Читать книгу The Saint of the Speedway - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 7

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IVOR McLAGAN eased his great body in the groaning wicker chair, and his eyes snapped with something like irritation. The long, lean cigar it was his habit to smoke he removed from between his lips, and indicated the main thoroughfare beyond the window behind him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve a hunch for this muck-hole, Victor,” he said sharply. “Take a pull at yourself, man. Get a cold douche, if you can find a thing so wholesome in Beacon Glory, and wake yourself right up. Take a look out there. Take a peek around you, and if you aren’t as blind as a dead mule, and a sure candidate for the foolish place, you’ll see this darnation monument to human vanity as it is. I tell you there’s no sort of limit to human vanity when it gets a-riot fixing cities. Beacon Glory? Did you ever call a hogpen by any other fancy name? Sure you didn’t. You aren’t plumb crazed yet for all you’re talking this burg as though winter had no right hiding it up for six months of the year. Get a look at the garbage lying around even the business avenue. Avenue! Sounds fine, doesn’t it? And then think of the hell of flies and skitters you got to live through next summer. Look at the shanties lying scattered around desecrating a swell picture of Nature’s painting. They’re enough to insult a half-breed settlement that don’t know better. But that’s no circumstance to the folks who’re to blame for despoiling God Almighty’s decent earth with a pestilential collection of man’s assorted junk. The moral atmosphere of Beacon Glory would leave the hottest oven in hell hollering. There’s more dirt an’ dishonesty to the square inch in Beacon Glory than you’d ever find in any mediæval Turkish penitentiary, kept especially for housing the folks they don’t like the faces of. And they call this quagmire of corruption ‘Beacon Glory’! They laid it out in Avenues! They filled it up with garbage an’ human junk, an’ folk like you sit around with your hat in one hand and the other on your left chest and breathe the word ‘city’ in the sort of tone you’d hand out over a deathbed. That’s you, who don’t belong to it. You, who aren’t any sort of part of it, except you’re here to collect any stray gold lying around, and pass it back to your home city. You, a banker! My, it’s queer how folks can fall for their surroundings!”

Victor Burns laughed cordially at his friend’s diatribe. It amused him thoroughly. McLagan was on his pet theme, which was an utter contempt and detestation of the city of Beacon Glory.

“That’s all right, Ivor,” he said. “You can’t run a branch of your bank and shout at the folks you do business with. For just as long as it’s my job collecting the dust folks don’t know better than to waste their lives chasing, Beacon Glory’s a deal bigger than ‘ace high’ to me. It’s a swell city that does a mighty big credit to the folks whose enterprise set it up—and made my living possible. You’re collecting oil in the big valleys, which is liable to leave you finding a queer sort of human fog lying about our principal avenue, but I’d like to say the ‘muck-hole’ of Beacon Glory don’t hurt your prospect a cent, and you’d miss its ‘beauties’ if the foolish ones had never dumped it down.”

McLagan laughed good-naturedly, and returned his cigar to its place in the corner of his capacious mouth. They were lounging in the office of Beacon Glory’s principal hotel, this engineer of the Mountain Oil Corporation and the chief banker of the place. They were something more than business acquaintances. A pleasant friendship existed between them, inspired perhaps by mutual esteem for the other’s integrity in surroundings which each knew to be something morally deplorable.

The hotel—the Plaza by name—was an angular three-storied, wooden-frame building that had once been well and truly painted. But that was in the boom days. It had a verandah fronting on the city’s only business avenue, a long, unpaved thoroughfare that had wrecked the running gear of more vehicles in its time than any roadway the world had ever known. Over the verandah, on a level with the first floor, was a wide balcony of similar proportions. In the heyday of prosperity this had been covered by a brilliant striped awning, but that, like the outside paint, had long since yielded to the weather. But for all its dreary, derelict appearance the Plaza stood out amongst the rest of the city’s buildings, with one or two exceptions, as something rather magnificent, if only for its proportions.

