The Accused, Harold R. Daniels [read out loud books txt] 📗

>He cleaned up the few dishes he had dirtied and went back to the living room. He had been able to put aside reminders of his debts briefly. Now the stupefying thought that he must raise almost eight hundred dollars in the morning overwhelmed him again. There was the bank, of course, but banks wanted collateral, security. And they would want to make inquiries at the college which would take time.

Morlock remembered the newspaper which the newsboy left in the hall. He opened the pages to the classified section, looking for the half noted and remembered advertisements of the finance companies. There were a dozen or more of them, reading, as he remembered,_ The Money You Need in One Hour._ Or, more enticingly,_ No Co-Makers, No Embarrassing Questions. Your Employer Doesn’t Have to Know._ He took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down the addresses and telephone numbers of a few of the more promising companies. One of them promised to loan, with no security, up to fifteen hundred dollars for any worthwhile purpose. There was a chart below the advertisement showing the amount of monthly payments that would liquidate various sized loans in specific times. He decided that he would try to borrow eight hundred dollars. The payments per month, after the friendly overtures in the text of the ad, were of frightening proportions. Morlock, who during his life had lived by the simple philosophy of buying only what he could afford, decided that he could meet the payments provided the strictest economy was practiced in running the house. And he, of course, would have to assume the handling of the family finances. He did not decide how he would tell these things to Louise.

There remained in the back of his mind a small but potent doubt. What if they would not let him have the money, in spite of the glowing promises? There was his friend Paul Martin who taught chemistry at Ludlow. Paul always managed to give the impression of having money, although Morlock could not quite recall any specific indication. The thought of borrowing from Paul was repugnant, not in the sense that it was trespassing on their friendship, but in the embarrassment that would shame them both if Paul didn’t have the money and had to refuse him. He decided that he would go to Paul only as a last resort.

Louise had not returned at eleven; Morlock was relieved rather than anxious. For some time now he had looked forward to bed with Louise with an emotion that approached revulsion—particularly when she had been downstairs with Anna.

*

He did not know what time she came in. When he came from the bedroom into the living room in the morning she was asleep on the couch, her coat thrown over her. Her mouth was open with her harsh breathing and there was a smell of staleness in the room. He walked softly past her and into the kitchen.

While he drank his coffee Morlock planned the morning. He would have to call the college and tell them that he would not be in. Louise, he would say, was ill. He would go to the bank as soon as it opened and apply for a loan. If there was to be a delay he would tell them to forget the application and visit one of the companies whose addresses he had copied down in his notebook. If he was refused, there remained Paul Martin, his best friend.

He dressed carefully, estimating the effect that even his choice of a necktie might have on the bank official and selecting the most conservative lest the official think him frivolous. Morlock—a most conservative man—did not perceive the absurdity of this.

Because he dressed carefully and because he had to call the college from a pay station he was five minutes later than he had planned in getting to the bank, and there was already a line of people ahead of him. The man immediately in front of him carried a paper sack and when he reached the cashier dumped the sack on the counter. There were literally thousands of dollars in the bag, and Morlock felt encouraged. The cashier had not seemed in the smallest manner startled. Surely, if money was so casually treated in this place, they would be inclined to be liberal. They might well say, “Why certainly, Mr. Morlock. We’ll be glad to let you have the money you need.” He daydreamed thus while the cashier finished with the man with the paper sack. When it was his (Turn he said as confidently as he could, “I’d like to arrange a loan,” trying to create the impression that he was accustomed to making loans from banks, as if such an impression would influence them in his favor. The cashier looked at him disinterestedly and destroyed his illusion of confidence with three words.

“Commercial or personal?”

Morlock said hastily, “Personal,” associating the word with the adjectives used in the finance company advertisements and hoping that it was the right one.

“Over there,” the cashier said, nodding in the direction of a series of desks behind a low partition. “See Mr. Kaufman.”

Morlock thanked him effusively and turned away.

Mr. Kaufman was a bland man of forty. He was polite with Morlock, and Morlock felt hope rise within him when Kaufman started filling in an application blank. They surely wouldn’t go to the trouble of filling in an application blank, he decided, if they weren’t favorably impressed. When Kaufman had his name and address and place of employment he asked, “How much money did you wish to borrow, Mr. Morlock?”

