The Stooping Man

When the Stratoliner had landed and finally come to rest on the runway, and the forward door was opened, and the passengers started to disembark into the autumn air of Long Island, one of the first to emerge, but not the first, having let a few people go out ahead of him, was the tall man who had been seated at the window, and had looked down through it at the building of gargoyles on Wall Street.

He was long of frame and sturdy. He had been athletic in his youth, in boarding school. He had handsome features. He wore the most conventional of wool coots. His suit was immaculate to him, seemingly showing no extraneous crease. As he came through the door, he bent his head down slightly, in order to pass through it. And on the other side, and the top of the stairs, and while donning his hat, he did not stand fully straight, but kept the posture of stooping as a part of his posture, as if he were always passing through the door of a passenger aircraft.

As he looked out over the runway momentarily, his face went into its automatic response in these situations, the muscles followed the well-organized, tightly-scripted routine they knew so well, while drawing his facial muscles back into what would have been taken for the genuine and warm smiles.

He descended in the stairs as if he were an anonymous traveler. There were no photographers rushing up to greet him, as if he were a Hollywood star arriving for a premiere in the City. The photographers were miles away, and unconscious of his presence. It is the way he wanted it.

He walked across the tarmac carrying nothing in his hands. He split off by himself, and was trailed by a few other men several dozen feet behind him. Near one of the hangars he approached an automobile. The door was opened for him by a uniformed chauffeur was stood at attention like a soldier.

Wearing the same smile as on the stairs, he approached the open door of the automobile, making eye contact with nobody.