Читать книгу The Man From Sing Sing - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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Reuben Argels, fortified by several visits to the smoking room, went down to dinner that night, and, with a bold front, faced for the first time the two hundred and thirty-eight passengers who filled the saloon. Things, however, went ill with him from the start. The second steward regretted that the place he had asked for at Mr. Pulwitter’s table was already taken. It was, as it happened, unoccupied, but that was because the passenger was ill and he might appear at any moment. He affected not to see the note which fluttered tentatively in Argels’ fingers and led him towards a solitary table at the far end of the room. Argels was taking his place—the steward, indeed, had bowed himself away—when he received the second and more poignant shock of this momentous day. The floor heaved up beneath his feet. The knuckles of the hand which gripped the side of his chair were tensely white. Seated only three tables away, looking at him, as it seemed at first, with indifferent eyes, was the woman whom he had last seen struggling to reach Moran Chambers’ hand as he was led from the court—Ambouyna Kotinzi, the world-famed cinema actress, whom New York had pronounced the most beautiful woman in the universe....

An utterly commonplace incident forced Reuben Argels back into touch with his surroundings. A waiter stood by his side, an extended menu in his hand.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

Reuben Argels subsided into his chair. The man leaned sympathetically towards him.

“Not feeling very well, sir?” he enquired. “Shall I get you some brandy? She has started to roll a bit the last half-hour.”

Argels recovered himself.

“I’m all right,” he declared. “A glass of champagne would do me more good than brandy, I think.”

He ordered his dinner, selected some wine, and unfolded his napkin. Fate had dealt ill with him in his choice of a steamer. Andrew Pulwitter—Moran Chambers’ greatest friend—he had been prepared to meet, but this woman, the object of his own infatuation, whom all New York declared to be madly in love with Chambers, her presence seemed to him far more menacing. He summoned up his courage and ventured to look at her. She was so beautiful that, afraid though he was, he could scarcely glance at her without a twinge of emotion. Her skin, almost destitute of colour, had an exquisite smoothness. Her deep blue eyes were fringed with silky black eyelashes. The dark rims underneath seemed to detract nothing from her loveliness. He hated himself as he remembered the beginning of his infatuation for her. There had been letters, flowers, a jewel case, all returned unopened. Then at last he had met her in Moran Chambers’ apartment, her arm around his neck, her devotion blatant. He knew very well, although he had seldom acknowledged it to himself, that from that moment he had hated Moran Chambers. He had had his revenge, but much good it was likely to do him, so far as this woman was concerned. He had caught her eye for a moment, as he had descended from the witness box. He had passed close to her and she had drawn her skirts aside, as though from some loathsome animal.... It was a cruel stroke of fortune to place him within a few yards of her here. Perhaps—but there was no chance of that. All the world spoke of her fidelity. He was the last man upon whom she was likely to cast even a glance. He tried to persuade himself that revenge was worth having. To-night Moran Chambers was wearing prison garb and eating prison food. He poured some champagne into his glass and drank a silent toast. It was scarcely a pleasant one, but it was at least fervent. As he set down his empty goblet, some impulse, partly perhaps of defiance, impelled him to look across that space of empty tables. Ambouyna was watching him. Her eyes met his without a quiver. There was no recognition in them, but, on the other hand there was no flash of passionate anger, neither was there even a frown upon her beautiful face. Perhaps she was wondering what that toast had been. He had an insane longing to tell her....

Afterwards, he drank his coffee and smoked his cigar in the verandah café. He was a lonely man, but that was almost to be expected. The cause célèbre in which he had just featured was none too savoury a one, and out of his own mouth, in the witness box, he had been forced into admitting himself responsible for many minor acts, dishonourable, if not dishonest. He had never hoped to be able to resume his position in New York. London, however, for which city he was bound, was different, less discriminating, if not more charitable. It was entirely a new world, this, to which he was going, a new form of enterprise to which he was committed. He thought of it without misgiving, even, when he could rid his mind of other matters, with enthusiasm. He had no lack of confidence in his own powers. A man who had started as an errand boy, who had made a quarter of a million on Wall Street before he had ever come into contact with Moran Chambers and his friends, could scarcely be at a disadvantage in the city of London. Besides, the basis of money making was the same all the world over. He drew a pencil from his pocket, and a piece of paper, and began to make calculations. Suddenly his fingers became numb. He was conscious of a queer sense of excitement. There was a perfume around him, a presence which the sensuous nature of the man swiftly interpreted. Some one was standing by his side. He looked up. It was Ambouyna, in a flaming red dress, the top part of which only, chiffon to her throat, he had seen in the dining room. She was looking down at him with contemplative eyes. Whatever bitter feeling she may have felt was at that moment concealed.

“You are Mr. Reuben Argels, are you not?” she enquired.

“That is my name,” he admitted, rising unsteadily to his feet. “The whole world knows yours.”

She nodded.

“You came to a party at Moran Chambers’ flat one night,” she reflected. “We met there, didn’t we?”

“For the first time,” he assented. “I—I must confess that I made an effort to become acquainted with you before. I fear that I gave you offence.”

There was a faint note of scorn in her little laugh.

