Clarkton Read online

  Clarkton

  Howard Fast

  For Bette

  Who has been my first

  reader and loyal comrade

  these many years

  Contents

  Thursday, December 6, 1945

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  Friday, December 7, 1945

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  Saturday, December 8,1945

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  Sunday, December 9,1945

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  A Biography of Howard Fast

  Copyright Page

  Nero, in order to stifle the rumor (as if he himself had set Rome on fire), ascribed it to those people who were hated for their wicked practices, and called by the vulgar “Christians”; these, he punished exquisitely.

  The Author of this name was “Christ,” who, in the reign of Tiberius, was brought to punishment by Pontius Pilate, the procurator. For the present this pernicious superstition was in part suppressed, but it brake out again, not only over Judea, whence this mischief first sprang, but in the city of Rome also, whither do run from every quarter and make a noise, all the flagrant and shameful enormities.

  At first, therefore, those were seized who confessed, afterward a vast multitude were detected by them, and were convicted, not so much as really guilty of setting the city on fire, but as hating all mankind; nay, they made a mock of them as they perished, and destroyed them by putting them into the skins of wild beasts, and setting dogs upon them to tear them to pieces.

  Some were nailed to crosses, and others flamed to death; they were also used in the night time instead of torches, for illumination. Nero had offered his own gardens for this spectacle.

  —Tacitus, Annates (about 100 A.D.).

  Thursday, December 6, 1945

  The dreams of George Clark Lowell were always well ordered, natural, and devoid of that bizarre and inhuman quality which clings to the dreams of so many; and this was, as his good friend, Dr. Elliott Abbott, once remarked, a comforting sign of normalcy. One might say that his dreams traveled restricted thoroughfares most casually. As, for example, this night, or very early in the dawn perhaps, he dreamed that he was walking through a light summer rain hand in hand with a girl. Who she was, he didn’t know, nor was he aware of any particular curiosity concerning her identity. She was much younger than he, of course—his own age was forty-four—and she revealed her youth in her lissom stride and in the sway of her body. As is so often the case in dreams, he was able to observe both himself and the girl from a distance and at the same time walk by her side, holding her hand, but in spite of the vantage of the two positions, he could not see her face, or it may be that he did not care particularly to see her face.

  Both he and the girl were wearing those long, green oilskin raincoats which were popular a generation ago, and which were then known as slickers. Their heads were bare, and the fine, warm, misty rain settled on their hair, put a sheen on their cheeks, and blew like a vapor into their laughing mouths. They walked on a country road and it was to ward evening.

  So pleasant was the dream, so credible, that when he woke up, he sought frantically for a return way; but there was none; the dream clouded and dissipated, and he accepted the fact of his being awake. He looked at his watch on the night table beside him, and saw that it was 6:45 in the morning.

  At that hour, there was just the first gray hint of daylight in the sky, a sickly gray that allowed him to read his watch, examine his long, shapely fingers and make out the cream-colored walls of the bedroom, the red tapestry drapes on the window, the two landscapes on the facing wall—uniform throughout the Hotel Bradly—and the mirror of the maple dresser, which was directly across from the foot of the bed. If he had turned his head just a little to his right, he would have also made out a mop of black hair on the next pillow, but this he studiously avoided doing, holding himself with a certain rigidity instead, listening to the regular, deep breathing of his companion.

  As he lay there, something he had read or heard once about the deep and gentle sleep of the innocent flashed into his mind, and it occurred to him that either that had as little truth in it as most homilies, or the girl who had spent the night with him on the twelfth floor of the Hotel Bradly at 66th Street and Broadway had a soul as spotless as a white bedsheet fresh out of the laundry. His repugnance, almost revulsion, toward her at this early hour of the morning was not an unfamiliar ingredient, and he crept out of the bed with a mortal fear of waking her.

  He stood naked in the chilled room, a tall, well-formed and broad-shouldered man of forty-four. For his age, he had less flesh than most, a flat stomach, and the reasonably well-preserved muscles of a former college athlete; the body could pass for less years than he owned, and his good head of brown hair was only beginning to turn gray at the temples. His small, neatly trimmed mustache gave him an air of distinction, and the wide, flat brows, the deep-set eyes, the narrow, slightly arched nose, the broad, full mouth and the almost square chin completed the picture of a handsome man. Good looks he had always known and accepted, and not the least of his accomplishments was the ability to live very well with them.

  Now he walked softly around the bed, captured his under wear, and went into the bathroom. Fear of waking the girl kept him from the shower. He shaved quickly and expertly, spent only a moment with his hair, which he combed straight back, packed his toilet things in an alligator case, and then went back to the bedroom to finish dressing himself. His only concession to time was to select a clean white shirt from an open suitcase; the green tie and the brown sharkskin suit he had worn the night before. His packing took only a moment more; he had a calf Gladstone and a cordovan wardrobe, both of which he closed silently and carefully. Those and a briefcase-he set down next to the door, and then for the first time he allowed himself to look at the girl in the bed.

