and he had run for me this last deadly errand which I had not requested. The truth was that I had accepted it as a matter of convenience, and I did not believe that Merkle had been betrayed by either life or death. He had been human, weak, a bore, and a fool and—as every other man must do— had died. He had died, however, from a blow to the head instead of perhaps pneumonia or an infected kidney.
As I walked away, I slipped my knife from out of its sheath, and carried it, with the hilt cupped in my hand, the blade up the sleeve of my coat. It was possible, I thought, that Merkle’s body might not be discovered for some time, possibly even days. But I also wondered if the letter of reply had been found by his murderer. Merkle might have been killed accidentally before the letter was found, or fatally struck in an attempt to force him to produce it Whether the killer had it now, I could not be sure. The knife in my sleeve seemed to come to life; it burned against my wrist. Before me stretched the streets of Manhattan, clothed in the blue-brown night, and I said to myself, “Amar, sometime soon we must meet.”
18
JENSEN said, “I thought maybe it was better if I came down and we could bat this stuff around.” He was sitting by Burrows’ desk, and he looked rather tired. Jensen lit a cigarette, then placed it in an ashtray without smoking.
Burrows had several pages of notes which Jensen had phoned to him earlier. They concerned the Army record of Victor Pacific. Burrows looked at the notes in his hand, and then at the preliminary report he had filled out. “Well,” he said to Jensen, “fingerprints don’t lie.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jensen said, “but don’t forget that was a long time ago. Maybe other things don’t stay the same for fifteen years or so, but fingerprints don’t change.”
“Gorman said the stiff was six feet or better; that means maybe six one or two. According to this Army information, he was five eleven.”
“That was only Gorman’s first guess. It’s hard to measure a body lying down flat. Maybe Gorman was wrong.”
“By maybe three inches?” asked Burrows. “I don’t think so!”
“That’s a lot,” agreed Jensen, “but suppose Gorman was out by one or two inches. Say the stiff is six feet. The Army report says five eleven. In those days everybody made mistakes including the Army doctors.”
“At induction centers there was a shortage of doctors, and the ones they had were damned busy,” Burrows agreed reluctantly.
“Sure. Most of them had to use enlisted personnel to help out ... medical assistants. I remember when I went in some sergeant stood me up against a wall with a scale on it. He took a look at where my hair reached—and that’s how tall I was.” This was not exactly the truth, but Jensen at the moment believed that
The appalling filth and disorder of Merkle’s rooms were both an asset and hindrance in my search. There were very few places where Merkle might file or hide anything, yet he had only to lay an envelope down and it would disappear into the general confusion. However, my search did not turn it up. Before leaving the apartment, I switched off the lights and, with my handkerchief, wiped the doorknob and iron grille, and closed them behind me.
To face my feelings honestly, I could feel little sorrow for Merkle. The life he had led, and the future which he could expect, were not worth the living. Merely to cling to life in order to be able to breathe, to eat for the purpose only that one’s organs may continue to function, is not enough. Perhaps Merkle was happier; at least, he would not be as unhappy.
Nor did I feel that I should assume the responsibility for his death. Merkle had thrust his friendship upon me which I had not particularly desired, although I had accepted it, and he had run for me this last deadly errand which I had not requested. The truth was that I had accepted it as a matter of convenience, and I did not believe that Merkle had been betrayed by either life or death. He had been human, weak, a bore, and a fool and—as every other man must do— had died. He had died, however, from a blow to the head instead of perhaps pneumonia or an infected kidney.
As I walked away, I slipped my knife from out of its sheath, and carried it, with the hilt cupped in my hand, the blade up the sleeve of my coat. It was possible, I thought, that Merkle’s body might not be discovered for some time, possibly even days. But I also wondered if the letter of reply had been found by his murderer. Merkle might have been killed accidentally before the letter was found, or fatally struck in an attempt to force him to produce it Whether the killer had it now, I could not be sure. The knife in my sleeve seemed to come to life; it burned against my wrist. Before me stretched the streets of Manhattan, clothed in the blue-brown night, and I said to myself, “Amar, sometime soon we must meet.”
18
JENSEN said, “I thought maybe it was better if I came down and we could bat this stuff around.” He was sitting by Burrows’ desk, and he looked rather tired. Jensen lit a cigarette, then placed it in an ashtray without smoking.
Burrows had several pages of notes which Jensen had phoned to him earlier. They concerned the Army record of Victor Pacific. Burrows looked at the notes in his hand, and then at the preliminary report he had filled out. “Well,” he said to Jensen, “fingerprints don’t lie.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jensen said, “but don’t forget that was a long time ago. Maybe other things don’t stay the same for fifteen years or so, but fingerprints don’t change.”
“Gorman said the stiff was six feet or better; that means maybe six one or two. According to this Army information, he was five eleven.”
“That was only Gorman’s first guess. It’s hard to measure a body lying down flat. Maybe Gorman was wrong.”
“By maybe three inches?” asked Burrows. “I don’t think so!”
“That’s a lot,” agreed Jensen, “but suppose Gorman was out by one or two inches. Say the stiff is six feet. The Army report says five eleven. In those days everybody made mistakes including the Army doctors.”
“At induction centers there was a shortage of doctors, and the ones they had were damned busy,” Burrows agreed reluctantly.
“Sure. Most of them had to use enlisted personnel to help out ... medical assistants. I remember when I went in some sergeant stood me up against a wall with a scale on it. He took a look at where my hair reached—and that’s how tall I was.” This was not exactly the truth, but Jensen at the moment believed that
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