Complete weird tales of.., p.478
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 478
But in the morning, something he read in the paper concerning a vast enterprise, involving the control of the new radium mines in Southern California, startled him into trying to recollect what he had heard of Yo Espero and the Cascade Development and Securities Company. Tainting its title the sinister name of Moebus seemed to reoccur persistently in his confused imagination. Dysart’s name, too, figured in it. And, somehow, he conceived an idea that his father once received some mining engineer’s reports covering the matter; he even seemed to remember that Guy Wilton had been called into consultation.
Whatever associations he had for the name of the Cascade Development and Securities Company must have originated in Paris the year before his father returned to America. It seemed to him that Wilton had been in Spain that year examining the recent and marvellously rich radium find; and that his father and Wilton exchanged telegrams very frequently concerning a mine in Southern California known as Yo Espero.
His father breakfasted in his room that morning, but when he appeared in the library Duane was relieved to notice that his step was firmer and he held himself more erect, although his extreme pallor had not changed to a healthier colour.
“You know,” said Duane, “you’ve simply got to get out of town for a while. It’s all bally rot, your doing this sort of thing.”
“I may go West for a few weeks,” said his father absently.
“Are you going down-town?”
“No.... And, Duane, if you don’t mind letting me have the house to myself this morning — —”
He hesitated, glancing from his son to the telephone.
“Of course not,” said Duane heartily. “I’m off to the studio — —”
“I don’t mean to throw you out,” murmured his father with a painful attempt to smile, “but there’s a stenographer coming from my office and several — business acquaintances.”
The young fellow rose, patted his father’s shoulder lightly:
“What is really of any importance,” he said, “is that you keep your health and spirits. What I said last night covers my sentiments. If I can do anything in the world for you, tell me.”
His father took the outstretched hand, lifted his faded eyes with a strange dumb look; and so they parted.
On Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, Duane, swinging along at a good pace, turned westward, and half-way to Sixth Avenue encountered Guy Wilton going east, a packet under one arm, stick and hat in the other hand, the summer wind blowing the thick curly hair from his temples.
“Ah,” observed Wilton, “early bird and worm, I suppose? Don’t try to bolt me, Duane; I’m full of tough and undigested — er — problems, myself. Besides, I’m fermenting. Did you ever silently ferment while listening politely to a man you wanted to assault?”
Duane laughed, then his eye by accident, caught a superscription on the packet of papers under Wilton’s arm: Yo Espero! His glance reverted in a flash to Wilton’s face.
The latter said: “I want to write a book entitled ‘Gentleman I Have Kicked.’ Of course I’ve only kicked ’em mentally; but my! what a list I have! — all sorts, all nations — from certain domestic and predatory statesmen to the cad who made his beautiful and sensitive mistress notorious in a decadent novel! — all kinds, Duane, have I kicked mentally I’ve just used my foot on another social favorite — —”
“Dysart!” said Duane, inspired, and, turning painfully red, begged Wilton’s pardon.
“You’ve sure got a disconcerting way with you,” admitted Wilton, very much out of countenance.
“It was rotten bad taste in me — —”
Wilton grinned with a wry face: “Nobody is standing much on ceremony these days. Besides, I’m on to your trail, young man” — tapping the bundle under his arm— “your eye happened to catch that superscription; no doubt your father has talked to you; and you came to — a rather embarrassing conclusion.”
Duane’s serious face fell:
“My father and I have not talked on that subject, Guy. Are you going up to see him now?”
Wilton hesitated: “I suppose I am.... See here, Duane, how much do you know about — anything?”
“Nothing,” he said without humour; “I’m beginning to worry over my father’s health.... Guy, don’t tell me anything that my father’s son ought not to know; but is there something I should know and don’t? — anything in which I could possibly be of help to my father?”
Wilton looked carefully at a distant policeman for nearly a minute, then his meditative glance became focussed on vacancy.
“I — don’t — know,” he said slowly. “I’m going to see your father now. If there is anything to tell, I think he ought to tell it to you. Don’t you?”
“Yes. But he won’t. Guy, I don’t care a damn about anything except his health and happiness. If anything threatens either, he won’t tell me, but don’t you think I ought to know?”
“You ask too hard a question for me to answer.”
“Then can you answer me this? Is father at all involved in any of Jack Dysart’s schemes?”
“I — had better not answer, Duane.”
“You know best. You understand that it is nothing except anxiety for his personal condition that I thought warranted my butting into his affairs and yours.”
“Yes, I understand. Let me think over things for a day or two. Now I’ve got to hustle. Good-bye.”
He hastened on eastward; Duane went west, slowly, more slowly, halted, head bent in troubled concentration; then he wheeled in his tracks with nervous decision, walked back to the Plaza Club, sent for a cab, and presently rattled off up-town.
