Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 13

Senator O’Rawn’s combination butler and valet was a very tall, very thin, and very pessimistic man whose real name was Peter Cloyne. His employer had started early to call him Peterkin (being fond of quoting from an old English poem about one Peterkin and a famous victory) and the name had stuck. Even the bellboys in Washington had taken to using it.

A week after the last recorded conversation Peterkin came to John about the time of day when he served the senator his single before-dinner cocktail. The suggestion of grimness and worry he always carried about him seemed much intensified.

“Say, young Mr. John,” he began. It was perhaps in keeping with his other characteristics that he spoke in a hoarse voice. “There’s something going on here that something’s got to be done about. I’m speaking to you because the old man’s taken a shine to you and I guess you’re the one to do it. It’s about all this picking at him. Do you know he took a bad turn this afternoon?”

John dropped the magazine he was thumbing through and jumped to his feet. “I didn’t know. I started out for a long ride after lunch and just got back. Is it serious, Peterkin? Judas priest, I hope not!”

“It all depends. The doctor’s just left. The boss isn’t going to have his cocktail tonight. He’s in bed and all the dinner he’s going to have is one soft-boiled egg. He’s mad enough to hang a whole string of hides out on a line.”

John was looking very sober and worried. “What was it, Peterkin? Not—not a stroke, I hope.”

“Not quite. But I guess he came close to something pretty serious. He toppled over and he was trying to get back on his feet when I found him.”

“What is it you want me to do? I’m ready for anything.”

“He’s got to be left alone, young Mr. John. You can stop all this picking at him. They’re at it all the time. ‘Don’t quit politics,’ they say. ‘Write another letter,’ they say, ‘and tell the public you didn’t mean the first one. You just got to run for another term,’ they say. The worst one of the lot is that Shirley woman. I guess she thinks she’s doing the right thing but she just keeps it up. Picking, picking, picking. And she’s working him too hard, answering all these letters he gets. They don’t need to bother him about these bags of mail coming in every day. Burn ’em, I say, or send out a form letter.”

“Peterkin,” said John, “he hasn’t told me anything about this plan he’s got in his head. Does he really want to drop out of the Senate? Or is he doing it because he thinks it’s the wisest thing to do at his age?”

The body servant walked closer and leaned a hand on the table beside John’s chair.

“Young fellow,” he said, his voice hoarser than ever because he was feeling so disturbed, “the doctor told me something. His heart’s bad. He isn’t going to die in a week or a month or anything as bad as that. But he’s not going to have so very much longer. The doc opened up to me because I’ll have to look after him, and see he takes his medicines and don’t eat or drink too much. No one else knows it but the old man himself. He said to me just a few minutes ago, ‘I ain’t blaming you about the cocktail. I know you’d get it for me if I wanted it very much.’ ‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t get you one for nothing under the sun.’ ‘Well, anyways,’ he said, ‘I don’t bear any grudges because I haven’t got much time left to get on my horse and be along about my business. I guess I’ve left it to the very last minute.’ There wasn’t a trace of fear or regret in him. I would say, young Mr. John, that he’s champing at the bit to be off. He said to me, ‘Peterkin, I’ve got the queerest knowledge stored up in this old head of mine and I’ve got to get it out. This will be the damnedest, oddest journey any man ever took.’ ”

“Do you think they’ll listen to me when I tell them to lay off him?”

“Give it to ’em straight from the shoulder, young Mr. John. Say to them, ‘Do you want to kill him with all this stuff?’ You can’t tell them what the doctor said because I’m not supposed to tell you or no one else. But perhaps you could drop a hint. They’ve got to get it into their heads that he’s done with politics and ain’t going to have any more of it.”

This very disturbing news kept the young guest awake much of the night and he did not waken from a belated nap as early as usual. In fact he had not finished shaving when he heard the voice of Amy Shirley coming from the direction of the patio. Brushing the lather from his face, he hurried down to have a hand in what was being said.

