The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  Cecily smiled contemptuously.

  “Who admired me,” repeated Billy, with emphasis. “She admitted it. It would do you good to know her. She is the dearest and sweetest girl in the world. Perhaps she didn’t love me, but once in the Gardens she told me that she would never—”

  “I didn’t say ‘never,’” interposed Cecily, hastily.

  “You did,” Billy contradicted. “Twice. You said: ‘I will never, never forget this—’”

  “No! No!” cried Cecily.

  Billy stopped obediently, and there was a short silence.

  “Why do you always stop when people tell you to?” Cecily demanded. “Haven’t you any tongue?”

  “Did you say ‘never’?” demanded Billy, exasperated.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean ‘never’?”

  “I—I’ve forgotten.”

  As she spoke, the car drew up at the Larchmont Yacht Club. At a word from Billy the chauffeur descended from his seat and, disappearing into the Club office, returned shortly with a telegram blank.

  Billy placed the blank against the back of the chauffeur’s seat, and wrote on it.

  Then, holding it before Cecily’s eyes, he commanded:

  “Read that.”

  The message was short:

  “M. L. Allen,

  New York, Clarion,

  New York.

  Rumor of engagement positively false. Best authority.

  WILLIAM DU MONT.”

  “Is it true?” asked Billy, as he handed the message to the chauffeur.

  Cecily was silent.

  “Is it true?” repeated Billy.

  “Yes,” reluctantly.

  “Yes—Billy.”

  And then; “Billy! Stop! He’s looking!”

  “Can you blame him?” asked Billy, shamelessly.

  Barnacles

  Before he began publishing short stories, Rex Stout served for two years in the United States Navy. Stout’s period in service could hardly be called typical—he spent much of it as pay-yeoman on President Theodore Roosevelt’s yacht—but it gave him enough Navy background and terminology to lend some verisimilitude to this story. From Young’s Magazine.

  Since Annie is still living, it would hardly be fair to tell you the name of the town. It is enough to say that it contains about three thousand inhabitants and is somewhere between Albany and Buffalo. It was here that William Brownell enlisted in the Navy; it was from here that he shipped to the receiving ship Franklin at Norfolk. Also, it was here that he bade a tearful good-by to Annie, though Annie knew nothing about it, and cared less.

  William’s first six months in the navy were full of novel incidents, but they were more troublesome than exciting. Then, having successfully survived the somewhat painful instruction of the training school, and having rubbed out, on his hands and knees, the disgraceful stiffness of his recruit’s outfit, he was assigned to a berth on the deck of the Kansas, and began to criticise the Bureau of Navigation and revile the commissary according to the most approved rules and precedents.

  Friendships in the navy rarely have anything to do with caste. A coxswain is as apt to open his heart to a coal passer as to anyone else, or a quartermaster to an apprentice seaman. There is even a case on record where a marine—twelve-eighty and a horse blanket—became the bosom friend of the captain’s writer. Therefore, there is really nothing surprising in the fact that within three months William was the acknowledged chum of the equipment yeoman.

  The equipment yeoman’s name was Jimmy Spear. He was on his second cruise, and he spent most of his time swearing to the Deity that he’d “take one a yard long” before he’d ship over for “a third one.” He was, in short, of the stuff of which C. S. C. men are made.

  William and Jimmy spent many a pleasant hour together in the little store-room just forward of the pay office, or walking to and fro on the forecastle. They rehashed all their experiences and exploited their opinions with endless enjoyment and ceaseless repetition. Jimmy, whose choice for a liberty port was, first, New York, and, second, Aden, Arabia, recited over and over incredible tales of conquests both bacchanalian and amorous, while William was forced to devote himself chiefly to humble pastorals and glowing descriptions of the County Fair.

  It was nearly a year before he mentioned Annie. The corner she occupied in his heart was so deep and sacred that it seemed a sacrilege to expose it even to the sympathetic Jimmy. But it is hard to suffer in silence when a willing ear is waiting to hear your woes; and the time came when William felt an irresistible impulse to lay bare his soul. He was surprised and pleased at the eager interest of Jimmy, who squatted on a ditty box and gazed long and earnestly at the little framed photograph William had handed him.

