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first, it was supposed that he might have been prompted by despair at the loss

of his commission for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, since it was learned that he

lived in revolting poverty. But it was learned, beyond any doubt, that Ellsworth

Toohey had had no connection whatever with his loss. Toohey had never spoken to

Mr. Slotnick about Steven Mallory. Toohey had not seen the statue of "Industry."

On this point Mallory had broken his silence to admit that he had never met

Toohey nor seen him in person before, nor known any of Toohey’s friends. "Do you

think that Mr. Toohey was in some way responsible for your losing that

commission?" he was asked. Mallory had answered: "No."

"Then why?" Mallory said nothing.

Toohey had not recognized his assailant when he saw him seized by policemen on

the sidewalk outside the radio station. He did not learn his name until after

the broadcast. Then, stepping out of the studio into an anteroom full of waiting

newsmen, Toohey said: "No, of course I won’t press any charges. I wish they’d

let him go. Who is he, by the way?" When he heard the name, Toohey’s glance

remained fixed somewhere between the shoulder of one man and the hat brim of

another. Then Toohey--who had stood calmly while a bullet struck an inch from

his face against the glass of the entrance door below--uttered one word and the

word seemed to fall at his feet, heavy with fear: "Why?"

No one could answer. Presently, Toohey shrugged, smiled, and said: "If it was an

attempt at free publicity--well, what atrocious taste!" But nobody believed this

explanation, because all felt that Toohey did not believe it either. Through the

interviews that followed, Toohey answered questions gaily. He said: "I had never

thought myself important enough to warrant assassination. It would be the

greatest tribute one could possibly expect--if it weren’t so much in the style

of an operetta." He managed to convey the charming impression that nothing of

importance had happened because nothing of importance ever happened on earth.

Mallory was sent to jail to await trial. All efforts to question him failed.

The thought that kept Keating uneasily awake for many hours, that night, was the

groundless certainty that Toohey felt exactly as he did. He knows, thought

Keating, and I know, that there is--in Steven Mallory’s motive--a greater danger

than in his murderous attempt. But we shall never know his motive. Or shall

we?...And then he touched the core of fear: it was the sudden wish that he might

be guarded, through the years to come, to the end of his life, from ever

learning that motive.

#

Ellsworth Toohey’s secretary rose in a leisurely manner, when Keating entered,

and opened for him the door into Ellsworth Toohey’s office.

Keating had grown past the stage of experiencing anxiety at the prospect of

meeting a famous man, but he experienced it in the moment when he saw the door

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opening under her hand. He wondered what Toohey really looked like. He

remembered the magnificent voice he had heard in the lobby of the strike

meeting, and he imagined a giant of a man, with a rich mane of hair, perhaps

just turning gray, with bold, broad features of an ineffable benevolence,

something vaguely like the countenance of God the Father.

"Mr. Peter Keating--Mr. Toohey," said the secretary and closed the door behind

him.

At a first glance upon Ellsworth Monkton Toohey one wished to offer him a heavy,

well-padded overcoat--so frail and unprotected did his thin little body appear,

like that of a chicken just emerging from the egg, in all the sorry fragility of

unhardened bones. At a second glance one wished to be sure that the overcoat

should be an exceedingly good one--so exquisite were the garments covering that

body. The lines of the dark suit followed frankly the shape within it,

apologizing for nothing: they sank with the concavity of the narrow chest, they

slid down from the long, thin neck with the sharp slope of the shoulders. A

great forehead dominated the body. The wedge-shaped face descended from the

broad temples to a small, pointed chin. The hair was black, lacquered, divided

into equal halves by a thin white line. This made the skull look tight and trim,

but left too much emphasis to the ears that flared out in solitary nakedness,

like the handles of a bouillon cup. The nose was long and thin, prolonged by the

small dab of a black mustache. The eyes were dark and startling. They held such

a wealth of intellect and of twinkling gaiety that his glasses seemed to be worn

not to protect his eyes but to protect other men from their excessive

brilliance.

