CHAPTER III
TANGLED THREADS
The death of his father hurled Kenneth Gregory into a new world--a worldof unfamiliar faces, of strange standards of value, of vastly differentproblems--the world of business.
Kenneth Gregory had taken this world as he found it. There had been notime to moralize upon the situation into which the spinning of the wheelhad plunged him. There was work to do.
Securing his discharge from the army he had turned to the task ofsettling up his father's estate. The fact that he was the sole heir andlegal executor simplified matters. But there were complications. Thesehe had unraveled with the aid of Farnsworth, the attorney for theestate. Then he had come to Legonia and found plenty to do.
Blair, the former manager of the Legonia Fish Cannery, had suffered anattack of pneumonia and was ill at a neighboring sanitarium. From him hecould therefore learn nothing. The books of the company told him butlittle more. Now he was going over the private papers in his father'soffice.
"Are you the boss?"
Kenneth Gregory turned from his perusal of a file of letters and faced ayoung man standing in the doorway. Gregory nodded.
"I'm the owner," he replied pleasantly, noting the well-worn,much-patched service uniform of the stranger. "And for the time being,boss. My manager is sick. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. You can give me a job."
Gregory smiled at the frankness of the answer.
"I might at that," he said. "Can you speak Russian or Italian?"
The ex-soldier shook his head as Gregory went on:
"What I need more than anything else just now is an interpreter. I havea lot of foreigners working outside cleaning up. I've been having tomake signs to them all morning."
The soldier's brow wrinkled.
"That's what they told me of this place in Centerville," he said. "Theysaid I was only wasting shoe-leather to come down here. That it was noplace for an American."
"Maybe they're right," Gregory cut in. Then he added: "However, we maybe able to change things. What can you do?"
The youth's face assumed a more cheerful expression. "I'm a mechanic bytrade," he answered. "I'll do anything right now."
"Know anything about marine motors?"
"Two or four cycle?"
Gregory pondered. 'Twas best to be on the safe side. "Both," heanswered.
The soldier shook his head. "You'll have to count me out on the twocycles," he said. "Those little peanut-roasters and coffee-grinders arenew to me. Never had any experience with anything much but Unions andStandards. That's what most of the fishermen have in their boats."
Gregory's face cleared.
"I may be able to take you on. I have a lot of motors which will needlooking after before long. In the meantime if you want to go to workcleaning up the house, you can start any time you're ready. What do yousay?"
"I'll say you've hired a man. My name's Barnes."
Gregory extended his hand. "And mine is Gregory. When do you want to goto work?"
"Right away."
Together the two men went out into the fish-laden atmosphere of thecannery. Walking down the aisles, flanked on both sides by huge vats andsilent conveyers, they came upon a number of dark-skinned laborerswhiling away the time with a scant pretense of work. Stung into asemblance of action by the sudden appearance of the boss, the menabruptly postponed their conversation and tardily plied their scrubbingbrooms, meanwhile eying the newcomer with frank disapproval.
Leaving Barnes with the injunction to keep an eye on the men and, ifpossible, induce them to speed up, Gregory returned to his work.Passing through the outer office where he had met Mr. Blair upon the dayof his arrival from overseas, he entered the little room which RichardGregory had used for a private office. Opening a small safe which stoodin a corner, he resumed his examination of his father's papers.
In a vague sort of way he regarded his legacy of the Legonia FishCannery as a trust. In the atmosphere of this room this feeling wasalways enhanced, the trust more sacred. Here Richard Gregory had worked,planned, worried. Every detail of the room spoke eloquently from fatherto son. Here was begun an unfinished work. Richard Gregory had believedin it; had given his life to it.
Farnsworth had said that the business had never paid. That his clienthad purchased it directly against his advice and had continued to throwgood money after bad ever since. The lawyer advised selling at the firstgood opportunity.
Kenneth Gregory absolutely refused to believe that his father hadfailed. The business had not prospered. That was true. But doubtlessthere were good and sufficient reasons. He continued his examination ofthe contents of the safe, methodically going through the variouscompartments and making notes concerning the papers found therein. Atlength he came to a memorandum which held his attention. It was theagreement his father had made with Lang to purchase ten fully-equippedfishing-boats for the fisherman.
Gregory studied the penciled notes. His father had reposed untoldconfidence in Lang's integrity. So much was shown by the loosephraseology of the document and the extreme latitude given the fishermanin compliance with its terms. That this confidence had evidently notbeen misplaced, was evidenced by the promptness with which Lang met thepayments as they fell due.