In a few minutes the cab swung east and came to a standstill a few doors from Fifth Avenue; and Duane sprang out and touched the button at a bronze grille.
The servant who admitted him addressed him by name with smiling deference and ushered him into a two-room reception suite beyond the tiny elevator.
There was evidently somebody in the second room; Duane had also noticed a motor waiting outside as he descended from his cab; so he took a seat and sat twirling his walking-stick between his knees, gloomily inspecting a room which, in pleasanter days, had not been unfamiliar to him.
Instead of the servant returning, there came a click from the elevator, a quick step, and the master of the house himself walked swiftly into the room wearing hat and gloves.
“What do you want?” he inquired briefly.
“I want to ask you a question or two,” said Duane, shocked at the change in Dysart’s face. Haggard, thin, snow-white at the temples with the light in his eyes almost extinct, the very precision and freshness of linen and clothing brutally accentuated the ravaged features.
“What questions?” demanded Dysart, still standing, and without any emotion whatever in either voice or manner.
“The first is this: are you in communication with my father concerning mining stock known as Yo Espero?”
“I am.”
“Is my father involved in any business transactions in which you figure, or have figured?”
“There are some. Yes.”
“Is the Cascade Development and Securities Co. one of them?”
“Yes, it is.”
Duane’s lips were dry with fear; he swallowed, controlled the rising anger that began to twitch at his throat, and went on in a low, quiet voice:
“Is this man — Moebus — connected with any of these transactions in which you and — and my father are interested?”
“Yes.”
“Is Klawber?”
“Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, and Amos Flack are interested. Is that what you want to know?”
Duane looked at him, stunned. Dysart stepped nearer, speaking almost in a whisper:
“Well, what about it? Once I warned you to keep your damned nose out of my personal affairs — —”
“I make some of them mine!” said Duane sharply; “when crooks get hold of an honest man, every citizen is a policeman!”
Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip:
“Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!” he breathed. “My father is in the next room. Do you want to kill him?”
At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet. Dysart’s grip relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway. He was small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a monocle.
Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort:
“I was just saying to Duane, father, that all this financial agitation is bound to blow over by December — Duane Mallett, father!” — as the old man raised his eye-glass and peeped up at the young fellow— “you know his father, Colonel Mallett.”
“Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!” piped the old beau. “How-de-do! How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour. It is becoming a custom — he! he! — every day from ten to eleven — then a biscuit and a glass of sherry — then a nap — te-he! Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair — then luncheon at one, and the cigarette — te-he! — and a little sleep — and the drive at five! Yes, Mr. Mallett, it is the routine of a very old man who knew your grandfather — and all his set — when the town was gay below Bleecker Street! Yes, yes — te-he-he!”
Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart’s visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face:
“Your grandfather was a very fine man,” he piped; “very fine! ve-ery fine! And so I perceive is his grandson — te-he! — and I flatter myself that my boy Jack is not unadmired — te-he-he! — no, no — not precisely unnoticed in New York — the town whose history is the history of his own race, Mr. Mallett — he is a good son to me — yes, yes, a good son. It is gratifying to me to know that you are his friend. He is a good friend to have, Mr. Mallett, a good friend and a good son.”
Duane bent gently over the shrivelled hand.
“I won’t detain you from your drive, Mr. Dysart. I hope you will have a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to know my grandfather’s old friends. Good-bye.”
And, erect, he hesitated a moment, then, for an old man’s sake he held out his hand to Jack Dysart, bidding him good-bye in a pleasant voice pitched clear and decided, so that deaf ears might corroborate what half-blind and peering eyes so dimly beheld.
Dysart walked to the door with him, waved the servant aside, and, laying a shaking hand on the bronze knob, opened the door for his unbidden guest.
As Duane passed him he said:
“Thank you, Mallett,” in a voice so low that Duane was half-way to his cab before he understood.
That day, and the next, and all that week he worked in his pitlike studio. Through the high sky-window a cloudless zenith brooded; the heat became terrific; except for the inevitable crush of the morning and evening migration south and north, the streets were almost empty under a blazing sun.
His father seemed to be physically better. Although he offered no confidences, it appeared to the son that there was something a little more cheerful in his voice and manner. It may have been only the anticipation of departure; for he was going West in a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going with him.
The day he left, Duane drove him to the station. There was a private car, the “Cyane,” attached to the long train. Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood.
As the young fellow turned and passed beneath the car-windows, he caught a glimpse above him of a heavy-jowled, red face into which a cigar was stuck — a perfectly enormous expanse of face with two little piglike eyes almost buried in the mottled fat.
“That’s Max Moebus,” observed a train hand respectfully, as Duane passed close to him; “I guess there’s more billions into that there private car than old Pip’s crowd can dig out of their pants pockets on pay day.”
A little, dry-faced, chin-whiskered man with a loose pot-belly and thin legs came waddling along, followed by two red-capped negroes with his luggage. He climbed up the steps of the “Cyane”; the train man winked at Duane, who had turned to watch him.
