Damnation of Adam Blessing (10 page)

Adam had begun crying at the point in the letter where Billy said he was a silly person. Now as he put the letter in the pocket of his shirt, his face was wet with tears. He wiped it with one of Billy’s monogrammed handkerchiefs, which he took from his trousers, and he sat there letting more tears come, and wiping them away. He thought of how ironical it all was — of how only a few days before he had actually been looking forward to being friends with Billy, having him to his home — Charity’s and his; and of the three of them laughing and reminiscing.

The fact that Charity had betrayed him did not sadden him as much as the way Billy wrote to her about him. Women were never to be counted on, but where were you when you could not count on a man you had grown up with? Adam went inside and reread the letter. He lay down on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. Now that he was free to sob as loudly and as much as he wanted, he found he could not. Perhaps he was sobbed out; he had been weeping more and more lately, the way he used to when he was much younger. It all went back to Billy. Adam rolled over on his back and lay wondering about this mysterious relationship between Charity and Billy. It sounded so intense to Adam. He could not imagine what it all involved. They were both play-acting, he decided; rich people who had nothing to do with their time but think about themselves. The more Adam pondered it, the more dejected he became, until finally he was in a very deep depression. He wondered if Charity had told Billy everything about that night, including the fact that Adam had been too drunk. He felt a sudden urge to simply get up, pack, and go back to the YMCA. Never think of either of them again … but in the next moment he saw himself bringing about a reconciliation between Charity and Billy, saw himself as the wise friend, listening thoughtfully to one and then the other, planning a dramatic and unexpected meeting of the pair. Charity and Billy would be face-to-face, alone…. All due to Adam, everything ironed out between them because of Adam’s advice to each. Then the three of them would be great friends, with Charity and Billy always saying how it was Adam who had accomplished the whole thing; how it was dear Adam … dear Adam … Adam was in tears again. He got up and made himself a second drink, three fingers of Scotch, neat.

On the fourth drink, he remembered the rest of his mail. A florist bill for $132. A postcard from Dorothy Schackleford. It was mailed from Mystic, Connecticut. “Here for the day,” it said. “Driving back tonight. Norman and me. We ate at this restaurant. $6 for a lobster but worth it. Am not mad at you any longer. Forgive and forget, my motto! Love, Dotty.” In the envelope from Geismar there was simply a bill for $50, with a notation on a typewriter: “for services rendered.” Under it Geismar had written: “Under the circumstances this is just for minimum expenses.” Geismar had quit, was that it? Adam shrugged. Let him, he thought. He poured another shot of Scotch and opened the Special Delivery.

Adam was drunk when Geismar called an hour later.

“There was always a chance an unknown relative would show up, Adam. She’s a reasonable person. If you’ve spent some of the Lucy Baker money, she’ll let you pay her back gradually.”

Adam managed to say, “But the
Stammbuch
is mine! It’s my
Stammbuch!”

“Look, Adam,” said Geismar. “The bubble’s a bust. That’s all.”

“Bubble,” Adam repeated to himself. He seemed to see many bubbles then, bubbles that danced in the pink glass of Chiaretto del Garda which Adam held in his hand. Each bubble had a face — Billy’s. Adam set the glass on the table by the telephone and tried to bust the bubbles with his fingers. It only made Billy’s faces laugh and fizz.

“Good night Adam,” the telephone said.

Adam put the phone’s arm in the pocket of his trousers. He picked up the neck of the wine bottle and poured more wine over the bubbles, until the bubbles spilled over and dribbled along the table and died on the rug.

“Good night, Billy,” said Adam. He lay down on the rug with his cheek caressing the dampness. It was cool. He passed out, smiling.

From
New York World —

TIMMY IS SAFE!

June 13 (W.P.) — Nine-year-old Timmy Schneider is safe. He is confused and sleepy, and he does not have his eyeglasses, without which he sees very little, but he is safe.

Kidnapped from somewhere between King School and the Schneider home, on an afternoon three days ago, young Timmy was not able to enlighten authorities on his experience, other than to say this: “A man bumped into me and my glasses fell off. There was a crunch and the man said they were broken. He said he knew me and had come to take me home, but first he said we would get them fixed. I told him I had a pair at home if he would take me there, but he said my father was waiting for me, and we would fix my glasses on the way. He called me Timmy and asked me where my big briefcase was, and he teased me about it. We laughed a lot. We took a bus a long way, I think, crosstown, uptown, I’m not sure. He took me to an apartment and a dark room. There were no sheets on the bed, and no furniture but a bed. I slept a lot. He gave me aspirin and it made me sleepy. I think I spent a few nights there. I woke up here, that’s all I remember.”

