Breathe No More My Lady

coward.”

He laughed, showing old yellow teeth. “I have a theory—a man who talks a good fight is rarely a fighter. Take his bar fights—I've seen him in a few. A bar brawl is usually a one punch affair, it's quickly stopped. A man as big as Matt rarely has to fight, he merely threatens and his size wins for him. Have you ever noticed that most writers who deal in virility—which to their musclebound brains can mean only violence—are generally big men? They almost look the part of their heroes. I believe this is a form of sublimation—they are afraid to be matadors, boxers, private detectives, so they do their shooting and punching via the typewriter. It is always the coward who glorifies courage, per se. You'll find it in any field, the person with the shallowest talent talks the loudest.”

It seemed to me Brown himself was quite preoccupied with violence. But he was turning out to be an interesting little man. I said, “That's a strange idea. I take it you don't consider Matt much of a writer?”

“Matt and I almost got into an argument about this the other day. Let me put it this way: I think Matt had the capabilities of being a good writer. But we are a literate nation, everybody can write. With a little practice one can get the required skill of putting words together. It's what you write, based upon your insight and understanding, that makes for good writing. Lord, I'm wandering. You want to know what happened out there. Frankly, I can be of little help. I'd spent the night with a former student of mine in Hampton. I'm looking for a job and this man.... Anyway, I was out there and ran into Matt as I was walking toward the railway station. It was the first time we'd seen each other in... oh... at least ten years. He insisted I return with him to his home. I imagine he wanted to show off his wealth. I had a few hours before the next train, so I drove back with him. When his wife found out about my... eh... past, naturally she was upset I'm a kind of modern leper, being seen with me can mean loss of job or career. It's not improbable that some one will come knocking on your door after you leave here.”

He patted his pockets, looking for a cigarette, then said, “I was uncomfortable in Mart's house, refused to spend the night. Matter of fact, I had an appointment in town, about a job that—all this new publicity ruined that. All told, I suppose I spent a half hour out there before Matt drove me to the train. I was to phone him this weekend... he wanted me to spend a few days at his place, talking over 'old times.' I told him I'd let him know—my wife is in Chicago, waiting to hear if I land a job here before she joins me. Otherwise I shall return to Chicago where she has a job. As for the rest,” Brown spread his hands on his legs, “all I know is what I've read in the papers.”

“You don't think he could have punched his wife, hit her harder than he meant to?”

Brown gave me his yellow smile again. “Are you married, Connor?”

I nodded, almost said, “After a fashion.

“Have you ever slapped, much less punched, your wife?”

“No.”

“Neither have I ever hit my wife. Neither would Matt.”

“But Francine Anthony is dead. If Matt didn't kill her, who did?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. You asked my opinion—I refuse to believe Matt killed her.”

“This is a big new can of peas,” I said, trying to think of something else to ask. “What sort of a woman would you say Francine Anthony was?”

“I only saw her for a few seconds. I liked her... in a negative way she was a realist. You see, she understood exactly what it means to be publicly tagged a 'radical' these days. But, Matt, he was a lot of well-meant blustering and bragging about how he wasn't afraid to help me. Of course he was afraid. He said he'd try to get something for me at Long-son's—did he?”

“I wouldn't know. And he hardly had time to do anything.”

Brown nodded, “That's true.” He jumped to his feet, a very agile motion for a man his age. “Like some beer?”

“Beer would be fine.”

He shut off the water in the sink, removed the cloth covering two cans of beer. They foamed as he opened them. He handed me one and sat on the bed again.

The beer was pathetically warm. Brown said, “If you subscribe to the rather dubious notion that the English like their beer warm, then we are being quite British at the moment.”

“It tastes fine,” I lied, suddenly liking the old boy very much. “Tell me, if you don't mind, what sort of trouble are you in, Prof.—Mr. Brown?”

“Be simpler if you call me Hank. I wouldn't say I was in trouble, rather that I'm caught up in the hysteria of the times. I suppose if I had to be classified I would be considered a retired liberal. In my time I've been a number of things, ranging from a member of the I.W.W. to a New Dealer. Brooks University is so well endowed it can afford to be liberal, to a point. However, because of that it has always been a target for the reactionary ward heelers who pose as educators. I called myself a retired liberal because I've been quiet the last few years. Maybe a desire to protect my old age, without my entirely realizing it. In my time I've signed any number of petitions, some of them quite radical I suppose. However, last winter I signed a petition put out by some antivivisection group against the brutal manner in which certain slaughter houses killed livestock. Evidently it offended somebody in power and with my progressive background... well, I found myself before a state subversive committee. Naturally I took the Fifth as a matter of principle. So you see the situation: The University being under attack on other fronts, backed down. Thus two years before I am due to retire I find myself unemployed. It would all be a comical tempest in a tea cup if I wasn't so strapped for money.”

“Any job offers?” I asked, forcing myself to finish the beer.

“I can't get anything in teaching. I had an offer to ghost a series of general mathematics textbooks, but now that's out. At my age I can't get anything but a job as a messenger and—”

“That's ridiculous.”

He shook his head as he wiped beer foam from his mouth. “I may not even get that until this new publicity dies down. It pays about $45 and my wife can get a clerk job, so we'll be comfortable. In two years I'll start drawing my pension from Brooks.”

“There must be something a man of your intellectual background can do. Let me speak to Bill Long, my boss,