Читать книгу Another Day - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 7

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Mr. Chisholm rang the electric bell at his elbow and frowned.

Wilbur Chisholm, fifty years of age, vigorous, imperious, a potent factor in the world of men and things, whose power reached across continents and seas, scowled grimly at the marble head of the Emperor Vespasian that scowled as grimly back at him from its pedestal beside his great desk; and it was to be remarked (and duly noted) that the marble head of this long-dead Roman was strangely like the head of the modern, very much alive American citizen, for both had the same mighty spread of brow, dominant nose and massive jaw; both faces held the same look of power and relentless will, but the stern ruthlessness of each was tempered by the mouth, for about these firm lips lurked the ghost of a smile, humour was there and something more—these super-men it seemed might be human after all.

So Wilbur Chisholm, sitting lonely in his great house within this mighty city of New York, stared at the sculptured head of this long-dead, mighty Roman (that might have passed for his own), and apostrophised it, as was customary with him in solitary moments of crisis or distress:

“Well, Old-timer, history tells me you had your troubles too, and out-faced ’em like a man and Roman. But then ... your boy was a son to you ... of sorts. Leastways he kept himself decently honourable ... clean.... And he won battles and carried on after you ... yes, became a mighty good ruler too! But ... my son ... my boy, Old-timer ... I ... have no son. Well, thank God his mother’s dead ... this at least I can be thankful for—now.... Ha, is that you, Sanders?”

“Myself, sir,” answered a discreetly modulated voice, “myself, sir, as per usual with your pick-me-up and——”

“Then I don’t want it—take it away!”

“Not want it, sir? But you rang!”

“Sheer force of habit. You can go.”

“Excuse me, sir, but——”

“What is it?”

Tenderly setting down the antique silver tray, with its very modern shaker and glasses, Sanders approached the great man deferentially; an imposing personage was Sanders, whose pate, slightly bald, rose pink and domelike through an aureole of carefully-brushed hair, whose chubby, smooth-shaven face was void of line, wrinkle and all expression save a solemn deference that just now almost amounted to awe:

“Sir,” said he, bowing, “permit me to inform you that my lord the Earl of Withymore is waiting to——”

“Look at that!” said Wilbur Chisholm, gesturing towards the marble Roman. “They say I’m like him.”

“I have frequently remarked the resemblance, sir, but——”

“Well anyway he was a man, Sanders. D’ye know who he is?”

“When dusting him sir—which I do frequent, I have gleaned the hinformation that the gentleman’s name was Vesp. Imp.”

“Sure, his name’s carved on him—Vespasianus Imperator, Emperor of Rome. He began life as a poor soldier under the eagles and ended it as ruler of a great empire.... And he was the first of ’em who died a natural death!”

“Highly commendable, sir! Very inter-esting! But might I venture to remind you——”

“He called his ministers sponges, Sanders, and treated ’em so,—for says he, ‘I wet ’em when they’re dry and squeeze ’em when they’re wet’.”

“Very facetious, sir, a re-markable character, which reminds me that his lordship the Earl of Withymore desires——”

“It’s all of ten years since I yanked you out of gaol and made an honest man of you, isn’t it, Sanders?”

“Nearly eleven, sir.”

“You are—reasonably honest, I suppose?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“In your unregenerate days you never killed a man, eh, Sanders?”

“Heavens forbid, sir.”

“I’m asking—did you?”

“No, sir, positively—no never!”

“Murder’s a pretty serious proposition to-day—even in New York, eh, Sanders?”

“Undoubtedly, sir—unless one is blessed with immense wealth.”

“Ha—what ’n hell d’you mean?”

Sanders recoiled before the sudden ferocity of his master’s tone and aspect:

“N-nothing, sir!” he stammered and, though his triple chins quivered, his prominent blue eyes met the piercing glare of the deep-set grey and faltered not.

“I believe you!” said Wilbur Chisholm with sudden nod. “Now you can show him in.”

