Читать книгу The Huddle - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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“I HAVE said, and I still say, it’s too soon to begin any definite work. Plans, yes; action, no. Why, the whole project is still in the air. It may fall through entirely.”

“Now, now, Curtis, don’t be a sister to the hen,” Allenby returned. “Don’t throw a wet blanket over our burning enthusiasm. As I’m putting up most of the money and as I’m not entirely inexperienced as a promoter—”

“Inexperienced!” Barton chipped in, “you’re a born promoter, Ally. I’ll bet you arranged and promoted the little matter of your arrival into this world.”

Munson Davis spoke seriously. “Promoting is a fine enterprise,” he said, “if you don’t promote too hard and too fast. Allenby is our kingpin, our mainstay, our very backbone, but at the risk of being unpleasant I am going to ask him to throttle down now and then, as he promotes at top speed.”

The quartet had gone into a huddle at the home of Robert G. Allenby, financer and promoter of their enterprise. In New York City the room they occupied overlooked the East River at a desirable point.

It opened into the hall and also into Allenby’s bedroom. Intended for a den or smokeroom, it had become a well-appointed office where the financier put over much of his lucrative business too confidential for his downtown office. The subject of their confab was not at all an unimportant one. It was regarding a concession from the President of the proposed World’s Fair that would allow them to show an exhibit that promised to be a vast money-maker as well as a popular gesture.

Allenby, by reason of his great wealth, his sound judgment and his widespread general information, was at the head of the undertaking, but the other three were able to contribute some money and much definite skill and knowledge absolutely necessary for the success of the venture.

“I want the matter kept quiet,” said Allenby, “for if told about, it’s sure to be misunderstood. Unless fully explained to them, few could see any difference between our sports and a regular circus. After we’re further along, we can unfold our plans and obtain such help as we may require.”

“We’ll want help all right,” asserted Barton, in his easy-going way. “I’m free to confess I think we’ve most likely nibbled off just a mite more than we can masticate. That doesn’t mean I want to renig. Difficulties always stir me to further effort. But I do think we ought to look before we leap.”

“None of us being actual morons,” Charles Curtis declared, “I feel that we all hold that same opinion.

Now, what’s to be done first? Can’t we have our jobs parceled out to us?”

Allenby smiled. He was more than good-looking; he was really handsome. His large face, framed in soft gray hair, was almost classic in its contours, and its habitual expression was that of gentle beneficence.

This, however, did not entirely prove a meek and lovely spirit, but it did prove that Allenby wanted the world to think so. And helped along judiciously by many of his kind and generous deeds, he had built for himself a reputation of much the same architecture as Sir Galahad’s.

He was optimistic, at times visionary, but his never-failing talents for money making and money spending made him an ideal promoter for the projected exhibit at the World’s Fair.

Allenby knew and admitted that he had no sense of moderation. He spent his money lavishly, carelessly, almost unconsciously. Therefore, granted a brake of some sort, he was the ideal head and front of the project. As a matter of fact, he had three brakes, for all three of his companions were willing to do their best to divert his money spending into the right channels. And though not yet entirely in agreement as to these diversions, they buoyantly hoped that sooner or later their great minds would run in the same channels.

And there was plenty of time. Only Allenby himself was in a hurry. And he was always in a hurry. Without mentioning the matter, the three felt their oneness of opinion on it, and felt sure that a dilatory three could hamper the pace of a headlong, streamlined one.

Allenby’s smile at Charlie Curtis was appreciative.

“That’s the talk, Curtis,” he said. “Get busy, that’s what we must do. It’s bad policy to sit around and say, ‘lots of time yet.’ The thing to do is to work as if we were desperately cramped for time.”

“Go to it,” cried Barton. “I’m all for getting busy. What matter that we’ve nothing to work with, no place to work in, and no work to do?”

“Don’t be silly,” and Munson Davis looked up from the tiny cameo-like caricatures he was drawing on scratch paper. They were humorously like the men who sat around him, and all save Allenby were dawdling in idle positions, while their chief prodded them with a long Satanic-looking fork.

“All right,” Allenby said, answering Barton and ignoring Davis, “I’ll tell you as briefly as possible my general views on what we can do in the way of immediate work, and you can tell me your opinions. I made some notes of what I want to say to you—they’re in a safe in my bedroom. I’ll get them.”

