After two years I remember the rest of that day，and that night and the next day， only as an endlessdrill of police and photographers and newspapermen in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A ropestretched across the main gate and a policeman by itkept out the curious， but little boys soon discoveredthat they could enter through my yard and therewere always a few of them clustered open-mouthedabout the pool. Someone with a positive manner，perhaps a detective， used the expression “mad man”
as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon， andthe adventitious authority of his voice set the keyfor the newspaper reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare— grotesque， circumstantial， eager and untrue. WhenMichaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought tolight Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thoughtthe whole tale would shortly be served up in racypasquinade—but Catherine， who might have saidanything， didn’t say a word. She showed a surprisingamount of character about it too—looked at thecoroner with determined eyes under that correctedbrow of hers and swore that her sister had neverseen Gatsby， that her sister was completely happywith her husband， that her sister had been into nomischief whatever. She convinced herself of it andcried into her handkerchief as if the very suggestionwas more than she could endure. So Wilson wasreduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order thatthe case might remain in its simplest form. And rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side，and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village， everysurmise about him， and every practical question，was referred to me. At first I was surprised andconfused； then， as he lay in his house and didn’tmove or breathe or speak hour upon hour it grewupon me that I was responsible， because no oneelse was interested—interested， I mean， with thatintense personal interest to which every one hassome vague right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him，called her instinctively and without hesitation. Butshe and Tom had gone away early that afternoon，and taken baggage with them.
“Left no address？”
“No.”
“Say when they’d be back？”
“No.”
“Any idea where they are？ How I could reach them？”
“I don’t know. Can’t say.”
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted togo into the room where he lay and reassure him：
“I’ll get somebody for you， Gatsby. Don’t worry. Justtrust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”
Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address onBroadway and I called Information， but by the timeI had the number it was long after five and no oneanswered the phone.
“Will you ring again？”
“I’ve rung them three times.”
“It’s very important.”
“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”
I went back to the drawing room and thought foran instant that they were chance visitors， all theseofficial people who suddenly filled it. But as theydrew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby withunmoved eyes， his protest continued in my brain.
“Look here， old sport， you’ve got to get somebodyfor me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go throughthis alone.”
Some one started to ask me questions but I brokeaway and going upstairs looked hastily through theunlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told medefinitely that his parents were dead. But there wasnothing—only the picture of Dan Cody， a token offorgotten violence staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York witha letter to Wolfshiem which asked for informationand urged him to come out on the next train. Thatrequest seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I wassure he’d start when he saw the newspapers， justas I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy beforenoon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived， no one arrived except more police andphotographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I beganto have a feeling of defiance， of scornful soli-daritybetween Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the mostterrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man didshould make us all think. I cannot come down now as am tied up in some very important business and cannotget mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing likethis and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly
MEYER WOLFSHIEM
and then hasty addend a beneath：
Let me know about the funeral etc do not knowhis family at all.
When the phone rang that afternoon and Long
Distance said Chicago was calling I thought thiswould be Daisy at last. But the connection camethrough as a man’s voice， very thin and far away.
“This is Slagle speaking....”
“Yes？” The name was unfamiliar.
“Hell of a note， isn’t it？ Get my wire？”
“There haven’t been any wires.”
“Young Parke’s in trouble，” he said rapidly. “Theypicked him up when he handed the bonds over thecounter. They got a circular from New York giving“em the numbers just five minutes before. Whatd’you know about that， hey？ You never can tell inthese hick towns—”
“Hello！” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”
There was a long silence on the other end of thewire， followed by an exclamation … then a quicksquawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegramsigned Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in
Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leavingimmediately and to postpone the funeral until hecame.
