XV
SUCH STUFF AS PLOTS ARE MADE OF
"How is it?" P. Sybarite asked solicitously.
"Aches," replied the boy huddled in his corner of the cab.
Then he found spirit enough for a pale, thin smile, faintly visible ina milky splash from an electric arc rocking by the vehicle in itsflight.
"Aches like hell," he added. "Makes one feel a bit sickish."
"Anything I can do?"
"No--thanks. I'll be all right--as soon as I find a surgeon to drawthat slug and plaster me up."
"That's the point: where am I to take you?"
"Home--the Monastery--Forty-third Street."
"Bachelor apartments?"
"Yes; I herd by my lonesome."
"Praises be!" muttered P. Sybarite, relieved.
For several minutes he had been entertaining a vision of himselfescorting this battered and bloody young person to a home of shriekingfeminine relations, and poignantly surmising the sort of welcome aptto be accorded the good Samaritan in such instances.
And while he was about it, he took time briefly to offer up thanksthat the shock of his wound seemed to have sobered the boy completely.
Opening the door, he craned his neck out to establish communicationwith the ear of the chauffeur; to whom he repeated the address, addingan admonition to avoid the Monastery until certain he had shaken offpursuit, if any; and dodged back.
At this juncture the taxicab was slipping busily up Eighth Avenue,having gained that thoroughfare via Forty-first Street. A little laterit turned eastwards....
"No better, I presume?" P. Sybarite enquired.
"Not so's you'd notice it," the boy returned bravely.... "First timeanything like this ever happened to me," he went on. "Funnysensation--precisely as if somebody had lammed me for a home run--witha steel girder for a bat ..."
"Must be tough!" said P. Sybarite blankly, experiencing a qualm at thethought of a soft-nosed bullet mushrooming through living flesh.
"Guess I can stand it.... Where are we?"
P. Sybarite took observations."
"Forty-seventh, near Sixth Avenue," he reported finally.
"Good: we'll be home in five minutes."
"Think you can hold out that long?"
"Sure--got to; if I keel over before we reach my digs ... chances areit'll get you into trouble ... besides, I want to fight shy of thepapers ... no good airing this scandal ..."
"None whatever," affirmed P. Sybarite heartily. "But--how did you getinto it?"
"Just by way of being a natural-born ass."
"Oh, well! If it comes to that, I admit it's none of my business--"
"The deuce it isn't! After all you've done for me! Good Lord, man,where _would_ I be...!"
"Sleeping the sleep of the doped in some filthy corner of Dutch House,most likely."
"And you saved me from that!"
"And got this hole drilled through you instead."
"Got me away; I'd've collected the lead anyhow--wasn't meaning to staywithout a fight."
"Then you weren't as drunk as you seemed?"
"Didn't you catch me making a move the minute you created a diversion?Of course, I'd no idea you were friendly--"
"Look here," P. Sybarite interrupted sharply: "doesn't it hurt you totalk?"
"No--helps me forget this ache."
"All right, then--tell me how this came about. What has Red Novembergot on you, to make him so anxious--?"
"Nothing, as far as I know; unless it was Brian Shaynon's doing--"
"A-ah!"
"You know that old blighter?"
"Slightly--very slightly."
"Friend of yours?"
"Not exactly."
The accent of P. Sybarite's laugh rendered the disclaimer conclusive.
"Glad to hear that," said the boy gravely: "I'd despise to be beholdento any friend of his ..."
"Well.... But what's the trouble between you and old man Shaynon?"
"Search me--unless he thought I was spying on him. I say!" the boyexclaimed excitedly--"what business could he have had with RedNovember there, to-night?"
"That _is_ a question," P. Sybarite allowed.
"Something urgent, I'll be bound!--else he wouldn't ever have daredshow his bare map in that dump."
"One would think so...."
"I'd like to figure this thing out. Perhaps you can help. To beginwith--I went to a party to-night."
"I know," said P. Sybarite, with a quiet chuckle: "the Hadley-Owenmasquerade."
"How did you know?"
"_Kismet!_ It had to be."
"Are you by any chance--mad?"
"I shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, I'm a bit mad I wasn't invited.Everybody I know or meet--almost--is either bidden to that party orknows somebody who is. Forgive the interruption.... Anyway," he added,"we're here."
The taxicab was drawing up before an apartment house entrance.
Hastily recovering his hoard of gold-pieces, P. Sybarite jumped outand presented one to the driver.