McLagan and the banker had the office with its decayed furniture and spluttering wood stove to themselves. That is, they only shared it with its atmosphere of general uncleanness. It was the hour immediately before supper, a meal which Abe Cranfield’s fly-blown menu described as “dinner,” a title his boarders refused to accept. Soon contingents of humanity would foregather in anticipation of a meal to sustain stomachs which had long since learned to satisfy themselves on a diet of unsavoury monotony.

“That’s all right, Victor,” McLagan said readily. “You’re a banker, I’m not. I’m just a hard citizen the same as the rest, and don’t need to worry to keep my notions of Beacon Glory to myself. And if any feller feels like disputing, why, I can argue it out any old way he fancies. But I’m sick with this city the same as I’m sick with most things unclean. I guess it isn’t altogether the fault of folks so much as the times, and the thing life’s drifted into. Does it ever worry you thinking of modern conditions and the crazy scramble of it all? You know, I ought to’ve been born two or three centuries back before some fool guy invented the words ‘democracy’ and ‘proletariat.’ You can’t run a thing right by committees and assemblies set up by any popular vote. Think of me trying to locate oil in the hills back here with a bunch of guys sitting around telling me how I need to go about it, and where to start my drills. No, sir. It’s the same with countries and cities and Sunday schools. You need one head and one hand. And whether for good or bad you’ll get some sort of order and discipline and things’ll move quick. I’d say it’s better, seeing human nature is what it is, to let one feller graft than a government of hundreds, and it’s cheaper. This territory’s run by a government that only cares for its job and legislates thousands of miles away. What’s the result? Why—Beacon Glory, an undisciplined quagmire of human muck!”

Victor Burns lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke. He was a small, round, sleek little man, clean-shaven and with a pleasant face that looked to be made for smiling. He was almost in ridiculous contrast to the huge frame and rugged exterior of the other.

“That’s all so, all right,” Burns nodded. “I’ve thought heaps more than that lying awake at nights wondering how far the other feller’s got me beat. But a grouch in this office isn’t going to fix things right.” He glanced alertly round the room which still remained empty. “And that’s why I’m kind of glad for that bunch of boys who got together to try and clean things up. It don’t matter to me who or what the folks of the Aurora Clan are, or the ultimate purpose lying back of their game. They started out a year ago to clean things up some and they got half the toughs of this burg scared to foolishness. There hasn’t been a hold-up in months, and only a week back these white-gowned purifiers burnt out stark that drug den of Bernard’s where Charlie O’Byrne was done to death for his wad. Say, those boys are right if they just stick right to the game they started on. The danger is, when they got Beacon where they need it and have cleaned up the tougher stuff of the place, they may be looking for payment.”

Ivor shook his head.

“You never can tell, Victor,” he said seriously. “They’re a terror to the muck of this place now, I agree. Maybe later they’ll be a terror, anyway, that’s the way of these things. So long as they act the way they are we’re all glad, we must be. Any feller with a wide mind would be crazy to feel bad about them, but,” he shook his head and flung the stump of his cigar almost viciously into the stove, “maybe it’ll just drift into the usual. With the others out of the way they’ll do the hold-up. Then the Government, thousands of miles away’ll butt in. The Aurora Clan will get cleaned right up and back we’ll fall into the muck those boys did their best to haul us out of. No, I’ve a brief for them. I surely have. But when they’ve done their work and start getting gay for themselves, I’ll be as ready as any one to start cleaning them up. It’s a hell of a place, anyway!”

McLagan remained gazing into the stove with eyes that had lost their usual twinkle. He was a man of immense resolution and capacity. A brilliant mining engineer, he yearned for wider scope in the affairs of life. So far all his energies had been directed to the earth’s remote places, seeking those treasures for his Corporation which at any cost must be acquired for the purposes of satisfying voracious shareholders. And Victor Burns, watching him, understood something of the restless, dissatisfied spirit driving him. He was a shrewd judge of men, as are most real bankers, and this burly, plain creature, all energy and capacity, more than usually interested him.

“How’s oil?” he asked quietly, as the other remained silent.

“Just about the same.” Ivor laughed in his short way. “Oh, it’s there all right. It’s there plenty. The Alsek valley’s full of it—when we can reach it. That’s one of the things makes me feel bad for this place. When we strike it, as we’re sure to, the old gold boom that bred this city won’t be any sort of circumstance.”

