If You Will It Is No Dream
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The morning after the ball, Susan woke up to find a note on her pillow. “Susan, I’m sorry I had to leave so soon last night. But I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to take advantage of your good nature and kindness. Your friend, William.”
She folded it carefully into an envelope and placed it in her desk drawer where she knew it would stay until she could return it to him later that day. She dressed quickly for work and left before anyone else got out of bed.
The ranch house looked empty when she arrived, but as she walked down the hall toward her office, she heard voices coming from behind one of the closed doors. As she neared the door, she recognized William’s voice. He sounded upset with someone.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have let you do this alone.”
“But—”
“No! Don’t argue with me!” His voice rose slightly. “It’s not worth it. We both know what we need to do. Now, will you please open the door?”
As she opened the door, Susan saw him standing at his desk looking angry. A young man sat on a chair facing him. The young man wore only a pair of loose pants. His head hung low and tears streamed down his face.
William turned away from him and faced Susan. “What are you doing here?”
“Just checking my mail.”
He shook his head. “Did you come all the way back here just to check your mail? Or did you also stop by to see how well I’ve been taking care of things while you were gone?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Oh yes, it is. Because if I hadn’t stopped by, then I might never have known about this.” He pointed at the young man sitting there crying.
Susan gasped and stepped forward. “Who is that?”
“My son.”
“Your…son?”
“Yes. And he has something very important to tell you.”
The young man stood up slowly and wiped his eyes. “Don’t you dare say anything like that again!” He glared at William. “And don’t you ever talk to me like that either. My name is Paul.”
“Paul, sit down.”
“No thanks,” he said coldly. “I’d rather stand.”
“Sit down now or I’ll send you home right now.”
“Send me home?” He laughed bitterly. “You can’t make me go anywhere. Not without my horse.”
“Then get your horse.”
“I can’t. Someone stole him two days ago.”
“Someone stole your horse?”
“Yes. So I guess I’m stuck here until I get another one. And I doubt you’ll be able to afford to replace him anytime soon.”
“I don’t care who stole your horse. If you don’t start acting like a responsible adult, then I won’t help you anymore. Do you understand?”
“You mean you won’t help me any more than you already have?”
“Do you really want to hear my answer?”
“Well, no, but I thought maybe you would change your mind once you heard what happened.”
“Go ahead and tell me anyway.”
“A couple of weeks ago, some men came to town. They told us they were going to buy our cattle. Then they took them off in wagons. But they didn’t pay us for them. That’s why I’m here begging you for money to feed myself and my family.”
“You’re lying. You’re just trying to get money out of me. That’s why you brought me all the way back here to beg me for money.”
“I’m not lying. Look, I even wrote you a letter telling you exactly what happened.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to William. “Here.”
William glanced over the letter. “This is ridiculous. You’re making up stories because you’re too lazy to earn your own living. Why should I give you any money?”
“Because I need it.”
“Why? What do you need it for?”
“To eat.”
“So you can starve yourself to death? Are you crazy?”
“I haven’t starved yet. And I won’t starve unless you refuse to help me.”
“Help you how?”
“By giving me the money to buy food.”
“How much money do you need?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars! For what?”
“For food.”
“Food? How many people live here?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-five people! And you think you can feed all of them with five hundred dollars?”
“Maybe not everyone. But I’ll still have enough to keep myself and my family alive.”
“No, you won’t! I’m not going to waste good money on feeding you and your worthless family. I’ve given you plenty of chances to prove yourself worthy of my generosity. Now you had better leave before I call the sheriff and have him arrest you for trespassing.”
“Wait!” Susan called as he started toward the door. “Please wait a minute.”
He paused and looked at her. “What?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If you really wanted to help someone, wouldn’t you try to find a way to help them instead of sending them away?”
“There’s nothing I can do to help you. You’re wasting my time.”
“But you could at least listen to Paul. He needs your help.”
“And what makes you so sure he needs my help?”
“Because I know him. I’ve known him since he was born. We grew up together. I can tell when he’s telling the truth.”
“And what makes you think you can tell the difference between a lie and an honest statement?”
“I can’t explain it, but I can. I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher. I know you’re probably sick of hearing about this, but I’m not leaving until you agree to help Paul.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll help you. But you had better start acting like a civilized person or I’ll throw you out of here myself.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Now will you please take him into town and buy him some food?”
