Читать книгу In the Money - Arthur Somers Roche - Страница 3

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The girl pouted. Granard grinned at her.

“Do it some more, Peggy,” he said.

Blue eyes looked wonderingly into his cynical face.

“Do what?” she asked.

“The pout. I think it’s swell. It’s almost as good as the baby stare you’re giving me now.”

The blue eyes hardened. They would have been mean, but for a glint in their depths that could have been self-mockery.

“Bill Granard, do you know what?” Her voice was lazy, as insolent as the poise of her perfect body, as the carriage of her head, as the expression—now that the pout had vanished—of her full and lovely lips.

“Sure I do; but a debutante shouldn’t use such words.”

“I wasn’t going to. I knew you knew. I was going to tell you something else about yourself. I was just going to say that you can provide a girl with as tiresome an evening as she could find.”

Granard stared at her. There was a gleam of hard humor in his green eyes that matched the expression in hers.

“Hoity-toity and hi-de-hi! The kind of a girl that wants a second-act curtain every minute of the evening.”

“And goes out with you and gets a prologue,” she scoffed.

Granard surveyed her blonde beauty; the habitual air of insolence which she wore could not detract from that beauty.

“I get paid for my words. You can’t expect me to give them away, Peggy. If I use up my vocabulary telling you how gorgeous you are, what will I do for phrases, clauses, sentences and paragraphs when it comes time to write my next story for the Globe?”

She fumbled in her vanity-bag. She produced a quarter, and laid it on the table.

“That ought to buy about a thousand words,” she said.

Granard smiled.

“So you’ve been asking your father how much he pays me, eh?”

She nodded.

“I think he ought to be ashamed of himself. I told him so, and he replied that you were overpaid. He said he could hire a dozen men to replace you at half your salary.”

“And you laid the blonde curls against his chest and pleaded with him not to fire poor Bill Granard, because you needed him in your study of how the other half live. That was certainly sweet of you, Peggy. It helps a man, when he feels himself slipping, to know that the boss’s daughter will speak a word for him.”

“I think you’re the most hateful, impertinent——”

“I knew we’d get that second-act curtain pretty soon,” chuckled Granard. “‘Boss’s daughter denounces poor scribbler! Scribbler, crushed’—what the hell does he do? I guess he orders another drink.”

He lifted his hand, spoke to a waiter. As the man departed, the girl settled back in her chair.

“Bill, you’re the strangest man I ever met.”

“Because I don’t go crazy over you, and tell you you’re a Norse goddess? The trouble with you, Peggy-my-love, is that you’re spoiled. You want every man you meet to fall in love with you. And it’s tough, but I don’t care for blondes. I like cozy brunettes; you know, the kind you can sit with on a couch on a bitter winter evening, and never realize that the furnace has gone out.”

“And I suppose she’d be all lighted up at sight of a freckled face and a snub nose and a gawky figure!” said the girl.

He shook a monitory finger at her.

“You forget my charm, Peggy.”

Petulance left the girl’s countenance. She smiled cheerfully at him.

“How did I overlook that? Remind me, always, when I forget it. But thank heaven, I’ve stirred you into speech at last. For a man who’s about to start a vacation, you’re the glummest person!”

“Maybe it’s leaving you, sweetheart,” he jeered. “Maybe those winter sports in Canada won’t be so gay without you in the offing.”

“If I weep tears of gratitude for these kind words, will the waiters put me out?” she mocked. She placed her elbows on the table, cupped her lovely firm chin in her hands, and stared at him.

“Bill, what’s on your mind? You know, I go out with you because you’re the gayest, most delightful, most irresponsible man I’ve ever known.”

“Much obliged. I take you out because your father owns the Globe and maybe——”

“Of course. Everyone knows that.” Insolence had completely gone from her now. She was, for a moment, not the hard-boiled child of her generation, but a nice girl who was supping with a nice boy. “You aren’t yourself tonight, Bill. You grouched through dinner; you were sullen through the play—and it couldn’t have been funnier. But you didn’t even smile once. And now, for the last half-hour, you’ve sat and glowered. What’s it all about? You promised me an exciting evening.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t I always keep my word?”

“You haven’t kept it tonight. Don’t tell me that you’re nervous and distrait because you’re afraid of me. It can’t be that behind your dour silence is a flood, a tide, a perfect torrent of words. You aren’t mustering up courage to ask me to marry you?”

He shook his head.

“If I ever get feeling that way about you, I won’t ask you—I’ll tell you.”

“Masterful man,” she jeered. “Well, where’s the excitement that you promised?”

“Turn casually. To the left.”

