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after five, and no one answered 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 for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, as they drew back thesheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me.
You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked
hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk â he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing â only the
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter
to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw the
newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon â but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to have a hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important hi and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is
anything I can do a little later let me knowin a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc. Do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said
Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through 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. "They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns ââ" "Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here â this
isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation... then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving .
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His tone made me suspicious. âOf course youâll be there yourself.â âWell, Iâll certainly try. What I called up about is âââ âWait a minute,â I interrupted. âHow about saying youâll
come?â âWell, the fact is â the truthof the matter is that Iâm staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with
them to-morrow. In fact,thereâs a sort of picnic or something. Of course Iâll do my very best to get away.â i hid an unrestrained âhuh!â and he must have
heard me, for he went on nervously: âWhat I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if itâd be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, theyâre
tennis shoes, and Iâm sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F. âââ I didnât hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the
receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby â one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that
was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsbyâs liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.
The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldnât seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open,
on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked âThe Swastika Holding Company, â and at first there didnât seem to be any one inside. But when Iâd shouted âhelloâ several times in
vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.
âNobodyâs in, â she said. âMr. Wolfsheimâs gone to Chicago.â The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle âThe
Rosary,â tunelessly, inside. âPlease say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him. â âI canât get him back from Chicago, can I?â
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheimâs, called âStella!â from the other side of the door.âLeave your name on the desk, â she said quickly. âIâll
give it to him when he gets back.â âBut I know heâs there.â She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.
âYou young men think you can force your way in here any time,â she scolded. âWeâre getting sickantired of it. When I say heâs in Chicago,
heâs in Chicago.â I mentioned Gatsby. âOh â h!â She looked at me over again. âWill you just â What was your name?â She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly
in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.
âMy memory goes back to whenI first met him, â he said. âA young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He
was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldnât buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrennerâs poolroom at .
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after five, and no one answered 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 for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, as they drew back thesheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me.
You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked
hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk â he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing â only the
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter
to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw the
newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon â but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to have a hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important hi and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is
anything I can do a little later let me knowin a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc. Do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said
Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through 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. "They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns ââ" "Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here â this
isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation... then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving .
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after five, and no one answered 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 for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, as they drew back thesheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me.
You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked
hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk â he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing â only the
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter
to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw the
newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon â but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to have a hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important hi and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is
anything I can do a little later let me knowin a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc. Do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said
Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through 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. "They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns ââ" "Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here â this
isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation... then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving .
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after five, and no one answered 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 for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled
it. But, as they drew back thesheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me.
You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked
hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk â he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing â only the
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter
to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw the
newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon â but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and
newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to have a hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important hi and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is
anything I can do a little later let me knowin a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc. Do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said
Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through 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. "They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns ââ" "Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here â this
isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation... then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving .
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