“All right.” He turned to Paul. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Wait, Dad. Can’t we stay here for a little while longer?”
“Not if you want to eat anything tonight.”
Paul sighed. “Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
***
Susan watched them ride away. The sun had almost set by now. It would be dark within the hour. There wasn’t much else she could do except waiting.
She sat down on the porch and leaned against the railing. Her mind wandered back to that day in San Francisco when she first met Paul.
It had been three years ago. She had gone there to meet a man named Sam Spade. He was the detective who had written her letters for the past six months. His name appeared in the newspapers occasionally, usually in connection with some big case.
He was always described as a dapper gentleman with a sharp wit and keen intellect. In his correspondence, he never mentioned his profession. He simply said that he worked for himself.
The first time Susan read one of his letters, she knew instantly that it was from a man. The style was different than most men’s writing. It was more personal, more intimate. Not once did he mention his occupation. Instead, he talked about his life—the places he’d traveled, the things he liked to do.
He told her stories of his childhood. About growing up in the Midwest with his parents and two sisters. He also spoke of the hardships they endured during the Great Depression. He wrote about his father’s death in 1935. Then, after reading several more of his letters, she decided to write him back.
They corresponded regularly for nearly four months. Each letter brought new information. He shared with her his love of books, music, and art. He even sent her a photograph of himself. She found him handsome, with thick brown hair and deep blue eyes. And although he didn’t say it outright, she sensed that he was lonely. Lonely and looking for someone to share his life with.
When he asked her to come to see him, she agreed without hesitation. After all, why not? What harm could it possibly do? She was curious to learn how a man like him lived.
In the end, their meeting proved disappointing. They were both disappointed.
Sam Spade was a disappointment because he wasn’t at all what she expected. He was short, stocky, and balding. He wore glasses and a mustache. He looked like a plumber. And he couldn’t carry on a conversation. When she tried to talk to him, he just stared at her, waiting for her to finish talking. He never made eye contact.
His house was no better. It was small and shabby. The furniture was old and worn. Most of it was covered with dust. There was nothing in the living room except a wooden chair and a sofa. A bookcase filled one wall. It contained only a handful of books.
She learned later that Sam was a widower. His wife had died in childbirth. He hadn’t remarried since then, which explained why he kept his home so empty.
He showed her around his house, pointing out each room. He seemed proud of his collection of rare books, but he wouldn’t let her look at any of them. He said that they belonged to other collectors.
Then he took her to his office. He wanted to show her something. He pulled open the door and led her inside.
“What is this?”
“A safe.”
“Why are you keeping it locked?”
“It contains valuable papers.”
“So?”
“I don’t want anyone stealing them.”
“You mean like me?”
“Exactly.”
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You have to leave now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve changed my mind about helping you. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the police and tell them everything.”
“Who says you’re changing your mind?”
“If you won’t listen to reason, there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Well, maybe there is,” she said.
“About what?”
“Maybe there’s something you haven’t told me yet. Something you haven’t told anybody.”
“Like what?”
“How did you get these fingerprints?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering. “My secretary left a cup of coffee sitting on the desk. Someone must have spilled it. That’s how I got the fingerprints. Now, please go!”
She waited until he closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Then she ran outside. Her heart pounded against her chest. She felt dizzy. But she forced herself to run faster.
When she reached the street, she stopped running and leaned against the side of the building. She wiped her forehead with her handkerchief.
Susan had spent the rest of the day in bed. By the next morning, she was feeling better. She decided to return to the office and pick up where she’d left off.
That night, when she arrived home, she found a note on her front porch. It was from Sam. He apologized for being rude earlier. He also offered to help her again. In fact, he invited her to visit him tomorrow evening.
***
On the way to Sam’s house, Susan wondered if she should bring anything with her. Maybe some flowers or candy. Or would that be too much?
After walking through the gate, she saw him standing near his front door. He waved to her. As she approached, he opened the door and held it for her.
The interior of the house was dark. The curtains were drawn. The only light came from a lamp on a table beside the front door.
As she walked farther into the room, she noticed that the walls were bare. No pictures hung on the walls. Not even a calendar.
“Come in,” he said. “I’ll turn on the lights.”
“Thank you.”
He went to a closet and returned carrying two lamps. He set one on the floor and the other on a table.
“There. We can see now.”
