Читать книгу Torch for a Dark Journey - Lionel Shapiro - Страница 10

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The president of the Clayfield Oil Corporation and its score of subsidiary companies was, physically as well as financially, a powerful man. He was of middle height and thickly proportioned, and although his muscles had grown soft with the passage of prosperous years, he had not allowed himself to become fat. His iron-gray hair was inclined to be curly and he kept it short. He had a square jaw, a flat nose which twisted as though it had once been broken, and small blue eyes which looked out on the world with an abiding friendliness. He wore expensive suits without achieving a distinguished appearance, mostly because his barrel chest and bulky neck muscles defied the efforts of his tailor.

At forty-eight Justin Clayfield looked like an old all-American who had married the campus heiress and become a successful financier. The fact was he had never gone to school. His education had come from the tutoring of his father, an itinerant preacher in the Southwest. While other men destined to become great industrialists were attending Harvard and Princeton he was out—fighting tough and often lawless prospectors in a desperate scramble for land leases and had already wildcatted his first million. Nor was he married. At an age when he might have been raising a family he was thrusting up derricks in the bleak hills of Oklahoma.

He had long since outgrown the name of Killer Clayfield which had attached itself to him in the middle twenties when he used his fists freely to protect his holdings against occasional raiders. Now his reputation for shrewd, honest dealing was paramount in the board rooms of Wall Street. He was popular with his associates, feared by his rivals, respected by all. He was a success.

When Channing entered the parlor of his corner apartment Clayfield was wearing, with little grace, a well-cut dinner jacket. He came forward, smiling, and proffered a firm, friendly hand. His small eyes crinkled with pleasure.

“I’m glad to see you.” He waved the newspaperman to a chair. “What’ll you drink?”

“Scotch if you have it.”

“Scotch. Right.”

The oilman went to a serving table. “So you got the tip from New York,” he said, mixing the drinks.

Channing studied the extraordinary width of the man’s back and shoulders. He said, “My office sent me a cable. Somebody must have told them.”

Clayfield turned around with two glasses in his bulky hands. He was smiling easily. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I arranged it.”

He seemed to be enjoying the newspaperman’s surprise. He said, “You see, Karlene is an important story to me. I didn’t want it tossed off as just another note in the financial columns. I figured if I gave it to one agency exclusive I’d make a lot of front pages. Was I right?”

Channing lifted his glass. “To you, Mr. Clayfield. You’d make a damned good press agent.”

A light knock was heard and a feather-footed young man entered the room and began to walk noiselessly across it.

“Nason,” Clayfield called out, stopping the young man in his tracks. “This is Mr. Channing, one of the newspaper people from back home.” Nason nodded timidly. Clayfield continued: “He doesn’t fool easy. Better remember that.”

Nason said, “Yes, sir,” hovered a moment, then went on to another room.

The oilman turned his full attention on Channing. “Now what would you like to know?”

“It’s a pretty simple thing, Mr. Clayfield. I understand Karlene got across the line. What I want to know first is, where is he now?”

“Somewhere between the Czech border and here.”

“All right. We’ll come back to that. How does he fit into your picture?”

Clayfield looked across with an owlish expression on his rugged face. “You don’t know much about Karlene, do you?”

“I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a top scientist.”

“You know, Channing,” the oilman said, “so far I like you. You don’t throw any curves.” He sat down heavily. “Here’s the works.”

He described in swift, cursory sentences Karlene’s special genius in the field of oil exploration. He tossed off terms which Channing did not clearly understand, terms like “anticline,” “sincline,” “Devonian limestone,” and “Wilcox sand,” but he left no doubt how much he needed the man’s services. “I’ve taken a lot of gambles in my time,” he said. “These fields are the biggest. I need Karlene to make them pay, need him badly. So I just reached out and grabbed him.”

Channing got up and walked to the open windows. Night had fallen. The terrace lay under soft lights. The woman was still there, now pacing with short, anxious steps along the parapet.

He said, “Not yet, you haven’t.”

Clayfield swung around. “You mean that girl.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not worried. Not yet. It’s a long drive here from the Czech border.”

“You’re sure he got across the line?”

“Do you think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t sure?” Clayfield said. “Of course he got across the line—early yesterday morning at Hof. We got word from our man who crossed with him.”

“What about the girl? When did she arrive?”

“It was the professor they were watching. She came on ahead by air.”

Channing said, “She’s worried.”

The oilman put down his glass and joined Channing at the windows. He said, “After all, I can’t blame her. He’s her father.” He seemed to be trying to reassure himself. He said, “What is it, ten, twelve hours’ driving? Anything can happen, anything—a blowout, maybe they were tired and laid over somewhere. I’m not worried.”

“She’s a good-looking girl.”

Clayfield nodded. “Nervous as a cat. This afternoon she rushed up to me because she’d seen a car go past the hotel and she was sure her father was in it. She wanted to go chase it. That sort of thing.”

“It’s a pity. Handsome girl. That’s the word for her. Handsome.”

Clayfield said absently, “Yes, she is.” He paced slowly between his chair and the windows, then called out, “Nason!”

The secretary came into the room.

“Nason, what about Nuremberg?”

“Nothing new there, sir. I had a major of the Constabulary on the phone a few minutes ago. All they know is Professor Karlene passed through the guard point at Hof. They haven’t heard anything else.”

Clayfield’s lips worked nervously. “Get Aleksandrow. Ask him to come up here.”

When the secretary had gone Channing asked, “Is Aleksandrow in this?”

“Why? Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“What have you heard?”

Channing said, “Not so good.”

A smile spread slowly across Clayfield’s big lips. It was an apologetic smile. He said, “He was the only man. When you’re fixing to smuggle someone across a border like the Czech border you’ve got to know your way around. I couldn’t do the job, wouldn’t know where to start. That’s where Aleksandrow comes in. He’s an expert. And damned expensive. You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s costing me sixty thousand dollars just to bring Karlene across the border. Sixty thousand dollars——”

“Have you paid him?”

“I’m trusting you, Channing. This is not for publication. Nothing about the method of escape is for publication. I’ve paid him thirty. He gets the other thirty when Karlene arrives.”

Channing asked, “Is Aleksandrow worried?”

“Not a bit of it. He’s a Hungarian, one of those characters.” The oilman smiled broadly. “How he gets anything done is a mystery to me. He’s always lounging around the Riviera with that woman of his. But he’s effective. You’ll like him.”

The newspaperman still stood at the window, watching the girl below. He said, “How well do you know him?”

A low chuckle preceded Clayfield’s reply. “I did business with him once, right after the war. He bought a couple million dollars’ worth of drill heads from one of my companies for some French outfit working North Africa. Next thing I know the drills show up in Bulgaria and the State Department is raising merry hell with me. That’s Aleksandrow. He’s crooked but he knows his way around. He was the perfect man for a job like this.”

Channing said, “Let’s wait until Karlene shows up.”

“Oh, I’m not worried——Well?”

Nason had come into the room. He said, “Mr. Aleksandrow is in the lounge. He invites you to join him.”

Clayfield seemed pleased. He turned to Channing. “See what I mean? He’s a character, all right. Invites me to join him. Come on along. I want you to meet him.”

As they descended the staircase Clayfield said, “I’m glad you’re here, Channing. It’s good to have someone to talk to. We’re a big family, we Americans, but we’re lost here in Europe. I’m glad you’re along.”

Oscar, the concierge, bowed as they came across the lobby.

The oilman paid him no notice. He said to Channing, “I’ll tell you this. When Karlene shows up I’m in the clear. Once I’ve got my hands on him, he’s mine. Nobody fools around with Justin Clayfield.”