by Talbot Mundy
“Haven’t you Louisiana relatives?” Sherry asked him.
The smile remained, but the eyes grew subtly softer.
“Did you know Andres?” he countered. “Did you know his protegée, Miss Lanier?”
Sherry’s jaw set tight. It was an utterly unconscious change of expression, and the older man diagnosed it instantly. It could only have one of two possible meanings, either of which included the fact that Sherry was on guard.
“You believe she was all that the papers said, or you don’t. Which is it?” Miro asked.
“I don’t,” said Sherry, looking combative.
“Neither do I,” Miro answered, smiling. “That’s why I’ve refused to be interviewed about her. Have you time to talk with me?”
Sherry almost gasped. John Miro had, and enjoyed hugely, the reputation of being hard to corner. His advertisements blazed on night horizons from border to border, and coast to coast: every newspaper of importance heralded his “MIRACULOUS RUBBERS” in big black type; but he had never been interviewed. It was even rumored that he cultivated aloofness and a sort of mystery for its publicity value.
Miro glanced swiftly around the packed reception room and led the way to a lounge under a flight of stairs, offered Sherry a cigar, and lolled back against embroidered cushions without seeming to lose one atom of his subtle alertness.
Sherry in the corner faced him, with a feeling that his inmost thoughts were all going to be laid bare unless he watched himself. He bit off the end of the cigar with a vicious snap, and Miro smiled.
“So you knew Andres?”
“No, but I was covering the Mississippi floods, when Calhoun killed him.”
“Did you write that stuff that appeared in the Tribune?”
“I did not!”
“No, I imagine you wouldn’t. It was the most malignant fabric of lies I have ever seen,” said Miro; but he was smiling as pleasantly as ever. The glitter in his eyes was not perceptible to Sherry, because of the shadow cast by the stairs. “The worst part of the tragedy was the cruelty to little Jacqueline. I only knew her as a small girl — all legs and long hair, eight, or perhaps nine years old when I last saw her. Her character was hardly formed, of course, but as I live, and must some day face my Maker, she was incapable of growing into anything but a sweet — a noble — a pure woman. In addition she had the enormous advantage over other girls of constant association with my cousin Andres.”
“I was told that you and he were enemies,” said Sherry.
“Hah! I admired him. I may say I loved him. He chose to quarrel with me because, when I began my national advertising, I used the family name instead of some imaginary one. When I heard he was to marry little Jacqueline I realized at once that he simply intended to make her his legal heir, and to prevent me from inheriting anything under the Miro trust deed. I admired him for it, and sent him a telegram, which he saw fit not to answer. He was a splendid fellow and his death grieved me more than I can tell you. However, we can endure grief. It is anger that insists on remedy. I am still enraged in every fiber of my being by the fate of poor Jacqueline.”
He did not look enraged. His attitude suggested anything but that, and Sherry’s sensation was almost that of being played with, yet not quite; there was a sort of vague tenseness.
“You are wondering,” said Miro, “why I make you these confidences. I will give you the answer. You are the only individual I have met who does not believe what the newspapers say about Jacqueline. And that is all the more interesting, because you yourself are a newspaper man.”
Sherry said nothing, but got up and stood where he could see Miro’s face. He felt torn four ways at once, and meant to be sure of his ground before he trusted any one. He did not even know that he really knew Jacqueline. He knew he loved a girl, who might be, and probably was Jacqueline, that was all. This man might be an ally — or might be a very formidable enemy.
“Sit down again,” suggested Miro pleasantly. “I propose to win your confidence. I don’t believe Jacqueline was drowned.”
“Why not?” Sherry demanded.
“For one reason, because you don’t appear to believe it. I suspect you of knowing something. For another, because they have not found her body, although I paid fifty men for a week to search for it, and they found neither Jacqueline nor her nurse. — Every — other — person — lost — in that flood — has been accounted for. A third reason is, that I think the natural impulse of a nice girl, raised in a convent, and suddenly plunged into a cruel scandal, would be to run away and hide. In addition to all that, I have a clue.”
