Читать книгу The Mystery Lady - Robert William Chambers - Страница 15
III
ОглавлениеMr. Welper had a room at the club; so did John Lanier. Both lived there. But the other eight rooms had never been occupied permanently; members usually occupying quarters for a few days or a few weeks at a time, and very seldom longer than a month.
Lanier was reading a nature story in the children’s column of the Sun when Welper said softly: “Are you dining here, John?”
“Possibly.”
“Are you perhaps—ah—m—m—dining alone?”
“I hope not,” replied the young man, smiling.
“Ah, the eternal domestic!” murmured Welper. ... “A be-au-ti-ful girl, John. Yes, yes, cosmopolis incarnate. Lovely, very lovely. And clever, I presume. Ah, yes, my friend, a true helpmeet from the start.”
“Why not?” laughed Lanier, tossing aside his newspaper.
“Ah, why not, indeed?” repeated Welper with exquisite unction. “Do not the little birds first mate and then aid each other to—ah—to feather their little nests? Nature, John, nature. Your pretty helpmeet is wise to follow nature’s laws and help to ah—m—m—ah—to collect sufficient material for the future m—m—domicile. ... John, I think it is my accustomed hour to bathe and dress for the evening repast.”
“Same here,” said the other, getting up.
As they went toward the staircase they nodded politely to two or three members, who courteously acknowledged the attention.
“Renton is likely to resign before the year ends, I hear,” remarked Lanier.
“Eugene has so informed me,” purred Welper. “My God, John, what a little oil can do for a brisk young man!—Have you seen to-night’s paper?” He fished it out of his pocket, put on a pair of pince-nez, found the column with his forefinger, and read:
“THREE ACCUSED OF $2,000,000 OIL
SWINDLE
Woman and Two Men Suspected—Ten Thousand
People Bought Worthless Stock
Complaints from nearly 10,000 small investors, alleging that they had been swindled out of their savings by the stock promoters of the Orizava Oil Company, resulted in the filing of a sealed indictment in Federal Court Monday charging a woman and two men with using the mails in a scheme to defraud. A precedent of two years’ standing—that the United States Attorney’s office in the present crowded condition of the calendar cannot take cognizance of such cases—was broken only when it was discovered that the total of the alleged fraud was more than $2,000,000 and that its victims numbered nearly 10,000.
In the indictment, which was released from seal yesterday, the defendants are charged not only with grossly misstating the financial condition of the company, but with the misappropriation of the names of two widely known business men and a lady well-known in New York society, to lend respectability to their venture.
In the letters and circulars sent out to advertise Orizava Oil stock, according to the indictment, it was set forth that the corporation controlled leases on 19,000 acres of land in proven fields; that its production averaged between 800 and 1,000 barrels a day; that it operated 100 producing wells; that it was drilling fourteen others in proven fields; that it had a surplus of property assets totalling $1,500,000, and that it had recently acquired large producing tracts in Iceland.
All these statements, it is charged, were false. The government believes that Orizava Oil did not have more than half a dozen wells under its control, and three of these were the property of subsidiaries which promptly went into bankruptcy.
The central figure in the alleged fraud is thought to have been Mrs. Helen Wyvern, a trim dark-haired woman in her thirties, who has been connected with oil promotion schemes since she failed as an actress a few years ago. Dressed in the latest Paris creations, living at the best hotels and driving a racing car, she won the friendship of many prominent business men. It was a concern of which she was an officer, the Wyvern Oil Company, which was two years ago expanded and renamed to consummate the alleged fraud. Mrs. Wyvern has disappeared, as have also the two men who figured as relatives of well-known business men, and whose proper identities have not yet been established——”
Welper paused, looked slyly over his papers at Lanier: “Eugene Renton and Harry Senix,” he murmured. “Do you see what a little oil can do?”
He looked oily himself as he spread his little, pasty hands—a benignant gesture characteristic of Mr. Welper when appreciating any financial coup.
“Eugene Renton,” said Lanier, “is well thought of in Central America ... whatever a few thousand suckers are going to think of him here.”
“Possibly,” said Welper mildly, “it were as well that Eugene started betimes for Central America. You—ah—recollect the little verse so popular among our members?—
“ ‘You never can tell
When a sucker will yell——’
“I have a little business in Costa Rica which he could transact for me. I think the emoluments would complete his million. Security, John—ah, what a sacred word!—and how sadly misused when m—m—applied to—ah—to some securities!”
He smiled benignly and entered his room; and John Lanier went on down the corridor to his own quarters, and turned on the bath.
Then he sat down on his bed, and, like our best shirt-front actors, bit his under lip and looked vacantly at his carefully kept finger nails.
What on earth had ever induced him to suggest the Forty Club to this girl? What irresponsible devil had prompted him to so perilous a procedure for them both?
He was beginning to realise, now, that if this girl meant to dog Welper until she accomplished the theft of the paper she was after, he, on his part, must watch her every moment that she was in this club, and see that she didn’t attempt so dangerous a trick within its walls.
She might. He didn’t understand her. He hadn’t made her out. She might attempt it. Amateurs are foolhardy. Besides, it was evident that she had courage.
