Nothing In Her Way

by Charles Williams

  I took twenty steps more and repeated the whole thing. I was going toward him all the time, but before I began to get near enough to scare him I turned ninety degrees and paced off the next twenty parallel to the highway. After tagging this bag and putting it into my pocket I made another right-angled turn, away from him.

  He’d know now. Anybody with even normal intelligence could see what I was doing. I was laying out the whole area in an immense grid and picking up a sample of sand every twenty yards. It was completely systematic.

  I went on two or three more laps and then sat down on a sand dune with my back to him to eat my sandwich and give him a chance to get away.

  All right, pal, I thought, it’s up to you now.

  * * *

  I didn’t have long to wait. About four o’clock Monday afternoon Frankie or Johnnie came back to the cabin and said I was wanted on the telephone. I went up to the office. It was Goodwin, all right.

  “Mrs. Goodwin and I wondered if you’d like to come out and try potluck with us this evening if you’re free,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said hesitantly. “Uh—Thank you very much.”

  “About seven, then.”

  “That would be nice.”

  I wondered how well I’d carry it off. This was tricky, and Goodwin was no fool. There was one thing in my favor, however, the same thing there had been all the time, and that was that there couldn’t possibly be any reason for my trying to kid him. He owned the land, didn’t he?

  I dug the letter out of the bag, stuck it in my pocket, and walked over to Goodwin’s. The moon wasn’t up yet, and it was cold and dark and my heels rang on the sidewalk. Goodwin let me in, and we went into the living room. There was a nice blaze going in the fireplace. Mrs. Goodwin came in with some drinks on a tray and we all sat down.

  I had to beat him to the punch, to make it look better, but I had to be sure he was ready, that he had figured it out. I was making a big show of being intensely preoccupied with something and under a bad strain. During the few minutes of small talk over the drinks I appeared not to hear half that was said to me and was always waking up with an “Oh? I’m sorry…Beg pardon?” I had something on my mind, and I was burning. They could see it. Or I hoped they could; I wasn’t too sure I’d ever win an Academy Award with it.

  He waited until she left the room to see about dinner. The minute she was gone he put down his glass, lit a cigar, and looked across at me with a probing glance that meant business.

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about, Reichert,” he said.

  Well, here we go, I thought. I broke in on him. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you, too. I’ve been trying to make up my mind about it all day. I suppose you’d call it a question of loyalty to the people you work for, and just how far that loyalty is supposed to stretch before it breaks.”

  “And who is it you work for?” he asked.

  “Occidental Glass,” I said.

  He made an impatient gesture with his hand, and swore under his breath. “That was the thing I never could get,” he said. “Glass. It was just so obvious, I guess, I couldn’t see it.”

  I jerked my head up and looked at him. “Then you knew what I was doing?” I asked in surprise.

  He smiled. “You’re probably a good engineer, Reichert, but you’ll never set the world on fire as an undercover investigator. You give yourself away everywhere you turn.”

  “Oh?” I said uncomfortably. “Well, what I wanted to tell you was that I’m not working for them any more. I’ve sent in my resignation.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “For two reasons. The first is that I couldn’t tell you what I’m going to, as long as I’m drawing their pay. But the big one is that they’ve backed down on a promise they made me. If this thing proved up and we built a plant here, I was supposed to have a free hand with the whole design, and I was to have complete charge of production.” I fished out the letter. Charlie had written it, and where he’d got the Occidental Glass Company letterhead only Charlie would know. “Apparently office politics got in the way.”

  I passed it over to him. “Take a look at that last paragraph. They’re ‘very sorry, but...’”

  He read it, glanced again at the letterhead, and handed it back. “It’s a rotten deal,” he said. “And I’m sorry, Reichert.”

  I nodded, waiting. In about a minute he ought to get past my sob story to the real news. He did. His eyes jerked around to me again and he said, “But what about the plant? Are they going to put one up? Here?”

  I stared at him, took a sip of my drink, and put it down, taking my time all the way. “If they don’t,” I said, “somebody else will. That’s what I wanted to tell you. You’ve been a good friend since I’ve been here, and after the deal they’ve handed me I don’t see that I owe them enough to help them hand you the same one.”

  “You mean—that exploration work you did, it proved up?”

  I nodded. “You can just about name your own price for that sand deposit. Within reason, of course.”

  It’s just as Charlie says. No matter who they are, the minute you dangle the big money in front of them they begin to get the fever. Anybody will go for it, if you make it look right.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, trying to keep down the excitement in his voice. “I mean, it looks like any sand.”

  “They didn’t want it back at the lab just to look at. If they wanted to look at sand they could go out to Coney Island.”

  “Then the lab reports were good? But why? I mean, what makes it valuable?”

  “It’s technical,” I said. “But what it boils down to is a question of purity; that is, the ratio of silica to foreign matter and undesirable grit, dust, organic matter, and so on. They’re working on a new line of high-silica glass—that’s the stuff with the low coefficient of expansion—and this sand of yours out here is made to order for it. Of course, it isn’t pure silica, because sand deposits like that don’t exist, but it’s so near it’s unbelievable. They’ll go plenty high to get it.”

