Her mother, startled almost into speechlessness, seized the door-knob with a soap-slippery hand, apron-covered.
“Cora!” she gasped. “Cora, where you going?”
“I’m quitting,” replied her daughter without turning back.
Mrs. Bleyden, after several ineffectual attempts to recall her, stood twisting her apron, while the firm, somewhat over-developed figure of her daughter dwindled into the afternoon sun along the rain-churned road that led into the village of Spruce Centres.
But Cora did not walk to the village. At what was undoubtedly the most prosperous looking farmhouse in the neighborhood, a white house with carefully tended flower-beds and a concrete dairy addition, she turned in. The widow Mittelfinger had been looking for a successor to her hired girl, who was about to be married. The pay was fourteen dollars a month, the work no more than that to which Cora was accustomed, and there was no hateful farming. All arrangements had been concluded through Jed White, the traveling huckster, two days before Cora spoke to her father. She was not the girl to discard dirty water until the fresh supply had not only been investigated, but incontestably secured.
As she turned up the flower-bordered path, her emotions underwent a change. The fierce, triumphant feeling of being at last about to “show them” gave way, suddenly, to a weak-kneed timidity in regard to this new life and, above all, in regard to Mrs. Mittelfinger, who had a reputation for thoroughness even exceeding her great kindness, and for shrewdness surpassing both. But, catching sight of George Mittelfinger at the pump, another mood came over Cora, an excitement, a presaging of new and pleasantly unknown things—a tinkling of vague bells somewhere in her future, much the same as she had felt when Jed had first broached the matter to her. Not that she conceived any definite hopes in regard to George Mittelfinger, or “Pudd,” as he was usually called in recognition of certain resemblances mental, physical, and moral to a pudding. She was too conscious of her own social inferiority and she was not given to gambling on long chances, even with such indefinite coin as hopes. But, like the sun, his mere presence shed light over the new life, although his position as richest young man thereabouts, created too strong a glare for concentrated gazing.
This modesty on the part of Cora was characteristic. Her attractiveness lay in a certain clearness of skin, sharp contrast of coloring, and robust development of figure. She did not know that to men she would appear desirable. Her estimate of her abilities was modest, too. She desired, more than anything else, to have money; enough money to “show folks”; enough money to command servants; above all, enough money to have the feeling of having money. She had no special talent for earning it, and she had never heard of acquiring it solely by the exercise of the brain. Therefore, she had modestly determined merely on marrying it. Most young girls of sixteen would have fancied a young prince full of tender fire, with romance, adventure, and obstacles thrown in. But Cora never thought of the prince—or tender fire. And a rich marriage right in Spruce Centres for her, daughter of the poorest, presented sufficient adventure—and sufficient obstacles.
At no time did Cora feel any personal attraction to Pudd. He was, as his nick-name indicated, rich and suety. Yet because of him, she submitted, without protest, to Mrs. Mittelfinger’s most annoying traits—her habit of bustling; (Mrs. Mittelfinger was a streak of lightning literally bursting through the buttons of her ample calico dress) her terrific and tireless neatness; her absurd sentimentality; even her trick of being certain just where and when she had left every cent of her money, and her lack of hesitation about discussing it. Rather a small trait, thought Cora, for a woman who was always giving away so much in money and clothes.
It was in October that the end came. One of the harvest hands remembered laying some change on the sink shelf—although he might easily have been mistaken. Mrs. Mittelfinger (lightning not being in the habit of beating about the bush) asked Cora what had become of it. Words followed, and Mrs. Mittelfinger had the bad taste to refer to previous unsolved disappearances. Temper overcame Cora’s prudence. She figured the job was as good as lost, anyway. In view of a certain lingering quality there had come to be in the glance of Pudd whenever it rested on her, she did not care. So she cut loose and told the old lady everything that had lain on her mind for five soul-trying months. Well, not everything. She carefully refrained from all reference to Pudd, although that had been much on her mind, and the shaft would have been pleasant dealing. But it could wait until the veiled thing there had been between them ever since he squeezed her arm in the kitchen, should uncover itself. It would lose nothing for the waiting.