“When’ll that be?”

Burns’ eyes were shrewdly inquiring. It was his business to be well-informed.

“Any old time, maybe a month, maybe two years.” McLagan shook his head. “You can’t just say. But two years from now is our limit. That’ll make a seven-year prospect.”

“I see.” Burns nodded and glanced round. The door had opened to admit the first arrival of the boarders. “Well, we need it. There’s some gold flowing in slowly from the country. But things are dead flat, and I can’t even begin to guess where the folks collect the dollars spent at the Speedway every night. Max, there, tells me he’s looking to a big spending winter, but I don’t see how he figures it. Howdy, Tilbury,” he nodded at the new arrival. “Where’s your partner, Allison?”

The newcomer, slight, short and with greying hair, nodded back a greeting.

“Oh, I guess he’s on the bum around. He’ll be along. Glad to see you, Mr. McLagan,” he said, turning quickly and almost deferentially to the engineer. “Opened up a gusher yet?”

McLagan’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his protesting chair.

“Guess I’ll be asked that haf a century of times before the night’s out. No, boy,” he said. “The old earth’s holding up her secrets and looks like holding ’em years. An’ say, you’ll be doing me real service putting that news around when the boys come in to feed. Put it round quick, while I go and wash. Travelling’s a mighty dirty pastime around Beacon Glory, which is only reasonable.” And he passed out of the office just as a distant bell rang announcing the evening meal.

“Bad” Booker was sitting in his private room behind the outer office. It was a comfortable apartment, almost sumptuous, and seemed to be the natural setting for the personality of this real estate man. He was a heavy creature with a flowing moustache, of which, to judge by the inordinate care he bestowed upon it, he was exceedingly proud. He was fat and everything about him was gross. His general appearance and manner were of extreme good nature, and his smile to this end was of a quality admirably calculated to emphasise it. But Beacon Glory knew the man because, whatever other things Beacon Glory may have lacked, it had a swift estimate of those who were part of its public life. Those whose misfortune made it necessary to come into business contact with Bad Booker hated and detested the man, and more particularly his smile, for they quickly found that the real estate mask was incapable of long concealing the ugly features of the usurer underneath.

He was smoking a pungent Turkish cigarette liberally besprinkled with gold lettering, and the while he was studying the extensive deed of title relating to a corner block in the chief avenue of the city. An air of calm satisfaction pervaded the man, for he knew that the property under consideration was about to fall into his hands at a price which even he regarded as advantageous. It was what he desired.

He was a shrewd creature with a wide vision in the matter of self-interest. Whatever others might think of Beacon Glory, he, at least, had no doubts. He realised with absolute certainty that the place was there to stay. It was within twenty miles of a fine, wide harbour for shipping from the South. It was built on the shores of a large lake whose name, since the city’s building, had become associated with the place, and it occupied a site in the heart of a splendid valley which ran right down to the sea and was the highway to the interior of Alaska through the otherwise almost impassable world of the southern hills. It was the centre of a gold region that was as yet in its infancy. Furthermore, there was coal and iron, and undoubtedly oil in abundance in the broken world about it. The place was “flat” now as a reaction from its original boom, but it was moving steadily if slowly, and the right men were drifting in with a view to exploring its resources.

Very quietly and unostentatiously he was acquiring every property that fell into the market so long as the price met his ideas of investment. He was ready to mortgage for any town property. Smiling at all times, his purse was always open for any proprietor of a town lot who needed temporary assistance. The man was a merciless money-spinner of the worst type. Disaster and misfortune to others were the conditions under which his real business prospered.

He laid the documents aside and lit a fresh cigarette from the remains of the other, which he dropped thoughtfully into the silver-mounted ash-tray on the desk beside him. Then he sat back in his chair, and, with his fleshy hands clasped over his ample stomach, gave himself up to a few moments of rapid mental calculation.

But his efforts were broken in upon. There was a light tap on the opaque glass of the door that shut him off from the outer office, and a clerk pushed his way in.

