by Rex Stout
This was, in fact, an amazing performance. In all the years that Mr. Chidden had been sitting down in the tailor shop, whether to wait for a suit of clothes or merely to chat, he had never chosen any other chair than the one by the outer door. It would appear that Mrs. Sturcke appreciated the significance of his action, for she colored visibly and bent a little closer over her sewing. Mr. Chidden himself appeared to be somewhat embarrassed. He took off his hat and put it on again, then removed it once more and dropped it on the floor.
“Don’t do that, Mr. Chidden,” said the widow, picking up the hat and placing it on the counter. “It’ll get all soiled.”
“Not it,” said Mr. Chidden gloomily, his thoughts reverting to the late unpleasantness with his sister. Then he added hastily: “It’s a bit off in color, but it’s my favorite hat.”
“Quite right, too,” Mrs. Sturcke assented somewhat vaguely. “I like to see a man make his choice and stick to it. That was my husband’s fault; he never knew what he wanted. Why, if you’d believe me, Mr. Chidden, he’d have some kind of newfangled thing in here every week. Otherwise he would have done well by the business, for he was a good worker.”
“Still, he left you pretty well fixed,” observed Mr. Chidden, glancing round the neat, well-kept shop.
Mrs. Sturcke stared at him as if surprised.
“As to that,” she said finally, “you know well enough how I’m fixed, and your sister does, too. Not that I’ve anything to complain of Miss Chidden.”
“It would be a wonder if you hadn’t,” returned Mr. Chidden, not quite understanding the widow’s reference to his sister. Nor did he care to discuss so unpleasant a topic. “I tell you what, ma’am,” he continued, throwing one leg over the other and sliding forward in his chair, “I have just about decided to leave my sister for good.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sturcke, stopping her sewing to look at him.
“I do say so,” declared Mr. Chidden almost fiercely. “Shall I tell you the truth, ma’am? I am not happy. I am becoming melancholy. Lonely aspirations. I shall leave and go far away.”
“But where would you go?” cried the widow in evident eagerness. In her tone was admiration of the man’s daring, and a note of something else—was it disappointment?
“I don’t know,” rejoined Mr. Chidden somberly. “But what does it matter, so long as I leave this life behind me? What does—”
“Mr. Chidden!” the widow interrupted in a voice of horror. “You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t—make away with yourself?”
Mr. Chidden stared at her blankly for a moment; then his face suddenly filled with comprehension.
“You misunderstand me,” he explained. “Still, I have had the thought. There are some things, ma’am, that are more than enough to drive a man to suicide. A great sorrow—unguarded affections—only to be met with heartlessness and cruelty—” Mr. Chidden paused, overcome with feeling.
“It’s a woman!” cried Mrs. Sturcke, dropping the sewing to the floor in her excitement.
“It is,” agreed Mr. Chidden sadly. “But not my sister,” he added hastily. “Not her. This woman—this heartless creature—is not like my sister. She is beautiful. She is a widow. She is far too beautiful for sanguinary hopes. And now you know who she is.”
“I do not,” declared Mrs. Sturcke. But her voice trembled, and her eyes were downcast.
“Then must I pronounce her name?” demanded Mr. Chidden, who was now pretty well worked up. “You will laugh at me, ma’am. Very well. I cannot control my affections. Unhappy passion! Mrs. Sturcke, the woman is you!”
Never was amorous avowal better delivered, nor with more telling effect. The widow’s face grew red to her throat and ears. She kept her eyes on the floor, after one fleeting glance at the eager face of the impetuous lover.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Chidden,” she said finally. But, hearing the tremble in her voice, Mr. Chidden cocked one eye—is it possible that he was winking to himself?—and leaned forward in his chair. His expression of hopeless despair gave way to an air of jaunty confidence; he reached forward and took the widow’s hand in his own, and held it tight.
“Mrs. Sturcke—Gretta,” he demanded in a voice vibrant with emotion, “am I to suffer longer?”
The widow raised her head, and turned beaming eyes to his.
“I’m sure I don’t want you to suffer,” she declared tremulously. “But, Mr. Chidden—are you sure yet—iss it me?”
