“He’s a menace behind the wheel.”
“Not only there, it seems,” Eisler said smoothly, indicating his presence in the bed.
No one knew what to say. Connolly felt the air go out of the room. In the awkward silence, Mills turned to him. “You look all right,” he said.
“I’m just waiting for my walking papers.”
Eisler, aware that the atmosphere had changed, now looked moodily down at the bed.
“I’d better be going,” Emma said, getting up. She went over to Eisler and put her hand on his arm. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
He patted her hand. “No, nothing. Mr. Connolly here will get my few things,” he said, a question to Connolly, who nodded. “It’s absurd. I’m still all right, but now I’m a prisoner here. My jail,” he said, with a nod to the room.
“Just walk out,” Emma said, sympathetic. “They can’t make you stay.”
“But where will I go? No, this suits me.”
“C’mon, Mike,” Mills said, fidgeting, “let’s go fix you up with the doc.”
“Mr. Connolly,” Eisler said as Emma and Mills headed for the door. “You don’t mind? A few things?”
“No, of course not.”
“Some clothes. I don’t want to be in bed. I’m not an invalid. Not so soon.”
“Do you have the key?”
“The key?” Eisler smiled. “It’s not locked. We never lock things at the project. There’s nothing to steal.”
“Anything else? Books?”
“You pick. Do you know German? No. Well, pick anything. And—” He looked up to see if the others had gone.
“Yes?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, a Bible, please.” He smiled. “No, not for the angels. I’m a scientist, you know. But I like the stories. So simple. An eye for an eye. Wonderful stories.”
“I’ll get one.”
“Of course, the angels,” Eisler said wryly. “Nothing is proven, you know. Not yet.”
Outside, the three of them walked together for a while. Then Mills, with a pointed glance at Connolly, spun off to head for the office.
“I’m just going to get cleaned up,” Connolly said. “I’ll be over in a bit.”
“Take your time. I’ll cover,” he said, almost winking. “I’m good at that.” He tipped his head, a little bow, to Emma.
“He knows,” Connolly said, watching him walk off.
“I don’t care. I had to come.”
Connolly smiled. “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”
“It’s not funny. I was out of my mind with worry. What if—”
“It didn’t. I’m all right.” He put his hand on her arm, facing her.
“No, not here.”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“But not like this, not in the open. Oh, I don’t know what I want anymore. More time, I guess. Until I know what to do,” she said, almost to herself. “But you’re all right, that’s the main thing. Now I feel silly. What must Eisler have thought? Charging over there. I hardly know him well enough for that.”
“I don’t think he noticed. He has other things on his mind.”
“Poor man,” she said. “He’s the nicest of the lot, too. It’s not fair. All your life and then one slip—”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“What?” she said, stopping.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
She stared at him for a minute. “You mean he tried to kill himself?”
“He did kill himself. He’s just waiting it out.”
She shivered. “That’s an awful thing to say. How do you know?”
“I was there.”
“But why?”
He shrugged and continued walking. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows. It’s all mixed up in his mind. Something about the gadget. He feels guilty about that. I think he sees this as a kind of penance. I don’t know-is there ever a good reason? Can there be?”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe. Anyway, it’s his life. I doubt we’ll ever know.”
“Funny your saying that. You always want to know everything,” she said, not looking at him.
“Not this time.”
They had reached the turnoff for Connolly’s building. Emma stared down at the drying mud in the road. “I wish you hadn’t told me. It’s so-unhappy. All alone like that. Oh, Michael,” she said, looking up, “don’t let’s-Why shouldn’t we be happy? When I heard this morning—”
“Are you happy now?” he said, taking her arm again.
She nodded.
“All right.”
“And miserable. Happy. Miserable. Scared. Everything.”
“All that?”
“Don’t tease. Anyway, it’s your fault.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Just come tonight, that’s all,” she said, looking at him.
“That’ll make it better?”
“No. But come anyway.” Then, in broad daylight, she took his hand and put it against her face for a second before she walked off.
He showered and changed and headed for Eisler’s apartment. The office, Mills’s smug discretion, could wait. Eisler lived in one of the Sundt units, a modest one-bedroom that was nevertheless several steps up from Connolly’s spartan room. There was a fireplace, with a Morris chair and a floor lamp to one side and Indian carpets scattered over the hardwood floor. It was clean without being really tidy-old coffee cups still in the sink, a tie flung over the edge of the couch. There were books everywhere, a pipe near the chair, another on the nightstand, and rows of shelves lining the wall, full of German books, some bound in leather, others with the yellowing paper of European books whose edges you sliced as you read. Connolly ran his finger along the shelves, recognizing a few names. Which would you take to a desert island? Goethe? Mann? He took out a title, then stopped, sliding it back. It was too long. There would never be enough time to finish it.
He went into the bedroom to get the clothes. The bed was made but lumpy. Next to it was the photograph of a young woman, her hair bobbed-presumably his wife. A girl. What had he said about how she died? You just turned down the wrong street, that’s all it took.
He was in the bathroom, filling the old leather shaving kit, when he heard the door open. He looked up into the mirror, waiting for someone to appear, but the steps went to the kitchen. He heard water running. He stepped out of the bedroom and peered around the corner, surprising Johanna Weber. She was busy at the sink, washing the cups, and she jumped when she saw him. “Oh,” she said, grabbing the saucers with two hands before they could rattle. “Mr. Connolly.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I was just getting a few things.”
“You? Oh, yes, you were with him, weren’t you? Terrible.” But she was busy again, putting the cups on the drying rack, wiping her hands. “Such mess. A bachelor. Always the same. You found the satchel?”
He held up his palms, a helpless gesture.
“Under the bed,” she said, smiling. “Here, I’ll show you. You sit, and let me pack. A man can’t do it. Look at this.” She picked up the tie. “Clothes everywhere.”
In the bedroom, she scurried around, opening drawers, rolling socks, talking to herself as she worked, drawing the air into her circle of activity like a whirl of dust. She picked up the photograph by the bed and held it for
