The Listener by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online

read now. The money is not meant as an offering, which I understand is never requested. But, as I have paid for your time as a professional consultant, you are ethically obliged not to reveal confidences of your — patients. Not that I am, in any sense of the word, a ‘patient’. It is just that I know that I am going blind, in spite of what the doctors say.”
     
    There was no answer. Mr. Summers wished to be irritated, but he found himself, instead, relaxing in the chair. But he spoke warningly. “I have ways of discovering who betray my confidences, I assure you.”
     
    Again he waited. Mr. Summers laughed shortly. “ ‘The Man who Listens’. Who does, except a paid psychiatrist who hardly regards you as human if you have problems? You are a case then; you are a ‘disturbed mind’. You are ‘emotionally involved’. Therefore, not quite sound. You see, I know all about your profession. Well, listen.”
     
    But he could not speak for a while. He listened for the scratch of a pencil in this profound quiet, the rustle of paper, the shift of feet, the creak of a chair. There was nothing. No rumble of traffic reached this room, no footstep, no voice. He sat in a silence that was like eternity. His clenched hands loosened.
     
    He said, and it was easier to speak now: “I am going to destroy a man. Utterly and completely destroy him. So thoroughly destroy him that he’ll have to leave this city, and penniless, if I have my way. It’s possible that a man such as he is will kill himself when I reach him, which will be soon. I hope so! That will be the final pleasure, the complete satisfaction. Yes, I hope so. For you see, he betrayed me.”
     
    He looked at his watch. “I assume twenty dollars will pay for at least half an hour? If not, you may send me your bill.” He spoke arrogantly, but the arrogance fell into the quiet as ineffectually as a feather. “I still live on Humberson Avenue.” He paused. “But not much longer, I am afraid. It is going to be sold for — for — taxes.” Now his voice broke with despair.
     
    “Celia and I built that house. She was a schoolteacher, and therefore had very little money. I was a young chemical engineer, working for thirty-five dollars a week. It was the Depression then. We were fortunate, in a way: we had a little flat, and we ate enough, and we had just enough clothing. Just enough. We both hated poverty. Do you know what it means to be poor? Hopelessly poor? Our parents were that poor. We know what poverty is, grinding, black, crushing. The majority of men don’t mind it, because they have no imagination. But Celia and I had imagination. On Sunday afternoons we’d walk on Humberson Avenue — it’s never deteriorated — and we’d look at a few empty lots and plan for the day when we’d have one of them and build our own house on it. We planned every room, the color of every wall, the trees in the rear gardens, the exact shade of stone we’d use, the fountain, the bedrooms, the nursery, the hall with its great chandelier.
     
    “It took me many years, but we finally fulfilled our dream.
     
    “I had invented a new metallurgic process — I won’t bore you with the details, which would mean nothing to you. I had many offers for the patent, but I kept it: I believed in it. I started out with a small shop, employing one man besides myself. Up to five years ago I employed five hundred. We had our house, we had one child, our son George, who is also a chemical engineer. He never would go in with me, and it was a terrible disappointment. He’s a fool, full of enthusiasms. He says he wants to begin as I began.”
     
    Mr. Summers’ voice broke again, and he did not know that there was a sound of reluctant pride in it.
     
    “Celia and I couldn’t afford a family until it was almost too late. All our savings went into my first shop and into equipment. We wanted children, but there was no time, no money. We needed every penny. Celia continued to teach, and I