At intervals he begged for something to eat. He wanted ham-and-eggs. The nearest open restaurant was almost a mile away. I suggested that I would run back to the house and get some sandwiches. Cromwell said he couldn’t wait that long, wanted his ham-and-eggs right away. We yanked him to his feet again, a job which demanded our combined strength, and started pushing and dragging him towards the bright lights of Borough Hall. A night watchman came along and demanded to know what we were doing there at that hour of the night. Cromwell collapsed at our feet. Whatcha got there? demanded the watchman, prodding Cromwell with his feet as if he were a corpse. It’s nothing, he’s just drunk, I said. The watchman bent over him to smell his breath.
Get him out of here, he said, or I’ll fan the whole bunch of you.
Yes sir, yes sir, we said, dragging Cromwell by the arm-pits, his feet scraping the ground. A few seconds later the watchman came running up with Cromwell’s hat in his hand. We put it on him but it fell off again. Here, I said, opening my mouth, put it between my teeth. We were panting and sweating now from the exertion of dragging him. The watchman observed us a few moments in disgust, then he said: Let go of him! Here, sling him over my back … you guys are dubs. Like this we reached the end of the street where the elevated line swung overhead. Now one of you guys fetch a cab, said the night watchman. Don’t pull him around any more, you’ll wrench his arms out. Kronski skedaddled up the street in search of a cab. We sat down on the curb and waited.
The cab arrived in a few minutes and we bundled him in. His shirt tails were still hanging out.
Where to? asked the driver.
The Hotel Astor! I said.
The Waldorf-Astoria! shouted Kronski.
Well, make up your minds! said the cabby.
The Commodore, shouted Cromwell.
Are you sure? said the driver. This ain’t a wild-goose chase, is it?
It’s the Commodore all right, isn’t it? I said, sticking my head inside the cab.
Sure, said Cromwell thickly, anywhere suits me.
Has he got any money on him? asked the cabby.
He’s got loads of money, said Kronski. He’s a banker.
I think one of you guys better go along with him, said the driver.
O. K., said Kronski and promptly hopped in with his wife.
Hey! shouted Cromwell, what about Dr. Marx?
He’ll come in the next cab, said Kronski. He’s got to make a telephone call.
Hey I he shouted to me, what about your wife?
She’s all right, I said, and waved good-bye. When I got back to the house I discovered Cromwell’s brief case and some small change which had dropped out of his pockets. I opened the brief case and found a mass of papers and some telegrams. The most recent telegram was from the Treasury Department, urging Cromwell to telephone some one at midnight without fail, extremely urgent. I ate a sandwich, while glancing over the legal documents, took a glass of wine, and decided to call Washington for him. I had a devil of a job getting the man at the other end; when I did he answered in a sleepy voice, gruff and irritated. I explained that Cromwell had met with a little accident but would telephone him in the morning. But who are you … who is this, he kept repeating.
He’ll telephone you in the morning, I repeated, ignoring his frantic questions. Then I hung up. Outside I ran as quickly as I could. I knew he’d call back. I was afraid he might get the police after me. I made quite a detour to reach the telegraph office; there I sent a message to Cromwell, to the Commodore Hotel. I hoped to Christ Kronski had delivered him there. As I left the telegraph office I realized that Cromwell might not get the message until the next afternoon. The clerk would probably hold it until Cromwell woke up. I went to another cafeteria and called the Commodore, urging the night clerk to be sure to rouse Cromwell when he got the telegram. Pour a pitcher of cold water over him if necessary, I said, but be sure he reads my telegram … it’s life and death.
When I got back to the house Mona was there cleaning up the mess.
You must have had quite a party, she said. That we did, I said.
I saw the brief case lying there. He would need that when telephoning Washington. Look, I said, we’d better get a cab and deliver this to him right away. I’ve been reading over those papers. They’re dynamite. Better not be caught with them in our possession.
You go, said Mona, I’m exhausted.
There I was, in the street again, and just as Kronski had predicted, following in a cab. When I got to the hotel I found that Cromwell had already gone to his room. I insisted that the clerk take me to his room. Cromwell was lying fully clothed on the bedspread, flat on his back, his hat beside him. I put the brief case on his chest and tip-toed out. Then I made the clerk accompany me to the manager’s office, explained the situation to that individual, and made the clerk testify that he had seen me deposit the brief-case on Cromwell’s chest.
And may I have your name? asked the manager, somewhat perturbed by these unusual tactics.
Certainly, I said, Dr. Karl Marx of the Poly-technique Institute. You can call me in the morning if there is any irregularity. Mr. Cromwell is a friend of mine, an F. B. I. agent. He had a little too much to drink. You’ll look after him, I hope.
I certainly will, said the night manager, looking rather alarmed. Can we reach you at your office any time, Dr. Marx?
I’ll be there all day, certainly, I said. If I should be out, ask for my secretary—Miss Rabinovitch—she’ll know where to reach me. I’ve got to get some sleep now … must be in the operating room at nine. Thank you so much. Good-night!
The bell-hop escorted me to the revolving door. He was visibly impressed by the rigmarole. Cab, sir? he said. Yes, I said, and gave him the change which I had gathered from the floor. Thank you very very much, Doctor, he said, bowing and scraping, as he showed me to the cab.
I told the cabby to drive to Times Square. There I got out and headed for the subway. Just as I was reaching the change booth I realized I hadn’t a damned cent left over. The cab driver had gotten my last quarter. I climbed up the steps and stood at the curb, wondering where and how I would raise the necessary nickel. As I was standing there a night messenger came along. I looked twice to see if I knew him. Then I bethought me of the telegraph office at Grand Central. I was sure to know some one there. I walked back to Grand Central, swung down the ramp and sure enough, there at the desk, large as life, was my old friend Driggs. Driggs, would you lend me a nickel? I said. A nickel? said Driggs. Here, take a dollar! We chatted a few moments and then I ducked back to the subway.
A phrase Cromwell had let drop a number of times during the early part of the evening kept recurring to mind: my friend William Randolph Hearst. I didn’t doubt in the least that they were good friends, though Cromwell was still a pretty young man to be a bosom friend of the newspaper Czar. The more I thought of Cromwell the better I liked him. I was determined to see him again soon, on my own next time. I prayed that he wouldn’t forget to make that telephone call. I wondered what he would think of me when he realized I had gone through his brief case.
It was only a few nights later that we met again. This time at Papa Moskowitz’s. Just Cromwell, Mona and myself. It was Cromwell who had suggested the rendezvous. He was leaving for Washington the next day.
Any uneasiness I might have felt on meeting him the second time was quickly dispelled by his warm smile and hearty handshake. At once he informed me how grateful he was for what I had done, not specifying what I had done, but giving me a look which made it clear he knew everything. I always make an ass of myself when I drink, he said, blushing slightly. He looked more boyish now than he had the first night I met him. He shouldn’t have been more than thirty, it seemed to me. Now that I knew what his real job was I was more than ever amazed by his easy, carefree deportment. He acted like a man without any responsibilities. Just a bright young banker of good family—that was the impression he created.
Mona and he had been talking literature, it seemed. He pretended, as before, to be out of touch with literary events. Nothing but a plain business man with a slight knowledge of finance. Politics? Completely beyond his ken. No, the banking business