“Here” was the lobby of King School. Timmy was found there this morning at ten-thirty, by painters who are redecorating. The school closed for the summer the day after Timmy was abducted. Timmy was found curled up in the vestibule. He had no recollection of how he got there, but the painters say he was not there at seven-thirty when they reported. King School is a private school for “special” children.

Between the time Timmy was kidnapped and returned, Luther Van den Perre Schneider paid a ransom estimated to be $100,000. How it was paid, where it was paid — these details are known only by Schneider and the kidnapper. Throughout the ordeal it was Schneider’s wish to keep authorities out of the affair. Schneider expressed “complete confidence” in the kidnapper of his child, saying he believed that once the money was turned over, his boy would be returned safely. Schneider’s five words, “I have faith in him,” will perhaps go down in criminal history as one of the ironies of the human spirit. There seemed to be almost a mystical character to Schneider’s conviction that the kidnapper would abide by the pact he had set up with the boy’s father. In the ranson note the kidnapper had said: “I need the money as you need the boy. You do this for me, and I will not fail you, sir.” The whole atmosphere of this case was that of a “gentleman’s agreement.” Once Schneider appeared at King School to claim his boy, he refused to discuss any details. He seemed angry that reporters had questioned his son, and he stopped the boy from describing the man who had held him captive. Timmy Schneider had gotten only so far in his description, only far enough to identify his captor as a “thin” person. Schneider interrupted his son, and explained to reporters that Timmy, without his glasses, saw only shadows. “He can tell you nothing!” Schneider snapped. “And I won’t discuss this matter ever.”

“Gentleman’s agreement” or no, there was some speculation at whether or not the kidnapper had threatened Schneider with further violence to Timmy, if Schneider gave him away in any detail. Police were nearly enraged at the wealthy manufacturer, president of Waverly Foods, for his total lack of cooperation with them. Schneider’s wife, the former Win Griswold, one-time society beauty, was the one to report the kidnapping, and to give the few details police had. She subsequently broke down, and was unavailable to anyone but members of the family. Schneider explained she had been very ill this past year.

This was the second major kidnapping in two months. The first was that of Dr. Thomas Zumbach’s son in Klatz, Switzerland. Thomas Zumbach, Jr., age 4, was found choked to death in a woods between Geneva and Klatz, shortly after Zumbach had made arrangements to pay the ransom. The kidnapper was apparently frightened by police who had trailed Zumbach to a rendezvous spot. The kidnapper did not show up, and the boy was found nearby. Police working on the Schneider case felt the facts of the Zumbach case influenced Schneider to work independently of them.

A doctor who examined Timmy said the boy had been fed pills of some sort, undoubtedly tranquillizers or sedatives. The nearly-empty bedroom the boy described, and the mattress without sheets, led authorities to believe the kidnapper had perhaps rented a place especially for this purpose. Police were checking with apartment-house superintendents.

He was huskier now, not quite “plump.” He saw his reflection in the window of the small café, as he nursed an aperitif before lunch, at an outside table. His hair was no longer parted and cut short, but thick now, combed straight back with an almost pompadour effect, and longer than he wore it back home. He had grown a beard, too. In Europe no one looked twice at a man with a beard. Adam liked his — it gave him a certain dignity. To his surprise and delight, it had grown in darker than his hair, and the contrast was interesting. White-blond hair, nearly black beard, and his face was tanned from a spring of warm sun, spent in southern France. His jowls were a bit flabby, and his cheeks had filled out more than he liked, but he could blame that on the wretched starches the hospital had served continually. He was glad to be away from there; glad to be back in Paris. His breakdown had occurred in late January. One morning he had awakened in his room at the Quai Voltaire, to discover he had forgotten how to tie his shoes. A psychiatrist told him of the “rest” villa for overwrought businessmen, in southern France. It was located in a sleepy Basque village called Bidart. A total of five months Adam had spent there.

He ordered another Cassegrain. The restaurant was famous for this aperitif — a glass of Montrachet colored by a drop of black currant liquor from Dijon. In the months before his breakdown, he had come here often. He needed the stronger stuff in those days; no aperitifs about it. Now it was moderation in all things. Adam smiled, remembering Dr. Melnik’s advice: “Moderation in everything, Adam; moderation in moderation, too.”

A feeling of bitterness followed the smile. He had almost begun to trust Melnik; he had nearly believed they were friends. During the months Adam had been there for recuperation, Melnik had become fascinated with Adam’s handwriting analyses. For his own amusement, Adam had done analyses of his fellow patients. Most everyone had looked upon it as a form of “fortune-telling,” more than character reading; few had taken it seriously. It was considered great “fun.” Melnik knew better. He had studied graphology in Zürich, and he congratulated Adam on his remarkable intuitiveness. When Adam was practically recovered, Melnik often invited him to his quarters for dinner. Together they would discuss this one and that one, and Melnik would listen to what Adam had to say, as though Adam were a colleague. It had inspired him to work harder at his system, to improvise and add to his theories with a seriousness he had never had before. He felt useful and important, and before long many patients were good-naturedly calling Adam, Dr. Blessing.