  She had turned while he dressed from her stomach to her back, and her left arm was outflung on the part of the bed where he had been. Sleep gave a certain sweetness to her knowing, brittle features; sleep returned to her the twenty-three or -four years she had existed.

  George Clark Lowell permitted himself only a glance. At this moment, he had neither sympathy nor desire; his mind was formless; he thought of her neither as a slut nor as a human being, nor was she anyone with a name, a character, a past or a future.

  Taking his wallet out of his breast pocket, he placed a twenty-dollar bill on the dresser; after a moment’s hesitation, he added another twenty to it. Then he opened the door carefully, moved his luggage outside, and just as carefully closed the door behind him. The luggage he carried to the elevator himself, and the elevat
or girl was both sleepy and disinterested. In fact, no one at the Bradly was particularly concerned with the sins, major or minor, of those who rented their rooms. Its location, seven blocks above the limit of desirability on the West Side, had long since given over its fifteen modern stories of red brick to the trade it practiced.

  In the cheerless lobby, the night clerk listened to George Clark Lowell say:

  “I’m catching an early train. I’ll check out and pay for today, and my wife will occupy the room until this afternoon.”

  Even if the night clerk had known his right name, it would have meant nothing to him, and two people in a room were always man and wife.

  2. After he had checked his bags at Grand Central and had a cup of coffee at the bar, Lowell felt a good deal better. His sense of guilt, which was compounded with disgust at himself—always afterward and hardly ever before—was, as usual, tempered by the fact that he was free again, that nothing in particular had happened; and, again as usual, that would slowly mature into a sense of accomplishment.

  The cold air of the cheerless winter day was bracing, and since he had a little more than three hours before train time, he decided that he would walk uptown to the University Club, gain an appetite along the way, have just one whisky sour before he ate, and then buy a present for Lois. When he thought of the present—as he inevitably did—it did not disturb him that he should have a commonplace reaction to a commonplace sin. Long ago, he had gotten over the need for conscious rationalization. He was a disarmingly quiet man, and if he were ever to think about it, he could easily enough convince himself that he was not a bad man. These periodic interruptions of a relatively placid life were of little consequence.

  He came out of Grand Central in the earliest stream of commuters, walked westward to Fifth Avenue, and then uptown. He liked such simple things as the very act of walking, and by the time he reached the club, the night before was more or less forgotten—the more easily since on his way he went over the business that had brought him to New York from the Massachusetts town where he lived.

  3. Leopold and James were Industrial Consultants, with offices on the thirty-second floor of the Empire State building. When Lowell had entered their reception room, at a quarter to three of the day before this, he had felt moderately disturbed, a state of mind not helped by the fact that their offices were decorated in the style he disliked most, a sort of machine-age modernism made of glass brick, badly used, fluted chrome, tasteless copper bas-reliefs, and laminated chairs. The pale-blue carpet on the floor was at least an inch thick, and on an enormous glass coffee table was spread out copies of Fortune, United States News, and the Wall Street Journal. He lit a cigarette and had smoked half of it before a stocky, middle-aged woman in low-heeled shoes ushered him into James’s office. Here, the pale blue was carried into the drapes and into the wallpaper, a photographic panorama of Yellowstone Park or some other part of the Rockies, white peaks and pine forests and sparkling lakes, printed in blues. James sat at a gray desk in front of an enormous window, the winter, sunlight framing him in a vista of limitless and wonderful distance, sky and clouds. He was a very small, dapper man, birdlike in movement, who hopped around the desk, shook hands with Lowell, pressed him into a chair, and then, contradicting the sum total of previous impressions, plunged almost harshly into the business that had brought them together. As he talked, he betrayed a vague, almost imperceptible foreign accent—one that Lowell could not place, that allied itself with no country, no area.

  “I’m glad you came down to see me personally, Mr. Lowell,” he said. “These are delicate matters, and one deals with them delicately. One deals with them efficiently, but one deals with them delicately. They are necessary, but delicate.” Every time he said delicate, his voice rasped like a file. Lowell, who reacted morally so readily, felt neither like nor dislike, but rather a sense of amazement. Later, it occurred to him that he would have reacted in precisely the same fashion if a fine Irish setter he had once owned had opened its mouth and spoken to him. Distaste came afterward; now he was relieved that the man’s face remained in the shadow all the time they talked.

  “You come highly recommended,” Lowell said.

  The small man smiled and nodded; that was the only time he smiled.

  “It’s a new situation for me,” Lowell said. “It seems enormously complicated to me. I suppose it’s not complicated to you.”

  “I never consider anything to be simple.”

