When he came back from lunch, Keating was stopped by a young draftsman who asked, his voice high with excitement:
“Say, Mr. Keating, who’s it took a shot at Ellsworth Toohey?”
Keating managed to gasp out:
“Who is it did what?”
“Shot Mr. Toohey.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I want to know, who.”
“Shot…Ellsworth Toohey?”
“That’s what I saw in the paper in the restaurant a guy had. Didn’t have time to get one.”
“He’s…killed?”
“That’s what I don’t know. Saw only it said about a shot.”
“If he’s dead, does that mean they won’t publish his column tomorrow?”
“Dunno. Why, Mr. Keating?”
“Go get me a paper.”
“But I’ve got to…”
“Get me that paper, you damned idiot!”
The story was there, in the afternoon papers. A shot had been fired at Ellsworth Toohey that morning, as he stepped out of his car in front of a radio station where he was to deliver an address on “The Voiceless and the Undefended.” The shot had missed him. Ellsworth Toohey had remained calm and sane throughout. His behavior had been theatrical only in too complete an absence of anything theatrical. He had said: “We cannot keep a radio audience waiting,” and had hurried on upstairs to the microphone where, never mentioning the incident, he delivered a half-hour’s speech from memory, as he always did. The assailant had said nothing when arrested.
Keating stared–his throat dry–at the name of the assailant. It was Steven Mallory.
Only the inexplicable frightened Keating, particularly when the inexplicable lay, not in tangible facts, but in that causeless feeling of dread within him. There was nothing to concern him directly in what had happened, except his wish that it had been someone else, anyone but Steven Mallory; and that he didn’t know why he should wish this.
Steven Mallory had remained silent. He had given no explanation of his act. At 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 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 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…”