Read A Few Minutes Past Midnight for Free Online Page B

thought.
    “Lean man around forty?” I asked.
    “Fat man around seventy,” she said. “But full of spunk.”
    “No lean man around forty?” I pursued.
    “You mean upset about the marriage?”
    “Yes.”
    “No. Six women including me sided with Mr. Kermody. Most of our members are older appreciaters of the arts. Most of our members are women. Would you like to join?”
    “I want to think about it, talk it over with my friend,” I said.
    “We’ll include free membership in the Friends of Thomas Mann Society,” she said. “This month we’re discussing the Joseph novels. Wednesday next. There is a good chance Archibald MacLeish will be in town and will attend.”
    “Tempting,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
    “Meanwhile,” she said, holding the plate of cookies out yet again, “might you consider a small donation to our humble efforts for the arts?”
    I fished a five from my pocket and handed it to her. She smiled.
    “Who’s your favorite?” I asked.
    She looked at the photographs on the wall, took some magazines and a book from a pile on her desk, and held up a copy of Random Harvest.
    “James Hilton is my passion. Good-bye, Mr. Chips is my favorite and next to my bed at home is The Story of Dr. Wassell , which I’ve just begun. In some ways, I’m a shameless romantic Philistine.”
    “So am I,” I said.
    “The war has done that,” she said seriously.
    I wasn’t sure how, but I nodded and left.
    The office of the Supporters of the House Un-American Activities Committee was in an office building on First Street not far from Times-Mirror Square. I found a space on the street, almost bumped into a pair of uniformed young Marines looking at a city map, and entered the building. It was neat, clean, and bright with a list of offices behind a sheet of well-polished glass.
    The office I was looking for was right on the first floor. Inside the door were four small desks with people, three women and one man, on the phones in front of them. The man was looking at the same nothing as Eugene O’Neill in the photograph, only this man had nothing to see. His eyes were clouded. He was blind. I tried to walk past him to one of the women, but he put down his phone and turned his head in my direction.
    “Can I help you?” he asked.
    I stopped.
    “I’m looking … trying to find someone,” I said.
    “‘Looking’ is fine,” he said with a small smile. He was young, dressed in a suit and tie. There was a thick white scar from his hairline to his right eyebrow. “I’m not sensitive.”
    “Looking for information on Charlie Chaplin,” I said, knowing the eyes of the three women on the phones were on me.
    “We have some flyers, a short brochure,” he said, reaching into a drawer. “I think these are the ones.”
    He handed them to me.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “He’s a Communist,” the blind man said firmly. “He hides behind evasive words, but he is a Red who doesn’t hesitate to advocate that American soldiers die for the Russians while he plays golf and grows rich.”
    “Tennis,” I said. “He plays tennis.”
    The blind man nodded and held out his hand.
    “Lucas Rolle,” he said.
    “Albert Douglas,” I lied as we shook.
    “As you’ve no doubt noticed, I’m blind,” he said.
    “I see.”
    “I don’t,” he answered bitterly. “Early in the war, forty-one. Navy. Hawaii. I was on a ship, gunners mate. Last thing I saw was the Pacific Ocean going on forever.”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    He nodded.
    “I can’t see Chaplin movies,” he said. “And Chaplin doesn’t want to see me.”
    “You hate him,” I said.
    “I’m an American,” he replied. “And you?”
    “I’m an American,” I said.
    “You want to join our movement?” he asked.
    One of the women, short, heavy with large round glasses, had risen from behind her desk and approached us. She could see what Lucas Rolle couldn’t hear, that a man was standing in front of him who looked as if he had survived a long