Читать книгу Woman in Ambush - Rex Beach - Страница 4

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THE CELL was small, its walls were stained and grimy, its furnishings were scanty. There were two narrow, folding bunks, one above the other, a pitcher, washbowl, and slop bucket. A plank bench was so securely bolted to the wall that it was really a fixture. This being a county jail, its inmates were not in stripes and discipline was less rigid than in state penal institutions. Like most others of its kind, however, it was badly run, it needed modernizing, it had an unpleasant smell, and the food was terrible.

Supper was over, cell doors had been bolted, and the inmates were free to occupy themselves as best they could. Most of them spent this interval of leisure loudly cursing the cook.

Number 117 had two occupants. The older and the larger sat on the edge of the lower bunk, massaging his hands and flexing his fingers. They were soft, white, pliable hands, and he cared for them like a woman. He was a huge, shapeless person with drooping face, his clothes were baggy, his feet were large and flat, and his outturned toes pointed at ten minutes of two. They appeared to be boneless feet, for he walked as silently as a cat. In all his movements, ungainly but effortless, he reminded his youthful companion of an elephant. There was the same loose, rippling flow to his muscles; his body rocked and swayed.

African hunters have marveled at the alertness of an elephant and at his ability, when suspicious or alarmed, to steal away through the densest jungle without cracking a twig or making the faintest sound. Jim Larkin, too, was wary, suspicious, and alert. He didn’t advertise his comings or his goings.

Ronnie, his cellmate, told himself that in spite of these characteristics Jim’s presence here behind bars went to prove that even elephants can be taken off guard. In spite of their enforced companionship, the two had become friends. Neither, however, had told the other upon what charge he had been convicted or what chain of unfortunate events accounted for his presence here. They talked and joked with each other, but there had been no exchange of confidences. The very atmosphere of the place induced restraint.

Having limbered up his fingers, Jim took a deck of cards from under his thin and lumpy pillow and began to shuffle expertly. He looked up with a smile, saying, “Well, it won’t be long now.”

“Not long,” Ronnie agreed. “I guess neither of us will sleep much tonight.”

“Right you are, kid. The last night in a jug is like the first night; it never ends. Where will you be heading?”

“Nowhere in particular. And you?”

“Back to Dixie. Back to civilization, where two pairs isn’t a misdemeanor and it isn’t a felony to fill a straight.”

“That means you will be heading back to the River, I presume.”

“And no place else! It isn’t what it used to be; the railroads are spoiling it, but it’s still a—well, a country of its own. There’s nothing like it. Even the people are different; they have their way of living and it suits me fine.”

“Have you got enough money to get there?”

“Listen, kid, I’ve got all the money in the world.” The speaker deftly riffled his cards in mid-air, and they flew together as if by some magic. “I mean just that, Ronnie. The world’s full of money, and a smart guy can help himself to what he needs. That is, as long as he doesn’t take more than he’s entitled to. It’s like living in a bank. Yes, sir, when you learn that fact, you’ll be as contented as I am.”

“Are you contented?”

“Why not? I’ve been everywhere and seen everything, from a ringside seat. I don’t need much and I can turn my hand to anything. I love to live, just live. Something is always happening. Never the same thing twice.”

For a moment Ronnie watched the speaker manipulate his cards, then he said, “You’re lucky. It isn’t everybody who can make a living out of those things.”

“I know. Cards love some people just the way some people love cards. To me, they are the same as animals, and I can make ’em do tricks.”

Deftly Jim executed a one-handed cut, dealt alternately from the top and from the bottom, performed a neat false shuffle by pulling one half of the deck through the other.

“I could show you a lot if I had a work bench, but a real card player doesn’t need this stuff. It’s nice to know when your luck needs a little boosting. You’d make a card player, Ronnie.”

“Think so?”

“I’ve watched you. I can tell.” Jim shook his oversized head regretfully. “It’s a shame.”

“What is?”

“To find a promising lad like you scratching his behind in a squirrel cage. You’re tossing your chances away.”

There was an obvious retort, but Ronnie made none.

“I’ve never asked you what you did—don’t tell me. I like a guy who keeps his lip closed. What’s more, you haven’t told me how smart you are and how dumb the cops are. That’s a sign of intelligence. Maybe you have realized that they must have something on us or we wouldn’t be here. As Solomon said, the fear of the Law is the beginning of Knowledge.”