He lit the first lamp and placed it on the floor. He moved closer to the second lamp and turned it on.
“Now we can talk.”
They sat down across from each other. He poured them both a glass of wine.
“Have you ever seen a safe before?” he asked.
“No.”
“This is a safe.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In an abandoned mine shaft.”
“Why didn’t you take it to the sheriff?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Someone else owns it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I never met the owner. I just happened upon it by accident.”
“Did you steal it?”
“Of course not! Why would I do that?”
“Why not?”
“I was curious. I thought it might contain valuable papers.”
“And did it?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I guess you could say I was disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes. I expected to find something very special. Instead, all I found was a bunch of old letters.”
“Old letters?”
“Yes, letters. They belonged to someone named John Smith.”
“John Smith?”
“Yes. I read them while I was waiting for you.”
“You read them?”
“I wanted to make sure that they weren’t important. And I wanted to learn more about the man who wrote them.”
“But you didn’t find out anything new?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Then why—”
“Wait a minute. Let me finish.”
“All right.”
“First, let me explain what I already told you. I found the safe in an abandoned mine shaft. When I opened the door, I discovered a box containing several envelopes. One envelope contained four letters written by a man named John Smith.”
“A letter writer?”
“Yes, a letter writer. Apparently, he was a well-known author.”
“So, he’s famous?”
“Very famous.”
“Can you tell me more about him?”
“Unfortunately, no. There wasn’t much to learn. Just a few facts. Like his birthplace and date of birth. His age and occupation. How he died and where he was buried.”
“It sounds like he was a private person.”
“That’s what I thought, too. That’s probably why I was so disappointed when I opened the box and found nothing but a bunch of old letters.”
“Maybe there’s another reason you were disappointed.”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps you hoped to find something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes. Something that would help you solve your case.”
“How can you possibly think that?”
“Because you’re a detective. You work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Your job is to catch criminals and protect innocent people.”
“Protect innocent people? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you care about them?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, you must have a personal interest in this case.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I know. But I think you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Here?”
“At my house.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I’m helping you because I want to help you?”
“Exactly.”
“If that’s true, then why did you ask me to come over tonight?”
“To show you how serious I am about solving the case.”
“By telling you about John Smith and his letters?”
“No. By showing you that I’ve done some investigating myself.”
She stared at him. She had never heard anyone speak with such conviction. It was as if he knew everything about her.
“What makes you think I’d believe anything you say?” she finally said.
“You don’t need to believe anything I say. All you have to do is listen to what I have to say.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Good.”
He took a deep breath. “Let me begin by saying that I don’t trust you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t trust women. Not even you.”
“Why not?”
“Women lie. Men don’t.”
“You sound like a chauvinist.”
“I am a chauvinist.”
“So?”
“I prefer men to women.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” she said.
“Neither does it bother me that you’re a detective? A Pinkerton detective, no less. Or that you’re a woman.” He paused. “I guess you could say that I admire you.”
“Why?”
“For being a good detective. For dedicating yourself to catching criminals. And for doing a great job.”
“Thank you.”
“But most of all, for not letting your gender stop you from achieving your goals.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“And I hope you’ll remember it when I tell you that I still don’t trust you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just hear me out. The only way I can prove that I’m serious about finding the killer is by asking you to stay here until we catch him or I die.”
“You mean you’re going to kill yourself?”
“No, I’m not. I’m just trying to make a point. I’m willing to take a risk to get justice for the victims.”
“Justice for the victims?”
“Yes. Justice for the innocent.”
“Sounds noble.”
“It is noble.”
“Then why didn’t you bring the sheriff and the marshal along with you?”
“They both refused to join me.”
“Why?”
“The marshal said he couldn’t leave town without a warrant. The sheriff said he had other duties.”
“Duties?”
“Like keeping order in this town.”
“Order?”
“That’s right. Order. As in law and order.”
“You mean as in arresting people who break the law?”
“Exactly. I told him that he should be more concerned about protecting the innocent than about punishing the guilty. He disagreed. So I left.”
“Didn’t you try to convince him otherwise?”
“I tried. But he wouldn’t budge.”
“And so you decided to go on your own?”
“Right.”
“Where were you planning to start looking?”
“With John Smith.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see what kind of man he really was. How much he cared about the people around him. Did he care about his wife and children? His friends and neighbors? Or did he care about himself alone?”
The End