“You can suit yourself about that， old sport.” saidGatsby steadily.
“I found out what your ‘drug stores’ were.”
He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and thisWolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drug storeshere and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol overthe counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I pickedhim for a bootlegger the first time I saw him and wasn’t far wrong.”
“What about it？” said Gatsby politely. “I guessyour friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to comein on it.”
“And you left him in the lurch， didn’t you？ You lethim go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God！
You ought to hear Walter on the subject of YOU.”
“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad topick up some money， old sport.”
“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’！” cried Tom. Gatsbysaid nothing. “Walter could have you up on thebetting laws too， but Wolfshiem scared him intoshutting his mouth.”
That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was backagain in Gatsby’s face.
“That drug store business was just small change，” continued Tom slowly， “but you’ve got somethingon now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”
I glanced at Daisy who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband and at Jordan whohad begun to balance an invisible but absorbingobject on the tip of her chin. Then I turned backto Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. Helooked—and this is said in all contempt for thebabbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killeda man.” For a moment the set of his face could bedescribed in just that fantastic way.
It passed， and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy，denying everything， defending his name againstaccusations that had not been made. But with everyword she was drawing further and further intoherself， so he gave that up and only the dead dreamfought on as the afternoon slipped away， tryingto touch what was no longer tangible， strugglingunhappily， undespairingly， toward that lost voiceacross the room.
The voice begged again to go.
“PLEASE， Tom！ I can’t stand this any more.”
Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions，whatever courage she had had， were definitely gone.
“You two start on home， Daisy，” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”
She looked at Tom， alarmed now， but he insistedwith magnanimous scorn.
“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizesthat his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”
They were gone， without a word， snapped out， made accidental， isolated， like ghosts even from ourpity.
After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel.
“Want any of this stuff？ Jordan？ … Nick？”
I didn’t answer.
“Nick？” He asked again.
“What？”
“Want any？”
“No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”
I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentousmenacing road of a new decade.
It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupéwith him and started for Long Island. Tom talkedincessantly， exulting and laughing， but his voice wasas remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamoron the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevatedoverhead. Human sympathy has its limits and wewere content to let all their tragic arguments fadewith the city lights behind. Thirty—the promiseof a decade of loneliness， a thinning list of singlemen to know， a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm，thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside mewho， unlike Daisy， was too wise ever to carry wellforgottendreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily againstmy coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke ofthirty died away with the reassuring pressure of herhand.
So we drove on toward death through the coolingtwilight.
The young Greek， Michaelis， who ran the coffeejoint beside the ashheaps was the principal witnessat the inquest. He had slept through the heat untilafter five， when he strolled over to the garage andfound George Wilson sick in his office—reallysick， pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over.
Michaelis advised him to go to bed but Wilsonrefused， saying that he’d miss a lot of business if hedid. While his neighbor was trying to persuade hima violent racket broke out overhead.
“I’ve got my wife locked in up there，” explainedWilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the dayafter tomorrow and then we’re going to move away.”
Michaelis was astonished； they had been neighbors for four years and Wilson had neverseemed faintly capable of such a statement.
Generally he was one of these worn-out men： whenhe wasn’t working he sat on a chair in the doorwayand stared at the people and the cars that passedalong the road. When any one spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable， colorless way. Hewas his wife’s man and not his own.
So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what hadhappened， but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—insteadhe began to throw curious， suspicious glances athis visitor and ask him what he’d been doing atcertain times on certain days. Just as the latter wasgetting uneasy some workmen came past the doorbound for his restaurant and Michaelis took theopportunity to get away， intending to come backlater. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to，that’s all. When he came outside again a little afterseven he was reminded of the conversation becausehe heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice， loud and scolding，downstairs in the garage.
“Beat me！” he heard her cry. “Throw me down andbeat me， you dirty little coward！”
A moment later she rushed out into the dusk， waving her hands and shouting； before he couldmove from his door the business was over.
The “death car” as the newspapers called it， didn’tstop； it came out of the gathering darkness， waveredtragically for a moment and then disappeared around the next bend. Michaelis wasn’t even sureof its color—he told the first policeman that it waslight green. The other car， the one going towardNew York， came to rest a hundred yards beyond，and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson，her life violently extinguished， knelt in the road andmingled her thick， dark blood with the dust.