Mr. Chidden masterfully took possession of the other hand. “Gretta, dear,” he murmured, “Gretta, call me Robert.”
“Well—Robert—”
“Will you marry me, Gretta?”
“Ach!”
Then and there was Mr. Bob Chidden like to have been smothered beneath the caresses of a transport of ecstasy. He was in fact bewildered and astonished, for though he had received more than one amiable smile from the plump little widow, he had not supposed that so violent a passion could have been aroused in her white bosom. It was an ordeal he had not counted on, and he might have been smothered literally but for the timely appearance of the pale-faced young man with the tragic eyes, who stopped short on the threshold at the sight that met his astonished gaze.
“Look out—it iss Leo!” cried the widow, tearing herself loose and retreating to her own chair.
The pale-faced young man passed through the shop to the room in the rear without speaking.
“Come back tonight,” whispered Mrs. Sturcke softly. “He goes home at six o’clock.”
“Tonight at seven. Darling! Happy love!” returned Mr. Chidden, pressing her hand. “You will be waiting for me?”
“Yess, Robert.”
Mr. Chidden emerged into the sunshine of Twenty-third Street with a springy, youthful step and a heart bounding with happiness. His hat was placed at a perilous angle on one side of his head, his hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and his shoulders swayed from side to side as he walked.
At last freedom! The twenty years’ tyranny was at an end.
What a pleasant place that little shop was, to be sure! Of course, it wasn’t worth much—perhaps six or eight hundred—but the custom was very good. It was two years now since Sturcke had died, and his widow had begun to run the place alone; it really wouldn’t be surprising if she had managed to save up a thousand dollars. Just the right amount to put in a little stock of gents’ furnishings—nothing elaborate, of course.
Suddenly Mr. Chidden stopped and swore at himself. As if it mattered whether the widow had saved up a thousand dollars or a thousand cents! As if it were not enough, and more than enough, that he was at last to escape from the inexorable clutches of his sister Maria! Never again to hear that hated voice raised in command! The joyousness of the thought caused Mr. Chidden to dance about on the sidewalk. He declared to himself that it would be worth it, even if he had to fire Leo and do all the work himself. At least, he would be master. He was humming a little tune under his breath as he turned in at the door of the rooming house.
“Robert!” came his sister’s voice from the kitchen as he entered the hall.
Mr. Chidden descended the stairs with the step of a conqueror, flung the kitchen door open, and stood on the threshold.
“Well?” he inquired insolently.
His sister looked up from a pot she was stirring on the stove, and grunted.
“So you’re back,” she observed. “It’s time. I want you to beat them rugs.”
“All right,” said Mr. Chidden cheerfully.
He went to the closet in the back hall, took therefrom the carpet beater, and returned to the kitchen. For some time he stood in the middle of the room, regarding his sister’s back as she bent over the pot. His expression was an indescribable mixture of triumph and impudence.
“I’ll clean ’em good,” he observed finally, whirling the carpet beater about in the air, “because I may not get another chance at ’em.”
“Now what are you talking about?” came from the pot.
“I say, I may not get another chance at the rugs, because I’m going to leave.”
His sister turned to look at him.
“Leave! Leave where?”
“Leave here. This house. I’m going away, Maria.”
But Maria refused to be at all impressed by this startling information.
“I suppose John D. has given you a million to start in business with,” she observed sarcastically. “Now, you stop talking nonsense and do what I told you. And I don’t want you running off a day or a week, either. I thought you was done with that foolishness. If you do, I won’t let you in when you come back.”
“Don’t you worry,” retorted Mr. Chidden. “I won’t come back. It’s different this time. The fact is, as you might say, I’m going to get married.”
His sister whirled around, dropping the spoon in the pot with a splash.
“Married! You!” she exclaimed in a tone of scornful disbelief.
“Yes, married—me!” repeated Mr. Chidden warmly. “Married in every sense of the world. Just because you don’t appreciate your own brother, Maria Chidden, is no sign some others wouldn’t. It’s a little love affair I run into. Amorous passion, my dear. She’s a widow—remarkably beautiful woman—about half as old as you, I should say. Modern romance. I can’t help it.”
