They had lost their coats and clawed each other’s shirts into shreds, and though Pat had been shiny at first, he now glistened no more than Shine. Shine however, maintaining himself with one arm, gave the superior impression: blocked knee-jabs, anticipated kicks, foiled elbow-thrusts, invalidated all the other man’s rough-and-tumble skill. Even in the short time and brief space of this doorway view, one could see that all of Pat’s effort was maximum, final, as though he were trusting each blow to be decisive; while Shine’s every move only anticipated some future stroke that he knew would be wholly crushing. Every instant, every buffet seemed to enlarge his ominous intent; his purpose mounted visibly, so that those who watched saw in him not merely one crippled yet splendid in battle, but a towering, inescapable instrument of vengeance.
The end came suddenly. Had Pat been less of a toper and less of a jiver, it might have been different; but in a prolonged encounter these handicaps of his were far more telling than Shine’s. A thrust from the latter’s bare left shoulder sent Pat’s head back like a blow from a fist. It snapped away the last of his reserve, and of a sudden his whole body sagged as if his spine were broken. Clinging to Shine like a man slipping down a tree trunk, he sank to the floor on his knees, and his head remained sprung back like the open lid of a box. This was the moment that Shine had seemed to be awaiting; his fist hip-high, he deliberately drew back his right arm to strike the exposed throat. Every observer knew that if that blow should land Pat’s neck would be broken.
It did not land. Some friend of Pat’s in the room beyond hurled a pool ball at the imminent victor. The heavy ivory sphere missed its mark, sped through the doorway and over the observers’ heads, shattering the great bar mirror behind them.
The crash and jangle of the falling glass wall was all that snatched Shine out of madness. The sound transfixed him as if all the walls of the place had tumbled instead of just one. He stood set, motionless, blinked once or twice and stared a long moment at Pat.
Only then, perhaps, did he actually see him, on his knees, gasping, helpless. Presently the poised, retracted arm began to relax; the tension went out of Shine’s frame. His head sank a little forward, and his good arm slowly dropped to his side, as limp as its useless fellow.
Jericho
XXIV
Whenever a caller told Fred Merrit an unanticipated story, he whirled about in his swivel chair, jumped up and walked to the window. This he did now, as soon as Shine stopped talking. For a long time he stood looking down on the Avenue.
“Well,” he said at last, “I’ll be tarred and feathered if that isn’t the damnedest—”
His office commanded a corner. On the curb two portly well dressed idlers stood in leisurely conversation; they proclaimed their important opinions to all and sundry. A thin, hunched, hungry-eyed vagabond nearby watched them in ominous silence. A boy with yellow hair and the fairest of skin came slowly up the street, leading an aged, black, gray-bearded blind beggar.
“Can you imagine it? A Negro—using white prejudice to cover what he wanted to do—putting the blame in the most likely spot—almost getting away with it, too—Can you beat that?”
Merrit came back, sat down in his chair and shook his head. “So it wasn’t Miss Cramp after all—I swear I thought it was she. Well—” he showed himself true to his race hate—“it isn’t because she wouldn’t have done it if she could.” He banged his fist on the desk. “I’d bet the insurance on that house that Patmore just beat her to it.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes sir.”
“Mean the house had life insurance on it?”
Merrit laughed. “Yes. Not a bad name for it.”
“Mean you didn’ lose nothin’?”
“Well, not as much as you’d think to look at the place.”
“Well—but when I seen you in there—”
“Yes—I know. I had been out of town overnight—just got back that afternoon. It was quite a shock—but it wasn’t the house. Not altogether. That is—the picture, you see, wasn’t insured—can’t replace that.”
“That’s too bad,” said Shine.
“Got to admit he was wise,” Merrit mused. “Sent several of those warnings. Wise. Rather admire that chap really. And I swear I’m sorry it wasn’t the fays.”
“Well—” Shine rose—“jes’ thought you’d like to know the whole story.”
“Wait a minute—where you going?”
“Goin’ to look for a job,” Shine grinned. “Old man Isaacs bumped off this time. Business for sale.”
“Sit down. Let’s have a drink.” Merrit produced part of a pint and they drank, rat and dickty, as equals.
The drink gave Merrit a thought:
“You know what killed old man what’s-his-name? Your boss?”
“Bad heart.”
“Yea. And bad news: when he heard you busted my piano. You’re a hell of a mover.”
“No lie,” Shine admitted. “But the next guy won’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Yes, he will.”
“Huh?”
“Keep your jumper on—I’m the next guy.”
“Say, it gets you quick, don’t it?”
“What?”
“The liquor.”
“I’ll be on my feet when they haul you out, my boy. This isn’t whiskey talk. Listen.”
Shine listened. He owed Merrit a piano, so it was to Merrit’s advantage to get him employed. On the other hand, Merrit owed him—or the girl, maybe—something more. Nothing but the grace of God had stayed Shine’s hand the evening he stood behind him, intent on murder. All right. Here was the idea: Here was a business. Shine knew that business, didn’t he? Been in it five