  “She’s a peach,” declared Jimmy in a tone of authority. “Who is she?”

  “Annie.”

  “Who’s Annie?”

  William walked over to a box of salt water soap and sat down thoughtfully. “Jimmy, I’ve never spoke about this before.” His voice was filled with sadness. “She’s the only girl I ever loved. For as long as I can remember I’ve loved her. I wish you could see her.”

  Jimmy tapped the photograph with his finger. “Do you mean to say you left that to join the outfit?”

  William, unable to speak for emotion, nodded.

  “You’re a blooming idiot. But, of course, there are always explanations. Tell us about it.”

  “I guess you won’t understand,” said William, timidly. “You see, I never knew her. She used to go past the store where I worked on her way to school. There was always two or three guys with her; sissy guys, you know, mamma’s boys. I used to catch ’em when they was alone and beat ’em up, but I never had the nerve to speak to her. You see, I was in a different class. Then afterward I delivered groceries to her house, till one day she—she—”

  “Well?” said Jimmy, encouragingly.

  “That was when I enlisted. She insulted me. I did it just to get away from her. Because, of course, she’d never look at me.”

  “For the second time,” Jimmy’s tone was emphatic, “You’re a blooming idiot. Say!” he tapped the photograph again, “show me one like that, and in two weeks I’ll have her rigged to the davits and both the masts down. Delivered groceries to her! Best chance in the world. Why, don’t you go in at the back door just like the rest of the family?”

  At this William smiled weakly and sighed hopelessly.

  “Forget it,” continued Jimmy. “Wait till we get to San Juan, and I’ll show you the original and only genuine antidote for unrequited love. Who wants to eat canned willie and red lead? Forget it.”

  It was soon sadly apparent that Jimmy’s advice was useless. For days, which rapidly extended into weeks, William consistently and absolutely refused to consider any topic for discussion except Annie. Having once opened his heart, he poured into Jimmy’s sympathetic ear all the pitiful details of a mad and hopeless passion. And Jimmy, who had seen William’s indifference in the combined fire of a thousand eyes on the Prado, and who had studied Annie’s photograph, began to take an interest in the affair on his own account. But he succeeded in convincing himself that it was purely through friendship that he evolved and proposed a plan which met with William’s instantaneous and unqualified approval.

  The first letter, composed by Jimmy, read as follows:

  “Dear Annie:

  “I am writing this because there is something I want to say which I never had the courage to tell you. I won’t write it now, but I will later if you want to hear it. I am now a sailor on the battleship Kansas, and we are going to start on a cruise to the Mediterranean in July. My address is U. S. S. Kansas, care of Postmaster, New York City.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “William Brownell.

  “P.S.—I will send you postcards from Paris and Rome an
d other places if you want me to.

  “W.B.”

  In two weeks came the answer, and, though very short and rather discreet, it raised William to the seventh heaven of delight. His eyes were filled with tears of gratitude as he tried to express his thanks to Jimmy in a faltering voice.

  “Nothing to it,” declared Jimmy. “It was bound to come. It was the postcards that got her. She’ll get ’em, all right, and more, too.”

  “We must answer it to-night,” said William, “so the orderly can take it ashore on his first trip.”

  Jimmy regarded him with contempt. “Lothario, you leave this to me. You know as much about this game as a rookie does about a marlin hitch. We may answer it in a week—not a minute sooner. The first and only rule is, keep ’em guessing.”

  This policy met with strong objections from William. He was afraid Annie wouldn’t like it, and he knew he didn’t. It was only when Jimmy threatened to desert the ship that he agreed to obey orders and wait for the tide before weighing anchor.

  Annie’s second letter was distinctly encouraging; the third began “Dear William,” and the fourth was almost reckless. By the time they sailed for Lisbon she was signing herself “Your loving Annie,” and William was sheenying on the berth deck and making endless computations of the cost of furniture for four rooms.