"Hello, Peter Keating," said Ellsworth Monkton Toohey in his compelling, magical

voice. "What do you think of the temple of Nike Apteros?"

"How...do you do, Mr. Toohey," said Keating, stopped, stupefied. "What do I

think...of what?"

"Sit down, my friend. Of the temple of Nike Apteros."

"Well...Well...I..."

"I feel certain that you couldn’t have overlooked that little gem. The Parthenon

has usurped the recognition which--and isn’t that usually the case? the bigger

and stronger appropriating all the glory, while the beauty of the

unprepossessing goes unsung--which should have been awarded to that magnificent

little creation of the great free spirit of Greece. You’ve noted, I’m sure, the

fine balance of its mass, the supreme perfection of its modest proportions--ah,

yes, you know, the supreme in the modest--the delicate craftsmanship of detail?"

"Yes, of course," muttered Keating, "that’s always been my favorite--the temple

of Nike Apteros."

"Really?" said Ellsworth Toohey, with a smile which Keating could not quite

classify. "I was certain of it. I was certain you’d say it. You have a very

handsome face, Peter Keating, when you don’t stare like this--which is really

quite unnecessary."

And Toohey was laughing suddenly, laughing quite obviously, quite insultingly,

at Keating and at himself; it was as if he were underscoring the falseness of

the whole procedure. Keating sat aghast for an instant; and then he found

himself laughing easily in answer, as if at home with a very old friend.

"That’s better," said Toohey. "Don’t you find it advisable not to talk too

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seriously in an important moment? And this might be a very important moment--who

knows?--for both of us. And, of course, I knew you’d be a little afraid of me

and--oh, I admit--I was quite a bit afraid of you, so isn’t this much better?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Toohey," said Keating happily. His normal assurance in meeting

people had vanished; but he felt at ease, as if all responsibility were taken

away from him and he did not have to worry about saying the right things,

because he was being led gently into saying them without any effort on his part.

"I’ve always known it would be an important moment when I met you, Mr. Toohey.

Always. For years."

"Really?" said Ellsworth Toohey, the eyes behind the glasses attentive. "Why?"

"Because I’d always hoped that I would please you, that you’d approve of me...of

my work...when the time came...why, I even..."

"Yes?"

"...I even thought, so often, when drawing, is this the kind of building that

Ellsworth Toohey would say is good? I tried to see it like that, through your

eyes...I...I’ve..." Toohey listened watchfully. "I’ve always wanted to meet you

because you’re such a profound thinker and a man of such cultural distinc--"

"Now," said Toohey, his voice kindly but a little impatient; his interest had

dropped on that last sentence. "None of that. I don’t mean to be ungracious, but

we’ll dispense with that sort of thing, shall we? Unnatural as this may sound, I

really don’t like to hear personal praise."

It was Toohey’s eyes, thought Keating, that put him at ease. There was such a

vast understanding in Toohey’s eyes and such an unfastidious kindness--no, what

a word to think of--such an unlimited kindness. It was as if one could hide

nothing from him, but it was not necessary to hide it, because he would forgive

anything. They were the most unaccusing eyes that Keating had ever seen.

"But, Mr. Toohey," he muttered, "I did want to..."

"You wanted to thank me for my article," said Toohey and made a little grimace

of gay despair. "And here I’ve been trying so hard to prevent you from doing it.

Do let me get away with it, won’t you? There’s no reason why you should thank

me. If you happened to deserve the things I said--well, the credit belongs to

you, not to me. Doesn’t it?"

"But I was so happy that you thought I’m..."

"...a great architect? But surely, my boy, you knew that. Or weren’t you quite

sure? Never quite sure of it?"

"Well, I..."

It was only a second’s pause. And it seemed to Keating that this pause was all

Toohey had wanted to hear from him; Toohey did not wait for the rest, but spoke

as if he had received a full answer, and an answer that pleased him.