Farnsworth, Gregory remembered, had regarded the chattel mortgage onLang's boats and equipment as a most doubtful asset. If Lang had left ason the old lawyer had maintained, who would be competent to go on withhis father's work, the situation would have appeared in a more favorablelight.
But Lang had left no son. Only a daughter. And, to quote the reputableFarnsworth, what chance would any man stand of getting anything out of awoman on a loosely drawn contract like that? Figure it profit and loss,my boy, he had concluded bruskly.
Like Farnsworth, Gregory too wished that Lang had left a son. It wouldbe easier dealing with a man, competent or incompetent, than a woman.Well, he would say nothing to the girl for the time being at least. Shehad had enough to bear in the loss of her father. That much he couldswear to. When she had defaulted the next payment he would make her aproposition to buy her boats. Fishing was no business for a girl anyway.
He glanced at the schedule of dates arranged by Lang and his father formaking the payments and turned to the calendar. One of them was alreadypast due. Five hundred dollars should have been paid the week before.
So intent was Gregory upon his study of the contract that he failed tohear the opening of the outer office door. His first intimation of thepresence of a visitor came with a sharp knock upon his half-open door.
"Come in," he called.
A wind-bronzed fisherman stood upon the threshold, dangling a red cap inhis hand. He bowed gracefully and smiled.
"You are Mr. Gregory?"
Gregory nodded, trying to remember where he had seen the man before.Suddenly he remembered. It was on the day his father's body had beenbrought in. Near the alien wharf a man had jostled against him. A manwith a bright red cap, smoking a cigarette.
"I am Mascola."
The visitor spoke the words slowly as if anxious that none of theimportance of the introduction might be lost or passed over lightly.
Gregory looked Mascola over carefully. The man's carelessness andseeming irreverence on that never-to-be-forgotten day might not havebeen intentional. He must not allow his prejudice to interfere with hisjudgment. That was not business. He resolved to hear what the man had tosay.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
Mascola walked unbidden to a chair and seated himself before replying:"You will want fish before long, Mr. Gregory. I would like to contractfor my men to get them for you."
Gregory was nettled by Mascola's calm assurance. He had a mind to sendhim packing. Blair, he remembered, had evidently had but little use forthe Italian. But Blair too might have been prejudiced. It was businessperhaps to hear the man's proposal.
"What is your proposition?" he asked, hoping Mascola would be brief.
In this he was not disappoi
nted. Mascola plunged his hand into thepocket of his vest and drew forth a paper which he placed in Gregory'shand.
Gregory ran his eye hastily over the typewritten sheet which containedthe memorandum of four numbered clauses. They were briefly worded and tothe point:
1. The fishermen to furnish albacore, tuna and sardines at the same price paid by the Golden Rule Cannery.
2. The cannery to assume complete liability for all boats and equipment used by the fishermen in providing fish for it.
3. The cannery to agree to pay all fines, state and federal, for any violation of fishing or navigation laws.
4. The cannery to agree, under bonds, to hire no men who are not members of the fishermen's union.
Gregory looked up to meet Mascola's dark eyes regarding him intently.
"That is all," said the Italian boss.
"It's enough," commented Gregory tersely, striving to hold his temper incheck at the impudence of Mascola's proposal. Any one of the fourclauses he realized would be amply sufficient to throw him intobankruptcy. The first would place him in the hands of his localcompetitor, a Slavonian. The last would deliver all that was left to thefisherman's union, also foreigners. By the second clause his propertywould be placed in jeopardy to protect the carelessness or incompetenceof others, aliens all. And the third, Gregory did not clearlyunderstand. To satisfy his curiosity he asked:
"What do you mean by the cannery agreeing to pay the fines?"
Mascola smiled pityingly, exposing a fine set of even teeth.
"You are a stranger here. I forgot. So you do not know that it isnecessary for fishermen to break the law sometimes to get fish. Thecanneries must have them. They ask no questions. If we can get themwithout breaking the laws it is so much the better. But sometimes whenyou have steam up you want fish very bad. Then you say, Mascola, I musthave fish. Well, I get them for you. There are always fish to be caughtin some way or other. They are worth a good deal to you at such a time.Why should you not pay for the extra risk we run in getting them?"
