The Troubled Air (55 page)

“I don’t have to read it,” Archer said. “I know what’s in it.”

“Oh,” Sandler shouted, “now you say you know what’s in it. But you didn’t know when you came down to Philadelphia? You didn’t know anything about a man you’d practically lived with for fifteen years?”

“I didn’t know he was a Communist.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” He waited for Archer to answer him, but Archer didn’t say anything. “And now,” Sandler went on, his voice calmer now, but cold and incisive, “and now what do you know about him?”

“I know what I heard last night,” Archer said.

“Uhuh,” Sandler nodded, as though he had suddenly decided to be reasonable. “And I suppose you only know what you heard last night about that Barbante, that writer. Your daughter’s friend. I suppose you had no notion that the man who was writing your scripts for four years was an out-and-out atheist.”

Archer sighed. “What’s that got to do with it?” he asked. “We certainly never attacked religion on our program.”

“Never attacked religion on our program.” Sandler mimicked him, in falsetto. “That was nice of you. That was very considerate. Listen, Archer. I live in a devout community. I believe in God. I believe in people going to church and fighting to preserve their religion. I’m the president of my synagogue. I’m the chairman of a half-dozen inter-religious charities. I have meetings with priests and rabbis and ministers every week of the year. What do you think they’re going to say to me at the next meeting when I get up to address them and they know that I’ve been paying a man seven hundred dollars a week who’s out to destroy them? What do you think the Jew-haters’re going to be able to say about that?”

That, too, Archer thought exhaustedly.

“What’re you trying to do to me?” Sandler shouted, his voice surprisingly strong and young and malevolent. “What the hell did I ever do to you to put me through this?” Sandler stood up and strode over to Archer and stood over him, almost as though he were on the verge of hitting him. He was breathing hard and his face was flushed now and Archer thought of heart failure and sudden strokes. He looked up at the old man curiously, wondering if he really would try to hit him.

“Aah.” Sandler turned away and walked slowly toward Hutt’s desk. He seemed tired now, as though he had suddenly realized that he was an old man and that he had been up since five o’clock that morning and that he had already traveled a long distance that day “What’s the sense in talking to you?” He leaned against the desk, facing Archer, with Hutt behind him, immobile, watchful, expressionless. “You’re lost, Archer. You’re a clumsy, foolish, untrustworthy man and you’re going to pay for it now. The program’s finished. As of this minute, Hutt.”

“Yes, sir,” Hutt said.

“We’ll advertise in the magazines from now on,” Sandler said. “If we have anything left to advertise. How much longer does Archer’s contract have to go?”

“Seven weeks,” Hutt said promptly.

“Don’t pay him,” Sandler said. “Let him sue, if he wants to. We’ll drag him through every court in the country if that’s what he wants. But not a penny.”

“Yes, sir,” Hutt said. He picked up his blue pencil and stared at it.

“That’s all,” Sandler said heavily. “I’ve got to go. I have a date in Philadelphia.”

He picked up his coat. Hutt stood up and helped him on with it. Sandler put on his hat carelessly, its brim up all around, giving him a rakish, Western air. He didn’t thank Hutt. He looked once more at Archer, puzzled, reflective. Then he walked out slowly, shuffling along the carpet. He didn’t close the door behind him and Archer had a glimpse of Miss Walsh outside, smiling sharply at her desk, before O’Neill, who hadn’t moved during the entire scene, went over and shut the door.

Hutt sat down behind his desk again, playing with the blue pencil. “Well,” he said, “that’s that. You heard what he said, Archer.”

“I heard.”

“Are you going to sue?”

“I’ll let you know,” Archer said. He knew he wasn’t going to sue, but, maliciously, he wanted Hutt to worry about it.

“We’ll kill you,” Hutt said calmly, twirling the pencil in both his hands. With a gesture of his head he indicated the newspapers on the floor. “Those’ll seem like love notes in comparison by the time we get through with you.”

“You don’t need me any more, do you, Lloyd?” O’Neill said, starting toward the door. He looked tortured and pent-up, and Archer knew that he didn’t want to have to listen any more. “I have a desk full of work and …”

“Stay here, Emmet,” Hutt said. “I’d like you to listen to what I have to say to Mr. Archer. It might be instructive.”