“I know they are smarter than I am. So what?”

The Lark again shuffled and cut before resuming, with some reluctance. “The trouble is, once a young fellow finds his way into a place like this, nine times out of ten he finds his way back. I’m not a soul saver, I don’t preach, but you’re headed the wrong way, kid. Why not change your direction and make a man of yourself? I could show you how. Did you ever have a pal, a real buddy?”

“No, Jim, not even a real friend.”

“It’s pretty swell to have a guy you can talk to when you feel like it or say nothing all day and know that he understands. A guy you like to be with. I had one, but he got greedy and helped himself to more than he needed. He liked the River, too. Those floating palaces all gilt and crystal, puffing and snorting and kicking up a storm. Planters in their fine clothes out having a good time and looking for a game. Their women, too, like pictures out of a book. And New Orleans—it’s the wealthiest port anywhere, kid, and the gayest. River packets and oceangoers along the levee front four deep. Their spars and smokestacks are like a forest. Mountains of freight. Darkies singing and romping. Every night in New Orleans is a carnival. Stage shows, operas, grand balls, and once a year the Mardi Gras. There’s something doing every hour. Why, Rome in all its glory was never like that.”

“Have you been to Rome?”

“Sure! I’ve been everywhere and back but there’s only one New Orleans.”

Now that Jim was on his favorite topic, the Mississippi and its way of life, there was no stopping him. His companion listened fascinated until the cell light suddenly went out.

As Ronnie climbed into his bunk, Jim said, “Yes, it’s great to have a pal. It’s fine to go places and see things and have fun—as long as you can share it with the right guy. Why not straighten up and deal yourself a new hand?”

After an instant, Ronnie said in a queer voice, “Maybe I will. I’d like a change.”

“Think it over. You can always find me at McPhee’s Palace. If I’m not in the city, they’ll tell you where I am. The Palace is a good place to gamble, but the eats aren’t much. Just ask for Jimmy the Lark. Good night, kid.”

“Good night, Jim.”

Neither speaker dreamed that he had on that last night in the county jail made a lifelong pact.

* * * * * * * * *

The Banning home, or mansion as some people called it, was located on the finest residential street of the city. It was larger, handsomer, and better kept than its neighbors, but even aside from its size, its ample grounds and ornamental plantings, it carried itself with an air of distinction.

If houses could speak—and who doubts that inanimate things possess some faculty of self-expression—this one would have answered the queries of inquisitive strangers by saying, loftily, “Banning is the name, Dr. Chilton Banning.”

If this carried no obvious meaning, the house would doubtless have arched its fanlights and shrugged its porte-cochere, then murmured, “Indeed! Not to know Dr. Chilton Banning is to argue one’s self unknown.”

It was precisely the kind of house to look down its nose when offended.

On the other hand, if the passer-by recognized Dr. Banning as one of the country’s leading M.D.’s, an author of distinction, and chief of staff of the city’s largest hospital, then the residence would have said, warmly, “Yes, indeed! A brilliant and successful man. And such a practice. By appointment only. Three weeks in advance. Mrs. Banning was a lovely woman. She died ten years ago. It was she who drew my plans and made me what I am. In her time, we entertained a good deal. Now the poor Doctor is so busy that I see very little of him. In fact, I don’t see much of Dick, either. Have you heard about Dick? Then let me tell you.”

The Banning mansion had ample reason to brag about the Doctor’s only son, for Dick, too, was a celebrity in his way. He had inherited his father’s rich talents and something more, as proved by the award of a college degree at sixteen. Moreover, he had graduated with honors. Dick had been an infant prodigy and an object of wonder to his earliest teachers. As he grew up, the speed, the effortless ease with which he had raced through grade and prep school had led the city’s newspapers to give him considerable publicity.

Friends of the family who thought any kid must be abnormal if he could extract a cube root before he could pull his own milk teeth urged Dr. Banning to hold the boy back. Top-heavy juveniles were unhealthy freaks, they warned. But Dick could not be held back. Nor did the Doctor try. Proud of his son’s precocity, he actually pushed him forward by encouraging him in his work and providing tutors during the summer vacations. It was the Doctor’s belief that our educational system was archaic and that any normal child, if properly taught, could acquire a college education at a saving of anywhere from four to six years. Using his own son as an example, he had written a paper on the subject.