The girl’s vanity slipped from the table. As she retrieved it, she glanced at the group coming through the main entrance to the night club. The headwaiter was greeting a short, stocky, olive-skinned man. Other waiters were fluttering about, contributing to that confusion which always reigns in a Broadway resort when a celebrity of the moment puts in an appearance.

Peggy Cartwain turned back to Granard.

“What’s exciting about them?” she asked.

“That’s Islip Mackleton,” he told her. “The short little man.”

“What a funny name!” she commented.

“He likes it better than Isidor Mackelbaum. Maybe it is better.”

The girl frowned.

“I’ve heard his name.”

Granard sighed.

“Yes, darling; and Lindbergh is an aviator, and Roosevelt is President of these United States. Izzy Mackleton.”

“Forgive me. I’m stupid. Of course. A criminal lawyer.”

“The criminal lawyer! He’s tried two hundred murder cases—more than that—and one client has gone to the chair.”

“And today his latest client—is the name Abbott?”

Granard nodded.

“Got him an acquittal this afternoon. And as usual, he’s making the rounds of the night clubs. He’s Broadway’s hero, and he wants his garlands of flowers. He’s getting them. I guess each club has contributed one posy. The tall dark girl is Greta Waring; she sings at the Bijou. The plump blonde is May Kelly from the Weathervane. And the redhead is the dancer at the Abyss. This place will contribute its star performer.”

“Interesting, but I wouldn’t call it exciting,” she said.

“It will be,” he assured her. “Of course, debutantes are too busy to read much of anything except Cholly Knickerbocker, but you might have happened to hear the name of the man for whose murder Abbott was tried.”

“Try being my equal instead of my superior,” she smiled. “You’ll be surprised at the fun we’ll have. I’ll react so sweetly. I know the name. Kelly Panta—what is his outrageous name?”

“Pantadosi. And his brother’s name is Murphy Pantadosi. The harp-wop twins. As tough a pair as ever terrorized a news dealer or a dry-cleaning establishment. And I happen to know that Murphy is going to try and kill Izzy Mackleton tonight.”

The faint hint of color on the girl’s smooth cheeks drained from her veins. White-faced, she stared at him. Then the red came back as she laughed at him.

“So that’s your idea of excitement? Trying to scare me——”

He interrupted her with the sort of gesture he might have used to brush away an annoying insect. She felt suddenly inconsiderable, small, something at which Bill Granard would glance but never stare. She wasn’t used to this feeling. Only Granard, of all the men she had ever known, could give her this feeling of unimportance. She hated it, and yet was fascinated by it. The daughter of the proprietor of the Globe was no more important to the Globe’s best reporter than any one of a dozen girls. Perhaps not more important than any one of a hundred girls. For she had sensed Granard’s extraordinary popularity along Broadway. And not merely along that thoroughfare. She had thought to introduce him to Park Avenue, and had found that he was better acquainted there than herself. Men slapped him on the back, and girls tried to steer him into secluded corners. He wasn’t handsome, not even good-looking. He played no games. But his mind functioned like a steel trap set with jewels, and his smile was incredibly sweet. From the moment she met him, she had wanted him to fall in love with her. She had used upon him every trick of her considerable repertory; she had given him smiles and glances and meaning whispers that had reduced other men to abject servitude; but Granard jeered and derided her efforts. But he liked her; this slight consolation was hers.

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m giving you a ringside seat at an attempted murder. Murphy Pantadosi is going to come in here and kill Mackleton if he can.”

“How do you know?” she gasped. Again the color had left her cheeks. Granard was in deadly earnest; she was certain of that.

“Don’t ask me how I know things. Murphy hates Mackleton almost as much as he hates Abbott. He’ll get Abbott later, but he wants Mackleton tonight.”

“Does Mackleton know?” she asked in a whisper.

Granard shook his head.

“I wouldn’t think so. He wouldn’t be parading around Broadway without a bodyguard if he knew.”

Into the girl’s blue eyes came incredulous horror.

“And you haven’t told him? You’re going to sit here and let him be murdered?”

He grinned at her derisively.

“Can’t take it, eh? The kind of a girl that’s always weeping because nothing ever happens; but the minute something is about to happen, you want to duck. Shall I put you in a cab, sweetheart?”

“I think I hate you,” she told him. “You’re the most dreadful callous man I ever knew.” She rose from her chair and looked down at him with blazing eyes. “I’m going to tell Mr. Mackleton——”

His lean hand reached out and caught her wrist. She was amazed at the strength in his thin fingers. She sat down again with an undignified thump.

