“The spot is getting hot,” said Mr. Maddock gently. “I don’t want no steam room. I want ear muffs.… Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”
“You are fond of that expression, aren’t you, Mr. Maddock?”
Mr. Maddock closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he said; “but I don’t use snow, pal, and I don’t drink or smoke and I don’t step out with any finger molls. I am always God-damn careful.”
“It’s nice of you to be so frank,” Wilson said. “You make me feel so much easier. Do you live at the Y.M.C.A., Mr. Maddock?”
Mr. Maddock’s lips curled upward and his shoulders shook but he made no sound of merriment.
“Funny guy, pal, aren’t you?” he said. “And you got a damn dead pan. It’s comical, you’re kind of new to me.”
“You’re new to me too, Mr. Maddock,” Wilson Hitchings said. “But snow, if you don’t get my drift.”
“I’ve never snowed yet,” Mr. Maddock said. “I’ve never snowed on anybody, pal. You’re a wise guy. You and me can play.”
“Play what?” asked Wilson Hitchings.
“Ball,” said Mr. Maddock. “Ball, pal.” Mr. Maddock half-closed his eyes again and sighed and Wilson Hitchings could feel his own interest growing. At any rate, he was playing a word game with Mr. Maddock and experimenting purely with an unknown quantity and beginning to delve incredulously into Mr. Maddock’s past.
“Do I understand that you are making me a proposition?” he inquired.
Mr. Maddock gazed at the fingers on his right hand, blew softly on his fingernails and polished them on his coat sleeve.
“Pierre and I were talking about you last night,” he said. “You’d really like Pierre.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him,” Wilson said.
“The guy who speaks French,” Mr. Maddock explained. “The croupier at the table last night. He’s a pal of mine. You’d really like Pierre.”
There was a knock on the door. It was the waiter with the menu card.
“Will you join me?” Wilson asked.
“Sure,” said Mr. Maddock. “A glass of hot milk, please.” Mr. Maddock closed his eyes and sighed, but when the waiter was gone, he opened them again.
“First Pierre and me placed you for a college boy,” said Mr. Maddock, and his voice was more incisive; “then we didn’t, when you played the wheel.”
“It’s a crooked wheel, isn’t it?” said Wilson.
Mr. Maddock sighed again. “Yes,” he said, “it’s crooked, pal. Don’t act dumb, pal. It’s so crooked that it’s hot. It’s too damn hot and I don’t like the crowd. When they propositioned me, I fell for it as a straight gambling proposition, when it ain’t. Them Russians and them Chinks—they’re too damn jumpy, pal. I’m used to big shots who keep cool. They got the jitters and they tried to kill the Jap last night. You know, you’re wise. Well, an island ain’t no place. First that Jap guy comes. Then you come, and now the little lady is getting wise. There isn’t anybody out there at the dump with a business head. They haven’t been in the wars, like I’ve been, pal. They got the jitters and they’re going to blow wide open. There’s no executive ability. Pierre and me, we’re going to lam. Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”
Wilson Hitchings watched Mr. Maddock’s unblinking yellowish eyes.
“You’re being rather frank, aren’t you?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Mr. Maddock. “Because I’m too hot for trouble, pal. I’m just looking for the angle where I can cash and lam.”
The waiter came with the breakfast tray and Mr. Maddock closed his eyes again. Then he sipped his hot milk, daintily, and drew a purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his lips.
“And you’ve come to me for cash?” Wilson Hitchings suggested.
Mr. Maddock set down his glass of milk.
“Yes; you or the Jap, pal,” he said; “and when I cross I’d rather cross to a white man. I set you down for a right guy, pal. Here’s the picture. Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”
“Go ahead,” said Wilson. “Don’t let me stop you, Mr. Maddock.”
Mr. Maddock sat up straighter and his fingers closed gently around the arms of his chair.
“Last night you propositioned the little lady,” Mr. Maddock said, “because the name of her house hurts your business. You propositioned her to buy for a hundred grand and close it out. The little lady turned you down.”
“You think so?” said Wilson, carefully. “How do you know that?”
“Don’t worry, pal,” said Mr. Maddock. “The crowd’s got ways of knowing. They don’t want the house closed just yet, but I can tell you something that can close it, pal. The authorities”—Mr. Maddock drew out his handkerchief and wiped his lips—“won’t stand for the racket unless it is quiet and refined. They’ve said as much. Well, here’s the proposition, pal. I know something that will close that house so tight it will never open. No one would dare to open it and it won’t cost you a hundred grand either to know it, pal. Five grand is my price and you can pay either by personal check or cash. You can close the little lady out for five grand and she’s through. She’s only the front, pal. She’s not worth a hundred grand and I’m putting it to you straight. If you don’t think what I tell you is worth the money, you tell me. How about it, pal? Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”
“You mean you’re going to squeal?” Wilson Hitchings asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Maddock. “I mean I am going to squeal.”