The old man was stretched out in an extension chair and it was apparent at a glance that he was not himself. His secretary had dumped the contents of three well-filled mailbags on a table beside him. She had lost some of her usual assurance and was regarding her employer with a questioning and rather unhappy air.

“John, we’re making plans,” said the senator. His voice had not lost all of its bass note but it sounded to John like that of an old lion who had been challenged for the leadership of the pack and had lost. He was, nevertheless, in good spirits. “I’m arranging with Amy to get reservations and to jolt the State Department into getting passports and visas ready in record time. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Europe. Will you believe that I’ve never been there? I’ve traveled all over Canada and Alaska and I’ve flown around the South American countries. But I’ve never crossed the Atlantic.”

Amy spoke up in a voice equally compounded of regrets and determination. “I’m trying to tell him, John, that he’s not well enough to go right away.”

Some of the boom came back into the senatorial tones. “And I’m telling her that it’s now or never. I’m telling her to take these letters back to my office and turn them over to Seth Silliman. They’ll have to run things between them while I’m away. As for you, my boy, you’re going with me. That is, of course, if you want to go.”

The burden of regret John had been feeling about the arrangement rolled away. “I certainly do want to go. Yes, sir, there’s nothing I want to do so much as go along with you on this trip.”

“I’m going to work you hard.”

“That’s good, sir. I want to be useful.”

“You haven’t any idea how hard I’m going to work you. It won’t be all sight-seeing and having a good time. Your nose will be at the grindstone.”

“You’ll need me too,” protested Amy Shirley at this point. “What will you do about the letters you’ll receive, and the invitations you’ll get, and the tickets you’ll have to buy?”

“My dear child, I’m going to disregard letters. I’m not going to answer any of them. If I get any invitations, I’ll turn them down cold. No, young lady, this is going to be strictly stag. John and Peterkin and I. No one else is going.”

Amy turned and walked back into the house with the slightest hint of a flounce. “I don’t think you are being very kind,” she said. “If you don’t need me any more, there’s nothing left but to resign and get myself a new job.”

The senator looked properly disturbed at this. “Now see here,” he called, “you mustn’t go and do anything silly, my girl. I’ll always need you, even if I must limit my party for this little jaunt.” But he was speaking to a closed door.

It was three days before the doctor would permit the patient to get into a saddle. To avoid the heat of the day they started in late afternoon and it was dark when the horses turned into the corral at the O’Rawn ranch. Seth Silliman, looking as solemn as a pallbearer, met them on the wide patio.

“Sorry to hear you’ve been a bit done up, boss,” he said, staring hard at the signs of fatigue on his employer’s face. “I’m not sure Amy isn’t right about this and that you ought to recuperate before starting. However, we’ve got everything ready for you. The passports will be handed over at the airport in New York. All the reservations have been made. You go to Ireland first as you stipulated and I judge from the nature of the telegram I received from the management of the Shelbourne that there will be plenty of excitement over the arrival of the great Irish-American senator.”

“Clamp down on that kind of thing, Seth,” protested the old man. “I’m leaving my political career behind me. It will be a tired old man on a wild-goose chase who’ll be arriving. I don’t want to make any explanations. What’s our schedule?”

“You fly tomorrow in time to make connections with the transatlantic in New York. All you do there is to change over to a transatlantic plane. They’ll wait for you if you’re late. That much they insist on doing for the finest senator the country has ever had.”

Senator O’Rawn turned to speak to John in the dark. “My boy, I’m as excited and chirkey about this as a ten-year-old. It’s like the day I went on my first picnic excursion. All my life I’ve wanted to do this—to get over there and start at this business we have ahead of us. I’m leaving everything else behind me without a single pang.”

Two men were at the foot of the steps when the plane landed at New York. One was a messenger from a Manhattan trust who turned over to the senator a package of telegrams and letters, which the latter shoved into a capacious pocket with an almost indifferent air. The second was a brisk young man in a far from quiet tweed suit.

“Senator,” said the second man in a guarded tone, “I’m Victor Alfredi. Of the secret service. I’m assigned to see that you get off safely and with the least trouble to yourself.”

