Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The gas was turned low, but her eyes soon grew accustomed to the dim light. There was a newspaper on the floor, with a pair of scissors lying near it; Pepita must have been cutting up the paper before bed-time. She stooped for the scissors, half-entertaining a wild idea of opening a vein in her wrist, as she had read of women doing in old story-books. But her eye fell on the newspaper, and she forgot the scissors. She saw her own name, and a picture beneath it. It was the magazine section of the Sunday Tribune, open at Wahl’s feature story. It was signed by Clinton Wahl.

  Her first impulse was to tear the paper into shreds. Her second was to know the worst that Wahl could say about her. But where should she go to read it! She could not endure her own room, and besides, Consuelo might come in there, and Consuelo would snatch the paper away. The thought of reading it had begun to fascinate her. Once in Louisiana she had crept close and peered at a dead Negro in a ditch with almost exactly the same sensation. She must see — shrunk from it, and yet could not resist.

  So she tiptoed out of Pepita’s room and went up another flight of stairs to the flat roof, where she had been that morning to breathe the only fresh air obtainable. There were sky-signs all around her, some of them quite close — notably a big one two blocks away announcing in letters of golden flame that —

  MIRO’S MIRACULOUS RUBBERS MEAN LONG LIFE

  She made up her mind that instant never to wear rubbers. She hoped to die young. Life was no good — nothing that Desmio’s enemy recommended could be any good. Then, for a little while she thought of how John Miro must have come into possession of the heritage that should have been hers, and hated him a little — not on her own account, but because he had prevailed against Desmio’s wishes.

  The light from some of the nearer signs threw a reflection on the roof. She chose the place where the glare was strongest, and sat on the edge of a skylight to read the paper, holding it with both hands, because they trembled so and the trembling of one off-set the other. But she left off trembling after a while. She grew numb. The thing was so incredible — so indecent — so untrue that she almost lost all feeling.

  There was a drawing supposed to be her in her night-dress. Another drawing represented her en deshabille laughing over Desmio’s dead body. Yet another showed her laughing while Jack Calhoun shot himself. At the bottom of the page she was represented dancing, as if with delight that her lovers were dead; and there were illustrations woven into the title at the top of the page, representing Herodias with John the Baptist’s head, and Jezebel, and two or three other notorious characters, along with a great bat supposed to be a vampire.

  The “story” was in keeping with the illustrations. It pointed a moral. It posed as a warning to the public against unscrupulous women. It represented her as having “vamped” an old man and a young one simultaneously — the old man for his money, and the young one for his looks — of having lured them both to their ruin, and of having been amused to see the outcome. It suggested, without exactly saying so, that Jack Calhoun had squandered all his fortune on her, and had shot himself in her presence, after killing Miro, because she sneered when he told her his fortune was all spent.

  It dwelt lingeringly on the fact that Jack Calhoun had known the way to her bedroom only too well, and that he had been surprised in there with her at the very hour of wedding to the older man. The imputation, though she hardly understood it, made her sick. It gave an imaginary description of her flight in the dawn to escape the questions of the coroner, and wound up with the question “Having lost the enormous Miro fortune because she could not resist the delight of a last embrace from the handsome lover, was she really drowned in the Louisiana flood or, is she in hiding, watching for an opportunity to lure rich men’s sons into her toils?”

  And that was Sherry’s newspaper! That was no doubt Sherry’s opinion of her! Oh, how she hoped he would never discover that the girl he had met in that barn in the flooded bottoms and Jacqueline Lanier were the same! She hoped she might die before he ever could find out the truth.

  There was nothing else to hope for — only that, that Sherry might never know. She turned her back to the light and walked toward the darkest corner of the roof, for there was something about darkness now that was comforting. She was no longer afraid of it. She did not want to be able even to see herself. She wanted to be nothing — nowhere!