But—was she amateur or professional; sophisticated or still inexperienced? Was she all good, or only partly; all bad, or only half?
What mischance had driven her into the underworld? Usually it’s a man. Somehow he didn’t reconcile such a scrape with her.... Or she was the most perfect of actresses, or no more of an actress than is every woman.
Had she been long in the business? She couldn’t have.... Not with that mouth.... The eyes, too. Yes—how marvellously she had played the terrified thief when he touched her arm in the Waldorf. ... “Not too good.” ... He’d never forget that, and the enchanting wickedness of her smile....
“I was crazy to bring her here,” he thought. “If she hadn’t mentioned Central America,—and if she hadn’t been dogging Welper—”
He got up and turned off the water in the tub. Then, as he began the matter of freshening mind and body for the approaching evening, his room telephone rang, and Maddaleen’s voice greeted him:
“Come to the Ritz after dinner. I wish to talk to you. If I’m not there wait for me. Will you do this—Jack, dear?”
“Yes, dearest.”
“Be sure to wait?”
“Certainly.”
“All right, dear, good-bye—”
“Wait—”
She had hung up.
Meanwhile the vice-president and treasurer of the Forty Club, Mr. Samuel Potter, had entered Mr. Welper’s room; and now those two gentlemen were engaged in low-voiced conversation while Welper, his horrid, tiny feet in socks, pattered about preparing evening attire for his fat, short person.
“It isn’t John Lanier,” he said, “who’s got me going, Sam; it’s his girl.... I’ve seen that girl somewhere. I must be gettin ga-ga if I can’t remember a face I’ve once seen. I know I’ve seen her before. But where? That’s the hell of it.”
Sam Potter, large, florid, iron-grey and genial in his smooth-shaven, sloppy way—except for his too pale eyes—chewed an unlighted cigar reflectively.
“It may have been accident,” continued Welper, “but a girl in black, in a taxi, certainly did dog me to the Waldorf this morning. I couldn’t get a close-up; the window was dirty and there was a lot of traffic.”
“She look like Jack’s girl?” inquired Sam Potter.
“Well, when Jack brought her in I thought of it right away. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’ve seen Jack’s girl somewhere else. It’s likely—where are those damn studs!—m—m—yes; what would any girl be chasing me for, Sam?”
“I’m not asking you,” said Potter in his honest, hearty, disarming way, “but maybe you pulled off a job on some young lady in black—”
“You wrong me, Sam,” said Welper, gently. “If I ever do any business with anybody their face is like a photograph in my vest pocket.... I never before talked to that girl of John’s. All the same, I’ve seen her—somewhere. And—some girl dogged me.”
“Had you just pulled something fine? I’m not asking you, Barney—”
“I’ve pulled something—ah—recently.... Partially pulled it.... I don’t know who could be after me in the shape of a girl—”
He got into his bathrobe and toddled into the bathroom where, presently, Mr. Potter heard him wallowing and singing in a thick and greasy voice:
“On Execution Dock I was hung,
I was hung,
On Execution Dock I was hung;
And the rain will wash the stains
Where I’m rotting in my chains,
While the ravens eat my brains and my tongue—”
“Some Kidd!” called out Sam Potter jovially, and lighted his heavy, damp cigar. Then he, also, began to sing the older version of the favourite club melody:
“Oh, I murdered William Moor as I sailed,
As I sailed,
I murdered William Moor as I sailed;
I knocked him on the head
Till he bled the scuppers red,
And I heaved him with the lead
As I sailed!”
From the bath came spatter and splash, and the unctuous voice of Barney Welper:
“The Jolly Roger’s dancing in the sky,
In the sky,
And I hope to God I never dance as high;
With a hemp around my throat
On a galley, brig or boat,
For I’d rather walk the deck than dance and die!”
And Potter roared his jolly verse in turn:
“Lord Bellomont he took me in his trap,
In his trap,
And my King who set me sailing round the map,
And the scurvy Lords of Trade
Sat and trembled sore afraid,
Till Livingston accomplished my mishap—”
“Sam,” interrupted Welper from his bath, “I’m going out among ’em to-night and I guess I’ll be stylish and wear two guns. They’re in the top drawer. Fill ’em up, will you?”
Then he nestled down into the warm, soapy water again, murmuring: “Who the hell was that girl in black? ... She better quit dogging me.... I’ve known little girls to get bumped for less. M—m—yes, bumped for less than that.”
Sam Potter, loading both guns with new clips, called out jocosely: “What are you shooting to-night?”
“Craps, maybe.... Maybe little girls.” He added piously: “The future, Sam, is known to God alone. ... And I wish you’d open the—m—m—the bottom drawer of my dresser, and—a—fill up that ammonia squirt gun for me.... And lay that knife in the silk sheath beside it, Sam,—the one with the Spanish-spring blade,—in case I shoot craps.” ...
“Yeh, craps,” muttered Potter, as he opened the drawer and selected the articles described: “Now, isn’t he the fancy cut-up! He’s a scream, he is.”