“Don’t be a fool,” he whispered. “I’m not going to let Izzy be killed. But I owe that little shyster something. He crossed me on two stories last fall. Izzy needs a scare. But four men are trailing Murphy. They’ll jump him in plenty of time to save Izzy from everything but hysterics. You’ve never seen a man in hysteria, have you? Well, Izzy can sob and scream before a jury, but it’s an act. Watching him do the real thing ought to be something to remember. Drink your highball and compose the pretty little nerves, darling.”

“But suppose the men don’t stop him?” she whispered.

Granard chuckled.

“That will be tough on Izzy, but a swell thing for the New York bar.”

“You wouldn’t care,” breathed the girl.

“Why should I? Mackleton is a disgrace to his profession. He’s kept more bloody-handed killers out of the chair than any other lawyer in America. I think it would be retribution.”

“And you would be willing to play God! Bill Granard, you’re the——”

“I know. You said it all a minute ago. Scotch will bring the roses back to the lovely cheeks. Better try some,” he advised.

She lifted her glass; at the strange expression that suddenly appeared in his eyes, she put the glass down. She followed the direction of his look. Their table was beside the dance floor at one corner. At an opposite corner, thirty feet away, sat Mackleton and his companions. On the dance floor, three yards from Granard’s chair, stood a swarthy man. He was looking at Mackleton; his hand was in his right-hand jacket pocket. As she looked, horror in her eyes, Mackleton screamed.

His shriek was as reedily thin as the cry of a woman. And as his voice shocked waiters, dancers and diners into rigidity, the hand of the man on the dance floor came from its pocket. She saw a gleam of metal. Then something dark went by her in a long diving tackle. Granard’s shoulder struck the swarthy man at the hips. They went down with a crash. As she stared, she was oddly reminded of an ocelot kitten she had owned two years before. For Granard’s movements were as swift and sure as those of the little leopard. The would-be murderer never had a chance. Granard was astride him, pulling his right hand up across his back to his shoulder-blades, until sheer agony forced his victim to drop his revolver. Then Granard, securing the weapon, leaped to his feet, dragging his prisoner upright. He shook a finger in the convulsed face of the swarthy man.

“If you killed Izzy, what lawyer would be left to save you from the chair, Murphy?” he asked. “You be a good boy and run along home to bed.”

“Bed!” Mackleton was beside Granard now. In his voice lingered traces of the agonizing terror that had possessed him a moment ago. “Jail, you mean.”

Granard smiled at him.

“Then I’ll have to write the story for the Globe, Izzy. And I don’t want to. Vacation has begun for me. But if I write it, I’ll have to tell how Izzy Mackleton screamed like a girl, and hid behind a girl. Murphy’s a hot-headed boy. He won’t try it again. That right, Murphy?”

Pantadosi shook. Ankles and knees struck together. His teeth chattered.

“I’m through,” he muttered.

Granard pushed apart two waiters. Ten feet away, Peggy Cartwain wondered at the ease with which he sent the waiters reeling away. He didn’t look strong. He pushed the now terrified Pantadosi, in whose heart was no longer vengeful hatred but only terror, through the opening in the little crowd. He turned to Mackleton.

“Put him in prison, and his cousins will go to bat. If you’re smart, you’ll let it ride, Izzy.”

Mackleton stared at him. He nodded slowly.

“I guess you’re right. Thanks a lot, Bill. You couldn’t drop in to see me tomorrow morning, could you?”

“Leaving for a vacation in the morning. Sorry,” said Granard.

“South?” asked the lawyer.

“Montreal.”

“Better go South,” said Mackleton. “I mean it. Thanks again.” He turned away, and Granard looked after him a moment, puzzlement in his green eyes. Then, with a shrug, he returned to the table where Peggy sat.

“You let the man go. He wasn’t arrested,” she said. Her hands trembled as they rested on the table.

Granard lifted his drink and drained it.

“Sure. Just a temperamental Irish-Italian. He made a gesture, and he’s satisfied. So is Mackleton. For if Mackleton makes a gesture, then Murphy’s relations will feel they’ll have to make some, and one of them might be successful. The Broadway code. Honor is now satisfied.”

“But I should think——”

He interrupted her.

“You wouldn’t think like Broadway,” he laughed. “Don’t try. Minds work differently over here. Gangsters are gone, but thugs remain. Good second-act curtain?”

“The men you said were following Pantadosi—where are they?” she asked.

“He must have given them the slip. What difference did it make? I was here, wasn’t I?”

“But suppose you hadn’t managed to seize him?”

“That’s the woman of it. Never satisfied with results, but always putting in ifs and buts. I did manage. Tired? Worn out with our dull evening?”

