Читать книгу Her Reputation - Talbot Mundy - Страница 11

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Affairs in Cuba might be—usually are—and were, in point of fact, precarious. Not even a Calverly-Calhoun may mortgage an estate however rich, pay ten percent interest, endure one hurricane, one drought, and one year's blight, entrust the management of the estate to an alien—and not face consequences. However, one can sometimes postpone settlement, especially if one happens to be twenty-seven, with a letter in one's pocket that has stirred the very lees of urgency and therewith, too, the poison of inborn recklessness.

So bankers in Havana locked new notes away, and Jack Calhoun paced the deck of a New Orleans-bound steamer, wishing whip and spurs might take the place of coal. It was a slow boat—just his luck!—crawling along with the hose on a hot main-bearing and a screen of seaweed like a petticoat. But the smoking-room was good enough—capable steward and plenty to drink—with a scattering of passengers less impatient than himself, whose conversation served at intervals to help pass time.

Clinton Wahl, for instance, special correspondent of the New Orleans Star, on his way back from covering political events in Cuba; quite a personage in a way, and not unconscious of it, but not so bad to talk to, if only he would not think in head-lines and pretend to see ambitious motive at the back of every event. A cad, of course, but amusing.

And young Sherwood Mansfield, not a cad by any means, but son of the owner of the San Francisco Tribune, and likely to inherit millions— meanwhile, worshipful of Clinton Wahl because a star reporter looks like Betelgeuse to a newspaper man whose career is yet to make.

It was rather good fun to watch the by-play between those two—Wahl obviously cultivating the friendship of the younger man for opportunist reasons, and Sherry Mansfield thrilled by intimacy with some one who signed his own special articles, and whose photograph appeared at the head of every syndicated column that he wrote. Between spells of furious deck-pacing Jack Calhoun struck up acquaintance with the pair.

There were those, especially later on, and Clinton Wahl among them, who assessed young Jack Calhoun as a mere profligate who never took thought and who always acted on the impulse of the moment. But that is the point of view induced by ribbon headlines. There were wheels within wheels—phases —moods—alternating passions—shrewdness beside impulse —swift discernment in addition to overbearing recklessness—and an element of kindness and good humor in his composition. He would not have been a Calverly-Calhoun if he had not had wit, and an instinct for making himself agreeable.

When Clinton Wahl grew weary of Sherry Mansfield's hero-worship and took a turn on deck, Jack Calhoun, vastly and intuitively preferring the younger man, entered the smoking-room and took a seat beside him. Mansfield was a companionable young chap, sturdy, frank and full of enthusiasm, with earnest gray eyes that could light up when he laughed; and his laugh was contagious.

He had puzzled Jack Calhoun, who had the notorious Calhoun gift for appraising people swiftly, and who only did not profit by it (as all his forebears had done) because he was too lazy. They sat at the same dining table, and he had found Sherry Mansfield even more interesting than the three girls opposite, who obviously preferred young Mansfield to himself—an unusual enough experience in Jack Calhoun's life to intrigue him thoroughly. There was a peculiar, half-wistful, wholly determined look about Sherry Mansfield's mouth that increased his attractiveness. When he was not smiling he looked as if his own courage and his own good timber had enabled him to survive it, without obliterating the memory.

Young Sherwood Mansfield liked to talk to men—with any man; but froze in the presence of women, not apparently nervous, but stone-cold suddenly, and colder yet as they made advances to him. Habitual lady-killer, Jack Calhoun drew exquisite amusement from the drama, thrice daily at meals, as those three young women opposite them at table tried to make themselves agreeable to Sherry Mansfield, and invariably were out their pains. He himself for excellent reasons was on his best behavior that voyage, indulging in no flirtations, minded for this once to lay a pure, if overbold heart at the feet of his adored; but he was deadly curious to know why this handsome young chap, with money, and so much life in him, should set him such a marvelous example.

Sherwood Mansfield did not look, nor talk, like a man in love. There is intuitive freemasonry between men whose hearts are aflame with that divine passion, and Mansfield was the one on the boat with whom Jack Calhoun would have deigned to discuss his own idolatry, as one equal to another. But the few hints he had let drop fell on barren ground; Sherry Mansfield simply avoided the usually, all-absorbing subject of women and their lure, frowning slightly on occasion, but more often seeming to fall vaguely on guard— then smiling the moment the subject was changed.

There was not another subject in the world that he was not apparently willing to talk about, and with intelligence. Because of his keenness to tread in his father's footsteps, world news was at his finger-tips, and he took the same sort of delight in it that some fellows take in baseball scores. Sooner or later, whatever the subject, he worked it round to the newspaper angle, and it was then that almost all his wistfulness vanished, his smile was most contagious, and his eyes shone brightest.