  She shrank against the brickwork of a chimney, and looked down into the street. It was a long way down. It made her shudder, and she looked up again, straight across the street. Then she almost screamed — just checked herself — she must not let anybody hear her scream. In letters of gold against the sky in front of her, perhaps a dozen blocks away, was the sky-sign over the building where they printed Sherry’s father’s newspaper — the one that had blackened her forever: —

  THE TRIBUNE

  ALL THE NEWS THE PUBLIC WANTS

  She stared at the great yellow letters of fire until they all seemed to run together and make one word. NEWS! She was news! It was there on the end of a yellow forefinger, pointing at her. There was no escape from it! News, in a night-dress, with bare legs, admitting a clandestine lover through the window! News, in her underwear, laughing at dead men! News, dancing on her lover’s grave!

  “Obey your intuition, Jacqueline!”

  She could see Sister Michaela’s gray eyes, and could almost hear the words as if they were spoken from close by. Yes — she would obey her intuition. She could feel relief at last. It was in the air, waiting for her. Her heart told her this was the end. It did not need courage to fall to the street. And when they should come to pick her up, she would be all broken and unrecognizable, so that Sherry would never know. Yes — she would obey her intuition.

  She climbed up on the waist-high parapet, and said one short prayer at last — the first in three days. It was for Sherry, that he might never know.

  “ — and please make him happy, Amen.”

  Then she closed her eyes tight, and let herself droop forward.

  When she felt an arm close suddenly around her and lift her back on to the roof she thought at first that it was an angel’s, and that she was already dead. She was rather relieved and surprised to learn that it had not hurt when she struck the sidewalk. But the voice that spoke to her was too gruff for an angel’s (she had always thought of them as feminine) and the feathers she laid her cheek against felt strangely like a man’s coat. So she opened her eyes, and realized that her mask was gone — that she was on the roof — in a man’s arms — looking straight into a man’s face.

  Her heart began to flutter like a bird’s now. She was coming to life again, as it were, and feeling all the terror of it. She struggled, too frightened to scream, and the man set her down on the edge of the skylight, and then sat down beside her, holding her hand very firmly and kindly. He had his heel set on the newspaper she had been reading, but he seemed to be unconscious of it. He was holding her mask in his other hand.

  “Tell me, aren’t you Jacqueline Lanier?” he asked her. For a second she thought of lying to him, but she looked into his eyes, and they were kind. She could not force herself to lie, it seemed so useless.

  “Why, you’re only a child!” he said suddenly, and with so much feeling in his voice that she could hardly keep the tears from coming; only she did not want to cry before a stranger.

  “Tell me, why were you trying to jump off the roof?” he asked. “You’re too young, you know, and life’s too full of promise, for anything like that. Why did you want to do it?”

  Life was too full of promise? She looked up, and there stared the Tribune sky-sign at her! She looked down, and there lay the Sunday Tribune at her feet!

  “Oh! I get you. Have you been reading that stuff?”

  She nodded. She would have choked if she had tried to say anything.

  “For the first time?”

  She nodded again, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “How much of it is true?” he asked. And he spoke so kindly that
she felt he really wanted to know it wasn’t true.

  “None!” she answered, choking.

  “None whatever?”

  She managed to find words somehow:

  “Jack Calhoun did shoot Desmio and then—”

  “Yes, I know that. But about you? Why did you run away?”

  “Things like that were in all the papers!” she answered with a shudder. “A dreadful man named Wahl—”

  “Sure. Clinton Wahl. I know him.”

  “You — you know Wahl?”

  “Sure. I’m on the same newspaper. My name’s Lawrence. They call me ‘Dad’ Lawrence,” he answered, more kindly than ever. “Now, don’t be afraid of me, you poor little woman! I think I understand what’s happened. I’m not Wahl. I’m not his friend. I hate him, if that’s any solace to you. Don’t run away — I won’t hurt you. Sit here; and suppose you tell me your version of it all. You may tell me in confidence. If I think you’re telling me the truth, I I’ll do the best I can for you. There now, sit on my overcoat. That’s all right — cry if it helps any; but just tell me. Suppose I ask some questions — how’ll that be?”

