“Well, so long, Ham. Sorry, but business is business.”
He shook hands and hurried out of the room.
XXXI
It was surprising how merely meeting McCall once more should so strongly revive old memories clustering about Dorothy. There was his first memory of her at the hospital—her cool hand on his forehead; her quick, skillful movements; her sympathetic smile. There was Dorothy at the Luxembourg Gardens, holding his hand and looking gently down at the ground. There was the kiss—like a scarlet memory. There were a hundred little gestures, glances of her eyes, movements of her hands, the way she patted back a stray wisp of hair—a hundred nothings. All these came back to him now.
After leaving the Press Club, he had been unable to reach Levin by phone—he was still busy on his case—and so he had walked eastward to Michigan Avenue and then along the row of shops, stopping to peer into windows, viewing the stream of fashionably attired men and women and the swiftly passing motor cars and taxis. A sooty, green park ran along the lake front and a gray stone building of classic design commanded it. Beyond the park Lake Michigan looked green and cool and clean. As he walked, Robert kept fancying that he saw Dorothy just ahead of him, but whenever he quicked his pace he would find it simply an illusion—a passing resemblance.
He turned west to La Salle Street—two rows of gigantic structures— banks, trust companies, brokerages mainly—overshadowing a current of business men, their bankers, lawyers and clerks, and of hurrying vehicles. To the south, at the end of the street, he recognized the Board of Trade Building.
Clinton Freeman, the man in charge of the Dearborn Statistical Bureau, proved a hair taller than Robert, blond and built like a tackle—a chap one could easily like. He had come out of the war a first lieutenant, had been stationed with Southern troops for several months and had grown to admire Southerners in a general way, without analysing his reasons for it. He liked their soft accent and liked to mimic it, throwing in an inordinate number of “you-alls” and drawling out his words at exaggerated length. He liked their geniality and their easy air of self-confidence. He had found them generous, courteous—even chivalrous, when they referred to women—and light-hearted—the virtues of aristocracy. From these acquaintances Freeman had learned the Southerner’s viewpoint on lynching—the need of keeping the inferior black man in his place, the necessity of stamping out “the only crime for which a nigger is ever lynched.”
“I’m mighty glad to see you!” Freeman had an effusive manner and gripped hands like a wrestler. “They wrote you were coming and sent several wires. Come right in!”
Robert followed into a private office and, on a comfortable swivel chair, swapped war and football experiences. Yes, Freeman had played football, on a small mid-Western college team, and remembered reading of Hamilton’s exploits at Harvard.
“I’ll bet you could have raised hob with the Yale line,” Robert appraised him frankly. “I think your Western teams are on a par with the East’s best. Too bad they don’t meet oftener.”