In an instant his smiling habit returned, but his tone of greeting was sharp.

“What in hell is it this time, Jake?” he demanded, while his hands fell away from his stomach.

Jake Forner was a mild-looking creature whose face gave no true indication of the man behind it. He was broad and angular, with shoulders that looked sizes too big for the rest of his body. He was clean-shaven, with the wide brow and big dark eyes of the student. But his mouth and jaws were firmly set and suggested possibilities.

“It’s an open letter,” he said, “and it was handed in by a kid I just didn’t seem to rec’nise. I didn’t feel like worrying you with it till I opened it, then I guessed I’d best pass it in to you right away.”

He came over to the desk and held out an open sheet of paper, while his dark eyes closely scrutinised the smiling features of his employer.

Booker took the paper without interest for all the other’s quietly impressive manner. He glanced at the open sheet casually, and, in a moment, his attention became profoundly absorbed.

Jake Forner was watching him. His eyes had something in them that suggested smiling thought behind them. He was noting his employer’s expression and saw it change rapidly from its habitual smile to complete seriousness, and, finally, to something that seemed to suggest anger not undriven by alarm.

It was a curious document, littered with a scrawling writing made up of rough block capital letters and evidently indited by some rough instrument, possibly a piece of sharpened wood. The lettering was red and at the bottom of it, underneath the signature, was the rough outline of a skull and crossbones, a flamboyant, melodramatic finish that might well have inspired derision. But somehow, the thing inspired nothing of the sort in the mind of the man to whom it was addressed. He read it carefully:

Bad Booker,

You are trying to steal a city block from a helpless client. You have a mortgage on it for two thousand dollars. You are offering two thousand dollars more to wipe out the mortgage and possess the lot. The lowest market value of the property is ten thousand dollars. You will pay the difference between your mortgage and ten thousand dollars, namely, eight thousand dollars for the site. You have twenty-four hours in which to make a written offer of this amount. If you fail to do this, and to complete the deal in one week from this date, you will be hanged on the site in question.

Sgd. Chief Light of the Aurora.

Booker did not look up as he finished the reading. He sat gazing at the paper, and once or twice Jake Forner observed that he swallowed drily. Then, as the man remained furiously silent, the clerk cleared his throat.

“That’s about as ugly as I’ve known ’em to play,” he said in a tone of mild sympathy.

Booker laid the paper down and raised a pair of angry eyes. The clerk saw the storm in them and waited for it to break. It came on the instant.

“The swines!” Booker’s body was squared in the well-padded chair. He was sitting up and breathing heavily. “The dirty, low-down swines!” he cried. Then a heavy fist was raised and fell with a crash on the ill-drawn sign of the skull. “If they think they can scare me with a bluff like that I reckon they’re crazy. It’s a hold-up, and I’m falling for no hold-up. By God! I’ll fight them! Eight thousand? Not on your life. I’ll press that two thousand home right away and show ’em they can’t throw a bluff at me and get away with it. They want a written offer. Well, I guess they’ll get it. I’ll write it now an’ you can beat it out to the Carver woman, and put it right into her hands. But it’s for two thousand dollars. And I guess she’ll fall for it quick or—starve.”

He pushed the Aurora Clan’s document roughly aside and started to write out his offer, but Jake anxiously intervened; he quickly raised a white hand and passed it across his broad forehead.

“I wouldn’t act in a hurry,” he said quickly. “You’re bucking a tough game with the ‘aces’ against you. The Aurora bunch have been mighty busy in the past weeks. Is it worth it? Just look back an’ see. Bernard’s gone. Clean wiped out, an’ he’s had to beat it out of Beacon looking like a black rooster that hasn’t moulted right. Then there was Pat Herne who robbed Len Sitwell when he was soused at the Speedway. They hanged him right outside the town limits. Then don’t forget Dick Mansell, who held up the stage coming in from Ranger. He was left pumped full of lead till you couldn’t tell his guts from an ash riddle. I’m scared for you, boss. I surely am. Ther’s a terror creepin’ through this place scares me plumb to death. These guys are a citizen bunch and no sort of ordinary toughs. They’re acting seemingly with some sort of slab-sided purpose. They’re wise to every move going on, an’ I can’t reckon how they get hold of things. But there it is, and when they hand in a brief on a boy they put through the thing it says. We’re a business enterprise, boss, and it’s our job to beat the other feller if we can. But I sort of feel when ther’s a hanging bee at the end of it, business goes right out. Don’t you jump, boss. Sure I’m scared. I haven’t your nerve. But I got it right here,” and he tapped his forehead with a forefinger, “this is no sort of bluff. It’s dead straight. An’ I’m not yearning to see you swinging on the wrong end of a rawhide rope.”