“Eh sir ... I ... I beg pardon——?”

“That sprig of nobility, young Withymore.”

“Certainly, sir—immediately!” So saying, Sanders vanished much quicker than he had appeared, whereupon Wilbur Chisholm leaned back in his chair with something very like a sigh and frowned at Vespasian, that old-timer, harder than ever. Then the door opened and a pleasant, drawling voice hailed him:

“How do, sir? Hope y’haven’t forgotten me?” Saying which, a pleasant young man entered, golden-haired, ruddy, blue-eyed and despite its drawl, his voice was deep and contrived to sound hearty, and though his air was languid, his blue eyes were remarkably clear and bright; a well-set-up young man, as neatly turned out and groomed as any of his beloved horses.

“Met you at the polo-match, sir; Keith introduced us if you remember?”

“Why yes,” said Wilbur Chisholm rising to shake hands. “Sit down, what’ll you drink?”

“Nothing thanks!” answered his lordship shaking curly head. “Keeping a bit fit, the track, boxing and what not, just at present. I dropped in about Keith.” Wilbur Chisholm merely nodded his great head and murmured:

“About him—yes?”

“Yes, t’remind him of his promise; y’see we’ve arranged a bit of a do, what I mean t’say is, I suggested he should teedle over to England with me, if y’know what I mean, and give me a leg-up with my new gees. Y’see, sir, Keith’s such an all-round sportsman, very sound pippin indeed, and as for polo and judgment of a pony, well, what I mean t’say is—there you are?”

“Ah, indeed?” murmured Keith’s father, rubbing massive chin and knitting puzzled brows.

“Now, I’m trotting over with a string, next week, and——”

“A string, my lord? What of—beads?”

“Well no, sir, no not exactly, if y’know what I mean; fact is they’re polo-ponies, six of the very toppingest—absolute birds! Keith helped me t’ choose ’em, and Keith is about the top-holest judge in——”

“He is—a friend of yours, Lord Withymore?”

“About the best of ’em, sir. Keith’s an absolute sportsman, absolutely——”

“When did you see him last?”

“’Bout a month ago. I’m only just back from Palm Beach, and dropped in to see Keith but your butler-man says he’s out——”

“He is: in Europe, I believe.”

His lordship opened his blue eyes very wide but (be it noted) shut his firm mouth very tight; then:

“’Stounding!” he exclaimed. “When did he leave, sir?”

“Nearly three weeks ago.”

“Aha—gone to my place, perhaps, sir!”

“Where is your place, my lord?”

“Well, they’re a bit scattered, if you know what I mean, sir—what I mean t’say is they’re here and there—London and the country, but my stables are in Sussex. Perhaps he’s nipped off there—I hope so. There’s a cove in my stables, bit of a bruiser, call him bash-full Ben! Now your son’s very hot with the gloves and if he is there, well—I hope he is, that’s all!”

“But why should—he go to your stables?”

“Well, it’s just a thought—a hunch y’know! What I mean is, I’ve a horse there, a devil—a mankiller that nobody can ride, and Keith bet me he’d ride it if ever he had the chance, bet me a monkey he’d tame it, and if anyone can he can, and if he’s in old England the betting is that he makes for my place on the run to have a go.”

“You seem to rate his prowess over-highly, my lord.”

“Oh no, sir, y’see I know Keith pretty well. But that horse is a perfect demon, killed one man and savaged another. I only hope he doesn’t break Keith’s neck—what I mean is, Keith’s a bit reckless.”

“He might come to a worse end!” quoth Wilbur Chisholm, glancing at Vespasian and nodding a little grimly. “Yes, there are worse deaths!”