It was Gregory's turn to smile.
"Rather ingenious," he commented. "Do you find it necessary to go tosuch extremes often?"
Mascola sensed the sarcasm. A faint flush crept to his dark cheeks. Hebegan to suspect that the young man was not taking either him or hisproposition seriously. Perhaps he had said too much. He answered thequestion with one word.
"No."
Gregory studied Mascola's face and his smile faded. His irritation atthe Italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at theabsurdity of the man's proposal. Now came again the feeling of dislikewhich had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting withMascola.
"Mascola," he said, "I'll keep your proposition in mind. That is justabout all I ever will do with it, I guess, though I'll talk it over withBlair."
The Italian frowned at the mention of Blair. He had supposed Blair to begone. Had not Rossi reported the departure of the former manager morethan a month ago? Blair would be a stumbling-block to his scheme. Blairknew too much. Mascola realized that he had been too confident. He felt,moreover, that he had made a fool of himself. Had not the young mansmiled? His anger mounted at the recollection. He rose quickly, fightingit down.
"All right, Mr. Gregory," he said smoothly. "I make my proposition. Icome to you this time. You do not accept. It is all right. Next time youcome to me."
Bowing slightly and smiling to hide his anger, he went out.
Gregory turned again to his work, but found it hard to keep his mindfrom the Italian's veiled threat. It angered him. Mascola had appearedso sure of his ground. His irritation grew as his eye fell again on theLang contract. If he only had some one with whom he could talk. Some onewho knew something about fishing or running a cannery. Some one whowould understand what he was up against. His father evidently had few ifany confidants. If he had only left some written word.
From the cannery came the sound of excited voices, a jargon ofunintelligible words. Gregory sprang to his feet and hurried out. He metMascola coming to meet him. Behind him trooped the alien laborers.
The Italian stopped abruptly and threw out his arm with a dramaticgesture. Pointing in the direction of the solitary soldier who stoodstaring with open mouth, he said: "My men, they do not work with scabs,Mr. Gregory. You let that man go, or they quit."
"Let them quit."
Gregory spoke quickly and tried to smile. Losing his temper would nothelp matters. That wasn't business.
Mascola spoke rapidly to the men in their own tongue, waving his armsand rolling his eyes. Gregory noticed that every one seemed to begetting excited. With scowling faces, the alien laborers groupedthemselves about their leader and glared at the offending soldier andhis boss.
Gregory checked a quick impulse forcibly to show Mascola the door. Itwas the right of every man to refuse to work if the job was not to hisliking. There was, however, nothing to get excited over. He turned toMascola.
"Tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said.
His quiet manner disappointed the Italian boss. He had hoped for ascene. An argument at least. His men expected more of him than this.Gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away.Mascola could stand no more.
"All right, Gregory," he called. "You go ahead and hire a scab crew.Then you'll find out you're the same damn fool as your father."
Gregory whirled. Mascola's hand leaped to his side, burying itself inthe folds of his shirt. Before he could bring it out, Kenneth Gregorywas upon him.
His fist caught Mascola full on the chin. The Italian's head snappedbackward. His feet shot forward. He clutched at the air for support andstrove to regain his balance. Then he fell to the floor, rolled overlike a cat, and rebounded to his feet, snarling.
Gregory heard a warning cry from Barnes: "Look out! He's got a knife."
Barnes looked vainly about for a weapon as he ran to his employer'sassistance.
The laborers pressed closer, their brown hands fingering their belts,their faces dark with passion. Hemmed in on every side by the scowlingaliens, Gregory took a step forward and stood waiting.
Mascola advanced warily with peculiar sideling steps. His face was amottled gray save in one place where his chin was flecked with blood.His left arm was extended guard-wise. His right was crooked loosely tohis side, fingers covered. He crouched low and gathered.
Gregory measured the distance which separated him from the advancingItalian. Faintly to his ears came the sound of creaking boards behindhim. Perhaps Mascola's men were pressing in from the rear. He dared notlook to see. His eyes were held by Mascola's crooked arm. That was whathe must grab and break.
Mascola's dark eyes, shining with anger, flashed over Gregory's shoulderto the door beyond. Then they widened with surprise. He stoppedsuddenly. His extended arm drooped. For an instant he stood hesitating,wavering. He took a step backward. His crooked arm unbent, droppedslowly to his side.
His eyes were held by the open door.
El Diablo Page 3
