In His Blood

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

Chapter One — Milton Raskob, Thursday, April 15 5

Chapter Two — Louise Hadley, April 15 7

Chapter Three — Ed Tanager, Thursday, April 15, Friday, April 16 10

Chapter Four — Milton Raskob, Thursday, April 15, Friday, April 16 14

Chapter Five — Ed Tanager, Friday, April 16 18

Chapter Six— Ed Tanager, Friday, April 16 24

Chapter Seven — The Pariahs, Friday, April 16 28

Chapter Eight — Milton Raskob, Monday, April 19 34

Chapter Nine — Ed Tanager, Monday, April 19 39

Chapter Ten — Milton Raskob, Wednesday, April 21 46

Chapter Eleven — Ed Tanager, Wednesday, April 21 49

Chapter Twelve — Ed Tanager, Wednesday, April 21 54

Chapter Thirteen — Ed Tanager, Wednesday, April 21 58

Chapter Fourteen — Milton Raskob, Thursday, April 22 62

Chapter Fifteen — Tony Ciannelli, Friday, April 23 65

Chapter Sixteen — Ed Tanager, Friday, April 23 70

Chapter Seventeen — Milton Raskob, Friday, April 23 76

Chapter Eighteen — Milton Raskob, Friday, April 23 —9:00 p.m. 81

Chapter Nineteen — Ed Tanager, Friday, April 23 —11:30 p.m. 84

Chapter Twenty — Milton Raskob, Friday, April 23 — 11:40 p.m. 87

Chapter Twenty-one — Ed Tanager, Saturday, April 24 — 3:00 a.m. 90

Chapter Twenty-two — Milton Raskob, Saturday, April 24—2:00 a.m. 98

Chapter Twenty-three — Ed Tanager, Saturday, April 24 — 6:00 a.m. 103

Chapter Twenty-four — Milton Raskob, Saturday, April 24 —8:00 a.m. 109

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 117

IN HIS BLOOD

Harold R. Daniels

In His Blood was originally published in 1955 by Dell Publishing, New York.

Chapter One — Milton Raskob, Thursday, April 15

He had looked down at the knife not once but several times in the hour that remained of his working day at Hammersmith Chemical Company. Strange that he should be so aware of it, he thought. He had used the mill knife a hundred, or more likely, a thousand times in his job as color separatist, stripping the doughy mass of plastic from the steel rolls, returning the knife to its usual place behind the frame of the lab mill, then repeating the same operation again and again and again.

The knife was as familiar to his hand and as innocuous as a pencil, in spite of its razor edge. And yet earlier in the day he had closed his hand on the sharp edge and noticed with surprise that the steel had sliced painfully, if not seriously, into his palm. There had been a flow of blood, which he rinsed off at the sink, and afterward when he again picked up the knife to strip the mill, it felt different to him, almost like a personal possession, and he found himself gripping the wooden handle with a new and strangely pleasant familiarity.

A remarkably ordinary looking man in his early thirties, with somewhat coarse black hair and rounded shoulders, Milton Raskob recalled nothing very different about this day on the job than any other. Nearly forgotten was his intense anger earlier in the day when Alpen had humiliated him in front of the men, telling him he’d never be anything but an ignorant fool. Alpen was an old story with Raskob. There was the job of color-department head that Raskob should have had, and that Alpen took away from him. There were all the snide tales told to Cutler, the plant superintendent, to demean Raskob. But never before this public humiliation and display of contempt.

Afterward, Raskob had thought about what he should have said to Alpen, how he should have told him off about that college education, and reminded him that Milton Raskob knew more about colors than they could ever teach in books. But, as always, he had said nothing and done nothing—except accidentally slice his hand with the mill knife.

Now that it was quitting time, he put on his topcoat and opened the door of the lab to look up and down the corridor. Alpen was not in sight. Without thinking, he went back into the lab and slipped the mill knife into his pocket. There was little consciousness of the anger so strongly felt only hours before. Instead, a growing excitement, a sense of elation, and with it a knowledge of power.