"Can't change that," said the latter, staring. "Besides, this was acharge call."
"I know," said P. Sybarite apologetically; "but this is for you."
"Good God!" cried the chauffeur.
"And yet," mused P. Sybarite, "they'd have you believe all taxicabchauffeurs mercenary!"
Recklessly he forced the money into the man's not altogetherinhospitable palm.
"For being a good little tight-mouth," he explained gravely.
"Forever and ever, amen!" protested the latter fervently. "And thank_you_!"
"If you're satisfied, we're quits," returned P. Sybarite, offering ahand to the boy.
"I can manage," protested this last, descending without assistance."And it's better so," he explained as they crossed to the door; "Idon't want the hallboys here to suspect--and I can hold up a fewminutes longer, never fear."
"Business of taking off my hat to you," said P. Sybarite in unfeignedadmiration; "for pure grit, you're a young wonder."
A liveried hallboy opened the door. A second waited in the elevator.Promptly ascending, they were set down at one of the upper floors.
Throughout the boy carried himself with never a quiver, hiscountenance composed and betraying what pain he suffered only to eyeskeen to discern its trace of pallor. Now as he left the elevator andfitted a key to the lock of his private front door, he addressed theattendant, over his shoulder, in a manner admirably casual:
"By the way, Jimmy--"
"Sir?"
"Call up Dr. Higgins for me."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him I've an attack of indigestion and will be glad if he'll turnout and see if he can't fix me up for the night."
"Very good, Mr. Kenny."
The gate clanged and the cage dropped from sight as Mr. Kenny openedthe door and stood aside to let P. Sybarite precede him.
"Rot!" objected the little man forcibly. "Go in and turn up thelights. Punctilio from a man in your condition--!"
The boy nodded wearily, passed in, and switched up the lights in acomfortably furnished sitting-room.
"As a matter of fact," he said thoughtfully, when P. Sybarite hadfollowed him in and shut the door--"I'm wondering how much of a bluffI may be, after all."
"Meaning--?"
"By all literary precedent I ought to faint now, after my magnificentexhibition of superhuman endurance. But I'm not going to."
"That's rather sporting of you," P. Sybarite grinned.
"Not at all; I just don't want to--don't feel like it. That sickfeeling is gone--nothing but a steady agony like a hot iron through myshoulder--something any man with teeth to grit could stand."
"We'll find out soon enough. I don't pretend to be any sort of a dabat repairs on punctured humanity, but I read enough popular fictionmyself to know that the only proper thing to do is to ruin thathandsome coat of yours by cutting it off your back. We can anticipatethe doctor to that extent, at least."
"That's one thing, at least, that the popular nove
list knows _right_,"asserted Mr. Kenny with conviction. "Sorry for the coat--but you'llfind scissors yonder, on my desk."
And when P. Sybarite fetched them, he sat himself sideways in astraight-backed chair and cheerfully endured the little man'simpromptu essays in first-aid measures.
A very little snipping and slashing sufficed to do away with theshoulder and sleeve of the boy's coat and to lay open his waistcoat aswell, exposing a bloodstained shirt. And then, at the instant when P.Sybarite was noting with relief that the stain showed both in back andin front, the telephone shrilled.
"If you don't mind answering that--" grunted Mr. Kenny.
P. Sybarite was already at the instrument.
"Yes?" he answered. "Dr. Higgins?"
"Sorry, sir," replied a strange voice: "Dr. Higgins isn't in yet. Anymessage?"
"Tell him Mr. Kenny needs him at the Monastery, and the matter'surgent.... Doctor not in," he reported superfluously, returning to cutaway collar, tie, shirt, and undershirt. "Never mind, I shouldn't besurprised if we could manage to do without him, after all."
"Meaning it's not so bad--?"
"Meaning," said the other, exposing the naked shoulder, "I'm beginningto hope you've had a marvellously narrow escape."
"Feels like it," said Kenny, ironic.
P. Sybarite withheld response while he made close examination. At thebase of Mr. Kenny's neck, well above the shoulder-blade, dark bloodwas welling slowly from an ugly puncture. And in front there was acorresponding puncture, but smaller. And presently his deft and gentlefingers, exploring the folds of the boy's undershirt, closed upon thebullet itself.