Wilson Hitchings lighted a cigarette and thought carefully what he would say next.
“I suppose,” he spoke slowly, watching Mr. Maddock, “you’re going to tell me that money is being sent to Manchuria. It isn’t worth the price. I know it already, Mr. Maddock.”
The Adam’s apple moved in Mr. Maddock’s throat. He opened his eyes and half-closed them.
“Wise guy,” he said, “ain’t you, pal?”
“Do you think so?” Wilson Hitchings asked. “It never occurred to me until I came here that I was particularly wise.”
Mr. Maddock nodded dreamily.
“Yea, I think you are,” he said. “I think you’re a damn wise guy. Any time you want a job back home in a real organization, I might put in a word for you. You’ve told me all I need to know. I’m picking up the marbles, pal, and calling it a day. They got a Hawaiian word for it out here. I’m pau. That means I’m washing up. Kind of tough on the little lady, too. She had a nice layout before we muscled in, but I guess she’s pau. Thanks for the information.”
“You’re very welcome,” Wilson Hitchings said. He could guess without exactly knowing what Mr. Maddock was thanking him for. He could believe that Mr. Maddock was speaking the exact truth, and that someone knew too much. Already someone knew too much about money going into Manchuria and Wilson could guess who it was. He was very sure that the work in which Mr. Maddock was engaged was genuinely distasteful to him.
Mr. Maddock half-reclined in his chair and gave no sign of leaving.
“Well”—he said—“there’s five grand gone; not that I was betting on it, pal. I wonder if you would tell me something, just idle curiosity.” Mr. Maddock’s eyes opened wider. “Will that Jap G-man come in when the pay-off comes to-night? It’s a nice-sized roll that’s going.”
Wilson Hitchings tried to copy Mr. Maddock’s languor. He tried to show no more interest than Mr. Maddock showed.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, “but go ahead. I am interested.”
Mr. Maddock rubbed his fingers on his coat sleeve.
“Nuts,” he said. “One of the carrier pigeons is going out to-night, but then I guess you’re wise. Well, I think I’ll be moving. Thank you for the hot milk, pal.” Mr. Maddock drew his feet beneath the chair, and prepared to rise.
“Just a minute,” Wilson said. “Just a minute before you go. What was your idea in coming here, Mr. Maddock? Do you want to tell me, or shall I guess?”
Mr. Maddock rose and brushed his coat.
>
“You don’t have to guess,” he said. “I’ve told you, pal, and you’re not snowing, because you got my drift. I came here to see how much you knew and you know plenty. Not as much as I thought you did—but plenty. You know enough so that the spiggety crowd I’m in won’t sit still and be reasonable. I told you, I won’t be mixed up in a killing on an island. For you, you can suit yourself, but for me, I know when it’s time to lam. I’m telling you the truth and you’re wise enough to know it. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you sometime, pal.” Mr. Maddock nodded, waved his right hand genially, and opened the door with his left and moved out sideways, while Wilson Hitchings stood in his dressing-gown, staring after him.
Even when Mr. Maddock was gone, the echo of his homely phrases seemed to remain in the room. Wilson Hitchings drew his hand across his forehead. He had never realized before that the world was made up of so many divergent personalities. He had never seen anyone less trustworthy than Mr. Maddock. Nevertheless, he was almost sure that Mr. Maddock had been telling him the truth, that there was something weighing heavily on Mr. Maddock’s mind. There was no longer any doubt, also, that Mr. Moto had been telling him the truth. The Hitchings Plantation was only a façade and Eva Hitchings was only a part of that façade.
“I’ve got to get her out of this,” Wilson Hitchings spoke out loud. “She doesn’t understand them. She can’t understand.”
Then it occurred to him that it would do no good for him to reason with her. He must speak to someone whose judgment she would respect. His mind turned logically to Mr. Wilkie, the Manager of Hitchings Brothers. He remembered Mr. Wilkie had said that Eva Hitchings was like his own little girl, and Mr. Wilkie was an honest man. He would talk to him that morning and Mr. Wilkie would talk to Eva Hitchings.
He was pleased with his decision, because he knew it was just the sort of thing the family would have applauded. Mr. Wilkie had been employed by Hitchings Brothers for a long while—too long, Wilson thought, for there to be the slightest doubt as to his personal integrity. No matter what his feelings toward Hitchings Plantation might have been, now that there was a possibility of the Hitchings Banking House becoming involved in an unsavory matter Mr. Wilkie would undoubtedly be loyal. Besides, he certainly did not know that Eva Hitchings might be in definite danger.
