Strange little episodes were constantly occurring to prevent our life from becoming monotonously smooth. Sometimes they happened one, two, three, like firecrackers going off.
To begin with, there was the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our love letters, which had been hidden away in a big paper shopping bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. It took us a week or more to discover that the woman who cleaned house for us occasionally had thrown the bag in the rubbish. Mona almost collapsed when she heard the news. We’ve simply got to find them! she insisted. But how? The rubbish man had already made the rounds. Even supposing we could find the place where he had dumped them, they would by now be buried under a mountain of refuse. However, to satisfy her, I inquired where the disposal dump was located. O’Mara offered to accompany me to the place. It was way the hell and gone, somewhere in the Flatlands, I believe, or else near Canarsie—a Godforsaken spot over which hung a thick pall of smoke. We endeavored to find precisely the spot where the man had dumped that day’s rubbish. An insane task, to be sure. But I had explained the whole situation to the driver and by sheer force of will aroused in his brute conscience a spark of interest. He did his damnedest to remember, but it was hopeless. We got busy, O’Mara and I, and with rather elegant looking canes began poking things around. We uncovered everything under the sun but the missing love letters. O’Mara had all he could do to dissuade me from bringing home a sackful of odds and ends. For himself he had found a handsome pipe-case, though what he intended to do with it I don’t know, as he never smoked a pipe. I had to content myself with a bone-handled pocket knife the blades of which were so rusty they wouldn’t open. I also pocketed a bill for a tombstone, from the directors of Woodlawn Cemetery.
Mona took the loss of the letters tragically. She looked upon the incident as a bad omen. (Years later, when I read what happened to Balzac in connection with the beloved Madame Hanska’s letters, I relived this episode vividly.)
The day after our visit to the dumps I received a most unexpected call from a police lieutenant in our precinct. He had come in search of Mona who fortunately was not home. After a, few politenesses I asked what the trouble might be. No trouble, he assured me. Merely wanted to ask a few questions. Being the husband, I wondered aloud if I couldn’t answer them for her. He seemed reluctant to comply with this polite suggestion. When do you expect her back? he asked. I told him I couldn’t say. Was she at work, he ventured to ask. You mean does she have a job? said I. He ignored this. And you don’t know where she went? He was boring in, obviously. I replied that I hadn’t the slightest idea. The more questions he asked the more tight-lipped I became. I still had no inkling of what was on his mind.
Finally, however, I caught a clue. It was when he asked if she were an artist perchance that I began to get the drift. In a way, I said, waiting for the next question. Well, said he, extracting a Mezzotint from his pocket and laying it before me, maybe you can tell me something about this.
Vastly relieved, I said—Certainly! What would you like to know?
Well, he began, settling back to enjoy a lengthy palaver, just what is this? What’s the racket, I mean?
I smiled. There’s no racket. We sell them.
To whom?
Anybody. Everybody. Anything wrong with that?
He paused to scratch his poll.
Have you read this one yourself? he asked, as if firing pointblank.
Of course I have. I wrote it.
What’s that? You wrote it? I thought she was the writer?
We’re both writers.
But her name’s signed to it.
That’s true. We have our own reason for that.
So that’s it? He twiddled his thumbs, trying to think hard.
I waited for him to spring the big surprise.
And you make a living selling these … uh, these pieces of paper?
We try to…
At this point who should burst in but Mona. In introduced her to the lieutenant who, by the way, was not in uniform.
To my amazement she exclaimed: How do I know he’s Lieutenant Morgan? Not a very tactful way to start off.
The lieutenant, however, was not at all put out; in fact, he behaved as if he thought it smart of her to explain the nature of his call. He did it with tact and civility.
Now, young lady, he said, ignoring what I had volunteered, would you mind telling me just why you wrote this little article?
Here we both spoke up at once. I told you I wrote it! I exclaimed. And Mona, paying no heed to my words: I see no reason why I should explain that to the police.
Did you write this, Miss … or rather Mrs. Miller?
I did.
She did not, said I.
Now which is it? said the lieutenant in a fatherly way. Or did you write it together?
He had nothing to do with it, said Mona.
She’s trying to protect me, I protested. Don’t believe a world she tells you.
Maybe you’re trying to protect her I said the lieutenant.
Mona couldn’t contain herself. Protect? she cried. What are you getting at? What’s wrong with this … this…? She was stumped what to call the incriminating piece of evidence.
I didn’t say that you had committed a crime. I’m merely trying to find out what impelled you to write it.
I looked at Mona and then at Lieutenant Morgan. Let me explain, won’t you? I’m the one who wrote it. I wrote it because I was angry, because I hate to see an injustice done. I want people to know about it. Does that answer the question?
So, then you didn’t write this? said Lieutenant Morgan, addressing Mona. I’m glad to know that. I couldn’t imagine a fine looking young lady like you saying such things.
Again Mona was stumped. She had expected quite another response.
Mr. Miller, he continued, with a slight change of tone, we’ve been having complaints about this diatribe of yours, if I may call it that. People don’t like the tone of it. It’s inflammatory. You sound like a radical. I know you’re not, of course, or you wouldn’t be living in a place like this. I know this apartment very well. I used to play cards here with the Judge and his friends.
I began to relax. I knew now that it would end with a pleasant little piece of advice about not becoming an agitator.
Why don’t you offer the Lieutenant a drink? I said to Mona. You don’t mind having a drink with us, do you, lieutenant? I take it you’re off duty.
I wouldn’t mind at all, he responded, now that I know the sort of people you are. We have to look into these things, you know. Routine. This is a sedate old neighborhood.
I smiled as though to say I understood perfectly. Then, like a flash, I thought of that officer of the law before whom I had been haled when I was a mere shaver. The recollection of this incident gave me an inspiration. Downing a glass of Sherry, I took a good look at Lieutenant Morgan and was off like a mud-lark.
I’m from the old 14th Ward, I began, beaming at him in mellow fashion. Perhaps you know Captain Short and Lieutenant Oakley? Or Jimmy Dunne? Surely you remember Pat McCarren?
Bull’s eyes! I come from Greenpoint, he said, putting out his hand.
Well, well, what do you know! We were in the clear.
By the way, I said, would you have rather had whiskey? I never thought to ask you. (We had no whiskey but I knew he would refuse.) Mona, where’s that Scotch we had around here?
No, no! he protested. I wouldn’t think of it. This is just fine.
So you’re from the old 14th ward … and
