Of course, Lucille, too.
“I like to come here,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address – and in some days I got a package with a new evening gown in it.”
“Did you accept it?” asked Jordan.
“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big for me. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”
“He doesn't want any trouble,” said the other girl eagerly, “with anybody.”
“Who doesn't?” I inquired.
“Gatsby. Somebody told me…”
The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.”
“I don't think it's so much THAT,” argued Lucille sceptically; “it's more that he was a German spy during the war.”
One of the men nodded in confirmation.
“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, he grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us.
“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn't be that, because he was in the American army during the war. But just look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody's looking at him. I'll bet he killed a man.”
We all turned and looked around for Gatsby.
The first supper – there would be another one after midnight – was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her around a table on the other side of the garden.
“Let's get out,” whispered Jordan, after half an hour.
We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host.
The bar, where we went first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there. She couldn't find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn't on the veranda. We opened a heavy door, and walked into a library.
A stout, middle-aged man with enormous spectacles was sitting on the edge of a great table, staring at the shelves of books. As we entered he turned around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.
“About what?”
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
“About that. They're real.”
“The books?”
He nodded.
“Absolutely real – have pages and everything. I thought they were unreal. But they're absolutely real. Pages and – Here! Let me show you.”
He rushed to the bookcases and returned with a big volume.
“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It's a masterpiece. But he didn't cut the pages. What do you want? What do you expect?”