Obviously a parent as busy as Dr. Banning could not see much of a son as preoccupied as Dick was. In truth, neither had ever cared to see a great deal of the other, for always there had been something between them which grated uncomfortably. It was like some invisible abrasive, too finely ground to be detected except under the stress of wear and tear.

Actually they had seen nothing whatever of each other during the past four weeks. Dick had been away from home visiting a friend whose parents owned a summer camp in the North woods.

Dr. Banning rose early, for it was in the morning hours that he performed his surgery. It was his custom to come downstairs while the hall clock was striking seven and Mrs. Gibbs, his housekeeper, knew better than to delay his breakfast.

This morning, as he seated himself opposite her, he announced,

“Dick should be home today and—”

“Oh! Then you’ve heard from him.” Mrs. Gibbs was a wholesome, competent woman who had been a sort of second mother to the boy and who felt privileged to interrupt even the head of the household.

“Please tell him I wish to see him. Ask him to stay here until I come in.”

“Why, of course. But I’m sure he’ll be as eager to see you as you are to see him—”

“I’m not so sure,” the father said shortly. “I’m not sure of anything about him lately. He’s been acting queerly and it worries me.”

“You don’t mean he’s sick?” Mrs. Gibbs inquired anxiously. “Goodness, people are always telling me that boys like him, who are too smart for their age, never grow up into healthy, normal persons.”

“He’s not sick. As a matter of fact, he’s an unusually healthy and vigorous young animal.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“The idea that bright children become-dull or their brains cease to develop is all bosh. It’s as ridiculous as the assumption that only the stupid survive. Frankly, it’s a pity that so many of them do, but nature’s ideal is a sound mind in a sound body.”

“That’s Dick, all over! And I take some credit to myself.” Mrs. Gibbs nodded with satisfaction.

“I never considered him a prodigy, a child wonder. He’s merely what other boys of his age should be and could be if—”

Mrs. Gibbs again interrupted, “Now, Doctor, you know as well as I do that no boy in this city ever went through school the way he did. Or college either. He’s a genius and everybody knows it except you. Why, I was telling our new minister how he graduated cum—something or other and—”

“Cum laude.”

“—and he would have gone to Oxford, England, last year only they said he was too smart already so he had to start in here on a new course studying a lot of foolish things just to mark time.”

With a smile, Dr. Banning explained. “What happened was this. They wrote me that a sixteen-year-old American boy would probably find it difficult to get along happily with English boys so much older than he and it was their suggestion that a year’s delay would make it easier for him to adjust himself. Accordingly, he took an extra year’s work in languages, literature, the drama, etc. Dick is too young to choose a profession or to decide much of anything for himself, so I must decide for him. A few years of postgraduate work abroad will cure that and send him off to a flying start. That’s one matter I want to discuss with him.”

The Doctor was opening his eggs, something he insisted upon doing himself inasmuch as a fragment of shell between his teeth was enough to spoil an entire day. He executed the task with delicacy and precision. Everything he did was like that, as if there were a fee attached. Carving a turkey, for instance. It was a major operation, and he performed it standing up. Dick, who abhorred surgery, could almost see his father in mask and gown and rubber gloves and he looked on with horrified fascination while the carving knife, sterilized no doubt, unerringly severed tendons and opened joints. Dick sometimes pondered on the thought that the bird, not fully anesthetized, might twitch and moan. When the waitress pushed the wheeled serving table out into the butler’s pantry, he fancied it was for the purpose of counting sponges.

“Another thing I want to discover,” the Doctor stated, “is where he spends his evenings. He used to study, now he dresses up and saunters out as if he owned the town.”

“But, Doctor, he can’t work all the time! He’s a big boy. He has friends—”

“What kind of friends? Who are they? Young people of his own age or—women? Bad women?”

“Doctor!” The kindly housekeeper was aghast. “Dick isn’t that kind of a boy, and I guess I should know even better than you. Why, that’s—wicked.”

“Perhaps it is. Nevertheless it’s time that young gentleman and I had a talk. Tell him, if you please, that I will be home late but shall expect to see him.”

The speaker dropped his napkin and rose, for his carriage had driven into the porte-cochere.