"Don't you think Clinton Wahl's a wonder?" he asked Calhoun.

"Wonders never cease," Jack answered, "but they vary, suh. I should say he has brains of a sort, but they're no good without breeding. He'd have been a professional gambler or a fake-stock salesman if he hadn't struck his gait at journalism."

"Wahl's no journalist!" Sherry snorted. "He's a newspaper man."

"Profound apology! But what's the difference, may I ask?"

Sherry ignored the question. One does not talk of one's religion to outsiders.

"As for gambling—Wahl did more than any one to expose the Cuban lotteries and the New Orleans policy ring. Didn't you read of it?"

"Can't say I did. How's your dad these days? I suppose he owns San Francisco?"

"Well, hardly! But he's made the Tribune the biggest thing in the West. It's all the life he cares for, and he lives it—doesn't even play golf."

Wahl came sauntering in again and sat down with his arms on the table facing the other two. Calhoun knew that look in the cavernous eyes and race- track mouth. Young men of wealth soon learn to recognize it, or they cease from being rich. Studying the thin nose and the movement of the long lean neck, Calhoun knew exactly how far he would trust him.

"There's a woman in a deck-chair near the bulletin board," Wahl said, smiling at Sherry. "I saw her in Santiago once or twice, but hadn't time to get to know her. If you asked me—there's a yen in her eye, and she's lonely. If I were as young and good-looking as you are—"

"Oh, to hell with her!" said Sherry Mansfield, and Jack Calhoun noticed the return of the peculiar wistful look that was so intriguing.

"To hell with her certainly, by all means," he agreed politely. Then, hazarding a shrewd guess: "but what's wrong with the sex?"

Sherry Mansfield frowned and rose from his seat.

"I think I'll take the air a while," he announced; and at the thought of fresh air the momentary ill-humor left him. He was whistling by the time he reached the door.

"Likable youngster," said Wahl, "and the women seem crazy about him, but he'll go far, for he mistrusts 'em!"

Jack ordered drinks. "Old story, I suppose," he answered. "I remember at his age I mistrusted the whole sex for a week, or maybe nine days. It was after the wife of a man in Key West turned virtuous and went back to her husband."

"Ungrateful female!" Wahl commented; and Jack Calhoun bridled a bit; he instinctively resented having Wahl in agreement with him on any point. However, it does not much matter with whom you talk on board ship; and just at that moment the steward brought the drinks.

"I never knew a grateful woman," Wahl went on, "unless it's true that gratitude is a foretaste of ambition. In that case, yes. If not, no. It's the scheming sex."

"It's the delightful sex," said Jack Calhoun. "I drink to them."

"It's the criminal sex," Wahl continued, warming up to what might be his favorite subject. "If you'd been on newspapers as long as I have you'd agree that nine-tenths of the crime in the world, and nearly all the trouble is due to women. They've a natural flair for posing as virtuous—"

"The Lord made 'em female and marvelous lovely!" Jack interrupted.

"—and there's a fixed tradition that they're incapable of evil motive or the brutal passions. But watch 'em at a prize fight!" Wahl went on. "Watch 'em at a gambling resort! Above all, I've learned to watch 'em when I'm on a story! Cherchez la femme* is good scripture. If it's theft, arson, crooked politics, or murder, you may safely bet your last coin there's a woman at the bottom of it, deliberately responsible and secretly pleased —usually a young woman, with a face like a Madonna's and a mouth that butter wouldn't melt in."

[* Cherchez la femme (French)—Look for the woman (when seeking the source of a problem). First used in this sense by Alexandre Dumas the Elder in his drama "Les Mohicains de Paris (1864). Blueprints.de. ]

"I call that disgustin' cynicism," Jack remarked. "I should say you get devilish small fun out of life."

"Oh, I don't know," Wahl answered. "I've had my share of fun. They don't spare us; why should we spare them? The thing to do is to keep awake and not let a woman put one over on you. I remember—"

But Jack Calhoun lit a cigar and got up yawning. It did not amuse him to hear of the amours of a person like Wahl, and he went out to pace the deck with Sherry.

For a while as they strode side by side around the deck they talked at random, and Sherry spoke so eagerly of New Orleans and the probable hour of arrival that Jack Calhoun suspected more than ever that there was a love-affair not running smoothly. He worked the conversation round to women by remarking that the Creoles of New Orleans are earth's loveliest daughters; and when the wistful expression returned instantly to Sherry's face Jack felt sure he had uncovered the secret.