"And as for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building, who can deny that it’s an extraordinary

achievement? You know, I was greatly intrigued by its plan. It’s a most

ingenious plan. A brilliant plan. Very unusual. Quite different from what I have

observed in your previous work. Isn’t it?"

"Naturally," said Keating, his voice clear and hard for the first time, "the

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problem was different from anything I’d done before, so I worked out that plan

to fit the particular requirements of the problem."

"Of course," said Toohey gently. "A beautiful piece of work. You should be proud

of it."

Keating noticed that Toohey’s eyes stood centered in the middle of the lenses

and the lenses stood focused straight on his pupils, and Keating knew suddenly

that Toohey knew he had not designed the plan of the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.

This did not frighten him. What frightened him was that he saw approval in

Toohey’s eyes.

"If you must feel--no, not gratitude, gratitude is such an embarrassing

word--but, shall we say, appreciation?" Toohey continued, and his voice had

grown softer, as if Keating were a fellow conspirator who would know that the

words used were to be, from now on, a code for a private meaning, "you might

thank me for understanding the symbolic implications of your building and for

stating them in words as you stated them in marble. Since, of course, you are

not just a common mason, but a thinker in stone."

"Yes," said Keating, "that was my abstract theme, when I designed the

building--the great masses and the flowers of culture. I’ve always believed that

true culture springs from the common man. But I had no hope that anyone would

ever understand me."

Toohey smiled. His thin lips slid open, his teeth showed. He was not looking at

Keating. He was looking down at his own hand, the long, slender, sensitive hand

of a concert pianist, moving a sheet of paper on the desk. Then he said:

"Perhaps we’re brothers of the spirit, Keating. The human spirit. That is all

that matters in life"--not looking at Keating, but past him, the lenses raised

flagrantly to a line over Keating’s face.

And Keating knew that Toohey knew he had never thought of any abstract theme

until he’d read that article, and more: that Toohey approved again. When the

lenses moved slowly to Keating’s face, the eyes were sweet with affection, an

affection very cold and very real. Then Keating felt as if the walls of the room

were moving gently in upon him, pushing him into a terrible intimacy, not with

Toohey, but with some unknown guilt. He wanted to leap to his feet and run. He

sat still, his mouth half open.

And without knowing what prompted him, Keating heard his own voice in the

silence:

"And I did want to say how glad I was that you escaped that maniac’s bullet

yesterday, Mr. Toohey."

"Oh?...Oh, thanks. That? Well! Don’t let it upset you. Just one of the minor

penalties one pays for prominence in public life."

"I’ve never liked Mallory. A strange sort of person. Too tense. I don’t like

people who’re tense. I’ve never liked his work either."

"Just an exhibitionist. Won’t amount to much."

"It wasn’t my idea, of course, to give him a try. It was Mr. Slotnick’s. Pull,

you know. But Mr. Slotnick knew better in the end."

"Did Mallory ever mention my name to you?"

197

"No. Never."

"I haven’t even met him, you know. Never saw him before. Why did he do it?"

And then it was Toohey who sat still, before what he saw on Keating’s face;

Toohey, alert and insecure for the first time. This was it, thought Keating,

this was the bond between them, and the bond was fear, and more, much more than

that, but fear was the only recognizable name to give it. And he knew, with

unreasoning finality, that he liked Toohey better than any man he had ever met.

"Well, you know how it is," said Keating brightly, hoping that the commonplace

he was about to utter would close the subject. "Mallory is an incompetent and

knows it and he decided to take it out on you as a symbol of the great and the

able."

But instead of a smile, Keating saw the shot of Toohey’s sudden glance at him;

it was not a glance, it was a fluoroscope, he thought he could feel it crawling

searchingly inside his bones. Then Toohey’s face seemed to harden, drawing

together again in composure, and Keating knew that Toohey had found relief

somewhere, in his bones or in his gaping, bewildered face, that some hidden

immensity of ignorance within him had given Toohey reassurance. Then Toohey said

slowly, strangely, derisively:

"You and I, we’re going to be great friends, Peter."