“Did you visit the scene yourself?” asked Sherry.
“I did. I received a telegram from Isabella Miro — Andres’ sister — so peculiarly worded that I took the next train. Of course I would have attended the funeral in any case. Isabella looked to me like a very sick woman, but she was dressed to receive me in the patio; and the air of conspiracy with which she greeted me — the obvious delight she took in being rid of Jacqueline — the malice she betrayed — and the things that she said to me about Jacqueline’s character, all pointed to one conclusion. I suspect insanity. That is a woman poisoned by in-growing spleen. That is what might happen to any Miro, unless — as in my case — some new outlet were discovered for the racial pride, which is as inseparable from us as our breath. I said things to Donna Isabella, which I now rather regret. Truth is not good physic for the insane. She found my remarks unpalatable, and, I regret to learn, took to her bed. But what she said in reply convinced me that any proud and innocent young girl placed in Jacqueline’s position would have run away, as Jacqueline in fact did. And if she had brains, as I understand Jacqueline had, she might easily take advantage of the flood to disappear entirely. Do you follow me thus far?”
Sherry nodded.
“I determined to find her,” Miro continued, smoking away quietly as if determination with him entailed neither excitement nor exercise. “But I realized that it would be a mistake to advertise for her through the usual channels because, if you will pardon the expression, your damned newspaper, and others, would seize on that to excuse further scurrilous publicity. I have considered the big detective agencies. — Have you?” he asked suddenly.
Sherry frowned.
“Exactly? We are agreed again,” said Miro, smiling. “Now be kind enough to tell me what you know.” Sherry described his flood experience in fifty words. “And if she’s the same girl, she’s in San Francisco,” he ended abruptly.
“What makes you imagine that?”
Sherry pulled an envelope from his pocket, showed a scrap of lace, and a piece of ribbon with several strands of long dark hair knotted into it, and told of his inquiries at the railroad station.
“She’s with two Dagos, a fat woman, who’s probably Consuelo Martinez, a kid of some sort, and an organ-grinder’s monkey!”
“Consuelo Martinez,” Miro said slowly, but his eyes were glittering again, “is Jacqueline’s old nurse. I had her name from Isabella Miro. There is no doubt left in my mind that the little girl you spent two days with in a barn, and my little friend Jacqueline are one and the same.”
“Are you quite sure you’re her friend?” asked Sherry.
Miro smiled broadly. “Pardon me, it is still my turn to ask for confidence. You have not yet told me all you know.”
“Yes I have,” said Sherry.
“By inference, perhaps. I invite you to be frank. What is your motive for finding her?”
“I love her,” Sherry answered promptly.
“Permit me to admire your good taste. Are you aware that she has no money?”
“Don’t know anything about her affairs,” Sherry answered with his jaw set rather tight again.
“Your father, is — ah — in your confidence?”
“Not he. I’ve lied to him.”
“And if he should learn?”
“There would be one Hades of a row!”
“You are willing to face that? Have you money of your own?�
��
“Only my salary.”
Miro smiled, and Sherry noticed it. “And you know that she has none.”
“Never even stopped to consider that,” said Sherry.
“You also understand how extremely difficult it will be to disprove these newspaper charges against her?”
Sherry nodded. Miro continued to smile, and for several minutes they faced each other in silence, Sherry growing more and more uneasy. He wondered whether he was not beginning to be able to see through the man’s mask, perhaps because the other so intended.
“On what grounds do you base your belief in her innocence?” asked Miro.
“It’s not a question of belief. I’m damned well sure of it,” said Sherry.
“Love’s unreason, eh? I propose we carry on the search for her together. Such enthusiasm—”
Sherry frowned again. All sorts of forebodings occurred to him, but he said nothing.
“I think I understand you perfectly,” said Miro, watching his face. “And you are quite right. If she is hiding, we have no right whatever to force her into the limelight, with the inevitable consequences. The difficulty will be to avoid further publicity. I suppose, if you find her—”
“The Tribune be damned!” answered Sherry.