"When the fair sex is adamant, or damned elusive," he remarked with a far- away reminiscent air, "the key to love's young dream consists in gettin' your heart's darlin' into difficulties, and then helpin' her out. They've a genius for sufferin' over trifles. The ones most worth lovin' furiously are the easiest to scare. I'm head over heels in love myself with a perfect little angel in a convent—and they're like jails, y'know, those places. It's easier to get money out of a banker than to get your adored out of a convent. I'm hopin' mine'll get fired out. I've cooked up a scheme, to make the pope or somebody believe she's been gettin' letters from me on the sly. That ought to work it. Once you've saved your adored from a predicament you're Romeo in her eyes—and a worshipful fair woman, suh, is a brighter jewel in a gentleman's eye than art, or religion, or even patriotism! You'll excuse me if I speak with feeling. I'm in love myself."

But Sherry Mansfield astonished by not excusing him. He was hardly polite. He looked offended, as if Jack Calhoun had touched on some secret that he had no right to probe—something that hurt him almost physically. The pained look brought the cruelty in Jack Calhoun to the surface; sympathy vanished; and as Sherry Mansfield turned back into the smoking-room Jack resumed his walk alone with a smile of satisfied amusement.

"A soft streak in him somewhere," he reflected. Only lovely women, in his theory of life, were entitled to that form of weakness.

But Sherwood Mansfield's discontent had its roots in the past, not the present; he was thinking in terms of the future, and smiling, when he entered the smoking-room and sat down beside Wahl. Possible desire to cover up whatever it might be that tortured him, made him seize with all the greater energy on any subject that held optimism. And Wahl was a man who had done things, not a spendthrift like Calhoun. He glanced at Wahl with diffidence, and began to speak to him, as, not so long ago, he would have confided in the captain of the college team—manly, and sure enough of what he had to say, but deferent.

"You've spoken once or twice of news and head-lines. I think your flair for news is marvelous. I wonder if you'd think it cheek on my part to suggest that you're simply wasted on the New Orleans Star? None of my business, of course, but—"

"Don't apologize. I'm interested."

That was no exaggeration. Wahl's eyes glittered. "My dad's always hunting for brains. He hopes I'll step into his shoes some day, and, of course, so do I, but that's a long way off. It occurred to me that if I should wire him something to the effect that you'd consider an offer—"

"There's a wireless operator on this boat," said Wahl.

"—he'd appreciate my having kept the Tribune's interests in mind; and, of course, he's keen to see how I shape up. It wouldn't hurt me with him if he knew I'd picked a winner so early in the game—if you don't mind my picking you; that is. And of course, I can't promise anything. Dad owns the Tribune, and he manages it; there isn't any one on earth who can dictate to him."

"That's what makes the Tribune good," said Wahl. "It won't hurt to send your dad a wire. You're not going back to Frisco then?"

"Not yet. Dad wired me to stay over in New Orleans and cover the flood stuff if it happens. He's always trying to put a big chance my way."

His eyes were alight with enthusiasm as he spoke of that; but Wahl smiled with cynical amusement.

"You won't call flood stuff a big chance when you're my age. You can sit at your desk and write up all the floods from Noah's to next year's. Nothing to it—unless you can tie the blame to some one, or get the goods on Shem with Ham's wife. The crowd'll read flood headlines if they're peppy, and then turn to the divorce news and the story of a soubrette blinding another woman's lover with carbolic acid. However, I suppose your dad figures you're passing through and you'd better cover it on the off-chance. Take my tip and don't get too enthusiastic. Stories of broken levees and drowned cattle —lists of dead and missing—estimates of damage—cost as much over the wires as a magnate's passion for a chorus girl, and believe me, there's nothing to it when it comes to which sells papers. Feed the public what it wants, and it'll feed you. That's religion. Suppose we draft a wire to Mansfield senior. I'd rather be on the Tribune than on all the other papers put together."

Mansfield produced a pencil and began to write the telegram, but it was Clinton Wahl who shaped it, deftly suggesting phases, head-line fashion, and although Sherry was hardly aware of it, the telegram was almost wholly Wahl's when it was finished and the final draft approved. Wahl took it to the operator, smiling to himself. This was opportunity, and it knocks at a man's door only once!

But Wahl knew too much to depend altogether on young Sherry Mansfield's influence with his father; men of the type who can build a San Francisco Tribune out of nothing are not given to flash decisions based on a youngster's capacity for hero-worship. Opportunity may knock, but it calls for ability to open the door wide enough.