He rose and went into the next room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

At once, in lowered voices, the men began to talk. “Let’s humor him,” said Davis. “Let’s kid him along. We don’t want to make any definite plans today; I mean any decisions that can’t be changed. We’ll just listen to his lecture, then pick out some minor points to work up into an argument that shall last the rest of the afternoon. You see what I mean? We want to know what he has in mind before telling him what we have in mind. And we can’t tell him anything today. We must talk it over by ourselves.”

“I don’t like this division,” said Pete Barton, rather crossly. “I don’t like having Allenby put up by far the biggest lot of the money, and then we talk about him behind his back.”

“Oh, Lordy, Pete,” Davis growled; “what’s the matter with you today? You blow hot and blow cold. We’re not saying anything unkind about Ally, but you know how he splurges and we must have some check-rein on expenditures.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” and Barton looked more amiable. “I want to speak to him a minute, not about this business, but something else. Excuse me, fellows.”

Barton rose and stepped through the door Allenby had left unlatched.

No sooner did he close the door, than the talk turned on him, and Curtis and Davis, the two left, began to gossip as two women might do.

“They say Pete Barton has lost a lot of money lately. Maybe he’s going to touch Allenby for a loan,” Davis remarked.

“He’ll get it. Ally’s a perfect fool about such things. But it’s lowdown of Barton to bring in a thing like that when we’re all for fixing up the show.”

“Barton’s not very meticulous when it comes to a matter of a loan,” returned Davis. “He’s a queer duck. I don’t know whether I like him or not.”

“Oh, sure, we all like him,” and Curtis smiled carelessly. “He’s sort of sympathetic, don’t you know. When I have those nervous spells and he’s around, he seems to straighten me out.”

“Abracadabra, or just Coué business?”

“Neither, you lunatic. It isn’t like that. But he’ll say, maybe, ‘Too bad, old feller,’ and then he’ll talk about something else and I’ll get all over that fuzzy feeling.”

“Marvelous! The wonders of auto-suggestion! And so he just says he’s sorry for you, and then diverts your mind. How clever!”

“Oh, hush up! You’re trying to say he just changes my thoughts.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean, and your attack, being all imagination anyway, is forgotten. Here’s Barton back. Was your errand successful, Pete?” Davis grinned.

“It wasn’t an errand. I’d picked up a bit of news about an old friend of ours, and I wanted to tell him about it alone. It was a bit of a shock.”

“What’s he doing?” Curtis put in.

“Hunting for those lists. Says he must find them. He’ll be out in a minute. I think things are coming on all right, don’t you?”

“So far as they’re coming on at all, I s’pose they are. I want to speak to Ally, too. Just thought of it.” Without haste, Curtis pushed back his chair, rose and went into the bedroom.

Davis and Barton looked at one another.

“Well, what about these private interviews?” Davis said. “Is it quite the thing?”

Barton laughed.

“Aren’t you sort of suspicious?” he said. “Allenby and I didn’t mention the Fair business at all. You can ask him when he comes back.”

“Oh, I don’t mean anything. And if there’s one chap on earth who will never have his opinions changed by anybody unless he wants to, that same is Robert G. Allenby.”

“And why should he? I’ve never known his pronounced opinions to be wrong. On important matters, I mean. Of course, in trifles he may think or speak too quickly, but when it comes to serious questions, I call our Robert a Grade A business man.”

“Sure, who doesn’t? But to my mind his greatest worth lies in his enormous bank account and his willingness to devote a lot of it to the Plan.”

Barton nodded.

“That, of course. But I have a feeling that Ally wouldn’t be so lavish in his ideas, except that he foresees getting his money back with ample addition.”

“I hope he’s right. I only put up a tenth of his figure, but it was all I could collect for the purpose.”

“You’re all right, Davis. Your hyper-super ability to dig up the things we want is gigantic. You have a positive flair for scenting them out.”

“I hope it will prove so,” Davis returned; “I’m willing to work, Lord knows, but my part involves a great responsibility—”

“Whose doesn’t?” and Curtis stepped back into the room in time to catch the words. “Don’t put on airs, Munson. Ally has found his lists and he’s coming right along with them.”

“I want to speak to him,” Davis said, rising; “you fellows both have, and I claim the same privilege.”

“Now, now, wait a minute, Munson,” Curtis stopped him, “don’t go in there just now. Allenby is adding a postscript to his paper, and he’ll bring it to us in a minute. It’s a new idea and a good one.”

“I suppose you gave it to him,” Davis flung back. “Seems to me there’s too much log-rolling going on—”

“Just what do you mean by that?” and Charlie Curtis flared up. “I’ll say I’ve got a right to make a suggestion, if I choose.”

