“At daylight, at six, there’s the bus that leaves for home. The last bus, Quinn, remember that, the last bus. I don’t care what the schedule says, for us it’s the last in the world.”
The novel is constructed like a fairytale: two innocent children are lost in a dark forest, chased by an implacable monster. They must reach a gateway back home before the day breaks.
The novel is a classic noir: puny humans try in vain to escape their predetermined fate, running like lab rats through a mad labyrinth. The mad scientist who set them up is checking their progress against his timepiece, toying with their hopes and laughing at their mental torment.
The novel takes place in real time, from ten minutes to one after midnight to a little past six in the morning. A boy and a girl, who meet for the first time as the novel starts, run through the empty streets of New York in an effort to find a murderer before they are themselves accused of the crime. It’s their last chance to break free of the grip the malevolent city has on them and to catch the last bus back home.
“You still haven’t learned, have you? They beat you black and blue, and you still hold out your open hand to the next one that comes along. What does it take to get it into your head, a pounding with a lead pipe?”
Cornell Woolrich, using here the pseudonym William Irish, may be the most underrated author of the classic pulp era. He is a true master of putting his characters through mental anguish, a poet of pain and alienation who wrote from personal experience, at least according to what I read of his biography.
The crime part of the present novel is not very realistic, and the plot relies on too many convenient coincidences to make the grade, yet the emotional intensity drives the story forward at a relentless pace.
The opening scene takes place in a dance mill, where young girls have to dance with whatever stranger buys a twenty pence ticket. Neither the girl nor the boy have names in the beginning: just two anonymous cogs in a giant machinery that grinds down dreams into dust.
The city’s bad. If you’re the one out of the thousand who’s a little weaker than the rest, a little slower, needs a little extra help, a little boost over the hurdles, that’s when it jumps you, that’s when it shows you its true colours. The city’s a coward. It hits you when you’re down and only when you’re down.
The only way to cope is to become as cold-hearted and as merciless as the city, to guard your privacy and your last reserves of strength against the next hit to come your way. This is what happened to Bricky, the pretty girl who came to New York at seventeen from small town Iowa and had five years to learn her lesson before ending up as a paid partner in a dance mill. She reminds me a lot of the dancer from “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” and not only because of the dance hall setting.
Bricky, the girl next door turned into a cynical survivor, dances with Quinn, the boy next door who turns out to have come from the same small town in Iowa, and who managed the same downward trajectory into the gutter in only one year in New York.
Quinn follows her home, despite getting plenty of signals from the girl to lay off and go on his way. And Bricky should know better by now than to show pity towards stray dogs in the big city. Yet something connects the boy next door to the girl next door, and they sit down over coffee to hear each other’s stories in the dingy one-room apartment she rents.
This was it. This was home. This. This place. This was what you’d packed your valise and come here for. This was what you looked forward to when you were seventeen. This was what you’d grown pretty for, grown graceful for, grown up for. All over the place, you could hardly move, it was littered with shards. Ankle-deep, knee-deep. You couldn’t see them. Shattered dreams, smashed hopes, busted arches.
The only dream left to them is to escape the big city and head back home to Glenn Falls, Iowa. But before they catch the bus at dawn, the boy and the girl must clean up their score in New York, in particular the dead body Quinn has left behind earlier that evening in a posh mansion uptown.
I won’t go into details about the crime and the involvement of the boy and girl into the chase for the true murderer. What’s important is that it all takes place under the recurrent image of the clock at the top of the Paramount tower, counting down the minutes until the bus is ready to depart.
It was the only thing in the whole town that gave her a break. It was the only thing in all New York that was on her side, even if only passively. It was the only thing in all the endless world of her nights that had a heart. [...]
Peering benignly at her from way up high there, with sometimes a handful of stars scattered around it further back. The stars didn’t help her any, but it did. What good were stars? What good was anything? What good was being born a girl? At least men didn’t have to peddle their feet. They could be low in their own particular ways, but they didn’t have to be low this way.
The clock, like the city of New York itself, are assigned personalities in the novel, one benevolent, the other malefic. Each chapter starts with the face of the clock, counting down the time until the bus leaves, marking the increase in urgency for the boy and the girl as they chase small clues left behind at the crime scene.
It was like the face of a friend. A funny friend for a slim, red-haired girl of twenty-two to have, but it spelled the difference between endurance and despair.
This see-saw dance between endurance and despair is what makes the novel memorable for me, despite the fabricated nature of the murder investigation. This and the fact that the city feels alive and bent on thwarting the efforts of the two innocents to escape its clutches:
“Look. Don’t it look cruel? Don’t it look sneaky and underhanded, like it was just waiting to pounce and dig its claws into someone, anyone at all ...?”
He chuckled a little, but only with moderate conviction. “All cities look like that at night, kind of shady and dim, tricky and not very friendly ...”
Will Hansel and Gretel manage to follow the white stones out of the dark forest? Previous noir novels by Woolrich and his peers make me think they are doomed from the start. But at least they deserve some recognition for pluckiness, for courage and determination in their efforts.
“It’s never too late, until the last second of the last minute of the last hour.”