• • •

A month or so before he was ready to leave, Adam went to Melnik with an offer. He would stay on as staff. He did not care about a title nor a salary. It was a place for him. He would even do menial work as well. Melnik refused the offer.

“Many patients,” said Melnik, “think they want to stay on here after they’re well. They offer to empty bed-pans for the privilege. But the most important part of getting well, Adam, is leaving.”

Adam had been hurt at being classed with all the others.

“Then you were just flattering me, after all. The same as you would praise someone’s idiotic finger-painting!”

Melnik had frowned: “If you start thinking that way again, you’ll get sick again.”

So Adam had been cast out again. Again, he was on his own.

The waiter served him sweetbreads with truffles, and Adam resisted a temptation to wash it down with a bottle of fine wine. He had discovered that if he read along with his meals, he did not miss the wine nearly as much. He unfolded a copy of the Paris
Tribune,
and spread it out beside his plate. As he read the theater ads, he thought of his newest idea, which he had dreamed up on the train from Biarritz. Since Adam had been in Europe, the theater had become his main sober distraction. On the train from Biarritz, he had been looking forward to the theater again, after so long an exile. He had pictured himself standing in the familiar line for tickets. Then, it had come to him — his idea. There ought to be an electronic ticket machine which could be installed in hotels, restaurants, department stores — in places all over the country. One could buy tickets to the various hits by consulting the availabilities which would be registered on the machines. Halfway to Paris he had taken his pocket dictionary out and begun composing a letter. In it, he informed a likely manufacturer that he himself would invest a considerable sum in the project…. The letter, unfinished, was still in Adam’s bag at the hotel. Maybe, Adam mused, he would really get busy on
this
idea. Melnik had told him it was essential that he get busy.

• • •

Adam read on in the
Tribune,
half of his mind mulling over the possibility that Melnik might be actually jealous of him. After all, Melnik worked hard for very little money, and it was no secret to Melnik that Adam had plenty. Adam had told him the same story he told everyone else: that he had inherited money and realized handsome gains from wise investments.

Adam had not yet made any investments. Part of the reason was that he did not trust a broker, and he was never without fear that such a transaction might cast suspicion on him. He had no knowledge whether large investments were reported to the police; it seemed anything was likely so long as the authorities were searching for him. Adam was convinced by now that Schneider had kept his word; he had not marked the ransom money. Adam hoped to invest the money some way, to perhaps interest a manufacturer in one of his own ideas, to ultimately double the amount remaining. It was his dream to repay Schneider. He had paid back Mrs. Auerbach’s sister for the Lucy Baker money gradually, so as not to be suspect. The day after he had returned Timmy, Adam had taken a job in Macy’s, and stuck it out three months. He had told Dorothy Schackleford the
Stammbuch
was his, and he was working at the Macy’s job until he could arrange for the
Stammbuch’s
sale. Each pay day he gave Mrs. Auerbach’s sister $60, so that at the end of three months, moved by his earnest endeavors to make up the money, she dropped the remainder of the debt. He was free then to go to Europe; certain, by then, the money was unmarked; out-of-debt, and clear…. Adam never liked to think of his money as “the ransom money.” It was “the loan” in his mind. He felt a nearly ethereal tie with Luther Schneider, every bit as strong as a blood tie. During their one telephone conversation, when Adam had arranged for Schneider to leave the money in King School’s outside trash cans, Schneider had said: “I keep my promises. I know you keep yours, too. I believe in you. Remember that.” No one had ever said such a very touching, kind thing to Adam Blessing. He would make it up to Luther Schneider someday, somehow.

Last Christmas from Biarritz, Adam had sent a model of a tiny Basque fishing boat to Timmy Schneider. He had so much wanted to sign his name to a card and enclose it. Perhaps Luther Schneider would never guess who “Adam Blessing” was — Schneider had so many business involvements all over the world; it could be just someone he had forgotten. Yet what if he did suspect who Adam Blessing was? Adam liked the idea of Schneider knowing his name, knowing that at Christmas he had remembered Timmy. He wanted, in some way, to tell

Schneider that he was not just a crook, not just someone who did not care … In the end, he chose not to include a card. He would remain anonymous until he could come face-to-face with Luther Schneider, hand him a check for the full amount of “the loan,” thank him, and then perhaps invite Schneider to have a drink with him. He would honestly like to know Schneider better. He would like to tell Schneider how he had managed to double the money; win his respect and admiration…. Last Christmas Adam had been so very lonely…. He had thought of Luther Schneider often.