“It’s kind of you, Mr. Alfredi,” said the old man. He seemed very tired. “But I’m a private citizen now, you know; or very nearly that. I won’t need any official coddling from now on.”

The officer smiled. “That’s what you think, sir. You’ve got to transfer to Idlewild and, when you get there, you’ll find a big crowd waiting for you. Newspapermen, politicians, some of them top brass too, people wanting favors done for them, cranks, curiosity seekers. Several hundred of them.”

“I’m very tired, young man,” declared the senator after a moment’s reflection. “You see, I haven’t been well and I started on this trip before allowing myself enough time to recuperate. Is there any way of avoiding this crowd?”

“That’s what I’m here for. We can get into the airport by one of the private entrances and go direct to the plane. Will you mind getting on while they’re refueling and loading her?”

“Not a bit. The prospects of getting into one of those reclining chairs and having a quick nap appeals to me more than anything else at the moment.”

“It’s as good as done, sir.”

The senator looked very tired and pale when they were hoisted up into the plane. He confirmed what he had said by falling asleep almost immediately. John settled down beside him. Although he was deeply worried over the condition of his benefactor, he could not help feeling at the same time a sense of exhilaration. He had no idea what lay ahead of them but it was certain they were starting out on an adventure. Something was afoot, something strange and unusual. It would have been less than natural if he had not felt a tingle of excitement as his mind dwelt on what might happen to them after they landed in Ireland.

The plane had been under way for more than an hour before the old senator roused himself. He turned in his chair, grunted once, and then opened his eyes. The steady drone of the motors warned him that they were making progress on the long Atlantic jump.

“Just started?” he asked.

“You’ve been asleep an hour, sir. We’re well out. They’ll be bringing our dinners any minute now.”

“Lot of good that will do me,” commented the senator bitterly. “Peterkin back there will watch every mouthful I eat. I could have sworn I dozed off for no more than a few minutes.” His mind went back to the events following their arrival from the West and he reached a hand into a pocket for the mail he had received. “I need a smoke so badly that every last one of the billions of molecules in my body is setting up a holler.”

He sorted out the mail with a careless air and handed one of the telegrams to John. “A report on El Dorado Light and Power,” he said. Then, without giving his companion time to digest or at any rate to make any comment on the communication, he began to talk of something else. “It’s the first time in my life I ever did that. I mean, giving all those people the slip at the airport. I was always careful to treat the public well. Ordinarily I would have shaken hands with every man jack of them, called as many of them as I could by name, listened to what they had to say, made notes of what they wanted. They must have been a surprised lot when they found I had given them the go-by. I expect the reporters will hand me a panning.” He seemed worried over the probable results of his maneuver but after a moment he smiled. “What’s it matter if they are angry? I’ll probably never see one of them again. And I’ll never be asking for votes. When we get through with this business of ours, John, and come back to America, there won’t be any crowds to greet us. I’ll be out of the public eye by that time. I’ll regret it a little. I like people. I admit that I’ve always liked publicity. I’ve never shrunk from seeing my picture in the papers.”

He became aware then that his companion was not paying any attention to him. John had opened the letter from the brokerage house and was staring at it with unbelieving eyes.

“What’s wrong? Did old El drop down a little?”

“No, sir,” answered John in a small and unnatural voice. “On the contrary. It went up. They sold our holdings before the market closed today.”

The senator did not seem much interested. “Well, that’s what we expected. The market has been pretty bullish.”

“Sir,” said John, “I don’t believe I’m reading the figures right. I’m quite sure I’m wrong. I wonder if you would look at them.”

The old man fitted his glasses on his nose. He studied the figures for a few moments and then turned around to smile at his companion.

“Pretty good, eh? What total did you get?”

“I—I figured it several times and the total was the same each time. I know I must be wrong because what—what I make out of it is a profit for me of $39,655.80.”