Miro nodded. “In my business I would fire a man who entertained any such sentiment. However, you are quite right, although it does not always pay to be right. For your sake I propose that we carry on the search independently. You do your best to keep reporters off the trail. I defray expenses. How does that suit you?”
Sherry looked sullen — jealous, suspicious. Miro seemed amused. As a bachelor he understood the reason perfectly.
“I have a few men in my organization on whom I can thoroughly depend,” he said. “I have already turned them loose on San Francisco.”
“Meanwhile,” said Sherry, “the Tribune’s going to run a brute of a Sunday special about her, and I can’t stop it — daren’t even try. If I said a word they’d be on to the fact that I know she’s alive. They suspect me already.”
“Say nothing then.”
“It’s a rotten job. That beast Wahl did it — the same who wrote the first story. I’m the fool who recommended him to the Tribune! If she ever sees it—”
“Sunday, eh? Five days from now. We might find her in five days,” said Miro. “Poor Jacqueline! My cousin Andres undoubtedly taught her to be more sensitive than you or I would be to anything of that kind. Well — are we agreed?”
Sherry nodded, but ungraciously. He felt he had told Miro much more than he should have done. For all he knew to the contrary marrying young girls might be an hereditary predisposition with middle-aged Miros! “Millions maketh manners.” His own father was a case in point. There would be no controlling Miro — no possible check on him. However, he forced a smile; for it occurred to him that, though Miro might spirit Jacqueline away, and even persuade her to marry him to escape from her predicament, that would be better for her than not to be found at all.
Miro understood his attitude, and rather liked him for it. Used to being flattered and toadied to, he enjoyed this irreverence and recognized the good stuff underneath. He stood up and offered his hand.
“I see I’m not in the same boat with little Jacqueline,” he said, smiling. “You won’t accept me at face value, eh? If you find yourself in difficulties, try me — and call on me for money if you need it. You know my address? Let’s see — what shall I have? A headache will do, I think. If you see our hostess, please assure her that my temporary indisposition is not due to her sandwiches, because I didn’t eat any. Good night.”
Miro went for his coat, and Sherry found Dad by going straight toward the sandwiches and champagne.
“Let’s get out of here,” he urged, and Dad, having made a good supper, needed no extra persuasion. Out on the sidewalk he took Sherry’s arm.
“Noticed you with Miro,” he said. “Get a story?”
“No,” Sherry answered brown-studying. “He did.”
“Don’t you know he’s cousin to the Andres Miro, who was killed in Louisiana?” Dad demanded. “You young bone-head! I felt sure you were getting a column out of him. Man — he’s front-page stuff! Didn’t you talk to him about the Lanier girl?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing for publication.”
Dad looked keenly at him in the light of a street lamp. He was deadly curious; but he decided that questioning might only drive Sherry more into himself.
“If you’ve something on your mind, why don’t you tell your father?” he asked, putting a hand on Sherry’s shoulder.
“Because he’d kick like hell!” Sherry answered, not exactly shaking off the hand, but widening the space between them. “I don’t want to have to fight him — or you either. See?”
Dad whistled softly. He was still whistling when they boarded a car. He whistled all the way back to the Tribune office, and there were lots of flat notes, and several sharp ones. It was nothing that even resembled a hopeful or contented tune.
CHAPTER 24.
“Young nicee girlee — catchee lich man!”
It was a Sunday morning when Jacqueline was forced at last to stand and face destiny. You may make your bed in hell, as the Psalmist proposed, or in a cheap boarding-house, which is less intriguing, but problems follow you.
The moulting parrot watched the breakfast table with a melancholy eye, and the fat man from upstairs made the usual remarks about the food. Nine or ten people were buried behind the rustling sheets of the Sunday paper, and Jacqueline found nothing to do but stare at back-page advertisements and wonder why the underworld, as Consuelo insisted upon calling it, preferred breakfast in slippers and curl-papers. She had come to hate the sight of newspapers; their rustling made her nervous.