"That's on the way," he said, returning to sit beside Sherry. "Now, if only a story would break! If I could wire the Tribune something juicy and exclusive—"

"Why not cover the Mississippi floods with me?" asked Sherry generously. "Something might happen. Your flair for news—"

"Boy—I've written up the Mississippi once a year regularly since I cut my eye-teeth! Tell you what—I'll sit here and write your story for you, head-lines and all! Put it in your pocket, and use it as your own if the levees break. If they don't, keep it for next year. It'll come in handy sometime."

But therein Wahl showed misjudgment. Sherry's was the ambition that would rather win its own spurs. His bright face clouded over and he changed the subject, not exactly deftly:

"Where's the best place in New Orleans to hire a car by the day?" he asked. "I'm not going to waste time in the city."

"H'm! Story up his sleeve," thought Wahl. "I'll do the levees with him after all."

A taste of opportunity acted on Wahl as the scent of blood stirs a wolf. It brought his ruthless, tireless news-sense uppermost. He became as restless as Jack Calhoun and went outside to join his promenade. Those two were as the poles apart in temperament, but something remotely resembling a fellow-feeling comforted both of them as they fell into stride together.

The more Jack Calhoun saw of Wahl, in fact, the less he liked him; yet, strangely, enough, the less he cared to avoid him. To keep his mind off his own impatience, he encouraged Wahl to talk, and Wahl was at least no mealy-mouthed apologist; he made no secret of his views.

"Then you'd regard a friend's affairs as news, suh—?"

"Certainly. Anything's news that sells papers. I'm not sold on friendship. When a man gets over-friendly I suspect him."

"Pardon my curiosity, suh, and don't answer me unless you wish, but I'm impelled to ask whether you're married."

"Me?"

Wahl laughed sardonically.

"You were never in love?" Jack asked him curiously, and Wahl's smile grew broader than before.

"I've seen a lot of the effects of love," he answered. "It makes front- page news as a rule."

"Then you don't believe in pure love—out-and-out devotion— chivalry on one side, faithfulness and adorable dependence on the other?"

"Show me pure love before I'll believe in it!" Wahl answered. "I've never seen any yet, and I try to keep my eyes open. Devotion, yes—to bread and butter and a roof—or to diamonds and a limousine. But faithfulness? Chivalry? Who in the world is faithful to anything except bad habits? Who is chivalrous, when his ambition is at stake? A woman is a rogue at heart, and a man who adores her either fools himself like a lunatic, or else he suffers from too much appetite. The same man would eat himself to death, or die of drink and drugs in different circumstances. What's more, all women understand that."

"What a weird conviction! I should say you are the devil's own, suh! I would rather die than think as you do," Jack remarked.

"I've seen scores die, and thousands go broke for thinking the orthodox rot about women," Wahl answered. "And I've never met a woman whose real motives would bear investigation, although I'll admit to you I've seen great actresses. They're all born with the buskins on."

"Suh, you astonish me! I would never have believed a man could walk the earth and hold such notions!"

That pleased Wahl enormously. Like every other newspaper man in the South, he knew more or less of the Calhoun family history, and a lot about Jack's escapades. It tickled his sense of humor to be able to scandalize a man who thought himself made of such vastly superior clay.

"They should vivisect emotions and traditions instead of guinea-pigs," he said, "to find out why nine-tenths of the world is gullible and the other tenth helps itself."

The blood of the Calhouns was boiling, in Jack by then.

"'Pon my soul, suh," he exploded, "if I were not aware I had invited your disgusting confidence, I'll be damned if I wouldn't insult you!"

Wahl grinned more delightedly than ever.

"You might call me the devil's own, for instance!" he suggested.

During what was left of the short voyage, Jack Calhoun avoided Wahl as he would never have shunned the devil. When the ship docked in New Orleans he hurried ashore and vanished, not even troubling to say good-by to Sherry Mansfield, whom he thought contaminated by Wahl's company.

"Now, if—only he'd get into a mix-up with some woman I'd have a front-page story for the Tribune!" said Wahl, watching him go. "The Calverly- Calhouns are as well known in Frisco as in New Orleans. Jack belongs to the two best clubs there, and his father used to own the Lion Line."

"It's up to you to get some stories, now," laughed Sherry Mansfield. "Here's a wire from dad."

Wahl snatched it eagerly, fingers twitching and eyes glinting, but as he read the telegram his expression changed to sour displeasure.

"Hell!" he exploded bitterly. "Is that all? Special correspondent in New Orleans for the San Francisco Tribune—space rates! Damn! I expected from what you said they'd send for me to Frisco. However, I'll make it yet —you watch!" He met young Mansfield's eyes for a moment, and showed his teeth in a determined leer. "I'd skin the wives and daughters of the whole Supreme Court to get on the Tribune staff. Some one's going to suffer, Sherry Mansfield, but I'll make it!"