“Half as old as me! Romance!” cried Miss Maria shrilly, her face flaming, and trembling all over with anger. “Half as old as me, indeed!” she repeated. “Thank you, Robert Chidden!” She stopped a moment, choking with indignation; then demanded sternly: “Who is this woman?”
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” observed Mr. Chidden impudently.
“Yes, and what’s more, I’m going to know.”
“Maybe.” Mr. Chidden threw the carpet beater over his shoulder and started for the door. “She’s a lady, and she’s a widow, and that’s all I have to say,” he threw back.
Silence pursued him to the door and a few paces into the court. He had flung four rugs over the line and was picking up the fifth when his sister’s voice, sharp, with a ring in it, came from the kitchen:
“Robert! Is it Gretta Sturcke?”
Mr. Chidden returned to the door, and stood looking in.
“If it is,” he replied truculently, “what about it?”
Then he became silent with wonder at the change that took place in his sister’s face. Her eyes, which had glared with indignation, lost their fire and assumed their normal expression of calm and relentless tyranny; her lips were pressed together in a grim smile of satisfaction; the red flag of agitated displeasure disappeared from her cheeks. Mr. Chidden’s brain entertained the astounding idea that his sister Maria was actually pleased by the information that he was to marry Gretta Sturcke!
“What—what is it?” he faltered at last. “What’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing!” Miss Chidden chuckled. “So she got you, did she? I suppose she thinks I’ll make a fool of myself. Well, I won’t. What I’ve got, I’ll keep. Though, to be sure, I shan’t be sorry to have you around the shop; goodness knows you’re no account here. And it’ll save me Leo’s wages, as soon as you learn to do the work.”
These words were Greek to Mr. Chidden, but he felt somehow that they were ominous. Why should his sister Maria pay Leo’s wages? Why—He felt himself grow pale as a horrible thought entered his mind. Could it be possible? Could fate play him so dastardly a trick?
“Maria,” he stammered, “what do you mean?”
Again Miss Chidden chuckled.
“Ask Gretta Sturcke,” she advised sardonically. “Ask her why she wants a little spindle-legged thing like you for a husband. Lord knows she didn’t have much luck with the first one. If it hadn’t been for me stepping in when he died and paying eight hundred dollars for a business that wasn’t worth a cent more than seven hundred and fifty, she’d have found herself without a roof over her head. And besides that, I gave her a job to live on. Ain’t I been payin’ her twelve dollars a week just to look after the place? Lord knows it ain’t made me rich, but I haven’t lost anything, and with you there, Robert, to watch things, and me to watch you, I guess it won’t be so bad. Only I have to laugh at Gretta Sturcke. I suppose she thought I’d give you the shop for a wedding present. Humph!”
Mr. Chidden gasped, tottered, and sank into a chair.
“Maria,” he said weakly, “do you mean to say that tailor shop is yours?”
“I do,” answered Miss Chidden dryly. “Can’t you understand plain English? Romance! Huh! You’re a fine subject for romance, you are! Go on out and beat them rugs.”
Art for Art’s Sake
MR. BOB CHIDDEN STOOD IN THE middle of the kitchen floor, completely surrounded by wastebaskets. On the coal range at his right an immense pot of stew was simmering reluctantly; in the left-hand corner, near the window, the kitchen girl was peeling potatoes, standing first on one foot, then on the other.
“Awful trash!” commented Mr. Chidden, with a gloomy and dejected air. Then, suddenly, precipitately he stooped over and picked up four of the wastebaskets, two in each hand. His sister Maria had entered from the dining room.
“A whole week!” said Miss Maria forcefully. “Crammed plumb full, every one of ’em. What are you standing there for? Mind what I say! After this you empty them wastebaskets every day, Robert Chidden!”
These last words were probably not heard by Mr. Chidden, who had disappeared hurriedly down the cellar steps with the four baskets. He emptied their contents into the furnace and returned for more. Then, the destructive portion of his menial task completed, he began to return the empty baskets to the rooms above—three on the first floor, four on the second, and three on the third. All of the rooms appeared to be empty save the third-floor front. At the door of this Mr. Chidden paused to knock.
