An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Albany. They remained in the inn but a few minutes

before Golden walked to the boat-landing just outside

and procured a light boat, in which, accompanied by

the girl and his suitcase, he went out on the lake. They

did not return, and yesterday morning the boat was

found bottomside up in what is known as Moon Cove, a

small bay or extension at the extreme south end of the

lake, from the waters of which soon afterwards the

body of the young woman was recovered. As there are

no known rocks in the lake at that point, and the

wounds upon the face are quite marked, suspicion was

at once aroused that the girl might have been unfairly

dealt with. This, together with the testimony of the three

men, as well as the fact that a man’s straw hat found

nearby contained no lining or other method of

identification, has caused Coroner Heit to assert that

unless the body of the man is found he will assume that

murder has been committed.

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Golden or Graham, as described by innkeepers and

guests and guides at Grass Lake and Big Bittern, is not

more than twenty-four or twenty-five years of age,

slender, dark, and not more than five feet eight or nine

inches tall. At the time he arrived he was dressed in a

light gray suit, tan shoes, and a straw hat and carried a

brown suitcase to which was attached an umbrella and

some other object, presumably a cane.

The hat and coat left by the girl at the inn were of dark

and light tan respectively, her dress a dark blue.

Notice has been sent to all railroad stations in this

vicinity to be on the lookout for Golden, or Graham, in

order that he may be arrested if he is alive and

attempts to make his escape. The body of the drowned

girl is to be removed to Bridgeburg, the county seat of

this county, where an inquest is later to be held.

In frozen silence he sat and pondered. For would not the

news of such a dastardly murder as this now appeared to

be, together with the fact that it had been committed in this

immediate vicinity, stir up such marked excitement as to

cause many—perhaps all—to scan all goers and comers

everywhere in the hope of detecting the one who had thus

been described? Might it not be better, therefore, since they

were so close on his trail already, if he were to go to the

authorities at Big Bittern or here and make a clean breast of

all that had thus far occurred, the original plot and the

reasons therefor, only explaining how at the very last he

had not really killed her—had experienced a change of

heart and had not been able to do as he had planned? But,

no. That would be to give away to Sondra and the Griffiths

all that had been going on between him and Roberta—and

before it was absolutely certain that all was ended for him

here. And besides, would they believe him now, after that

flight—those reported wounds? Did it not really look as

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though he had killed her, regardless of how he might try to

explain that he had not?

It was not unlikely also that at least some among all those

who had seen him would be able to detect him from this

printed description, even though he no longer wore the gray

suit or the straw hat. God! They were looking for him, or

rather for that Clifford Golden or Carl Graham who looked

like him, in order to charge him with murder! But if he

looked exactly like Clifford Golden and those three men

came! He began to shiver. And worse yet. A new and

horrible thought, this—and at this instant, and for the first

time flashing upon his mind—the similarity of those initials

to his own! He had never thought of them in an unfavorable

light before, but now he could see that they were

detrimental. Why was it that he had never thought of that

before? Why was it? Why was it? Oh, God!

Just then a telephone call for him came from Sondra. It was

announced as from her. Yet even so he was compelled to

brace himself in order to make even an acceptable

showing, vocally. How was her sick boy this morning? Any

better? How dreadful that illness last night to come on him

so suddenly. Was he really all right now? And was he going

to be able to go on the trip all right? That was fine. She had

been so frightened and so worried all night for fear he might

be too sick to want to go. But he was going, so everything

was all right again now. Darling! Precious baby! Did her

baby boy love her so? She was just sure that the trip would

do him a lot of good. But until noon, now, dear, she would

be using all her spare time getting ready, but at one, or one-

thirty, everybody would be at the Casino pier. And then—

oh, my! Ho! for a great old time up there! He was to come

with Bertine and Grant and whoever else was coming from

there, and then at the pier he could change to Stuart’s

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launch. They were certain to have so much fun—just loads

of it—but just now she would have to go. Bye-bye!

And once more like a bright-colored bird she was gone.

But three hours to wait before he could leave here and so

avoid the danger of encountering any one who might be

looking for Clifford Golden or Carl Graham! Still until then

he could walk up the lake shore into the woods, couldn’t he?

—or sit below, his bag all packed, and watch who, if

anybody, might approach along the long-winding path from

the road or by launch across the lake. And if he saw any

one who looked at all suspicious, he could take flight, could

he not? And afterwards doing just that—first walking away

into the woods and looking back, as might a hunted animal.

Then later returning and sitting or walking, but always

watching, watching. (What man was that? What boat was

that? Where was it going? Was it coming here, by any

chance? Who was in it? Supposing an officer—a detective?

Then flight, of course—if there was still time.)

But, at last one o’clock, and the Cranston launch, with

Bertine and Harley and Wynette, as well as Grant and

himself, setting out for. the pier. And once there, joined by

all who were going, together with the servants. And at Little

Fish Inlet, thirty miles north, on the eastern shore, they

were met by the cars of the Baggotts, Harriets and others,

from where, with their goods and canoes, they were

portaged forty miles east to Bear Lake, as lonely and as

arresting almost as Big Bittern itself.

The joy of this trip if only that other thing were not hanging

over him now. This exquisite pleasure of being near

Sondra, her eyes constantly telling him how much she

cared. And her spirit’s flame so high because of his

presence here with her now. And yet Roberta’s body up!

That search for Clifford Golden—Carl Graham. His identical

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description wired as well as published everywhere. These

others—all of them in their boats and cars had probably

read it. And yet, because of their familiarity with him and his

connections—Sondra, the Griffiths—not suspecting him—

not thinking of the description even. But if they should! If

they should guess! The horror! The flight! The exposure!

The police! The first to desert him—these—all save Sondra

perhaps. And even she, too. Yes, she, of course. The

horror in her eyes.

And then that evening at sundown, on the west shore of

this same lake, on an open sward that was as smooth as

any well-kept lawn, the entire company settled, in five

different colored tents ranged about a fire like an Indian

village, with cooks’ and servants’ tents in the distance. And

the half dozen canoes beached like bright fish along the

grassy shore of the lake. And then supper around an open

fire. And Baggott and Harriet and Stuart and Grant, after

furnishing music for the others to dance by, organizing by

the flare of a large gasoline lamp, a poker game. And the

others joining in singing ribald camping and college songs,

no one of which Clyde knew, yet in which he tried to join.

And shouts of laughter. And bets as to who would be the

first to catch the first fish, to shoot the first squirrel or

partridge, to win the first race. And lastly, solemn plans for

moving the camp at least ten miles farther east, after

breakfast, on the morrow where was an ideal beach, and