Jake spoke quietly but urgently, and his usually mild eyes were a match for his manner. He was Booker’s confidential clerk, a man of quiet efficiency and whose vision was unusually clear. So, for all his swift wrath, Booker had let him talk. Now, however, the usurer leapt uppermost and his reply was swift and biting.

“You want me to hand out eight thousand at the orders of this gang?” he cried, furiously. “You want me to pass eight thousand good dollars to Rebecca Carver when she’s ready to close for two? You’re crazy, Jake! Crazy as a bed-bug! If that’s the sort of business we’re to do, I guess the sooner we close our doors and beat it the better. Besides——”

“And the hanging bee?”

The eyes of the clerk were steadily regarding his furious chief, and somehow the quiet reminder was not without effect. Booker shifted his gaze and it fell on the lamentable design of the skull.

“This thing sets me crazy mad,” he protested, and his tone had somehow fallen from its original bluster.

“But you’ll be madder—for a while—at the hanging bee.”

Booker broke into a short, harsh laugh at his clerk’s persistence in dwelling upon the thing he saw lying ahead.

“That stunt has got you scared all right, Jake,” Booker said, with a world of contempt in the quick look he raised to the man’s pale face. “Maybe you’re guessing, seeing you’re my clerk, they’ll need you to be present to share in the game.”

A flush mounted to the clerk’s cheeks.

“You can guess that way if you fancy, boss,” he retorted, in a pronounced change of tone. Then his eyes searched the fat, unsmiling face before him. “But you best get this right now and get it quick. I’m out for your profit as well as my own. I’m out to see this business go right on without any interruption in the nature of a hanging bee. If you collected that chunk of real estate for two thousand dollars on top of the mortgage it would be a swell profit. Some folks might call it robbery, seeing they ain’t in it. But ten thousand dollars is bedrock just now as they say in that brief, and, when boom time comes again, you won’t miss the six thousand dollars’ difference they’re demanding. Well, I guess I’d buy off a hanging bee, with me as the centrepiece, any old time for six thousand dollars. And if you’re wise, I guess you’ll act that way, too.”

“But you’re forgetting the bluff of it all,” Booker said, without looking up. Then he raised his hard eyes. “Gee, haven’t you any sort of old guts makes you want to kick? Can you stand for a thing like that?” he cried, holding up the ill-written document. “Are we men, or——?”

“We certainly wouldn’t be men for long if we didn’t stand for it. You don’t seem to get a grip of this thing, boss. I’ve watched it all the time. This Aurora bunch is as real as the old Ku-Klux Klan, that cleaned up the south in the nigger days. You’re wondering if we’re men. Well, I’d say right here, let’s be. Don’t write your offer in a hurry. Think awhile. An’ when you’ve thought good I’ll saddle my pony and ride out to Rebecca Carver with the result. It won’t hurt us to get that block at the price they say. But it will at any other. I’m making that tracing of the new city limits and need to get right on with it. Maybe in a while you’ll let me know the thing you’ve decided.”

Jake turned away and passed quickly into the outer office, closing the partition door carefully behind him. Booker watched him go with eyes which had doubt in them for the first time. Yielding was utterly foreign to his nature where advantage in a transaction lay within his grasp. But the mild-eyed clerk had driven home his argument in a fashion all the more relentless for its sobriety. And for once in his life Bad Booker, the usurer, was thinking more of the vision of a hanging as conjured by his subordinate than he was of robbing a helpless widow of six thousand dollars.