Here his lordship opened his eyes again, but this time, his mouth also, glanced from the grimmer face of flesh and blood to the grim face of marble, breathed hard and spoke:

“Cert’nly sir, of course, oh quite! But of course, if you understand what I mean, death’s never a very cheery business—what I mean is, a bit coldish, clammy and what not, y’know! And now if y’ll excuse me I’ll be popping. No end of business so must toddle—Goo’bye, sir!” Saying which, his lordship rose, shook hands heartily, smiled cheerily, crossed lightly to the door and was gone.

And now, looking after this singularly pleasing young man, and contrasting him with another as young and once as bright and promising, Wilbur Chisholm sighed heavily and unmistakably and, doubtless forgetting that marble Roman, drooped in his chair, bowing head upon hands like one faint and weary beneath some grievous burden. Thus, he was quite unaware that the door had opened softly a few inches to admit a very small, extremely slim man who, closing the door as softly, leaned against it, fanning himself with a broad-brimmed stetson hat. A person this of uncertain age, for whereas his eyes were remarkably keen and, like his movements, quick with vigorous life, his brow was deep-furrowed by years and experience and his hair was snow-white, a silvery mane that curled almost to his thin but wiry shoulders. Motionless stood he, save for the gentle swaying of his large hat and his eyes that, beholding Wilbur Chisholm in his so uncharacteristic and highly un-Roman attitude, instantly averted themselves, darting their bright glance about this noble book-lined room, with its handsome railed gallery and two flights of stairs, its costly rugs and luxurious appointments; at last he spoke in voice sudden yet soft:

“Jee—hoshophat, quite some books you got here Wilb—I guesso!”

Wilbur Chisholm stared, raised his head and was on his feet, all in a moment:

“Jed!” he exclaimed joyously, and with hands outstretched. “Jed Wollet ... old Jedidiah ... well, well!”

“’S me!” nodded the little man, peering up glad-eyed at the big man who smiled down on him while their hands clasped and wrung each other. “’S me, Wilb—how are ya?”

“Well ... for heaven’s sake!” murmured Wilbur Chisholm, still shaking that small, bony fist up and down, and to and fro. “You old son-of-a-gun, I’m everlasting glad to see you! What’s brought you so far from the ranges?”

“What’s brought me? Say now ef that ain’t a fool question, Bud! What should bring me but th’ kid, yessir, our lad! In trouble kinda, ain’t he? Well’s nuff for old Jed—that’s why I come pirootin’ east, heeled for what’s a-goin’, yessir—I guesso! Well, what’s a-doin’? Where is he?”

Wilbur Chisholm’s smile faded, the kindly light died from his eyes and he became as stonily Roman as Vespasian himself.

“I guess you mean ... Keith?” he inquired in tone as altered as his look.

“I betcha! Where is he?”

“Away, Jed.”

“Gol darn it—where to?”

“Europe.”

“Eh—Eu-rope? An’ ye let him go?”

“I sent him, Jed.”

“Hell’s bells!” exclaimed Jedidiah, his bright eyes snapping fiercely. “You sent him—you? An’ he should be right here in N’York to face them mean coyotes as framed him!”

“Jed, what d’you know of this dirty business, and how?”

“Only what I read outa his letter——”

“Eh—letter? What did he write?”

“Oh he jest ’fessed-up to bein’ a murderer——”

“Ah, he—he wrote you a—confession?”

“Sure! He writes me some fool con-stuff o’ that kind,—but it ain’t good ’nuff for me t’ swaller—not Jed!”

“May I see this letter, Jed?”

“Sure! But first I’ll read it ya—listen, Wilb!”

From the bosom of his rough coat Jedidiah drew a much-worn leather wallet whence he extracted a letter which he opened and read aloud, slowly and deliberately:

“‘Oh Jed—’ that’s how he begins, Bud,—jest ‘Oh Jed—you’re the only creature that counts with me now that the Dad’—that’s all scratched out, Bud—‘and I am unworthy of yuh. An awful thing has happened, a man is dead and to the best, or worst of my belief, I murdered him. And yet, Uncle Jed, if I did I was sure mad, for I remembered nothing of it when I came to—only the gun in my hand when I woke, and the blood. So I’m going to bury myself, God knows where, but I shall try to act up to your teaching and the Dad’s’—that’s scratched out again, Bud—‘I mean to live it down if possible, if not ... I am always in my heart ... just your ... Boy Keith’.” Here for a moment was silence, for neither of them spoke nor moved; then with quick, sudden gesture Jedidiah thrust the letter into his companion’s hand who read it through very carefully, refolded and handed it back without a word.