An hour later, Cora was on the road to Spruce Centres, her clothes once more jammed into the black oilcloth bag. But this time, owing to Mrs. Mittelfinger’s habit of giving away things, the bag bulged clumsily, and Pudd, as was his wont, perspired freely under the weight, in spite of the pleasant autumn weather. He was visibly downcast, full of humiliation about his mother, full of agitation in regard to Cora, who walked beside him, her head set uncompromisingly straight. She had refused a lift in the Mittelfinger car, and walked with a confident, swinging stride. To Pudd, she was “some figger of a girl,” and he was happy in his unhappiness to know he was the bearer of all her worldly goods. But he only thought he was. On her person, Cora carried the most important of her possessions—seventy-five dollars in cash. Being naturally dull, Pudd would have wondered about a saving of seventy-five dollars out of a total of fourteen dollars a month for five months, minus certain obviously indispensable outlays. So Cora had not mentioned it to him. For the first time she felt, with a strange, new feeling of power, that, in spite of his money, she was above him; in some way, only sensed as yet, his superior.
Very much his superior, thought Hank Holden, the proprietor of the Holden House, as he came upon them a short way above the post office. Hank had an eye for women—a little, beady, black eye that gleamed unctuously and unnaturally out of his thin, leathery face, and he thought the Bleyden girl, whom he had not seen for some time, superior to anything in Spruce Centres. “A fine figger” certainly, and plenty of it. He wondered how it was he had never noticed her before.
He offered her a lift to wherever she was going. As she was going to his own hotel, there was no occasion for the further presence of the self-conscious Pudd, who, in spite of his reluctance to leave her, still seemed somewhat relieved to be excused.
“Afraid of his mother,” thought Cora, as he gave her a damp, furtive hand. Something very like scorn came over her—in spite of his income.
They took her on at the Holden House as waitress. Mrs. Holden, an acid woman with a fixed and solitary interest in the planning and acquisition of a tomb stone, and subject to “spells,” had always managed to separate the establishment from as much help as the unctuous Hank could acquire, and they were perpetually in need of somebody. Two months was the longest record of endurance—held by a deaf Scotchwoman who was a little silly. An angel from Heaven in bomb-proof garb, with gas-mask adjusted, could not have weathered one of Mrs. Holden’s spells. Yet Cora Bleyden, who was no angel, even to her own mother, stayed for six years at the Holden House as waitress. It was the mystery of Spruce Centres how she managed it.
But Cora liked it. No other job would have pleased her as well. Counting tips and extras, she made good money, and did not work any harder than she had a mind to. Comparing her lot with Nella Rose’s, as she did whenever she went home to visit—driving up in Hank’s flivver and wearing store clothes purchased for very little from accommodating drummers’ sample cases—she had a fine feeling of being well off, and in a position to “show them.”
She met everybody who came to town, and she never lacked invitations to movies or shows. The traveling men who were compelled to come to Spruce Centres seemed glad of any sort of company—even company that kept its distance as thoroughly as Cora did. For Cora had made up her mind to be very sure of her ground before she let herself in for anything. She always bore in mind the sto
ry Jimmie Bowker, the moving picture salesman, had told her about the Holden’s daughter, Lydia. Jimmie had been in love with Lydia, and she had run off with a strange traveling man, who not only deserted her after a few weeks of marriage, but also had turned out to be poor.
Spruce Centres never suspected that it was because of Lydia Holden that Cora stayed on at the Holden House. For once while Mrs. Holden was at church, Cora, who liked to know where things were kept, was investigating Mrs. Holden’s bureau, and under the paper of the bottom drawer she found a picture of Lydia and some letters. Mrs. Holden would rather have died than have it known that the traveling man, in addition to being a scamp, had been married. Consequently, although at times she felt tempted to dispense with Cora’s services, she never communicated that fact to Cora—not after the first time, when a perfect understanding had been reached between them; not even when her suspicions in regard to money matters had become convictions, and Hank’s infatuation was scandalously apparent.