• • •

Midway through the sweetbreads, Adam decided to buy a gift for Schneider after lunch. Adam was not a stranger to the man’s tastes and habits. Those three months in New York last summer, Adam had visited many back-number magazine stores. There was the portrait in
Town and County
on Schneider; the piece in
Fortune,
and the cover story in
Our Time.
In addition, all the newspapers had been filled with stories on Schneider and his family, during the kidnapping period. Adam had pored through them.

• • •

While Adam was “resting” in Bidart, he had read a few books on silver. Luther Schneider was an avid silver collector. Adam would find him something special — a Sheffield-plate egg stand, perhaps, or one of those rare, helmet-shaped silver cream jugs. It would be something interesting for Adam to do with his afternoon. He was tired of going to the movies, and tired of listening to his French and Italian language records back in his hotel room, tired, as well, of his immense loneliness. It had been the latter that had gotten him into so much trouble before his breakdown. He had done remarkably well about his drinking during the three months in New York last summer. Loneliness had never really plagued Adam until his arrival in Europe; then he had needed to drink to forget it. No more of that. In Bidart he had made up his mind that upon his return to Paris he would get things under control; start doing constructive things about his ideas. He liked the idea of buying Schneider the gift, as a sort of symbolic token of a turning-point. From now on he would work to repay Schneider. Adam was pleased with the thought. Euphoria began to creep in. Still — he did not order the wine his meal so dearly lacked. Indeed, a turning-point. He smiled and turned the page of his newspaper, and then he came upon the short notice in the
Tribune’s
“Americans in Paris” column.

It was a single-line entry: “Mrs. Vera Cameron Cadwallader of New York City is staying at the Hotel Continental.”

• • •

At six-thirty that evening Vera Cameron Cadwallader was waiting for him in the Continental’s Cour d’Honneur. She was sitting at a table under one of the red-and-white striped umbrellas. In the note which Adam had dropped off at the hotel that afternoon, he had simply said that he was a friend of Charity’s; that he would very much enjoy having a cocktail with her. He put an undecipherable signature at the end, and arrived a few minutes later than the appointed time, for fear she would see him and refuse to join him.

Adam sat down. “You don’t remember me?”

She seemed anxious to please, but suspicious. She did not remember him at all; the beard, the extra weight — Adam supposed she was thinking that Charity did not know anyone who wore a beard. She smiled. “I’m sorry. Your name — I can’t think of it, and on your note I couldn’t make it out.”

“First of all, I’ve changed a great deal,” said Adam, “not just in appearance, Mrs. Cadwallader. I want you to understand that before I go on any further. I’m a different — ”

“Blessing,” she said then. “You’re that Adam Blessing.”

“Not
that
Adam Blessing, Mrs. Cadwallader, I assure you. You were so very right when you made the remark that I needed help, remember?”

She was looking down at her white gloves, playing with the fingers nervously. “I don’t remember.”

“Please just give me a few minutes to talk with you.”

“Of course,” she said. She did not look across at him. She sipped her aperitif, still occupied with the gloves.

“I was an awful fool, but that’s all changed now. I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown.” “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I make you nervous, don’t I? I don’t want to. I have great admiration for you.”

“How long,” she said looking at him then, “are you going to be in Paris?”

Adam knew she meant to keep the conversation as impersonal as possible.

“I live here now,” he said.

“How nice for you.”

“And Charity? How’s Charity?” He did not mean to say her name so soon after the conversation had begun, but Mrs. Cadwallader’s nervousness was contagious.

“Very happy,” she said.

“I heard they were abroad. I thought you might all be traveling together.” It was a shot in the dark. He had no idea where Billy and Charity were.

“No, they’re in Rome,” she said.

“I thought Billy was bored with Rome. I thought he hated Rome!” He told himself to go easy; the old tone was back in his voice, the breathless feeling. He saw Mrs. Cadwallader look more closely at him, and he laughed. “It’s a joke Billy and I had,” he said. “I used to kid with Billy about Rome.”

“What about Rome?”

“Just a joke Billy and I had,” said Adam. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, well, it’s not important. I — I don’t even know how it came up.” There was silence. Adam wanted to signal for the waiter, but he was afraid that it would simply give her an excuse to say she could not join him in the drink, an excuse to pay for her own drink and leave. Adam said, “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, lovely.”

“I was very happy when I read of their marriage last summer.” He coughed, to camouflage his shortness of breath. “It must have been very romantic, eloping that way, spur of the moment and all.”

“Yes.”

“I read about it in the newspaper,” said Adam. “I read about it just a week before I left for Europe. I’d hoped to run into them, but we were never in the same places, it seems.” In Venice, though, I came close, Adam thought grimly; missed them there by two days.

“Are you working over here, Mr. Blessing?”

“I’m hunting down some rare silver pieces for a New York collector,” said Adam. “It’s very interesting … I suppose Billy is working for his father’s firm. I mean, he took it over, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”