  Jimmy pursued his labor of friendship, seemingly with the constancy of a Pythias and the zeal of a Jonathan. He appropriated Annie’s photograph for his own use, claiming he needed it for inspiration in the composition of William’s weekly letter. And even considering William’s innocence and ignorance, it is remarkable that his confiding breast felt no touch of suspicion when he had a daily opportunity of viewing the green lights in Jimmy’s eyes as they rested on Annie’s likeness.

  The cruise in the Mediterranean was twice as long as anybody had expected. Their first orders had been for Genoa, where they took part in a naval celebration, but subsequently they were told to proceed to Manila and the Asiatic, there to leave half their own crew and bring home an equal number of short-timings. By a miracle William escaped the danger of being buried in a Japanese “take-it-and-leave-it,” but even then eighteen months had passed before the Kansas found herself at Cherbourg, carrying a three hundred-foot homeward-bound pennant and a happy crew.

  Long before this Annie had finally and unconditionally surrendered. It had been arranged that William should apply for a furlough immediately upon arrival at New York, and spend it in Annie’s arms. And William, who had conducted the most brilliantly successful bumboat operation of the cruise at Iloilo, and was therefore rolling in untold wealth, gave himself up to so excessive a jollification the night before sailing that he spent the first five days of the trip across in the ship’s brig.

  On the morning of the day that the Kansas tied up at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Jimmy Spear, whose enlistment had expired in the middle of the Atlantic, walked down the gangway with his canvas bag on his shoulder and his ditty box under his arm. Close behind was William, with the hammock. Arrived at the Naval Y. M. C. A. on Sands Street they deposited their burdens on a settee in the lobby and shook hands solemnly.

  “Remember,” said William, “you promised to write. Of course, I’ll be on furlough for two weeks, but I want to hear from you as soon as I get back to the ship. I ain’t going to try to thank you for what you’ve done. Some day, maybe, I’ll tell Annie, and she’ll invite you to call and rock the baby.”

  “Forget it,” said Jimmy, roughly. “You probably won’t ever see me again. It’s the Pacific for mine. I’ll send you my address from ’Frisco. And say,” as William turned to go, “give Annie my love!”

  William returned to the ship to wait for the approval of his furlough. With Jimmy gone it was horribly lonesome, and, since they had not yet received the expected orders to go into dry dock, even furloughs were uncertain. He sent a telegram to Annie, advising her of the delay, and swallowed his impatience with difficulty. It was the second day after Jimmy’s departure that he was called to the cabin and advised by the captain’s writer that his leave would commence at four o’clock of that day. He was ready to go in fifteen minutes, thanks to the simplicity of his wardrobe, and promptly at eight bells he went over the side with a joyous heart.

  His first act after he got ashore was to array himself magnificently and expensively in a suit of “cits.” Then he proceeded to Nolan’s, and after an hour of selecting and bickering became the possessor of a diamond solitaire ring. Thence to the Y. M. C. A., where, having hung the suit carefully on the back of a chair, and having placed the ring reverently under his pillow, he slept the sleep of the unrighteous, healthy and happy. To-morrow he would see Annie.

  As his train pulled into the old familiar station in the middle of the following afternoon, William stood on the car step with a shining­ new suit case in his hand and tears in his eyes. He was about to enjoy the triumph which had for years been his fondest dream. The pride and joy that filled his heart were indescribable. He had not told Annie the time of his arrival, and an expectant smile parted his lips as he pictured to himself her glad surprise. He quickly made his way through the knot of loungers around the station door and started down Main Street.

  “Ship ahoy!” came a voice.

  William turned. Coming toward him with a rolling gait, his eyes red, his face pale, was Jimmy Spear.

  “What in—” began William.

  “Hello!” Jimmy interrupted. “It took you a devil of a time to get here. For forty-eight hours I’ve been hanging around this blooming station to head you off.”

  “Head me off from what?”

  “Wait till you see it! But first I want to admit that I tried to double-­cross you. I intended to take Annie for myself. What you said about her, and that damn picture—”

  “Where is she?” demanded William, his face white with fear.