  “I don’t know how much you know about me,” Lowell said. “I suppose you looked me up. You have a reputation for being very thorough.”

  “In our business, you have to be very thorough. That is your only asset when you come down to it. It is not an art, it is a method.”

  “I suppose so,” Lowell said.”

  “Methodology is basic. You have the plant five years now?”

  “About that,” Lowell answered. “My father died in 1940. My father was an old-fashioned man; he did things himself. I don’t pretend to understand him, but I don’t think he would have required your services.”

  “You didn’t get along with him?” James inquired.

  “I got along with him,” Lowell answered flatly. “I didn’t like the business. I still don’t. It wasn’t necessary that I should like it. I was well enough off, independently. So was my wife.”

  “But now you feel an obligation, a sincere obligation—to your dead father, let us say?” There was no sentimentality in the small man’s voice; he chose his words, spaced them, and the tone rasped like a rusty file.

  “Let us not say!” Lowell snapped. “The war came, and things were needed.” He did not add that he himself was not needed, that his half-hearted efforts to enlist could only have resulted in a desk at the Pentagon building, as such efforts did for so many of his friends. “I am saddled with a very large enterprise,” Lowell explained carefully, “and I am in an unfamiliar situation. I thought all of that was explained to you. In such a situation, my father would have known exactly what to do; he was that sort of a man. I sought the advice of others, and they referred me to you.”

  The small man nodded seriously.

  “Specifically, I want the property protected,” Lowell went on. “I don’t want the strike broken, you understand—?” He peered at James, realized with astonishment that he was afraid of the other, and forced himself to a deliberate, almost insolent action: “Put on the light, please,” nodding at the lamp on James’s desk. After just one long moment of silence, the small man lit up his features with a click of the switch, became commonplace, sharp-featured, shrewd. “You broke strikes in the ’thirties, as I understand it,” Lowell continued smoothly. “These are not the ’thirties.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  They didn’t like each other, and that was in the open now, and neither of them would forget it.

  “I’ll send two men up there—two very good men,” James said. “The police will cooperate with them?” Then he added, a studied afterthought: “Your father brought in three men to head up the force from Anaconda.” He knew that Lowell didn’t know, and he couldn’t resist the impulse to squeeze the small triumph. “That was in ’thirty-two.” Let Lowell wonder whether his father and this man had ever any dealings. “Jack Curzon—he’s still chief of police, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” Lowell said.

  Soon after that, he finished what details remained and left. He went to the Astor Bar, a place he hated, had three martinis and got drunk on them. That was where he picked up the dark-haired girl. He took her out to dinner, and afterward he checked out of the St. Regis and registered with her at the Bradly.

  4. It was a quarter to nine when he reached the University Club, and on the elevator, going up to the dining room, he recognized Francis Simpson, whom he had not seen since 1934, in Paris. It was slow recognition, floor by floor, since they had never been particularly good friends, but had known each other in college and had met abroad afterward. Simpson looked old, a big fold of flesh under his
chin, a moonface behind glasses, and Lowell’s reaction to it, a sense of sorrow mixed with contempt, was part of the larger reaction he had had at the one and only alumni dinner he had attended, some four years past. Simpson was with a tall, thin man, whom he introduced to Lowell as a Mr. Bernstien, and then they invited Lowell to have breakfast with them. There was no earnest in their request, and Lowell would have refused, except that he hated so to eat alone. He sat down with them, ordered coffee and toast, and for the next fifteen minutes listened mostly to their talk. He found himself unreasonably envying Simpson, who had been overseas with the OWI for two years and was now a radio executive at Columbia Broadcasting. Bernstien, Lowell gathered, was a former Hollywood writer now doing radio work—some sort of radio writing, exactly what he could not tell—and from a word or two let drop, a colonel in the Signal Corps only the year before. They were discussing a particular program, and Lowell, who almost never listened to the radio, except to hear the news and some music occasionally, found himself projected into a world more or less foreign to him. He recalled a book Lois had read only the week before and passed on to him for his casual going-over; he read it the way he read most modern novels, superficially, disengaged, and the end result of it was almost no impression sustained. But now some of it came back, and when Simpson broke off abruptly to ask him what he was doing, he simply said:

  “What? I didn’t hear you, Francis.”

  “George is a rentier,” Simpson explained to his friend. “He’s a millionaire. He’s one of the few authentic millionaires I have ever known.”

  Bernstien smiled embarrassedly, and Lowell was conscious of an overwhelming impulse to lean across the table and slap one of Simpson’s plump cheeks, an impulse which he conquered, grinning feebly at Simpson instead, regretting the whisky sour he was going to have but had instead forgotten. He mumbled something about reds and the OWI and what he supposed had happened to Simpson, and Simpson grinned and said to Bernstien:

  “I told you. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool reactionary—always was.”