  He was leaning forward, staring at me. “How high do you think they’ll go?”

  “They’ll cry, but you can get a quarter of a million for it.” He whistled. “My God, Reichert.” Then the businessman began to take hold again. “But why did you tell me? I mean, what’s your deal?”

  I shrugged. “No deal. I don’t like what they did to me, and since I’m not working for them any more, I’d like to see you get what it’s worth. Of course, I’m not implying they were going to steal it from you, or anything like that, but they probably won’t offer over fifty thousand until you make them come across.”

  “Well, don’t think I won’t remember it. I mean, if it comes off and I get anything like that for it. But do you think they’ll try to get in touch with me?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And it won’t be long. I’ll tell you why. My resignation’s already in the mail, and when they get that they’ll be out here as if their clothes were on fire. You see what I’m driving at? There are several things I could do. I could buy an option on the land myself. Or, what’s more likely, since I don’t have that kind of money, I’ll go to work for some other glass company, and let them in on it in return for the job Occidental was supposed to give me.”

  “By God, you’re right,” he said. “They couldn’t take a chance, with what you know about it.” It was that easy.

  Early the next morning I sent off the corny telegram to Charlie’s address in Houston. “Congratulations to the lucky couple. May all your troubles be little ones.” That was the code for him to call his friend in New York, who’d wire Goodwin from there that the head of the Occidental Glass Company’s legal department, who was en route to the West Coast, would like to stop off in Wyecross and discuss a business matter.

  It was like shooting quail on the ground. Wednesday night Goodwin called me, full of excitement and almost sputtering. He’d received the wire from New York, all right, and then another from the lawyer himsel
f, from Houston. He’d be in on the nine a.m. Westbound next day.

  “All right,” I said. “You’re a businessman. You know what to do when you hold a hand like that.”

  “Yes,” he said happily. “You bet I do.”

  I was looking out the window of the drugstore the next morning after the train came in and saw Goodwin go by with him. Bolton looked like the legal department of Fort Knox, in a camel’s-hair coat that probably cost as much as a small car.

  He had to stay all day, since there wasn’t another train until nine p.m. About nine-fifteen Goodwin called. He’d just got back from the station, seeing him off. “I did it,” he said, a little wildly.

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “He knew you’d told me, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He’d probably have killed you if he could have found you. I started him off at three hundred thousand, and he finally gave up at two-seventy-five.”

  “The deal already made?” I asked.

  “Not yet. They have to have a meeting of the board. But he says it’s almost certain to go through. They’ve got an option on it at that price, for ten days.”

  “Fine,” I said. “That’ll give you just about time enough to have your title searched. Then you’re in.”

  I put that in to help him along. He still hadn’t got it. He was going to, as soon as it soaked in, and as I said, it was poison. It could kill you if you had a bad heart. It wasn’t until the next afternoon around three that it finally got to him. He called me at the motel.

  “Reichert,” he said wildly, “can you get over here right away? Something terrible’s come up, and I’ve got to have some advice. I’m trying to get hold of my lawyer now, and maybe he’ll be here by the time you are.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

  He’d remembered it at last. The land was his, all right, and the title was clear, but about five months ago he’d sold the oil rights to a lease speculator by the name of Wallace Caffery.

  The thing that made it bad was that the lease said “mineral rights.” And Wallace Caffery, of course, was Wolford Charles.

  Seven

  It wasn’t as dumb as it looked, and actually he probably hadn’t forgotten it at all. It was just that it didn’t matter. Land was often sold without the mineral rights, which around here meant simply oil, as that was the only mineral they had. Occidental Glass just wanted the sand. And sand wasn’t a mineral. Was it? Was it?

  The lawyer was already there by the time I made it. They had a copy of the contract out, and Goodwin was slowly going crazy. The lawyer explained it to me.

  “I’d have to look it up before I could say definitely,” he told Goodwin, “but just offhand I’d say you haven’t got a chance.” He turned to me again. “What is sand, Reichert? Technically, I mean. Rock, isn’t it? Silicia—sil-something.

  “Silicon,” I said, praying Charlie’s coaching wouldn’t go back on me now. “Actually, it’s the oxide. Silicon dioxide is the correct name for it. Its nonorganic, of course. Physically, it’s nothing but small fragments of quartz.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “There goes your ball game. Quartz is mineral to anybody.”

  It was murder. Just a little matter of $275,000 thrown out the window for the miserable handful of chicken feed Caffery’d given him for the oil rights on land where there’d never been any oil and never would be any because there were two dry holes on it already. You could see it in his face. The eyes were beginning to look haunted. Pal, I thought, it took a long time, but how does it feel?

  His only hope, of course, was to find Caffery and buy back the lease. And he had just ten days to do it. The only thing he knew was that Caffery was a small-time speculator and wildcatter who operated out of a hole-in-the-wall office in Houston when he wasn’t operating out of his suitcase. He grabbed the next train east. He was gone two days, and when he came back his eyes were no longer haunted. They were wild. His face was haggard.