“My dear man,” she told him, “half New York has offended me in the same way. We have spoken of our first meeting. Do you remember our last?”

“I do,” he confessed.

“It was at the courthouse,” she went on. “I think that you are a very brave man. I think that you are one of the bravest men I ever met. I felt a sudden impulse to stop and tell you so.”

“Won’t you sit down?” he invited, as she still lingered.

To his amazement, she consented. This act of possible friendliness gave him courage. His subtlety of brain was returning, and, with it, his self-confidence.

“I don’t know why you should consider me brave,” he protested. “It was a painful ordeal, to give evidence against a friend, but I had to do it. If I had kept silent, Andrew Pulwitter would have been dragged in, not to speak of myself, and Chambers would have been no better off.”

He saw the disbelief lurking in her eyes and felt the sting of her bitter laugh.

“I know a great deal about Moran’s affairs,” she confided. “I know that you lied to keep yourself from going to prison and to make it quite certain that he went there. It was very dramatic and I say again that it appears to me to need courage when the man who has been sent to prison was Moran Chambers.”

“I was sorry for the result of my evidence,” he persisted doggedly. “Nothing could have saved Moran from conviction, though. He had broken the law a dozen times over.”

“So had you all. That could have been proved if the case had gone on. Moran Chambers had other enemies, though. The law wanted him and it made use of you. I suppose you are very happy in your escape, yes?”

“I went through a great deal,” he told her, with an attempt at dignity. “For me it is finished. I would rather not speak of it any more.”

“You are very wise,” she agreed, with quiet sarcasm. “That is what you told the journalists, is it not?”

“May I offer you coffee perhaps?” he invited.

She shook her head and rose to her feet.

“Just now,” she confessed, “I am not in the humour to drink coffee with you. I wished to see what you looked like, close at hand. I still think that you are a very brave man.”

“I wish that you were not so prejudiced against me,” he pleaded.

“Prejudice is not quite the word,” she rejoined. “You see, Moran Chambers is my dear friend.”

“Was, you mean,” he corrected spitefully. “Moran doesn’t exist any more, so far as this world is concerned. Fifteen years, and even ten, if he gets off with that, will break him.”

Her eyes swept his eager face with immeasurable contempt.

“Moran Chambers will remain in Sing Sing Prison,” she declared, “just as long as he likes and no longer. It may be you who will take his place.” ...

She drifted away and was pounced upon at once by one of the many cavaliers who were waiting their opportunity. He passed her a few minutes later on his way to the smoking room, the centre of a little group of men, young and old. She raised her eyes. There was no recognition in her fleet glance, nor any friendship; something, perhaps, of menace, a little of mockery. He passed impatiently on to the smoking room. After all, the woman was an artist, and no artist possesses common sense. He patted his evening Marconigram, which remained in his coat pocket. Chambers was a man of great gifts and great personality—he was ready to admit that—he had always admitted it, but there were limits to a man’s power, and the walls of the most fiercely guarded prison in the world were never likely to crumble and fall down at his trumpet call. In the smoking room he found Pulwitter alone and he at once took the vacant seat by his side.

“Andrew,” he announced, “I want to talk to you.”

The Scotchman eyed him keenly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows.

“I couldn’t believe m’ eyes when I saw Moran’s little lady talking to you just now,” he observed. “What might she have been saying?”

“Just a few words of nonsense,” was the irritable reply. “According to her, Chambers can walk out of prison when he chooses. A woman who gets that way about a man is simply crazy. I came here to talk to you about something else.”

He ordered whiskies and sodas from the bar, lit a cigarette, and waited whilst his companion filled a peculiarly disreputable-looking pipe.

“What are your plans when you arrive in London?” he asked presently.

“My mind is undecided for the moment,” Pulwitter acknowledged. “We brought plenty away with us and there’s the Bamford Trust in the near future. I’ll probably buy a small house up near Edinburgh and take things easy.”

Argels laughed scornfully.

“A man with a brain like yours is not going to be content with a million dollars. We both know that. I am going to make mine into ten.”

“You’re a younger man than I am and you need occupation,” Pulwitter remarked.

“So do you,” Argels insisted. “As soon as you smell the money-making in the air, you’ll want to be getting at it. Now, Andrew, let’s have this out. You’ve always been Chambers’ friend and you disapproved of the bargain I made, although you owe your liberty to it. Never mind that. You can’t alter what’s happened. Every man for himself in this world. That’s the only motto a business man can afford to have. Therefore I say wipe out the past and its prejudices. Moran Chambers is off the map, but you and I are still on it. I have ideas of my own about a financial business in London. What about coming in with me? Equal capital, equal profits, and I’ll guarantee that I’ll do most of the work.”

Andrew Pulwitter withdrew his pipe from his mouth and laid it by his side.

“That’s a plain question,” he said, “and I’ll give you a plain answer. I will not come in with you, Reuben Argels. I would not be your partner in any serious enterprise for any money you could offer me.”

There was a moment’s pause. Argels was not a sensitive man, but his companion’s uncompromising speech had struck beneath the surface. There was a flush in his cheeks, a half-angry, half-hurt look in his eyes.

