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He
reached
up
on
tiptoes
and
peered
over
a
circle
of
heads
into
the
garage
,
which
was
lit
only
by
a
yellow
light
in
a
swinging
wire
basket
overhead
.
Then
he
made
a
harsh
sound
in
his
throat
,
and
with
a
violent
thrusting
movement
of
his
powerful
arms
pushed
his
way
through
.
The
circle
closed
up
again
with
a
running
murmur
of
expostulation
;
it
was
a
minute
before
I
could
see
anything
at
all
.
Then
new
arrivals
deranged
the
line
,
and
Jordan
and
I
were
pushed
suddenly
inside
.
Myrtle
Wilson
's
body
,
wrapped
in
a
blanket
,
and
then
in
another
blanket
,
as
though
she
suffered
from
a
chill
in
the
hot
night
,
lay
on
a
work-table
by
the
wall
,
and
Tom
,
with
his
back
to
us
,
was
bending
over
it
,
motionless
.
Next
to
him
stood
a
motorcycle
policeman
taking
down
names
with
much
sweat
and
correction
in
a
little
book
.
At
first
I
could
n't
find
the
source
of
the
high
,
groaning
words
that
echoed
clamorously
through
the
bare
garage
--
then
I
saw
Wilson
standing
on
the
raised
threshold
of
his
office
,
swaying
back
and
forth
and
holding
to
the
doorposts
with
both
hands
.
Some
man
was
talking
to
him
in
a
low
voice
and
attempting
,
from
time
to
time
,
to
lay
a
hand
on
his
shoulder
,
but
Wilson
neither
heard
nor
saw
.
His
eyes
would
drop
slowly
from
the
swinging
light
to
the
laden
table
by
the
wall
,
and
then
jerk
back
to
the
light
again
,
and
he
gave
out
incessantly
his
high
,
horrible
call
:
Отключить рекламу
"
Oh
,
my
Ga-od
!
Oh
,
my
Ga-od
!
oh
,
Ga-od
!
oh
,
my
Ga-od
!
"
Presently
Tom
lifted
his
head
with
a
jerk
and
,
after
staring
around
the
garage
with
glazed
eyes
,
addressed
a
mumbled
incoherent
remark
to
the
policeman
.
"
M-a-y
-
,
"
the
policeman
was
saying
,
"
-
o
--
--
"
"
No
,
r
-
,
"
corrected
the
man
,
"
M-a-v-r-o
--
--
"
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"
Listen
to
me
!
"
muttered
Tom
fiercely
.
"
r
"
said
the
policeman
,
"
o
--
--
"
"
g
--
--
"