"I don't believe," he announced, displaying his find, "you deservesuch luck. Somehow you managed to catch this just right for it to slipthrough without either breaking bone or severing artery. And by aspecial dispensation of an all-wise Providence, Red November must havebeen preoccupied when he loaded that gun, for somehow a steel-jacketedinstead of a soft-nosed bullet got into the chamber he wasted on you.Otherwise you'd have been pretty badly smashed. As it is, you'llprobably be laid up only a few days."
"I told you I wasn't so badly hurt--"
"God's good to the Irish. Where's your bathroom?"
With a gesture Kenny indicated its location.
"And handkerchiefs--?"
"Upper bureau drawer in the bedroom."
In a twinkling P. Sybarite was off and back again with materials foran antiseptic wash and a rude bandage.
"How'd you know I was Irish?" demanded the patient.
"By yoursilf's name," quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as naturalas grass, while he worked away busily. "'Tis black Irish, and well Iknow it. 'Twas me mither's maiden name--Kenny. She had a brother,Michael he was and be way av bein' a rich conthractor in this verytown as ever was, befure he died--God rist his sowl! He left twochildren--a young leddy who mis-spells her name M-a-e A-l-y-s--keepstill!--and Peter, yersilf, me cousin, if it's not mistaken I am."
"The Lord save us!" said the boy. "You're never Percy Sybarite!"
P. Sybarite winced. "Not so loud!" he pleaded in a stage whisper."Some one might hear you."
"What the devil's the matter with you?"
"I am that man you named--but, prithee, Percy me no Percevals, an'you'd be my friend. For fifteen years I've kept my hideous secretwell. If it becomes public now ..."
Peter Kenny laughed in spite of his pain.
"I'll keep your secret, too," he volunteered, "since you feel that wayabout it.... But, I say: what have you been doing with yourselfsince--since--" He stammered.
"Since the fall of the House of Sybarite?"
"Yes. I didn't know you were in New York, even."
"Your mother and Mae Alys knew it--but kept it quiet, the same as me,"said the little man.
"But--well--what _have_ you been doing, then?"
"Going to and fro like a raging lion--more or less--seeking what Imight devour."
"And the devourings have been good, eh? You're high-spirited enough."
"I think," said P. Sybarite quietly--"I may say--though you can't seeit--that my present smile would, to a shrewd observer, seem toindicate I'd swallowed a canary-bird ... a nice, fat, goldencanary-bird!" he repeated, smacking his lips with unction.
"You talk as if you'd swallowed a dictagraph," said Peter Kenny.
"It's my feeling," sighed P. Sybarite. "But yourself? Let's see; whenI saw you last you were the only authentic child pest of your day andgeneration--six or seven at most. How long have you been out ofcollege?"
"A year--not quite."
"And sporting bachelor rooms of your own!"
"I'm of age. Besides, if you must know, mother and Mae Alys are bothdotty on the society game, and I'm not. I won't be rushed round topink teas and--and all that sort of thing."
"Far more wholesome than pink whiskeys at Dutch House."
"You don't understand--"
"No; but I mean to. There!" announced P. Sybarite, finishing thebandage with a tidy flat knot--make yourself comfortable on thatcouch, tell me where you keep your whiskey, and I'll mix myself adrink and listen to your degrading confession....
"Now," he added, when Peter Kenny, stretched out on the couch, hadsuffered himself to be covered up--"not being an M.D., I've noconscience at all about letting you talk yourself to death; eatenalive as I am with curiosity; and knowing besides that you can't killa Kenny but with kindness."
"You'll find the whiskey on the buffet," said the boy.
"Obliged to you," P. Sybarite replied, finding it.
"And I suppose I--"
"You're quite right; you've had enough. Alcohol is nothing to helpmend a wound. If your friend Higgins permits it, when he comes--welland good.... Meanwhile," he added, taking a seat near the head of thecouch, and fixing his youthful relation with a stern enquiringeye--"what were you doing in Dutch House the night?"
"I've been trying to tell you--"
"And now you must.... Is there a cigar handy?... Thanks.... Thiswhiskey is prime stuff.... Go on. I'm waiting."
"Well," Peter Kenny confessed sheepishly. "I'm in love--"
"And you proposed to her to-night at the ball?"
"Yes, and--"
"She refused you."
"Yes, but--"
"So you decided to do the manly thing--go out and pollute yourselfwith drink?"
"That's about the size of it," Peter admitted, shamefaced.