“That’s right. That’s what you made on your five thousand shares, John. After taking off commissions and the interest for the use of the money. You wanted it that way—on a straight business basis.”

“Yes, sir.” John’s power of speech was still refusing to function properly. He finally managed to say: “I don’t think I should take this money. I haven’t earned it. You are being so generous to me that I don’t know what to say or do.”

The senator had been watching him out of the corner of one eye. “Don’t take it so hard, son. You’ll get used to this sort of thing after a while; and to other things which won’t be nearly as pleasant. But if it will make you feel a little better, this is the last transaction of the kind we’ll be in together. I gave them instructions to sit tight and do nothing until I got back. I don’t want to be bothered with cablegrams. It seemed wisest to close up shop for the time being.”

He was still watching his young companion with an amused realization of the truth that gratitude is the hardest emotion for the young to express. To save John from further floundering, he began to talk about the unfinished manuscript of the novel.

“I read it some days ago,” he said, “but the way the roof suddenly caved in on me, I didn’t have a chance to talk about it. John, I have two quite definite reactions to that story of yours. I’m not a critic and I don’t know what constitutes good writing but it seemed to me you wrote extremely well.”

The youth’s face lighted up. He felt more excited over this favorable report than over the great profit he had made on the market.

“The writing was so sound that I read the story all the way through. But I’ve got to say that I think you picked a trite theme to expend your talents on.”

John looked considerably surprised at this. “Why, sir, I thought it would be the other way around. I expected you would approve of what I was trying to do but find my writing immature and—and amateurish. I was dealing with a theme which interested me more than anything else in the world and I’ve always believed this to be the first test of literary sincerity.”

Senator O’Rawn nodded his head. “I see your point, son, and I’m sure you are right. But it seems to me unfortunate that you have to be interested most in an idea that every other budding author elects to write. I’m sure there have been fifty novels published in the last few years about adolescence and the efforts of sensitive youth to get adjusted to the thorny business of living.”

“I know that, sir. But I still feel that I had something to say.”

“My final reaction is favorable, John. I’m sure you can undertake a job of writing for me. That’s what I meant when I said I was going to keep your nose to the grindstone. I want you to go with me and see certain places and listen to something I’m going to tell you. I want it put down in a story that people will read. I feel pretty sure you can do it. Do you want to try?”

“Of course, sir. I feel very grateful that—that you think I can write a little. I was afraid you would be more disposed to laugh at my feeble efforts.”

“Son,” said the senator abruptly, “I have a question to ask you. Do you think an angel could make a mistake?”

John was puzzled at the sudden change of subject and even more at the nature of the question.

“Why, no. Angels are the instruments of God and so they couldn’t be anything but—infallible and omnipotent.” Then he began to give the idea more thought and reached a point where he wanted to qualify his answer. “Well now, coming to think of it, it seems just barely possible that there could be an occasional slip. If we accept as truth that there is a God—one God, the head of the whole universe——”

The old man nodded his head with the deepest earnestness and belief. “There is, my boy, there is. Never allow yourself any doubts on that score. Believe me when I say that I know there is a God. I know.”

“Well, then, sir, can we believe further that He isn’t the kind of God to create a world like ours and then leave it alone, not caring what happens to the creatures existing on it? If He is the kind of God who watches and directs and has a purpose in everything——”

“He is the kind of God who watches and directs and has a purpose in everything. I know He is.”

“In that case He must have a tremendous number of angels. Thousands of them to attend to the whole universe.”

“Thousands of them, John. Hundreds of thousands.”

“Then it’s just possible that one of them, a new angel, say, might be responsible for a slip.”

The senator laughed and slapped his young companion on the knee. “I’ve asked a great many that question, my boy, and I’ve always had the same answer; that an angel could not make a mistake. Well, I agree with what you have said. Of course, it may all have been intended in the first place but I’m inclined to think it was a mistake. That a door was allowed to swing open, as someone said in a story I read. Kipling, I believe. And because this mistake occurred, we are going on a journey and you are going to write me a long report of what you see and hear.”