McTeague by Frank Norris (leveled readers TXT) 📕

he faced about and entered his room, closing the door behind him. For a long time he sat in his armchair, drawn close to the wall in front of the table on which stood his piles of pamphlets and his little binding apparatus.

“I wonder,” said Trina, as she crossed the yard back of Zerkow’s house, “I wonder what rent Zerkow and Maria pay for this place. I’ll bet it’s cheaper than where Mac and I are.”

Trina found Maria sitting in front of the kitchen stove, her chin upon her breast. Trina went up to her. She was dead. And as Trina touched her shoulder, her head rolled sideways and showed a fearful gash in her throat under her ear. All the front of her dress was soaked through and through.

Trina backed sharply away from the body, drawing her hands up to her very shoulders, her eyes staring and wide, an expression of unutterable horror twisting her face.

“Oh-h-h!” she exclaimed in a long breath, her voice hardly rising above a whisper. “Oh-h, isn’t that horrible!” Suddenly she turned and fled through the front part of the house to the street door, that opened upon the little alley. She looked wildly about her. Directly across the way a butcher’s boy was getting into his two-wheeled cart drawn up in front of the opposite house, while near by a peddler of wild game was coming down the street, a brace of ducks in his hand.

“Oh, say⁠—say,” gasped Trina, trying to get her voice, “say, come over here quick.”

The butcher’s boy paused, one foot on the wheel, and stared. Trina beckoned frantically.

“Come over here, come over here quick.”

The young fellow swung himself into his seat.

“What’s the matter with that woman?” he said, half aloud.

“There’s a murder been done,” cried Trina, swaying in the doorway.

The young fellow drove away, his head over his shoulder, staring at Trina with eyes that were fixed and absolutely devoid of expression.

“What’s the matter with that woman?” he said again to himself as he turned the corner.

Trina wondered why she didn’t scream, how she could keep from it⁠—how, at such a moment as this, she could remember that it was improper to make a disturbance and create a scene in the street. The peddler of wild game was looking at her suspiciously. It would not do to tell him. He would go away like the butcher’s boy.

“Now, wait a minute,” Trina said to herself, speaking aloud. She put her hands to her head. “Now, wait a minute. It won’t do for me to lose my wits now. What must I do?” She looked about her. There was the same familiar aspect of Polk Street. She could see it at the end of the alley. The big market opposite the flat, the delivery carts rattling up and down, the great ladies from the avenue at their morning shopping, the cable cars trundling past, loaded with passengers. She saw a little boy in a flat leather cap whistling and calling for an unseen dog, slapping his small knee from time to time. Two men came out of Frenna’s saloon, laughing heartily. Heise the harness-maker stood in the vestibule of his shop, a bundle of whittlings in his apron of greasy ticking. And all this was going on, people were laughing and living, buying and selling, walking about out there on the sunny sidewalks, while behind her in there⁠—in there⁠—in there⁠—

Heise started back from the sudden apparition of a white-lipped woman in a blue dressing-gown that seemed to rise up before him from his very doorstep.

“Well, Mrs. McTeague, you did scare me, for⁠—”

“Oh, come over here quick.” Trina put her hand to her neck; swallowing something that seemed to be choking her. “Maria’s killed⁠—Zerkow’s wife⁠—I found her.”

“Get out!” exclaimed Heise, “you’re joking.”

“Come over here⁠—over into the house⁠—I found her⁠—she’s dead.”

Heise dashed across the street on the run, with Trina at his heels, a trail of spilled whittlings marking his course. The two ran down the alley. The wild-game peddler, a woman who had been washing down the steps in a neighboring house, and a man in a broad-brimmed hat stood at Zerkow’s doorway, looking in from time to time, and talking together. They seemed puzzled.

“Anything wrong in here?” asked the wild-game peddler as Heise and Trina came up. Two more men stopped on the corner of the alley and Polk Street and looked at the group. A woman with a towel round her head raised a window opposite Zerkow’s house and called to the woman who had been washing the steps, “What is it, Mrs. Flint?”

Heise was already inside the house. He turned to Trina, panting from his run.

“Where did you say⁠—where was it⁠—where?”

“In there,” said Trina, “farther in⁠—the next room.” They burst into the kitchen.

“Lord!” ejaculated Heise, stopping a yard or so from the body, and bending down to peer into the gray face with its brown lips.

“By God! he’s killed her.”

“Who?”

“Zerkow, by God! he’s killed her. Cut her throat. He always said he would.”

“Zerkow?”

“He’s killed her. Her throat’s cut. Good Lord, how she did bleed! By God! he’s done for her in good shape this time.”

“Oh, I told her⁠—I told her,” cried Trina.

“He’s done for her sure this time.”

“She said she could always manage⁠—Oh-h! It’s horrible.”

“He’s done for her sure this trip. Cut her throat. Lord, how she has bled! Did you ever see so much⁠—that’s murder⁠—that’s cold-blooded murder. He’s killed her. Say, we must get a policeman. Come on.”

They turned back through the house. Half a dozen people⁠—the wild-game peddler, the man with the broad-brimmed hat, the washwoman, and three other men⁠—were in the front room of the junk shop, a bank of excited faces surged at the door. Beyond this, outside, the crowd was packed solid from one end of the alley to the other. Out in Polk Street the cable cars were nearly blocked and were bunting a way slowly through the throng with clanging bells. Every window had its group. And as Trina and the harness-maker tried to force