  He put an arm around her shoulder, and she felt more comforted by it than by anything that had happened to her since she ran away from Sherry that night in the dark. She just lay her head on his shoulder and sobbed. He seemed like an angel after all!

  “Did you ever meet Sherry Mansfield?” he asked.

  She sat bolt-upright instantly, and her frightened blue eyes stared at him through the tears.

  “I see you did,” he said quietly. “Have you seen him since he came ashore in the same launch with you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Does he know where you are?”

  “I — I hope not!” she stammered. “Please don’t tell him!”

  Her eyes sought the newspaper, and then the Tribune sky-sign. It was rather obvious why she did not want Sherry to know her whereabouts. Dad looked at her with emotion that very nearly had the better of him.

  “No,” he answered, making his mind up that instant. “I won’t tell him. Tell me this, though: did you and he — here, come, Miss Lanier! I’m your friend. Tell me your whole story.”

  He took her hands and held them in his own, obliging her to face him, yet doing it so gently that she felt no impulse to resist.

  “You won’t tell Sherry?”

  “No. I won’t tell him a word. And I’m your friend. But that’s all I promise.”

  Her eyes met his, and she began haltingly, almost in spite of herself. And then, at the end of the first few stammered sentences, it began to feel good to tell him. It was almost like a confession to Father Doutreleau. Dad listened with such a world of sympathy, and so obviously believed every word she said, that one thing led to another and almost before she knew it she was showing him Desmio’s portrait in the locket, and discovering the same old difficulty in finding words that were good enough to sound Desmio’s praises.

  “Yes,” he said, “yes, go on. I’m listening.”

  She spoke very little of the tragedy; but she told how Wahl had come in, and had seized her wrist, and of the awful things that Wahl had written in the New Orleans papers. And then of how she and Consuelo had left the house before dawn, with the idea of running away anywhere.

  “Didn’t know where you were going?”

  “No. Where was there to go?” she asked.

  “Any money?”

  “No. I had some jewelry, but we lost that in the flood.”

  “Go on. Tell me about the flood.”

  That was soon told. She did not remember much of the first part, except the rush of water and the sensation of being overwhelmed, with the horses coming backward over the carriage, and then of being plunged and whirled interminably in dark-brown water.

  “And then I came to on a roof that was floating — and, the sky going round and round — and a dog came and sniffed me.”

  “Yes, he’s got the dog now. Nut, his name is — an awful mongrel, but as cute as the dickens.”

  “Oh, he’s got Nut! Oh, I’m so glad. I did so want to know what had happened to Nut.”

  “Nut’s all right. Tell me about him.”

  “I just love him, Mr. Lawrence! He crawled up one side of the roof, and I crawled up the other, and we met at the top, and you would never believe how rude he was!”

  “Oh, yes I can believe it!” Dad laughed. “I know Sherry.”

  “But he was a perfect dear. He ordered me around, and bossed me. And he swore dreadfully, after we got into the barn and he found a blunt razor and no looking-glass. After a while I shaved him! Yes, I did. We were more friendly after that. And then we got talking about his mother — and I said what I thought about her — and he listened — and — and—”

  “All Sherry ever needed was to fall in love!” Dad blurted suddenly. “I’ve said so to his father time and again.”

  “Oh, he must! I hope he will! He must fall in love with some one and forget me! I’ll never forget him, but — but aren’t men different?”

  “Some are,” Dad answered dryly. “You’ve promised, haven’t you? You have promised? You won’t say a word to Sherry?”

  “Not one word!” Dad answered.

  And you won’t tell the newspaper you’ve found me?”

  “I will not!”

  “I’ll be gone soon, Mr. Lawrence. As soon as I can pay my debt to these people I’ll run away and hide again. Sherry mustn’t ever know who I am. It might ruin him. The disgrace of being mixed up with me, after what the papers said, could never be lived down. Could it? And you know, he’s obstinate; he might think it was his duty to go in spite of everything, when, of course, it isn’t his duty at all, and — and — he is obstinate! Isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I hope — I mean, yes — he’s a great hand to stick to anything he starts.”