"It's no good reason," announced P. Sybarite. "Now, if you'd beencelebrating your happy escape, I'd be the last to blame you."
"You don't understand, and you won't give me a chance--"
"I'm waiting--all ears--but not the way _you_ mean."
"It wasn't as if she'd left me any excuse to hope ... but she told meflat she didn't care for me."
"That's bad, Peter. Forgive my ill-timed levity: I didn't mean itmeanly, boy," P. Sybarite protested.
"It's worse than you think," Peter complained. "I can stand her notcaring for me. Why should she?"
"Why, indeed?"
"It's because she's gone and promised to marry Bayard Shaynon."
P. Sybarite looked dazed.
"She? Bayard Shaynon? Who's the girl?"
"Marian Blessington. Why do you ask? Do you know her?"
There was a pause. P. Sybarite blinked furiously.
"I've heard that name," he said quietly, at length. "Isn't she oldBrian's ward--the girl who disappeared recently?"
"She didn't disappear, really. She's been staying with friends--toldme so herself. That's all the foundation the _Journal_ had for itsstory."
"Friends?"
"So she said."
"Did she name them?"
"No--"
"Or say where?"
"No; but some place out of town, of course."
"Of course," P. Sybarite repeated mechanically. He eyed fixedly theash on the end of his cigar. "And she told you she meant to marryBayard Shaynon, did she!"
"She said she'd promised.... And that," the boy broke out, "was whatdr
ove me crazy. He's--he's--well, you know what he is."
"His father's son," said P. Sybarite gloomily.
"He was there to-night--the old man, too; and after what Marian hadtold me, I just couldn't trust myself to meet or speak to either ofthem. So I bolted back here, took a stiff drink, changed from costumeto these clothes, and went out to make a besotted ass of myself.Naturally I landed in Dutch House. And there--the first thing Inoticed when I went in was old Shaynon, sitting at the same table youtook, later--waiting. Imagine my surprise--I'd left him at the Bizarrenot thirty minutes before!"
"I'm imagining it, Peter. Get ahead."
"I hailed him, but he wouldn't recognise me--simply glared. PresentlyRed November came in and they went upstairs together. So I stuckaround, hoping to get hold of Red and make him drunk enough to talk.Curiously enough when Shaynon left, Red came directly to my table andsat down. But by that time I'd had some champagne on top of whiskeyand was beginning to know that if I pumped in anything more, it'd beNovember's party instead of mine. And when he tried to insist on mydrinking more, I got scared--feeling what I'd had as much as I did."
"You're not the fool you try to seem," P. Sybarite conceded. "I heardNovember promise Shaynon, at the door, that you wouldn't remember muchwhen you came to. The old scoundrel didn't want to be seen--hadn'texpected to be recognised and, when he found you'd followed, plannedto fix things so that you'd never tell on him."
"But _why_?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out. There's some sort of shenaniganbrewing, or my first name's Peter, the same as yours--which I wish itwas so.... Be quiet a bit and let me think."
For a little while P. Sybarite sat pondering with vacant eyes; and thewounded boy stared upward with a frown, as though endeavouring topuzzle the answer to this riddle out of the blankness of the ceiling.
"What time does this Hadley-Owen party break up?"
"Not till daylight. It's the last big fixture of the social season,and ordinarily they keep it up till sunrise."
"It'll be still going, then?"
"Strong. They'll be in full swing, now, of after-supper dancing."
"That settles it: I'm going."
The boy lifted on his elbow in amaze, then subsided with a grunt ofpain.
"_You're_ going?"
"You say you've got a costume of some sort here? I'll borrow it. We'remuch of a size."
"Heaven knows you're welcome, but--"
"But what?"
"You have no invitation."
Rising, P. Sybarite smiled loftily. "Don't worry about that. If Ican't bribe my way past a cordon of mercenary foreign waiters--andtalk down any other opposition--I'm neither as flush as I think nor asIrish."
"But what under the sun do you want there?"
"To see what's doing--find out for myself what devilment BrianShaynon's hatching. Maybe I'll do no good--and maybe I'll be able toput a spoke in his wheel. To do that--once--_right_--I'd be willing todie as poor as I've lived till this blessed night!"
He paused an instant on the threshold of his cousin's bedroom; turnedback a sombre visage.
"I've little love for Brian Shaynon, myself, or none. You know what hedid to me--and mine."
The Day of Days: An Extravaganza Page 15