The usual crowd was waiting at the bus stop outside the plant gate. He needed to be alone, at least to go somewhere different than his one room that waited for him every night. He stepped aboard the first bus to pull into the stop. It was a number 12, and he casually plotted the tactic that would get him to Argonne Street from Third Street, down which this bus traveled. Easy enough. Get off at Gano and take a crosstown bus.

At Gano he got off. The crosstown bus was not in sight and he leaned against a striped utility pole to wait. Across the street was a theater marquee and he noted idly that they were showing a rerun. A small girl paused in the lobby to look at the enticing pictures on display. Always the colorist, he amused himself by identifying the pigments in her clothing. The green sweater. Easy. A cheap oxide green. The plaid skirt was tougher. Blue background, probably synthetic indigo. The yellow overlay would be zinc chromate. As he watched her she slipped suddenly from sight into the theater. Raskob almost chuckled. Sneaking in, by God!

His right hand was in his coat pocket, and he was suddenly aware that he was grasping the handle of the knife although he could not remember reaching into his pocket. It was almost as if the knife had crept there like some small animal seeking a hiding place.

He found himself crossing the street, and loudly rapping the ticket seller’s window with a half dollar to get her attention.

Chapter Two — Louise Hadley, April 15

There was nothing unusual in a small girl going to a movie by herself, especially a girl like Louise Hadley. The way it was in her neighborhood, you had friends and you played together except when you had a fight with one of the girls. Then all the other girls in the crowd would side with one girl or the other and the one that was sided against would be mad with all the others. After a day or two days there would be another quarrel and another girl would stalk home in solitary dignity or rush home in tears, and the former outcast would assume her place. Except that it was harder for Louise Hadley because her mother went to work at Spignoli’s Cafe at three o’clock and the third grade was dismissed at four. Her father didn’t get home until six so that for two hours there wasn’t anything much to do. Of course, now that it was spring she could go outside after she hung up her good clothes and put on her old plaid skirt and green sweater, but none of the other girls would speak to her because of the fight she had had yesterday with that old Marie LaClair. Today was Thursday, Uncle Al’s day off from the diner, and he might be over to visit. Sometimes he was fun but the last two times he had acted funny and Ma had been mad at him when she came home after the rush was over at Spignoli’s.

Home was the third floor of the old brick tenement on Elm Street and Louise skipped lightly up the stairs and down the dingy hall to the door that opened into the kitchen. Right away she knew that Uncle Al was in because the door was unlocked, the key gone from the nail in the side of the doorframe.

He was in the kitchen opening a bottle of beer and she knew that this wouldn’t be one of the times when he was fun. He would drink beer until Daddy came home and Daddy would sit at the kitchen table with him and he would drink beer too, and Daddy would forget to put the water on for the potatoes and Ma would be mad and they would fight.

Uncle Al looked up and smiled. Hello, kid, he said and he came over and put his arm around her. Got a friend I want you to meet.

Louise followed him into the living room, hanging back shyly. There was a woman sitting on the couch.

This is Vicki, Al said formally. Vicki, meet my niece Louise. She’s quite a kid.

The woman smiled at her with red red lips. Hello, Louise, she said.

Her lips were too red and the round spots of rouge on her-cheeks were ugly, Louise decided, but she curtsied in the way the sisters taught at St. Ignacio’s. I’m pleased to meet you, she said. Excuse me, please. I have to change my school dress.

She’s just too cute, she heard Vicki tell Al as she left the room. She laughed and even her laugh was too loud, but Uncle Al didn’t seem to notice.

She had her own room, which was more than that Marie LaClair had. In it she took off her dress and shoes and the long cotton stockings with the garters made of pieces of inner tube which she wore at school, hanging them neatly on the back of a chair. She put on her plaid skirt and green sweater, an old pair of shoes and ankle socks, and went back to the living room. I’m going out now, she said gravely.