“Amos Flack,” he said. “He’s their ‘lobbygow.’” With which contemptuous information he spat upon the air-brakes and, shoving both hands into his pockets, meditatively jingled a bunch of keys.
The club was absolutely deserted that night; Duane dined there alone, then wandered into the great empty room facing Fifth Avenue, his steps echoing sharply across the carpetless floor. The big windows were open; there was thunder in the air — the sonorous stillness in which voices and footsteps in the street ring out ominously.
He smoked and watched the dim forms of those whom the heat drove forth into the night, men with coats over their arms and straw hats in their hands, young girls thinly clad in white, bare-headed, moving two and two with dragging steps and scarcely spirit left even for common coquetry or any response to the jesting oafs who passed.
Here and there a cruising street-dryad threaded the by-paths of the metropolitan jungle; here and there a policeman, gray helmet in hand, stood mopping his face, night-club tucked up snugly under one arm. Few cabs were moving; at intervals a creaking, groaning omnibus rolled past, its hurricane deck white with the fluttering gowns of women and young girls.
Somebody came into the room behind him; Duane turned, but could not distinguish who it was in the dusk. A little while later the man came over to where he sat, and he looked up; and it was Dysart.
There was silence for a full minute; Dysart stood by the window looking out; Duane paid him no further attention until he wheeled slowly and said:
“Do you mind if I have a word with you, Mallett?”
“Not if it is necessary.”
“I don’t know whether it is necessary.”
“Don’t bother about it if you are in the slightest doubt.”
Dysart waited a moment, perhaps for some unpleasant emotion to subside; then:
“I’ll sit down a moment, if you permit.”
He dropped into one of the big, deep, leather chairs and touched the bell. A servant came; he looked across at Duane, hesitated to speak:
“Thank you,” said Duane curtly. “I’ve cut it out.”
“Scotch. Bring the decanter,” murmured Dysart to the servant.
When it was served he drained the glass, refilled it, and turned in the rest of the mineral water. Before he spoke he emptied the glass again and rang for more mineral water. Then he looked at Duane and said in a low voice:
“I thought you were worried the other day when I saw you at my house.”
“What is that to you?”
Dysart said: “You were very kind — under provocation.”
“I was not kind on your account.”
“I understand. But I don’t forget such things.”
Duane glanced at him in profound contempt. Here was the stereotyped scoundrel with the classical saving trait — the one conventionally inevitable impulse for good shining like a diamond on a muck-heap — his apparently disinterested affection for his father.
“You were very decent to me that day,” Dysart said. “You had something to say to me — but were good enough not to. I came over to-night to give you a chance to curse me out. It’s the square thing to do.”
“What do you know about square dealing?”
“Go on.”
“I have nothing to add.”
“Then I have if you’ll let me.” He paused; the other remained silent. “I’ve this to say: you are worried sick; I saw that. What worries you concerns your father. You were merciful to mine. I’ll do what I can for you.”
He swallowed half of what remained in his iced glass, set it back on the table with fastidious precision:
“The worst that can happen to your father is to lose control of the Yo Espero property. I think he is going to lose it. They’ve crowded me out. If I could have endured the strain I’d have stood by your father — for what you did for mine.... But I couldn’t, Mallett.”
He moistened his lips again; leaned forward:
“I think I know one thing about you, anyway; and I’m not afraid you’d ever use any words of mine against me — —”
“Don’t say them!” retorted Duane sharply.
But Dysart went on:
“You have no respect for me. You found out one thing about me that settled me in your opinion. Outside of that, however, you never liked me.”
“That is perfectly true.”
“I know it. And I want to say now that it was smouldering irritation from that source — wounded vanity, perhaps — coupled with worry and increasing cares, that led to that outburst of mine. I never really believed that my wife needed any protection from the sort of man you are. You are not that kind.”
“That also is true.”
“And I know it. And now I’ve cleared up these matters; and there’s another.” He bit his lip, thought a moment, then with a deep, long breath:
“When you struck me that night I — deserved it. I was half crazy, I think — with what I had done — with a more material but quite as ruinous situation developing here in town — with domestic complications — never mind where all the fault lay — it was demoralising me. Do you think that I am not perfectly aware that I stand very much alone among men? Do you suppose that I am not aware of my personal unpopularity as far as men are concerned? I have never had an intimate friend — except Delancy Grandcourt. And I’ve treated him like a beast. There’s something wrong about me; there always has been.”
He slaked his thirst again; his hand shook so that he nearly dropped the glass:
“Which is preliminary,” he went on, “to saying to you that no matter what I said in access of rage, I never doubted that your encounter with — Miss Quest — was an accident. I never doubted that your motive in coming to me was generous. God knows why I said what I did say. You struck me; and you were justified.... And that clears up that!”