“Yes,” Barton agreed, “but it ought to be in the presence of us all, and not privately.”

“I don’t see why. We all have the same privilege.”

“That’s what I think,” and Davis got up again. “And I’m taking my privilege right now. You two chaps had a private interview with our chief, and as Curtis says, we all have the same privilege. So it’s my turn. Maybe I have a new idea and a good one to offer him.”

“No—” began Curtis, but Barton interrupted. “Oh, let him go. It is his turn, if he’s got anything private to say to Allenby. Go ahead, Davis.”

And Davis went ahead.

“Good fellow, Davis, but quick-tempered,” Curtis observed, as the bedroom door opened and closed again.

“Due to his non-success, I suppose,” Barton returned.

“In what way?”

“His pictures. He draws really lovely ones, but when he tries to sell them, he’s told they are dated.”

“Aren’t these his?” Curtis picked up the papers scattered on the table where Davis had been sitting. “They’re terribly clever, I think.”

“That’s just it. He dashes off those things when he’s thinking of something else, and then when he draws for the market, his stuff looks stilted and overr-elaborated.”

“You know him pretty well?”

“I’ve known him for years, but we’re not what you can call chummy. I like him well enough, but we don’t talk the same language. He’s of the artistic type, and I’m not. But he’s going to be a big card in our planning, he has just the right ideas of color and effect and atmosphere and all with an eye to the popular taste and demand. He’s taking his time for his conference with Allenby.”

Barton glanced toward the closed door.

He was a heavy man, but, to his own chagrin, not tall enough for his weight. If by taking thought he could have added one cubit to his stature, he would willingly have paid a round sum for the privilege of thinking. His face was plump and good-natured, a condition due less to a meek and quiet spirit than to an indifference to small bothers and a habit of ignoring them.

Curtis, on the other hand, was a long, lank individual, a smart dresser and fastidious as to his surroundings and companions. His features were on the general outlines usually ascribed to Sherlock Holmes, with perhaps a trifle more of sinister effect.

Not that Charlie Curtis was sinister, but a physical botheration kept him worried about himself and had begun to impair his naturally good disposition. Davis returned, unaccompanied by Allenby. “He’ll be here directly,” the artist said. “I say, what do you chaps think of calling our place the Vermilion Pavilion? Have it all red, you know.”

“Call it vermilion and have it all red,” repeated Curtis; “what a clever idea!”

His pleasant smile served to take the edge off his sarcasm, but Davis, who was sensitive, reddened and turned silent.

In an effort to be tactful, Barton said:

“Good name, Munson. Catchy and all that. Draw us a scrap of a sketch of the festive structure.”

He pushed a pad over to Davis, and then drummed on the table with his stubby good-natured fingers.

Curtis caught the suggestion of impatience.

“I’m going to pull him out,” he said; “no sense in his staying in there by himself. Why doesn’t he have the meeting in there if he wants to? We’ll listen to the first part of his monologue and leave the rest, if it isn’t ready now, for the next meeting.”

Davis looked up from his drawing. “Go in,” he said; “make him come out. No sense in wasting the whole afternoon.”

Curtis went back into the bedroom, leaving the door open.

In a moment they heard him call out.

“Come in here—somebody—” were his words, but his voice—it was more of a gasp—was scarcely intelligible.

“Curtis is having one of his spells,” said Barton, already sprinting for the door.

Davis followed more slowly, almost timidly, and stopped suddenly at the threshold, sickened at what he saw.

Curtis, who had dropped into a big chair, was breathing quickly and noisily, while great shudders shook his long thin frame.

Barton, standing by Curtis, his hand on the sufferer’s forehead, was dumbly staring across the room at Allenby, who lay on a couch, flat on his back, with a red blotch on the bosom of his shirt. As always, Munson Davis rose to the occasion in an emergency, and without a word, or a second glance at Curtis, went at once to the couch where Allenby lay.

“Dead,” he said quietly, after a moment’s examination. “Stabbed to the heart. What does it mean?”

Leaving Curtis, Barton came and stood beside Davis.

No word passed between them, but each was thinking back over the occurrences of the afternoon.

Curtis left his chair and came toward them with a nervous shudder.

“They say I look like Sherlock Holmes,” he said, with a queer, unnatural little laugh; “but really I haven’t a bit of the detective instinct. What have you fellows got to say?”