Even Cervanez, careful about appearances as a rule, because she gloried in being mistaken for Ramon’s wife, came down untidy and sour — prodded fried eggs with a fork — sipped the coffee — swore in English — snatched at the magazine section of Ramon’s paper, and up-ended it against the cruet. There was no conversation. The fat man declared he had found a beetle in the prune-juice, and made remarks about it; but that was a monologue. Nobody cared.
Even the monologue had ceased, and there was nothing but the yawping of an incredulously opportunist cat to relieve monotony, when Jacqueline became uncomfortably conscious of Cervanez’ eyes staring at her over the top of the newspaper. She had never before seen quite that stony look on Cervanez’ face. It was no longer calculating; it had calculated — no mistaking that.
Jacqueline forced a smile, but Cervanez said nothing, which only made it worse. She nudged Ramon, and made him read the part of the newspaper that was propped open in front of her. Ramon, reading slowly, glanced up too, but with different expression. His eyes hinted that new calculations were beginning. Jacqueline felt the goose-flesh rising, and that ghastly sick sensation that accompanies vague fear. But she tried to pretend to herself that it was the breakfast odors that made her feel faint, and gave that excuse to Consuelo as she left the room.
Consuelo followed her upstairs and found her trembling on the bed.
“Consuelo, I can’t stand this place a minute longer! Oh, why haven’t we some money?”
“We’ve a little, honey. Look, — eleven dollars.”
“Where did you get it, Consuelo?”
Consuelo hesitated. It is never quite easy to dissemble in the face of innocence.
“You didn’t steal it, Consuelo?”
The frown danced furiously, and the lake-blue eyes looked horrified.
“Conchita! How could you think that?” (Consuelo bit her lip, though.) “I found a friend this morning, while you were asleep, and borrowed.”
But Jacqueline was nervous, horror trod on horror’s heels that morning. “She knows who you are, then. She’ll tell! They’ll discover me! Consuelo, we must run!”
“Honey, we’ll go this very minute! I�
�d as soon die as see you stay in this place!”
Panic overwhelmed both of them. They felt like frightened animals who ran without rhyme or reason, and began packing, each in the other’s way, — throwing their few belongings into a cheap straw valise. Neither of them heard the door open until Cervanez coughed. Then they faced about like detected criminals, and Consuelo, feeling cornered, flared up:
“We’re going!”
“Going where?” asked Cervanez harshly, standing with one hand on her hip and her back to the door.
“Never mind where. We’re going. You and your cheap restaurants and public dancing!”
Cervanez glared angrily, flourishing the Sunday paper like a weapon in front of her.
“And that money what you owe us — me and Ramon?” she demanded.
“We’ll pay when we can,” said Consuelo, standing her ground.
“When you can?” Cervanez screamed. “Can! Can! You make us fools! Look! Read!” She shook the paper in their faces. “It say you have no money — never! You not marry Miro — you get nothing — nix — an’ you know that all along! Now you see paper and you run away! I call police! I show you! Who pay back all that money to me an’ Ramon?”
Jacqueline shrank away, the New Orleans paper in mind. It did not occur to her that any other paper might be repeating the story. But Consuelo fought back:
“You won’t tell how much we owe!” she retorted.
“How much? How much you pay me?” Cervanez screamed, and the noise of that brought Ramon, suave and imperturbable as ever. Cervanez moved away from the door to let him through, and he stood surveying the scene with the air of a toreador. There was triumph in his eye — a firm smile on his lips. He was magnificent.
“Ramon, they run! They get no money! They desert us!” Cervanez exclaimed tragically.
Ramon nodded comprehension. Nevertheless, he retained the air of gallantry and faced the bedroom like a lord of the arena. Poor Jacqueline shrank farther back than ever. To her his triumphant smile meant only one thing, he would betray who she was and revel in her public shame!
“Deus!” he said, smiling. “There is more money in Conchita’s feet than in a mine of Minos Gaeres! She will dance. Is it not so, Senorita?”