O’Neill dropped his hand from the doorknob and went back to his station along the wall.

“I warned you,” Hutt said to Archer, and there was the flicker of triumph in his voice. “I warned you a long time ago not to fight me. You should have listened to me.”

Archer stood up. “I think I’ll go now,” he said quietly.

“You’re finished, Archer,” Hutt said, whispering. “I told you you would be and I’m glad to see it happened so soon. It’s going to cost me a considerable amount of money, but it’s worth it. I don’t begrudge a penny of it. Before you leave I’d like to tell you that I had a good deal to do with what happened to you last night.”

Archer stopped at the door, puzzled at what Hutt had said. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“When you went down to see Mr. Sandler in Philadelphia,” Hutt said, “breaking one of the oldest and strictest rules of this organization, I decided it was about time I found out more about you. In self-defense. You’ve had two detectives investigating you for more than a month, at my own expense, and I must say I feel it was money well spent.”

The telephone tap, Archer thought. That’s where it came from. Incongruously, he felt a sense of relief. At least it wasn’t the Government.

“You miserable sonofabitch,” Archer said clearly.

Hutt shrugged and even smiled a little, mechanically, although he flushed. “I ignore that, Archer,” he said, “because you’re of no importance to me any more. I tried to save you. I gave you a lot of time and I used all the arguments and all the eloquence I was capable of. They weren’t wasted, though.” He smiled more widely, his wedge-face splitting frostily. “I got them in good order, trying them out on you, and when I had to use them again, they worked charmingly. Frances Motherwell was not quite as deaf to the claims of patriotism and reason as you were and from all reports she put on a very good performance last night, didn’t she?”

“I suppose,” Archer said, “you’re proud of that dirty scene you put her up to last night.”

“I told you you can’t make me angry, Archer,” Hutt said. “This was something that had to be done publicly, without warning, and without giving anyone any chance to wriggle quietly away. For educational purposes. From now on, people who work for me will be very careful about what they say or whom they endorse or how they oppose me. And Frances Motherwell was ripe anyway. She comes of an excellent family. She’s fundamentally a decent, honest girl. She was ready to leave her old friends, anyway. She told me herself she was disgusted with them. If you’d had any sense you would have expected something like this. After all, she told you herself that she was a Communist. Did any of the others ever do that? Of course not. She’s a straightforward American girl and it was only a question of time before she’d turn away in disgust from the Oriental plotting she saw all around her.”

“She’s a straightforward psychopath,” Archer said, “and she’ll probably wind up in a straitjacket, getting the shock treatment three times a year. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you’ll find yourself keeping her company on the next table.”

Hutt chuckled. “I’ll tell her that,” he said. “I’m having lunch with her this afternoon to celebrate. I expect it to be a very merry lunch. Because we really accomplished something last night. We really hurt you, all you soft-headed orators with your shady friends skulking behind you. All your wild-eyed, filthy immigrant friends whose families haven’t been here long enough to learn to speak the language without degrading it, all you misfits and spies and conspirators trying to drag their betters down to their own stinking level.” Hutt stood up. His face was very red now and his eyes were almost colorless and raging as he gave up all control over himself. “And don’t think I’m stopping here,” he whispered. “I’m going to drive everyone of you out of the industry, out of the city, out of the country, if I can. I’m going to tell you something. Three men put up the money to start
Blueprint
and I was one of the three, and I never made a better investment in my whole life. We’ll starve you out and we’ll raise the country against you, and we’ll hound you and defame you and we won’t stop until you’re all behind bars or swinging from trees, as you ought to be.”

Archer sprang across the room and hit him. He only hit him once, because O’Neill grabbed him and held him.

“Stop it, Clem!” O’Neill whispered. “Don’t be a God-damn fool.”

Hutt didn’t do anything. He didn’t fall back. He didn’t even put his hand up to his face, which had grown pale, except for the mark high on the cheek where Archer’s clumsy blow had landed. It was the first time Archer had hit anybody since he was fifteen years old. He was ashamed of himself for the outburst and dissatisfied that it had been so ineffectual. “Let go,” he said thickly to O’Neill. “It’s OK.”