  He’d found Caffery, all right. And Caffery had just laughed at him. So there’d been some big oil-company geologists snooping around the land, and now he wanted to pull a fast one and get it back? Fat chance.

  If I hadn’t kept reminding myself of the thing he’d helped do to my father and Dunbar, I’d have felt sorry for him. He could lose his sanity. It was more wealth than he’d ever dreamed of, and it was lying just beyond his outstretched fingers in a nightmare where he couldn’t move.

  That was Monday. He kept calling Caffery and getting the brush-off every day until Thursday, when some girl who answered the phone said Caffery had gone out of town and she didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. You had to admit it; Charlie was a genius. It was magnificent. The final turn of the screw came within an hour or two after that last, useless telephone call. It was a telegram from El Paso, sent by Bolton, of course. He had received instructions from the president of Occidental Glass to take up the option, and would be in town on the nine-thirty eastbound Friday night with a certified check for $275,000. If you’d touched Goodwin he’d have twanged like a bowstring, or blown up before your eyes.

  I was at his house when it came, and it was an awful thing to watch. He had to fight himself to keep from babbling and becoming incoherent when he talked. He was sweating as he called Houston again. He asked me to listen in on the extension, just in case Caffery was there, so I could see if I could detect any signs of weakening. The stupid girl popped chewing gum in his ear. Mr. Caffery? No, he was still out of town. But wait, come to think of it, he had called in from some little town just about an hour ago. She thought he was down there where he was drilling an oilcat well. No, she was trying to think of the name of the town, but she couldn’t remember it. It sounded like Snookum. Was there a town that sounded like Snookum? It was on the coast somewhere, not too far from Houston—she thought. There was something familiar about her voice, even under the seven layers of stupidity.

  I got off the extension and we both started tearing wildly through road maps, looking for it, while Goodwin kept the long-distance line open. We couldn’t locate anything that looked like it. Goodwin went back on the phone and pleaded with her. Couldn’t she possibly think of it?

  Oh, yes, she said; she’d just remembered. She had written it down and forgotten she had. And wasn’t it funny, it didn’t sound like Snookum at all. It sounded like Cuddly. The name of the town was Ludley. Mr. Caffery would be at the hotel there. There was only one hotel, she thought. Oh, you’re welcome, she said sweetly, and popped her gum. God, I thought, Charlie must have hired Shirley Booth for the job. Then it rang on me at last. It was Cathy.

  So she was in San Antonio, was she? So she could be near me? I tried to stifle the red blaze of anger.

  Goodwin finally got through to the hotel at Ludley. Caffery was out. Then, the next time, his line was busy. I listened in on the extension when he got through to him at last.

  It sounded as if a battle was going on in the hotel room, or they were having a stevedores’ union meeting. If Charlie was making all the noise alone, he should have been a one-man band.

  “Hello! Hello! Yes, Caffery speaking,” he yelled. “Who is it? Who? Goodwin? What the hell do you want?…Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” His voice became muffled, as if he’d put a hand over the transmitter, but we could still hear him. “Pipe down! Give me a chance to answer the phone. You’ll get your money.”

  Then he was back on the line. “Who is this now? Oh, Goodwin.” He broke into a string of profanity. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not for sale. I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand. What!” This last was apparently for somebody in the room. We could hear his voice going on, muffled. “Look, this is none of your business. I told you I’d get it, and I’ll do it. Go on out there and start fishing for that bit. I tell you my credit’ll be good anywhere in the state the minute we bring it in.”

  He was yelling into the telephone again. “Look, Goodwin, where can I get hold of you if I have to? Will you be at home? All right! All ri
ght! But don’t call me again. I’m busy.” He hung up.

  Goodwin was limp and ready to collapse over the table. “What do you think, Reichert?” was all he could say.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think he’s in a jam himself, from the way it sounds. Sweat it out. I’ve got a hunch he’ll come to you.” Some hunch, I thought. Charlie was due to make his appearance just after eight tomorrow morning, according to the schedule.

  It was all over except tying up the loose ends and actually getting the money, and it was time to be getting ready to run. Bolton was already in the clear, of course, since he was in El Paso. As soon as Charlie got his hands on the cash, he’d head for El Paso, and Cathy was to come by from San Antonio at noon of the day we pulled it off and pick me up, and we’d meet them in El Paso at the hotel. We’d split up and be out of the state before Goodwin got wise, which would be when he met the train Friday at nine-thirty and there was nobody on it.

  * * *

  Mrs. Goodwin called me the next morning around seven-thirty. Would I come over and just talk to Goodwin? He’d been up all night, waiting for a call from Caffery, and there hadn’t been any. Maybe I could help her calm him down before he collapsed.

  I went over in a hurry, knowing Charlie’d be there at eight. Goodwin was on the telephone again, haggard and hollow-eyed. He had the hotel at Ludley, but Caffery had checked out. He put the phone back in its cradle, let out a long, hopeless sigh, and put his head down in his hands. He was whipped.

  I was looking out the window when the mud-spattered car drove up in front of the house. I saw Charlie get out, and put my hand on Goodwin’s shoulder. “Say, is this your man?” I nodded toward the street.