Gatsby?” and when I described him – I was half asleep – she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she knew. And I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white automobile.”
When Jordan Baker had finished her story we had left the Plaza. We were driving through Central Park.
“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.
“But it wasn't a coincidence at all.”
“Why not?”
“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay. He wants to know, if you'll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.”
The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger.
Something worried me.
“Why didn't he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.”
“Oh!”
“I think he was expecting her to one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never came. Then he began to ask people if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. When I said you were a particular friend of Tom's he wanted to cancel the whole idea. He doesn't know very much about Tom, though he says he's read a Chicago paper for years just to see Daisy's name.”
It was dark now, I put my arm around Jordan's golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner.
“And Daisy must have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me.
“Does she want to see Gatsby?”
“She doesn't know anything about it. Gatsby doesn't want her to know. You'll just invite her to tea.”
Chapter 5
When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o'clock and everything was blazing with light. Turning a corner I saw that Gatsby's house was lit from roof to cellar.
At first I thought it was another party. But there wasn't a sound. Only wind in the trees which blew the wires. My taxi went away and I saw Gatsby. He was walking toward me across his lawn.
“Your place looks like the world's fair,” I said.
“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my automobile.”
“It's too late.”
“Well, then maybe a swimming pool? I haven't used it all summer.”
“I've got to go to bed.”
“All right.”
He waited, looking at me.
“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I'm going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.”
“Oh, that's all right,” he said carelessly. “I don't want to put you to any trouble.”
“What day would suit you?”
“What day would suit YOU?” he corrected me quickly. “I don't want to put you to any trouble, you see.”
“How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance:
“I want to get the grass cut,” he said.
We both looked at the grass. I suspected that he meant my grass.
“There's another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated.
“So maybe later?” I asked.
“Oh, it isn't about that. At least… Why, I thought – why, look here, old sport, you don't make much money, do you?”
“Not very much.”
This reassured him and he continued more confidently.
“I thought you didn't, if you'll pardon my – you see, I carry on a little business, you understand. And I thought that if you don't make very much – you're selling bonds, aren't you, old sport?”
“Trying to.”
“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn't take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. But it is rather confidential.”
I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might change my life. But the offer was tactless enough. I had to refuse.
“I'm very busy at the moment,” I said. “I'm much obliged but I can't work more.”
“You won't have any business with Wolfsheim.”
He waited a moment longer, hoping I'd begin a conversation, but I did not want to talk to him, so he went unwillingly home.
I called up Daisy from the office next morning and invited her to come to tea.
“Don't bring Tom,” I warned her.
“What?”
“Don't bring Tom.”
“Who is 'Tom'?” she asked innocently.
It was a rainy day. At eleven o'clock a man in a raincoat with a lawn-mower tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. At two o'clock many flowers arrived from Gatsby's. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel suit, silver shirt and gold-colored tie went in. He was pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately.
“The grass looks fine, if that's what you mean.”
“What grass?” he inquired. “Oh, the grass in the yard.”
He looked out the window at it, but I don't think he saw a thing.
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