“Your wastebasket, Mr. Glover,” he called loudly.
“All right. Bring it in,” came from the room.
Mr. Chidden entered.
To describe the room it is only necessary to say that it was like all others in an ordinary New York rooming house. The table near which Mr. Chidden set down the wastebasket was of imitation mahogany, soiled with water stains and covered with scars. The bed at which he glanced as he straightened up was made of iron that had once been painted white, with brass knobs at the corners. The man in the bed, dressed in yellow pajamas with pink stripes, was a tousle-haired, sleepy-eyed young fellow of twenty-six or seven, with regular features and an amiable countenance.
“What time is it?” demanded this personage, yawning.
Mr. Chidden replied that it was about eleven o’clock, and moved toward the bed, while an expression of envy disturbed the settled melancholy of his face. He could not remember a single occasion when he had been permitted to remain in bed till eleven o’clock, whereas Mr. Glover enjoyed that blissful privilege seven days in the week.
“It’s a fine thing, being at the theater,” said Mr. Chidden abruptly, blinking over the iron foot rail.
Mr. Glover kicked the sheets to one side, sat up, yawned, twisted himself slowly around, and placed his bare feet on the floor.
“Not on your life!” he returned amiably, reaching for a garment on the back of a chair. “It’s hard work. What makes you think it’s fine?”
Mr. Chidden grunted.
“Eleven o’clock, and you just getting up. Ain’t that enough?”
“Oh, if it comes to that,” returned Mr. Glover carelessly, “it strikes me that you have it pretty soft yourself, Chidden. Regular snap, I’d call it.”
“What? Me?” gasped Mr. Chidden.
The other nodded, standing up to pull on his trousers.
“Me!” Mr. Chidden gasped again incredulously. “I’m surprised, Mr. Glover, since my sister is known to you. My position is chronical. I get up at five o’clock in the morning for the furnace. And from then till night not a minute is my own—not a minute! Regular snap! It’s a cursed existence such as no man should submit to. For twenty years I’v
e been smothered—smothered under a woman’s skirts—my own sister’s!” He paused a moment for breath, then muttered, as if to himself, half savagely, half morosely: “Miserable slave!”
“You surprise me,” observed Mr. Glover, from the washbasin. “I thought you had a pretty easy time of it, Chidden. Plenty to eat, not much of anything to do, no rent to worry about, no—”
“And when I want a new hat, I go and beg Maria for a dollar and fifty cents,” put in Mr. Chidden bitterly.
“Well, you get it.”
“Not always. Stringy finance, she says. I’ve never talked like this to any one before, but let me tell you one thing, Mr. Glover: The underwear on me at this moment is some that my sister Maria bought for herself and couldn’t wear because it scratched. It’s big in front—you know—and it’s embroidered at the neck. I cut the legs off. It’s a union suit.”
“My God!” exclaimed Mr. Glover, with a shout of laughter. “I’d like to see it, Chidden—I would, indeed! It must be a rare sight.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I can’t bear to look at it myself. I shut my eyes when I put it on.”
“Why don’t you get a job?” Mr. Glover was still laughing as he stood before the mirror adjusting his tie.
“I have. Many of ’em. But it’s no go. It’s fate. I was a merchant once, you know—had a shop up in New Rochelle. Forced out and had to come here. If I get a job, it’s no good.”
Mr. Chidden sighed, turning toward the door. He had nearly reached it when he was halted abruptly by the voice of Mr. Glover.
“I might find something for you at the theater,” said the actor.
Mr. Chidden stood with his mouth open and his hand on the doorknob. He seemed amazed.
“At the theater!” he stammered finally. “You don’t mean—on the stage?”
“Well, hardly,” smiled the other. “Something—let’s see—say, claquer, for instance.” He pronounced it “clacker.” “Burrie has a première on Thursday, and he’ll probably need ’em. I hear it’s a rotten show—nothing to it except the courtroom scene and a bit of character done by a friend of mine. Something in my line, I believe. Pretty fat—sure to get a hand.”
