But none of these advertised tokens of financial and
social success was more significant than a sleeping-porch
with a sun-parlor below.
The rites of preparing for bed were elaborate and
unchanging. The blankets had to be tucked in
at the foot of his cot. (Also, the reason why the
maid hadn’t tucked in the blankets had to be
discussed with Mrs. Babbitt.) The rag rug was adjusted
so that his bare feet would strike it when he arose
in the morning. The alarm clock was wound.
The hot-water bottle was filled and placed precisely
two feet from the bottom of the cot.
These tremendous undertakings yielded to his determination;
one by one they were announced to Mrs. Babbitt and
smashed through to accomplishment. At last his
brow cleared, and in his “Gnight!” rang
virile power. But there was yet need of courage.
As he sank into sleep, just at the first exquisite
relaxation, the Doppelbrau car came home. He
bounced into wakefulness, lamenting, “Why the
devil can’t some people never get to bed at
a reasonable hour?” So familiar was he with the
process of putting up his own car that he awaited each
step like an able executioner condemned to his own
rack.
The car insultingly cheerful on the driveway.
The car door opened and banged shut, then the garage
door slid open, grating on the sill, and the car door
again. The motor raced for the climb up into the
garage and raced once more, explosively, before it
was shut off. A final opening and slamming of
the car door. Silence then, a horrible silence
filled with waiting, till the leisurely Mr. Doppelbrau
had examined the state of his tires and had at last
shut the garage door. Instantly, for Babbitt,
a blessed state of oblivion.
At that moment In the city of Zenith, Horace Updike
was making love to Lucile McKelvey in her mauve drawing-room
on Royal Ridge, after their return from a lecture
by an eminent English novelist. Updike was Zenith’s
professional bachelor; a slim-waisted man of forty-six
with an effeminate voice and taste in flowers, cretonnes,
and flappers. Mrs. McKelvey was red-haired, creamy,
discontented, exquisite, rude, and honest. Updike
tried his invariable first maneuver—touching
her nervous wrist.
“Don’t be an idiot!” she said.
“Do you mind awfully?”
“No! That’s what I mind!”
He changed to conversation. He was famous at
conversation. He spoke reasonably of psychoanalysis,
Long Island polo, and the Ming platter he had found
in Vancouver. She promised to meet him in Deauville,
the coming summer, “though,” she sighed,
“it’s becoming too dreadfully banal; nothing
but Americans and frowsy English baronesses.”
And at that moment in Zenith, a cocaine-runner and
a prostitute were drinking cocktails in Healey Hanson’s
saloon on Front Street. Since national prohibition
was now in force, and since Zenith was notoriously
law-abiding, they were compelled to keep the cocktails
innocent by drinking them out of tea-cups. The
lady threw her cup at the cocaine-runner’s head.
He worked his revolver out of the pocket in his sleeve,
and casually murdered her.