The latter was no fault of Cora’s. She encouraged no familiarity from anybody. Jimmie Bowker, the moving picture salesman, used to admire her immensely for that. But he admired everything. He was a slightly bald, blond man without any gift of malice. He used to tell Cora she was wasted on Spruce Centres. New York was the only place for her. But Cora was no gambler. She used to listen to his stories of New York with a little hopeful quickening, but she never cared to take the chance. Spruce Centres suited her. She liked her job. If nothing turned up by the time she was, say twenty-five, there was always Pudd. He was deadly stupid and under his mother’s thumb, of course, but his money was not. Cora had ascertained that.
If it had not been for Hank, she might have gone on without a serious thought of New York. The time came when she had to keep out of his way. His twinkly eyes and his moist lips, looking all the more twinkly and moist because of his leathery skin, sickened her. That he should even think she would notice him, threw her into a smoldering rage.
Then, one day, cornering her in the pantry with her arms full of plates, he pinched her. The hot blood mounted to her throat, and she felt a fierce impulse to smash the whole heavy pile of thick plates upon his head. But she did not. It was not her way. She did not even fly into a virtuous rage. There was no place to fly. Only, she wrote to Jimmie Bowker at his New York address. The following week, he wrote back that he had secured her a place as assistant housekeeper at a little hotel in New York, the Lexonia, and gave her directions for getting there. The next Sunday, when she knew it would be impossible to get anybody to help with the big meal of the week, she put on her hat and walked out. Her grip, a brown leather one left behind, perforce, by some departing guest, she had taken out the night before and turned over to Pudd, who awaited her with it at the station. She debated with herself, on the way to the station, whether it would be necessary to kiss him goodbye. He would expect it. There had been times—well, if she had to, she would, although now that she was filled with the excitement of new possibilities, his mouth seemed doubly sticky, his hands unendurably damp. No, she would not. The devil with him!
But, then, she thought of the money he had offered her. If he had brought that—Of course she had her thousand, and the cash she had felt she had a right to take from the cash register for the expense to which Hank was putting her, and Mrs. Holden’s tombstone money (the old witch wouldn’t be any better off after she was dead, whether she had a tombstone or not). But George could easily spare some, and one could never have too much.
Just as the train pulled in, she put up her face for a hasty kiss, and Pudd, gloomy and embarrassed, fumbled some bills into her hand—her hand which was already outstretched—and helped her on to the train.
After the Holden House, the Lexonia seemed to Cora the “real thing,” although it was only a second rate family hotel on an uptown side street. As she was not a sociable person, she learned nothing from the other girls. As she was not venturesome, she never wandered any further than Central Park, to reach which she passed only meaningless brownstone houses. So she did not know there was another side of New York, or rather a hundred other sides.
But one day, Jimmie Bowker called and took her to Victor’s. Victor’s is where New York always takes it’s out-of-town visitors. It has the most expensive food, the most sparkling cabaret, the most supercilious head-waiter. Cora was impressed. New vistas seemed opening to her. But she was at a loss how to link them up with herself.
Until she saw Larry Barker—or, rather, heard his story.
He was seated at the best table in the room, nearest the cabaret and farthest from the music, with a woman in evening dress whose dark hair was brushed straight back from her forehead in a way that few women would dare. The Austrian Countess—who was neither Austrian nor countess—was one of the few. Lawrence Barker was an ordinary young man of thirty-three, who looked older and acted younger. He was very big, and his shoulders, from which his invariable blue serge suits hung loosely, seemed even bigger than the rest of him. There was a deep cleft in the middle of his full, square chin. His hair was the color of light sable and thick and straight. His blue eyes were unsmiling, like a solemn child’s, even when he threw back his head and laughed noisily. He was not in evening clothes, which would have been bad form, had he not been the possessor of ten million dollars. Under the circumstances, it became merely an eccentricity. To Cora, it mattered not at all. What really mattered was his story—or as much of it as Jimmie Bowker was able to tell her. Some additional details, she gathered from other sources. Parts, of course, she never heard at all.