Morlock said, “Eight hundred dollars,” saw Kaufman’s small frown and added quickly, “I might be able to manage with less. Perhaps five hundred,” thinking that Paul Martin would certainly be able to lend him three hundred.

Kaufman’s questions became more direct. “And what do you wish to use this money for, Mr. Morlock?”

Morlock, watching Kaufman anxiously, explained. Before he was halfway through with the explanation, Kaufman began to shake his head from side to side absently. When Morlock had stumbled through a half-truth of his financial dilemma—he implied that an illness had prevented his keeping his credit good with the appliance company without actually identifying anyone as having been ill—Kaufman pushed the application form aside.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morlock,” he said. His regret sounded genuine. “You should have come to a bank when you bought your furniture.” His voice registered a mild reproach for Morlock and all people who failed to realize that a bank was the one, the only proper place to borrow money.

Morlock got up and almost ran out of the bank.

And so he had not said the right things, made the right impression. There remained the finance companies. The first one he tried looked like a bank; it studiedly gave the impression of being a bank and the brisk young man who waited on him looked—he carefully rehearsed the mannerisms—like a promising young teller. Except that the young man did not carry on the pretense with the application blank as long as Kaufman at the bank had done. Morlock had rephrased his answer for the inevitable, “What do you plan to do with the money if your loan is approved, Mr. Morlock?” He did not have the chance to use it. The brisk young man’s eyes became bored before he had gone beyond, “Own your own home?” Morlock’s answer to that one had been effusive. They certainly planned to own a home someday. Meantime they had a good rent at so reasonable a figure that it would almost be foolish to give it up just now. When the question became, “What bank do you have an account in?” Morlock was already defeated by the disinterested eyes and he merely shook his head dumbly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morlock.”

And at_ The Money You Need in One Hour,_ “Sorry, Mr. Morlock.”

He became desperate and out of his desperation he reduced the amount of his request to three hundred dollars. That would be enough to bring the appliance store account up to date and leave enough for the other past-due bills. The restoration of his pride by paying off the whole amount became a luxury that would have to wait.

At_ Your Employer Doesn’t Have to Know,_ “Sorry, Mr. Morlock.” And because he was asking for so much less and they still refused to honor their advertised claims, Morlock became a little mutinous. He said stubbornly, “I have a good job. It doesn’t pay very much money but it’s regular. I don’t see why you can’t make a loan to me.”

And the name of another company was murmured to him where he just might be able to meet the necessary requirements. This company made no pretense of being a bank. The front part of the building was a pawnshop; the windows littered with the ransom of a thousand hungers, mingled with the glitter of cheap-jack cameras and binoculars, knives, and jewelry. Morlock was told to go into a back room.

There was one man in the room. He sat behind a pine table reading a newspaper and he did not glance up when Morlock came in. He did speak. “How much you want?” he asked. His voice was thick with phlegm.

Morlock told him. He tried to make his own voice sound bright and alert; wanted to make this man see in him a shiny-honest young man who just happened to need a few dollars. He volunteered, “My name is Alvin Morlock. I am an English teacher at Ludlow College.” And all the time he had the sickening feeling that it was wasted in this place. This man did not care beyond wanting enough information so that the borrower could not cheat him. On that basis he made his loans.

The man put down his newspaper. “And you owe seven hundred bucks to Starkweather’s Appliance Company,” he said. “You average seventy bucks a week.” Morlock stared at him in astonishment before he reasoned that the man who had steered him to this place had undoubtedly telephoned ahead.

The man said wearily, “You guys…” and reached for a piece of paper.

There were more questions and when it was done with, the man opened a drawer in the table and took out a handful of currency. He shoved the paper at Morlock and said, “Sign there,” and began to count the money. He counted out two hundred and eighty dollars.

Morlock protested. “I signed for three hundred dollars,” he said, wanting to point out the man’s mistake to him without angering him.

The man looked up quickly. “First month’s interest and service charge,” he said. “You don’t want it?”

Morlock said weakly, “I didn’t understand,” and reached for the money.

The man reached for his newspaper. “See you the first of the month,” he said.

Morlock hurried into the street.

Heavily in debt and hounded by his creditors.