“Well?” demanded the little man sharply. “What-cha gotta say of it, Wilb?”

“What do you think, Jed?”

“I say the boy was framed, yessir! An’ I don’t only think it, I’m almighty sure, well I guess!”

“But, old friend, what do you—know?”

“Well I know ’nuff t’ stand pat on our boy, yessir! To be everlastin’ shore as he never commit no murder——”

“Sit down, Jed, and let us talk.”

“Heck no—you doubt the lad, I’d rayther stand!”

“Sit down and listen to me, I say!” With which, Wilbur Chisholm set mighty arm about the fierce, little man and, leading him across the spacious library, seated him in his own elbow-chair.

“First of all, Jed, this was no frame-up——”

“Hey? An’ you believe that, you doubt your own son——”

“Listen, Jed. Of late he had got in with a mighty ugly crowd, bootleggers and worse, and chief among them was Red Rory, the murdered man. Well it seems Keith quarrelled with him about some woman, thrashed him and threatened to kill him and ... well ... he kept his word, it seems——”

“Wilb,” quoth the little man, glaring, “whatcha tellin’ me?”

“The truth, old partner.”

“Then I don’t believe ya—no sir, not me, not Jed Wollet! Why, hain’t I knowed Keith sence he wur foaled? Didn’t I larn him to straddle his first hoss? Arter his blessed mother went aloft, didn’t I help nuss him, feed him, hear him say his prayers agin me knee? Hain’t I watched him grow and don’t I know him outside an’ in? Well, I guesso! Yessir, I sure do—an’ nobody hain’t agoin’ to feed me slush o’ that kind. Keith a murderer? Blah!”

“You were always a loyal friend, Jed, but——”

“’S me, Wilb, loyalty’s me middle name, I guess, ’special as regards you an’ the boy.”

“Don’t I know it, Jed? Those old days in the West, just you and me against Fortune and the World—full of hope, of confidence in each other and empty of all else! And because of this I’d hate like hell to hurt you, but truth is truth and——”

“No it ain’t, Wilb—not always it ain’t. Sometimes Truth gets so sot on itself kinda, an’ wears so many gol-darn frills onto it that it looks more like a dam lie, yessir!”

“Well, Jed, here’s the truth anyway. Keith admitted the fact to me more fully than he does to you in that letter—confessed himself guilty——”

“And you bleeved him?”

“Why, sure I believed him!”

“And let on to the boy that you bleeved him?”

“Well, naturally. Certainly I did.”

The little man lay back in the big chair, looking up at the speaker, his thin-lipped mouth curled; and in eyes, nose and mouth was such withering, blasting contempt as might have shaken any man—even the mighty Vespasian himself at the head of his victorious cohorts; as for Wilbur Chisholm, this Colossus of business, this man of destiny whose nod was law to so many thousand of his fellow creatures, he stared down at this small, fierce, silent accuser at first serenely, then he frowned, presently he fidgeted, and finally spoke as he might have done long years ago:

“Doggone it, Jed—what now?”

Jedidiah ran a small, claw-like hand through his silky, white thatch of hair and snorted:

“Now,” quoth he, “now, Buddy, yore jest like what you was back in them old, wild days in Montanny when we first hitched-up—the day as I found ye by yore dead cayuse all shot up ’count ’o yore plumb bull-headedness. ... Heck, don’t interrupt me! ... You was a bull-head then, yessir—allus a-jumpin’ wi’ both yore big feet, up to yore ears into troubla some sort as I has to shoot or yank ye out of, I guesso! An’ to-day yore the same—a bull-head, yessir, a great, big bull-head——”

“Jed, now hold on thar!” cried Wilbur Chisholm, reverting back to those other days and becoming altogether Western. “What’n hell d’you mean?”

