The chauffeur he was one of Wolfshiems protégées heard the shots afterward he could only say that he hadnt thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsbys house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I, hurried down to the pool.
There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water.
It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilsons body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete.
Chapter IX
After two years I remember the rest of the day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsbys front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression madman as he bent over Wilsons body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaeliss testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilsons suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade but Catherine, who might have said anything, didnt say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too looked at the coroner[98] with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man deranged by grief in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsbys side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didnt move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
Left no address?
No.
Say when theyd be back?
No.
Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?
I dont know. Cant say.
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: Ill get somebody for you, Gatsby. Dont worry. Just trust me and Ill get somebody for you
Meyer Wolfshiems name wasnt in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.
Will you ring again?
Ive rung them three times.
Its very important.
Sorry. Im afraid no ones there.
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
Look here, old sport, youve got to get somebody for me. Youve got to try hard. I cant go through this alone.
Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk hed never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure hed start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure thered be a wire from Daisy before noon but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiems answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.