Barton stared at him, and Davis said:

“Let’s be careful what we say.” He spoke seriously, almost solemnly, and went on. “We are confronted by a fierce proposition. Anything we say now must be hasty, unconsidered and perhaps regrettable. I hope you’ll both see this as I do. I don’t mean we can say nothing and do nothing, but I do mean that personal remarks may be disastrous and irretrievable.”

Peter Barton nodded his head.

“I see,” he agreed. “Any personal remarks or questions would be a mistaken move. Let’s turn our whole attention first, as to what we must do right now, and do it. We’re all burning with curiosity, but our duty is plain. Forget that, and set to work.”

“But,” Curtis reminded, “of course, first of all we must call the police. And when they come we must have a story ready to tell them, and our stories must agree.”

Davis turned on him.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why must our stories agree? We will each tell the truth—or not, as we prefer—but we certainly do not purpose to churn up a yarn that shall ‘agree.’ ”

“I didn’t mean that,” and Curtis began to tremble again.

“Leave Charlie alone,” said Barton, speaking gently. “He’s none too well, and this excitement won’t help matters any. And as Davis says, we must each tell our own story without regard to the other two. I don’t see how they can differ much, but never mind that now. Of course, we must call the police, but first I suggest we find out who’s in the house. Allenby has a daughter, you know, and there must be a biggish staff of servants. I can usually take a sudden jolt with my eyes open, but, well—this has rather dazed me. As a starter, though, I suggest we ring for somebody—whoever may come.”

“Better go back to the other room,” Davis said, and they went, slowly and reverently away from the death couch.

“Just a minute,” Curtis said, as he sat down, “I don’t want to butt in, and you are quite right about telling our own stories, but shall we tell it all to the footman or whoever answers our call, before we tell the police? That doesn’t seem right to me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Barton agreed, looking thoughtful. “How about it, Davis?”

“I see no reason to confide in servants. Perhaps we needn’t even tell them the master is dead.”

“Oh, yes, of course they must know that. And then, we must hunt up Miss Allenby—his wife isn’t living, is she?”

“No.”

“Tell you what, Barton,” Davis suggested, “we can’t all talk to the servants, let’s have one spokesman, and let it be Curtis. He knows Allenby more familiarly than we do—did, and we can listen in, and speak, if advisable.”

“Good!” Barton consented. “Don’t be nervous, Curt, this is where you can shine. Take it easy, we’re back of you. Shall I make the call?”

“Yes, do. If I say anything wrong, check me up.”

“You won’t say anything wrong. We’re not on the defensive, we’re nonplused, but we’re following our duty to call headquarters.”

Barton looked round the room again to find a push button, but saw only light switches, so took up a small instrument, which he felt sure was the house telephone.

“Yes, sir,” a man’s voice responded.

“Is this Mr. Allenby’s butler?”

“The second man, sir. It’s the butler’s afternoon out.”

“I see. Will you come in here, please—to Mr. Allenby’s office?”

“At once, sir.”

“He’s coming right away,” Barton reported to Curtis. “I’m glad you have yourself well in hand. Take it easy.”

Curtis nodded, and awaited the ordeal.

The man appeared, a quiet, capable-looking person, whose usual calm was a trifle disturbed at this call from a guest instead of the master.

But he stood at attention, glancing from one to another, as if seeking the one who had called him.

“I am Mr. Curtis,” he was told. “We have been holding a meeting regarding some very important business. Mr. Allenby was with us during the meeting, and afterward, he stepped into his bedroom to fetch some papers from his safe.”

The man, whose name was Lawson, listened, and said, “Yes, sir,” in acquiescence.

Though his friends rather expected Curtis to stammer over his next announcement, there was no trace of hesitancy, as he went on:

“As Mr. Allenby did not return, we waited a reasonable time, and then we went into his bedroom. ‘The door was not locked. We found—be prepared for a shock, Lawson—Mr. Allenby lying on his couch—dead.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, and though sheer routine training allowed him to speak in his usual tone, his startled eyes and his clenched hands betrayed his intense emotion.

“Sit down, Lawson,” Curtis said, kindly, but the man seemed not to hear him.

“Yes, sir,” he said again, and with a quite evident effort he remembered his duty, “What are my orders, sir?”

“Magnificent,” said Davis to himself and they all fully appreciated this man’s self control.

“I want you to call the Police,” Curtis told him. “Not here, go in some other room. Don’t mention the name. Merely give the address and tell them to come at once to investigate a homicide case.”