“Shucks!” snarled the little man, ferociously. “I know you’re the big noise now, from here to Californy an’ further, an’ I’m still only a doggone cattle-man but, by heck, I got ’nuff sense to reckon up two an’ two, I guesso! I got eyes an’ know black from white, yessir.”

“Hold on, Jedidiah. If you mean——”

“Mean? Hell an’ a hook-worm! It ain’t what I mean it’s what does the boy mean! What does he say in his letter? Why he says this: ‘I remembered nothin’ when I came to, only the gun in my hand when I woke.’ Well now, what’s that mean? I tell ya it means he was doped, framed, yessir! Anyways I know as there hain’t no sure-’nuff vice in Keith an’ I know as he never murdered this fella. Now mind, I’m tellin’ ya, Wilb, an’ me bein’ myself—an’ a marshal, I sure knows dirt when I sees it, well I guesso!”

“And I’m telling you, Jed, that he confessed to the crime!”

“Shore he did, an’ why? Because he was either doped, or crazy with bum hooch or—is shieldin’ someone else. Anyways I know he ain’t guilty!”

“But how, man, how d’you know? How in God’s name can you be so sure?”

“Well, think, Bud, think! Ain’t he Lucy’s child.... Lucy, as come purty nigh bein’ an angel on earth? Could her son be so mean—a murderer? Lucy’s boy? No, sir—never, not him, not Keith—no!”

“True! ... True enough, Jed!” sighed the big man in changed voice. “It all seems ... utterly impossible ... and yet——”

“Shore it’s impossible, Wilb! And then again, ain’t he your son, too, and ain’t you always acted white ... on the square, you blamed old maverick, doggone ye!”

Wilbur Chisholm strode to the nearest window and stood there awhile, staring down at the superior bustle of Fifth Avenue and seeing it not at all; but presently, turning thence, he came face to face with Vespasian and stifling a sigh, frowned instead.

“And yet,” said he, squaring his big chin, and speaking in tone deep and utterly passionless, “one must be governed by reason, and as to ... the boy, well ... of late, as I say, he’s been running around—consorting with a bad crowd ... degenerating daily, Jed. Indeed he is not the clean, bright lad that left your ranch four years ago.”

“Well, anyway, Wilb, he’s shore in trouble to-day, and whatever you do I ain’t agoin’ to leave him flat, no, sir—not me, not Jed Wollet!” Here both men turned quickly as, with perfunctory knock, Sanders made his appearance:

He was the same Sanders and yet not the same, for his chubby face seemed almost pinched, his triple chins were agitated, his prominent eyes stared fishlike though his voice sounded as discreetly modulated as ever.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but——”

“What is it?” his master demanded irritably, without turning.

“A Mr.... Ryerson to see you, sir—a Mr. Derek Ryerson.”

“Show him in when I ring.”

“Very good, sir!” And with dignified obeisance he departed.

“See here, Jed, this Ryerson, it seems, was a friend of my—of Keith’s, and is here to tell me the truth ... further details of this black business.”

“The truth, eh? What’s he know of it?”

“He was there it appears.”

“Ya mean a witness to the shootin’?”

“He was there immediately after, I understand, and saw Keith with ... the gun in his hand. Now I’d like you to hear all he has to tell.”

“Shore I will.”

“Yet if he sees you he’ll maybe not open up, so I’ll ask you to step——”

“Betcha life!” quoth Jedidiah, and catching up his large stetson hat, he scurried up the gallery-stairs and vanished in a moment. Then, sinking into his favourite elbow-chair, Wilbur Chisholm rang the bell.