“Why not?” he protested. “Is it my judgment you doubt? Moran had the social backing, of course, and your judgment was always good, but I made most of the money that was made by our little syndicate.”

“You did well enough,” Pulwitter admitted. “You have a money-making brain, and I’m not doubting but that if you live long enough you’ll make more, but I’ll not be your partner for two reasons. The first is that I wouldn’t form an association with a perjurer, and the second is that I don’t want my affairs mixed up with yours when Moran Chambers strikes back.”

Reuben Argels lost his temper. There were a dozen heads in the smoking room turned at the sound of his fist striking the table in front of him.

“Are you all crazy?” he demanded. “Chambers has been sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude. He is in Sing Sing Prison at the present moment, and even though he says his prayers at night and goes to church every Sunday, he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting out before ten years. What do you mean by ‘when he strikes back?’ Are you like Ambouyna Kotinzi? Do you think he can walk out of prison when he chooses?”

Pulwitter seemed determined not to be led into making a hasty reply. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. Then he glanced out of the dripping porthole. They had run into a squall, and the Fernanda, great ship though she was, was pitching heavily.

“Maybe I’m a trifle superstitious, Argels,” he acknowledged. “That’s neither here nor there. You have asked me a plain question and I have given you a plain answer.”

Reuben Argels was a very disturbed man. The quietness of his tone was only attained by a mighty effort at repression.

“I saved you from prison, Andrew Pulwitter,” he declared, “as well as myself, by making a bargain, if you choose to call it so, with the prosecution, and giving the evidence against Moran which they couldn’t collect. They wanted Moran and they didn’t want us. We’re both free and we’re both rich men. Do you owe me nothing for that?”

“What you did, you did to save your own skin,” was Andrew Pulwitter’s stern rejoinder. “I’m better off as it is, I grant you, but I haven’t a word of thanks or a sentence of gratitude to offer you. Furthermore, if I had known what you were going to be up to, I’d have been in court myself and fought my way into the box. It was a foul thing you did, Argels. I don’t believe for a moment that you’ll get away with it. You think I’m crazy, but I tell you this. Moran Chambers held his tongue, for one reason, because he’s a great sportsman, and for another—and I’m pretty sure of what I’m telling you—because he’d made his plans if things went as they have done. I don’t blame you for keeping to your cabin when you heard I was on board and bringing a weapon with you when you did come out. It just happens, though, that I’m not a killing man. There are plenty who are and you’ll need to tread gingerly, my lad. Perjury is a pretty serious affair under any conditions.”

Reuben Argels finished his drink, brushed the cigar ash from his waistcoat, and stood up.

“Pulwitter,” he said, “I am very glad you decided as you did. I haven’t any time in this life to waste with fools.”

The Scotchman grinned. He had not the slightest objection to being called a fool. A good many people in the past, who had thought him simple-minded, had found their bank accounts suffered for the idea.

“Good night, Argels,” he responded. “Keep looking out. Life’s a dangerous business.”

Reuben Argels had meant to make a complete promenade of the ship, but just before he finished the first circuit, he became conscious that his knees were shaking. He paused and looked over the side. He had always prided himself upon his nerve and his self-restraint. Both had failed him since that long afternoon in the Law Court. He took himself earnestly to task. The memory of Moran Chambers’ sinister smile, the mysterious warnings of an hysterical woman, crazy with confidence in her lover, the abuse of a dour Scotchman, full of superstitions and narrow prejudices! What were these for him to take serious notice of, to interfere for one moment with the career which he had planned for himself? He watched the bows of the ship dip into the trough of the sea, and mount again to the tops of the great waves, driven everlastingly forward by the huge power of the throbbing engines. Once the spray fell around him, stinging his cheeks, leaving behind a keen, salty flavour. He had plenty of imagination of a sort, and, for a time, he was fascinated. Here was power indeed—this turbulent element met and conquered by the brain of man. He leaned farther over, and gazed, spellbound, into the black gulf below. Suddenly he felt what seemed to be a prick upon his shoulder. It was scarcely a pain. It was as though a needle, lost in his clothing, had been driven against his arm by his straining over the side. He stood upright, and shook himself, just in time to see a dark form disappear down the strip of deck between the chartroom and the bows. He followed, but, by the time he reached it, the passage was empty. He looked along its imperfectly lit and narrow stretch and turned away. He felt his shoulder nervously and fear seized him. Down in his stateroom, he tore off his coat and examined it. There was a small round hole through the top of the sleeve, through his shirt, and a tiny scratch upon the shoulder blade itself from which oozed one drop of blood. It was less than the prick of a child’s finger, yet he dabbed it with his sponge and dried it with meticulous care. Then he locked his door and commenced slowly to undress. Curiously enough, he had no idea of lodging any form of complaint. His whole attention was engrossed by amazed speculation as to the ineffectuality of the attack. He asked himself repeatedly what could be the meaning of so eccentric a gesture. The times when, within his knowledge, Moran Chambers had struck in self-defence, or at an enemy, it had been no such child’s play as this. There was an element of disturbing mystery about so daring, yet so ineffective an assault, he thought, as he went shivering to bed.