Uncle Al was sitting next to Vicki on the couch. He was wearing an old sweat shirt and wrinkled pants and goofy looking sandals, and Louise thought it was too bad because he looked so neat when he got dressed up.

Sure, kid, he said. Vicki didn’t say anything.

She went outside and she guessed that all the kids were over at the park because there wasn’t anyone in sight but old Normy Bellman sitting on the stoop of his house. She turned the other way because Normy always wanted to play dirty games, wanting you to do bad things, and Ma said the cops would be after him some day and not to go near him.

For a while it was fun to see how many steps she could take without stepping on a crack in the sidewalk; it was hard not to cheat and pull your foot back just a little when you were going to spoil it and have to start all over again. She played this game until she was opposite the candy store on Third Street. Here there were pans of fudge in the window and she wished she had a dime. Usually Uncle Al gave her a quarter when he came to the house but she guessed that he’d been too busy with Vicki to think of it.

She crossed the street to the Rivoli. They were showing Snow White, and she spent a little while looking at the pictures in the lobby. From inside she could hear music and people laughing and then voices singing, Hi Ho—Hi Ho. That was the best part of the picture—where Snow White went to keep house for the seven dwarfs and all the animals came out of the woods to help her. She ached to see it again. It was then that she realized that Jacky, the ticket taker, wasn’t in sight, and before she could tell herself that it was a sin she had stepped inside and slipped into a seat in the third row from the back. Someone came in right after her and she was scared that it might be Jacky but it wasn’t because he—it was a man—took the seat beside her and started watching the picture.

Even though she had seen it twice before she was fascinated. She forgot that she had sneaked in. And there was a Donald Duck right after so that when she remembered that she wanted to be home before Daddy and rushed frantically outside, it was already dark. She began to run. She ran two blocks before a man caught up with her and grabbed her shoulder.

All right, little girl, he said gruffly, I saw you sneak in to see the picture. I guess you’ll have to come along with me.

She could find no words. Sobbing in fright, she tried to twist away but the grip was tight.

Don’t make it any worse, he said. You can’t run away from a policeman. What’s your name and where do you live?

Louise, she managed to say. Louise Hadley. I live on Elm Street. Please, policeman, I’ll pay for my ticket. Oh, please! My mother will give me the money.

All right then. Stop crying. I’ll take you home and get the money.

Numb with fear she hurried along beside him, skipping to keep up.

I won’t ever do it again, she said once, tentatively. He didn’t answer but hurried her along still faster. And she knew when he made a wrong turn at Waltham Street.

We should go that way, policeman, she said timidly.

He wasn’t kind and blustery like Officer Swenson—not at all like him. He squeezed her arm until it almost made her cry. This is a short cut, he said, and don’t argue or I’ll take you right in to the jail.

The real terror began when they turned off the street into the lots in back of the lace mill, but she was afraid now to protest again. They hurried through the dark until they came to the excavation where Marie LaClair had fallen yesterday and blamed her for pushing her. And the man stopped.

All of a sudden she knew and she accused him defiantly. You’re not a policeman! and started to run. One of his hands shot out to grab her wrist and she felt the other close over her face, shutting off nose and mouth so that she could not breathe.

She struggled frantically and she knew that he was scared too, now, because she heard him ask, If I let you go will you tell?

She made no answer but struggled more violently in a desperate effort to get air, kicking and squirming to escape the hand that was clapped over her face. The man took his hand away from her shoulder but there was still no escape because the hand across her face drew her back tightly, cruelly against his chest. She heard him cry out, All right, then! For the rest of it there was an awareness rather than recognition of what he held in his free hand. There was scalding pain in her chest and then—nothing.

Chapter Three — Ed Tanager, Thursday, April 15, Friday, April 16

There was an old-fashioned octagonal clock hanging opposite Ed