Cautiously O’Neill released him. Hutt was staring at him, breathing heavily, his eyelids narrowed, as though his mind was racing over the possibility of doing further harm.

“I’ll take you out of here,” O’Neill said. “Come on.”

Archer walked slowly across the room toward the door, stepping on the newspapers that were strewn over the carpet. O’Neill held onto his elbow as they went past the desks, with the pretty, busy girls, the sound of typewriters, the fragrance of perfumes. In O’Neill’s office, Archer put on his coat in silence. It was still wet. He and O’Neill refused to look squarely at each other.

“Everything,” O’Neill said after a moment, looking down at his shoes, “everything turns out to be a lot dirtier than anybody ever expected, doesn’t it?”

Archer didn’t answer. There was a mirror on one wall and he went over and looked at his face. It was just his face. There was no sign of what he had gone through. Curiously, he was a little disappointed. He didn’t know what he had expected to find, but he felt that something should be different. He shrugged under the wet cloth of his coat.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to be going.”

“I’ll give you a call,” O’Neill said. “We’ll go out for a drink.”

“Sure.”

The phone rang and O’Neill picked it up. “O’Neill speaking,” he said. He looked at Archer. “It’s for you,” he said. He handed Archer the phone.

“Hello,” Archer said.

“Daddy.” It was Jane’s voice, and she sounded frightened and hurried. “Is that you, Daddy?”

“Yes, Jane,” Archer said. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m calling from the corner,” Jane said. “The phone in the house doesn’t work any more.”

“Yes, Jane,” Archer said impatiently. “What do you want?”

“You’d better come right home, Daddy,” said Jane. “Mother’s not feeling very well and she asked me to call you.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know exactly. She won’t tell me. She just said to call you. I think …” Jane’s voice broke a little and she hesitated. “I think it’s started. I think it’s labor … Gloria’s been in there and she says there’s some bleeding …”

Archer tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and he couldn’t seem to get anything out.

“Daddy,” Jane said, “are you still there?”

“Listen, Jane,” Archer said, wetting his lips with his tongue. “When you hang up there, call the phone company and tell them we want the service connected immediately. Tell them it’s an emergency and they have to do it right away. Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

“Then call the doctor and tell him to come right down.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“When you speak to the doctor ask him if there’s anything that you can do before he gets down,” Archer said. “Then go home and see if you can help your mother …”

“Daddy …” Jane’s voice was hesitant and strange. “Something funny’s happening. Mother doesn’t want me in the house.”

“What?” Archer asked incredulously.

“She’s not angry at me or anything,” Jane said swiftly. “She just says she doesn’t want me around now. For this. She says this is private. Between you and her, she says. It’s awfully queer …” Archer could tell that Jane was struggling to keep from crying in the telephone booth. “Cathy Rooks invited me up to her place for the weekend and Mother made me promise I’d go. I didn’t know what to do. Mother was so—so determined. She said she wanted me out of the house before you came home. Everything’s so upset. What should I do, Daddy?”

Archer sighed. “Darling,” he said wearily, “I guess you’d better do whatever your mother wants just now.”

“Will you call me?” Jane asked. “Will you let me know when she wants to see me again?”

“Of course.”

Jane was frankly crying now, the anguish remote and mechanized over the wire. “Is it my fault, Daddy?” she sobbed. “Is this happening account of me?”

“No,” Archer said. “Never think that. Now, listen, baby.” He was conscious of O’Neill staring at him, puzzled and apprehensive. “You go home,” Archer said into the phone, “and tell Mother I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And tell her …” He hesitated. He wanted to give Jane a message that would tide Kitty over the next quarter hour, a word, two words, a sentence that would carry reassurance, love, confidence. Jane waited at the other end of the line, but no words came. “Just tell her,” Archer said lamely, “not to worry. I’ll be right home.”

He hung up. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. He started out of the office toward the elevators. O’Neill trailed beside him.

“What’s the matter, Clem?” O’Neill asked.

“Kitty. It looks as though labor may have begun already.” Archer rang for the elevator.

“Oh, Christ,” O’Neill said. “Wait a second. I’ll get my coat and go down with you.”

“Thanks,” Archer said. “It’s not necessary. I’ll be able to handle it.”