“I want you to take me home,” she said evenly.

He summoned the waiter, paid the check and they walked from the night club. Women stared and men pointed. The man heard people mention his name. But if she noticed or heard, she gave no sign. In utter silence they rode to her home on East Sixty-fifth Street.

“Going to ask me in for a nightcap?” he inquired as the cab stopped.

“I’m not. And when you come back from Montreal, please don’t telephone me.”

“So?” His lips pursed as he stared at her in the semi-gloom of the cab. “I’m too tough for you, eh?”

“Much,” she responded.

He leaned suddenly forward, and his lips found hers. For a moment she forgot that tonight she had learned to hate him. She was conscious only that his kiss was as sweet as his smile. Then she pushed him from her.

“To remember me by,” he said.

“I didn’t need it,” she said. “I won’t forget you. You’re——”

“Not again,” he pleaded. “After all, you expected a prologue.”

“You flatter yourself. It’s the end.”

He alighted from the cab and assisted her to the sidewalk. He stood at the door of her home until a servant opened it. Then he bowed and reentered his taxi. Ten minutes later he entered his own apartment on Central Park South. On chairs in his comfortable living-room were two huge suitcases. Against a wall stood a pair of skis. He picked up the latter, carried them into his bedroom and put them in a closet. From the same place he took golf-clubs and tennis-rackets and stood them against the living-room wall. Then he opened the suitcases, and from them abstracted all garments suitable to winter wear. He hung them in the bedroom closet, replacing them with flannels and lightweight sport clothes and white shoes. Then, swearing softly, he climbed into bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

At eight the following morning he pushed away the hand that had shaken him into wakefulness. He sat up and yawned at his servant.

“Hated to do it, Mr. Granard, but you wanted to catch that Montreal train.”

Granard knuckled his eyes. He yawned again.

“You’ll find my ticket in my pocketbook on the dresser. Breakfast ready?”

The man murmured assent.

“I’ll serve myself. Dash down to the Grand Central and exchange this ticket. Run over to the Pennsylvania and get me a compartment on the afternoon train to Florida.”

“Florida?” The cadaverous face of the servant didn’t change its habitual expression of melancholy.

“Miami. That ought to be far enough South. My bags are packed. The train leaves at two-thirty. You be at the station with my transportation. And Martin, my changing my trip from Montreal to Miami makes no difference to you. You’re to leave my Scotch alone. The rye is bad. I don’t care what you do with it. But remember—you be sober when I return. I’ll send a telegram, and you’ll have thirty-six hours in which to straighten up. Am I clear?”

“Very, sir,” replied the man.

Granard grinned.

“Another thing: No chorus girls.”

“Some day, Mr. Granard, I’m going to try wine and women. You’ve warned me so much against them that I’m getting curious.” Something that was a remote cousin to a smile appeared on Martin’s thin lips.

“That is the subtle idea that lies behind my warnings,” chuckled Granard. “Hustle along.”

He bathed and shaved and breakfasted leisurely. He smiled as he read, in his own paper, the account of Mackleton’s histrionic address to the Abbott jury yesterday. Izzy was a swell lawyer, but it was too bad the jury couldn’t have witnessed Mackleton’s act last night. Tired jurymen deserved an occasional laugh.

At ten o’clock Granard stepped out onto Fifty-ninth Street. March was making a leonine entrance. Snow was falling, and a north wind swept across Central Park so savagely that the flakes stung the skin. He picked up a taxi at the Plaza and gave Mackleton’s office address on Times Square. He shivered as he settled back in the cold cab.

Mackleton had said to go South. Mackleton wanted to make return for the life that Granard had saved last night. Mackleton was a coward: he was a dishonest shyster. But he never forgot a favor. If he suggested a vacation in the South, he had a reason.

Suddenly Granard didn’t care what the reason might prove to be. The raging blizzard that had descended upon New York made him wonder why he had ever thought of going to Canada. In the south there would be golf and tennis and swimming and fishing, and dancing at night beneath the tropic moon.

There might be, too, a girl down there who could make him forget that he had stupidly fallen in love with Sam Cartwain’s daughter. And wasn’t that a smart thing to do! To let himself go overboard for a debutante who hadn’t a thought beyond the moment. For a girl who would want always to drag him from his career.

Then he grinned gayly. He was getting a little ahead of himself. She wouldn’t want to drag him away from his career. Her only interest in him was the fact that she didn’t think he had fallen in love with her. Conceited little kitten! Then he laughed at his description of the tall blonde Peggy. Then he frowned. Damn her, he wouldn’t think of her again.