Lawrence Barker had come from somewhere in the West with a suddenly and spectacularly acquired fortune—ten million, some said; some said fifteen. He liked New York. He opened his heart and purse to it. It opened its doors to him. That is, Broadway did. For a while, he was very happy. Then he began to miss something. He made the discovery that Broadway was not New York—but only Broadway. This was after he had met Mrs. Van Brot, the widow of one of the old Van Brots of New York. Larry Barker, turning his solemn blue eyes on the problem, began to ponder, with the result that he gave up his suite at the Tarleton and bought The Lodge at Clyde Gardens. The Lodge adjoined Ten Oaks, the Van Brot place.
It seemed a good omen that the day he went to look at The Lodge, Mrs. Van Brot, who was just stepping out of a field gray limousine with little Abigail, saw and remembered Larry Barker, whom she had met only casually—casually, for her. Larry had never forgotten the wonderful slimness of her and the smooth, creamy skin. He used to talk to her often, to himself, and call her Dear Lady.
He did not catch another glimpse of her for some time, although he tried to do so. But Abigail he saw often with an austere-looking person whom Larry used to call the Lemon Stick. Abigail was a wistful five-year-old who looked as if nobody told her any stories. Larry just ached to tell her stories, but he was afraid of the Lemon Stick.
Then one day, she was alone. Larry, who had carried it around with him for three weeks, handed her a little book that he had bought for her because he remembered loving it long, long ago. He was just about to start, under the most auspicious circumstances, the siege of her heart, when the Lemon Stick bore down on them and dragged away her charge. Stiffly, curtly, icily, without giving him a chance to say a word, she withdrew little Abigail, who, being only five, had reached out an eager hand for the book that the big man, with the dimple in his chin, was holding out to her.
Of course, Mrs. Van Brot had nothing to do with it. But to Larry, smarting all over, it was as though the snub had come from her. It began to be borne in on him that there were always parties going on at Ten Oaks, and he was never asked. There was a large, hurt area inside him, and he stopped calling her Dear Lady—even to himself. Not long after, in the midst of a party at Victor’s, when half the girls at his table were drunk and all were very noisy, she came in, looking serenely slim and smooth and creamy. Larry, with a sudden ecstatic suffocation, smiled at her. She did not notice him.
He never knew he was insulting her. He only knew that something inside him snapped. He leaned over to the Austrian Countess.
“Go ahead and take that little suite you liked at the Tarleton,” he said. “I’m going to shut up The Lodge and move back.”
Thereafter, he was nearly always to be found at Victor’s with the Countess or any one of two dozen other girls whom he petted and treated and called “Baby” indiscriminately. He was very gay and not at all happy, except when he was drying somebody’s tears. There was one thing Larry Barker could not stand, and that was tears, and he was wonderfully successful in drying them. He had a way with him. There are many tears to be dried, even on Broadway, and Larry found them, or they found him. True, the girls used him at times, as the Countess carefully pointed out to him. But he did not care. He was grateful to them for wanting him at any price. Society had not wanted him at all. Of course, since Society did not want him, he did not want Society, nor its duds (he had put away his evening clothes for all time), nor anything connected with it. But he used to feel, sometimes, a hunger for Abigail, and he could not rid himself of a hankering to tell her stories.
What Cora was able to learn about Larry Barker interested her terribly. Not that she planned, out and out, to capture him. But somewhere in the back of her brain lay the thought that if you wanted a thing—badly enough—and went after it—True, there must be others after Larry Barker’s millions. Who was she, a superior sort of chambermaid at the Lexonia—? But Pudd Mittelfinger had at one time, seemed as unattainable, and she had succeeded with him.
She realized at once the need of clothes, so she went to Aperman’s and paid (with a pang) a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a suit. Aperman made suits for Mary Wickham, the motion picture favorite. She also bought a good hat and good gloves and shoes. Neither her hands nor her feet were assets, and they must be kept from being liabilities. Underneath, she wore cheap cotton things. She was not spending money where it would not show.
The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery Page 20
