But the glasses were an error, an error tearing down Artie and himself from their superhuman state as beings who could achieve an act of perfection. And in some center of his self, Judd rejoiced that they were united in this error, united in their imperfect action; he rejoiced that Artie had committed his part of the flaw.
Now their action permitted a different kind of triumph, for they must try to retrieve their error and still emerge superior. And in their error they were united even more firmly than by a perfect deed. For had the adventure succeeded, they would have divided the ransom and been done. He would have gone on, in two weeks, to Europe.
Perhaps now he would never go. Even in this dread anticipation of being caught, Judd felt a subterranean satisfaction; he and Artie were entwined in what was still to come.
“By the law of probabilities,” he said to Artie, “there is one chance in a million that they can trace the glasses.”
“Shit on all that,” said Artie.
But something perverse in Judd made him see the spectacles already traced. They had to be traced—he had to be confronted with them—for the next part of the action to occur, the infinite ordeal through which he would redeem his error, prove himself a truly superior being. The ordeal in which, by facing down all accusation, he would save Artie, too.
To Artie he said, “They’re just the most ordinary reading glasses. There must be hundreds of thousands of the same prescription. The chance that their ownership can be identified is infinitesimal. But even if it should be, that still doesn’t prove anything. I could have dropped my glasses any day I was out there birding. I was even out there with my class in the same spot last week; I could have dropped them at that time. A mere coincidence. In fact, I can use my bird class as witnesses!” There was a Machiavellian touch that Artie should appreciate.
Judd saw himself standing before some powerful man—a heavy mustache, an authority—but he remained unflustered, controlled, saying, “A mere coincidence,” as he accepted the spectacles back into his hand and placed them back in this same coat pocket. For no matter who they were, the authorities would know they had to accept the word of Judah Steiner, Jr.
In fact, they would conduct their questioning with the utmost deference, and probably apologize to his old man for even calling him in. And the old man would say to him quietly, “You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. What kind of nonsense is this?” But Judd would say, “It’s routine. I’m perfectly willing to answer any questions they ask. And since you are so insistent that I become a lawyer, you ought to be glad, as this will give me a little direct experience with matters of law.” And all that time it would be a howl over the old man and his slow-minded righteousness! For he would be fooling the old man as well as all the inquisitors.
“I ought to kill you for making such a boner,” Artie said, hurling the newspaper to the floor.
Judd put the car in gear. Starting homeward, he said, “I agree—if it were entirely my error, I would deserve death.” Indeed, in a superior society, no one capable of such a stupid oversight should have a right to live. Nietzsche would certainly have condemned him, for in the end it was his own fault for having the glasses in his pocket. Thus, the pendulum in him swung to the other extreme, and Judd saw Artie enthroned, with golden wristbands, golden breastplate and greaves, judging him as he knelt abjectly. And the sentence—Artie’s outstretched gold-banded arm, decreeing death. And suppose he went out now with Artie to some dark field and insisted that Artie carry through the sentence—Artie shooting him, his body crumpling—it would be his sacrifice for Artie. They would find his body; he would leave a note acknowledging the glasses as his, the crime as his. That would be part of the sentence. And Artie would be forever safe.
But aloud, Judd proposed a bold idea. To go directly to the police and claim the spectacles. “I read the story in the papers, and realized that on my last birding expedition—”
“You’ll bugger it up,” Artie said. “You’ll bugger it up, sure as Christ.” He whistled at a couple of chicks on Michigan, reaching over to pound the horn, and elbowing Judd to pipe the broads, the sun coming right through their dresses.
The girls went into a building. “Crows, anyway,” Artie said, but his spirits had lifted. “Suppose you go and say they’re your glasses. All right. They give you the third degree. You think you can take the third degree?” he challenged.
“I’d be glad to help you in any way I can, officer,” stated Judd, looking him unflinchingly in the eye.
“Watch where you’re driving, you sucker. All right, Mr. Steiner, where were you last Wednesday?” Artie’s restless glance lit on another chick; he called. She turned, smiling, her tonguetip darting in and out between her lips—this part of Michigan was red light.
“The hell, you want another dose?” Judd remonstrated, then resumed, “Last Wednesday, yes, I recall distinctly, I spent the entire afternoon and evening with Artie Straus, a friend of mine.”
“All right, so then they pick me up and check your story. I ought to kill you first, you crapper.”
They rehearsed once more the story they had agreed upon, should they ever be questioned. Artie became suddenly attentive. “All right, we had lunch at the Windermere. That’s a fact. Willie was there with us. They can even check that with Willie.”
They laughed again. Judd felt pleased. They would be using Willie Weiss, and Willie wouldn’t even know how he and Artie together were having a laugh at him. “Then after lunch”—Judd picked it up—“we spent several hours in Lincoln Park, at the lagoon, mostly sitting parked in my car, as I was watching for a species of warbler that arrives in this area late in May—”
“Hey, give them the scientific name,” Artie said.
“Dendroica aestiva, of the Compsothlypidae family,” said Judd, and they snorted, imagining the cops handling that one!
Then Artie took over the story. “I went along with Judd Steiner and sat in the car while he did his bird scouting. I thought it would make a good effect on my mother to tell her I spent the afternoon with Judd and his bird science, so she would get the idea I was doing something real studious. But I’m afraid, sir, we had a pint of gin in the car and by suppertime I had too much gin on my breath, so I didn’t think that would impress my mother very well. We stayed out for supper, had supper at the—let’s see—”
“Coconut Grove,” said Judd.
“Then we drove around awhile, trying to pick up a couple of girls.”
“You mean, girls you didn’t know?”
“Yes, sir, you know, just a couple of janes.”
“Do you frequently engage in this practice?”
“Well, officer”—winking—“you know how it is. We coasted around on 63rd Street—”
“How did you make out?”
“Well, we picked up a couple, around 63rd and State. And we drove back to Jackson Park—”
Judd interrupted. “I thought we were going to say Lincoln Park.”
“Shit no. The first time, the birds, is Lincoln. The second time, the twats, is Jackson. Over by the lake . . . Only you see, officer, these girls wouldn’t come across, so about ten o’clock we told them to get out and walk.”
“Can you give us their names, Mr. Straus?”
“Well, mine said her name was Edna, but you know—we didn’t give them our right names, either. She was a blonde, well built—” He made curves with his hands, and just then spotted a girl in a Paige, passing them. “Hey! Follow her!”
“Listen”—Judd