  Jacqueline’s blue eyes, as innocent and truthful as the sky, looked through the tears into Dad’s, and he was not fooled by that frown of hers for a second; it only made him believe her all the more, if that were possible.

  “I was only two days with him, but I know him so well, Mr. Lawrence. And it’s because I know he’s obstinate that I’m never going to let him find me. I don’t mind what happens to me any more. I just love Sherry, and I won’t have him ruined. You know him quite well of course?”

  “You might say intimately,” Dad answered.

  “Tell me: does he — is he — do you think he has forgotten me? I want him to,” she added, forcing herself to say it.

  “He doesn’t talk about you,” Dad answered.

  “Is he happy?”

  “No, I don’t think he is. In fact, I’m sure he’s not.”

  “Oh, Mr. Lawrence — do you think it would make him any happier if I let them identify me, so that he’ll know I’m the one they wrote all that about? Perhaps he’d hate me then, and put me out of his mind. I’ll — I’ll make any sacrifice for Sherry!”

  She was trembling at the thought of it. Dad knew that, for he was holding her hand.

  “No,” he answered. “Sherry’s not that kind of fellow. How long have you got to dance in this place?”

  “Until I’ve paid my debt.”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Dad smiled broadly. How even Wahl could have mistaken her for a vampire was beyond him. He wished his own bank-account were not down somewhere near the twenty-dollar mark. However, he did not doubt he could borrow if he looked around, and meanwhile there was at least something he could do to help her.

  “You feel better now, don’t you?” he asked. “Just keep on dancing for another night or two, and meanwhile I’ll do my best for you. Remember, you’ve got a friend. I’ll stand by you through thick and thin, and if I can keep the papers from finding out who you are, I will.”

  “And you won’t tell Sherry?”

  “Oh, no, I won’t tell him,” Dad answered; but he could not keep the evasiveness out of his voice, and s
he detected it — looked alarmed. He did not choose to be committed any deeper at the moment, not having quite made up his mind what he did intend to do. “I’ll have to go,” he said, “or there may be some one else nosing on your trail. Is there any way of my going down through the house without being seen?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right. I’ll use the fire-escape again. Now remember, little woman, I’m your friend! No more nonsense, eh? No jumping off roofs! Promise!”

  He was gone before she could say good-by to him, but she leaned over the parapet and caught one glimpse of his face as he looked up smiling.

  “Now remember,” he called, “you’ve promised!”

  Dad swung himself down from the fire-escape, shoved his hands in his pockets, and sauntered around to the main entrance. Wahl was about due. He must think of something to say to Wahl — something with a trace of probability about it; and he must get absolute control of himself, so that Wahl’s too alert suspicion should not be aroused. Lord, how he hated and despised — mischievous devil! But “O mischief, thou art swift!” he quoted.

  “And old Mansfield thinks he’s a snorter. So he is. God Damn him! Sells newspapers. So he does — and damn the swine who buy them! We’re a rotten lot of vultures raising a stink with our claws and wings in the sewer! And the public’s worse — it likes to see it — pays money for it! Wahl would crucify that girl, if the law would let him, and the public would go broke buying ringside seats! To hell with the whole dirty business!”

  However, those reflections were not helping him to think up an alibi to give Wahl. He must invent something convincing, in order to gain time. Lord knew, he needed time if he were going to help the poor little woman. There was nobody — actually nobody he dared to confide in. And if old man Mansfield should ever learn that he had deliberately sidetracked the Tribune on a story, not even a thirty-year-long intimacy would stand between him and dismissal. Jobs are none too plentiful for men of Dad’s age. He shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and strode up and down under the El Toro portico, waiting for Wahl to come, and cudgeling his brains for the right solution.