  “Port your helm,” said Jimmy. “Lead me to Snyder’s soda fountain. I’ve been drunk for two days and couldn’t tell one from an iceberg. I’m sorry I tried to hand it to you, but I got what I deserved.”

  William turned as one dazed and, with Jimmy at his side, started down the street. The whole thing was incomprehensible to him, and he didn’t even try to understand it.

  As they turned in at Snyder’s Jimmy caught his arm and directed his gaze toward the soda fountain. What he saw was a girl incredibly fat and unmistakably German, with straw-colored hair and a nose buried in the ample folds of flabby cheeks. The only thing doubtful about her was whether she was above or below four hundred pounds.

  “That’s her,” said Jimmy.

  William leaned against a counter for support. Notwithstanding the frightful change, there could be no mistake. It was Annie.

  They had reached the station before William found his tongue.

  “For Pete’s sake,” he demanded, “how did she get all that in three years?”

  “That,” said Jimmy, as he laid down a twenty dollar bill to pay for two tickets to New York, “is more than I can say. By George, she’d make a fine anchor!”

  “And yet,” mused William, “there was a time when—”

  “Forget it!” said Jimmy, sternly.

  The Pickled Picnic

  In this tale of local politics, Stout muses on the theme of idealism versus­ practicality. This was one of several stories Stout contributed to The Black Cat, a literary magazine published in Boston.

  Cyrus Hamlin sat at his breakfast table ostensibly reading the Morning Clarion, but in reality watching his son James. James was reading the Morning News. He was reading with an intense avidity; his eyes shone with eagerness; his cheeks were flushed with excitement. For a full week this phenomena had been regularly recurrent, and Hamlin Senior was beginning to grow uneasy. There could no longer be any doubt that something had aroused James’ interest. This was incredible. James the silent, James the incompetent, James the hopeless!

/>   James had never done anything exactly wrong. The correctness of his morals was unquestioned, nor did he seem to be without a certain ability. His university career had been, if not brilliant, at least respectable, and had led his father to entertain high hopes for the future. He had been placed in a confidential position in the office of Hamlin & Company, and the gods began to grin. His first achievement was the dumping of a fifty thousand dollar shipment into the maw of Hilton’s of St. Louis, who failed for a million three days later. He next proceeded to get into a very righteous and somewhat heated argument with Captain Voorhees of the navy, which resulted in the loss of the government contract and its acquisition by Hamlin & Company’s most hated rival. This—all in a single month—was too much for Hamlin Senior. More in sorrow than in anger, he ejected his son from the home offices and sent him up to the mill somewhere in Massachusetts to learn the business from the ground up.

  At the mill James outdid himself. He hadn’t been there a week when he discovered that the mill hands were not being treated as a twentieth century mill hand should be treated. He protested to the foreman, and was told to mind his own business. He then expressed his views—somewhat forcibly—to the superintendent, who told him that he would look into the matter, and wrote to the elder Hamlin complaining of the invidious activity of the company’s heir.

  Within two days James got a letter from his father repeating the foreman’s advice, with one or two added observations, unpleasantly blunt. James, far from succumbing to this show of authority, decided to manage the affair for himself, since he could get no help from the proper sources, and accordingly organized the employees into a union, arranged a strike, and proceeded with such energy that old Hamlin himself was forced to come up from New York to settle. He acceded to all the strikers’ demands but one, that his own son be made superintendent.

  Feeling perhaps that he had sufficiently distinguished himself for a man barely twenty-four, James, after the settlement of the strike, had allowed himself to sink into a state of innocuous desuetude. By dint of continuous application and unequalled opportunity, he became in a year the laziest man in New York, and acquired—or assumed—an attitude of utter indifference to the practical affairs of life. Indeed, this indifference reached a degree that alarmed his father almost to the point of anger. “Is it possible,” thought the elder Hamlin, “that the fool is an idiot?” But having in mind the cost and outcome of James’ previous efforts, he forbore to disturb the calm, and allowed himself a polite smile when James took occasion to make observation on the potential power of a dormant intellect.