CHAPTER VIII
There was not the slightest doubt in Wilson Hitchings’ mind that he was doing the proper thing that morning. The day was enough to confirm his opinion; the air was neither hot nor cold, the sun was out, and white clouds moved slowly across the sky keeping pace with the gentle breeze. All along the road to the city there were hedges of oleander and hibiscus, and the sea was a fine dark blue; the soft greens of the Island and the cloud haze over the tops of the mountains made a contrast against that level blueness of the sea which was restful and reassuring. The city itself had that same reassuring quality of solidity and ease. Wilson Hitchings could believe that nothing out of the ordinary could possibly happen here, in a day that was too clear and in a life that was too pleasant for undue exertion.
The offices of Hitchings Brothers had that same sort of solidity and ease; There was no undue hurry in the high, cool outer rooms, but Wilson Hitchings was pleased to see that he was known already, and he was shown at once to Mr. Wilkie’s office, without any questions being asked.
Mr. Wilkie’s manner was different, also. He rose and hurried around the corner of his desk, hospitably.
“Now this is a coincidence,” Mr. Wilkie said. “You’ve been on my mind all morning, a clear case of guilty conscience. I’m afraid I wasn’t—well—not very hospitable yesterday. It was the surprise of your arrival, and it was a busy day.”
“Please don’t be worried,” Wilson said. “I imagine you have been worried, Mr. Wilkie.”
“Only worried because I may have appeared casual,” Mr. Wilkie said. “But I made a plan this morning. I hope you will fall in with it. I was just going to telephone you. I was about to send you a cordial invitation.” Mr. Wilkie paused and smiled. “Perhaps your uncle told you that I had a seagoing boat?”
“Why yes, he did,” said Wilson. He spoke politely, although it made him impatient that Mr. Wilkie’s mind should have turned to yachting at such a time.
“It’s a hobby of mine,” said Mr. Wilkie. “I suppose a rather expensive hobby, but you might take advantage of it on a day like this. I was going to ask if you wouldn’t like to take my sampan for a turn outside the harbor, and I’ve asked—a friend—to go with you. I’ve ordered lunch put aboard, in case you’d like to go. I hope you will, because it will combine business and pleasure, in a way.”
Some time later in trying to recall the circumstances which surrounded that offer of Mr. Wilkie’s, Wilson Hitchings could only remember with surprise the simplicity of his own reaction when he received it. He remembered that his uncle had implied that boating was an outside pleasure which perhaps took Mr. Wilkie’s attention away too much from business. Mr. Wilkie’s appearance that morning was too good-natured, too much like a man of leisure … and yet he might have been wrong. The entire atmosphere of the Island was so genial that morning that perhaps Mr. Wilkie represented something that Hitchings Brothers needed there in the way of friendliness and good will.
“Exactly what is a sampan?” Wilson asked.
Mr. Wilkie’s laugh was enough to show that any pique he may have felt toward Wilson the day before had entirely evaporated.
“I forgot you were a malihini,” Mr. Wilkie said. “That means a newcomer to the Island, in case you don’t know the word. We all get to using a bit of the Polynesian language out here. You will too, if you stay long enough, and I keep forgetting that a Hitchings doesn’t know the Islands as well as I do. I was worried yesterday and you must forgive me for it. I might have known that you would be absolutely fair in dealing with Eva. But to get back to what I was saying. You don’t know what a sampan is, then. It is a vessel designed by the Japanese fishing fleet here. You may have seen some on your way from the hotel. They are about as seaworthy a craft as you can find anywhere. They are used by the tuna fishers, for expeditions sometimes a thousand miles offshore. They are a sturdy type of Diesel motor craft, built along Japanese lines, with modern Diesel engines. Mine has a cruising radius of more than two thousand miles. I use my sampan for fishing and cruises about the Islands, and for moonlight picnics. I always offer visitors a trip aboard her. I hope you will say you will go.” Mr. Wilkie paused. His mild brown eyes were kindly. “I hope you’ll say you’ll go, because I asked Eva to go with you.”
Wilson Hitchings laid down his hat on the corner of Mr. Wilkie’s desk and at the same time he tried to lay aside any expression of doubt or astonishment.
“I can’t imagine that she accepted,” he said, “but I am glad you brought her name up. I came here to talk to you about her. Do you mind if I close the door?”
Mr. Wilkie closed the door himself and sat down behind his desk.
“I am very glad of that,” he said, seriously, “because I wanted to do the same thing, Hitchings. I talked to Eva seriously last night and I have been thinking of her a good deal this morning. She told me about the offer you made. I had never believed that you would make her an offer so fair and generous. Frankly, I wanted her to accept that offer and I wanted her to forget all her pique. You probably feel as I do that a gambling house is no place for Eva. It’s a gesture on her part that has gone far enough. I think if she can get to know you better, if she can understand that you are perfectly sincere, she will agree to everything. That is why I suggest a few hours at lunch to-day. I know as well as you do that we must clear this matter up.”
Wilson remembered something which his uncle had said in Shanghai, while Mr. Wilkie was speaking. His uncle had spoken of a connoisseur’s ability to judge a picture. His uncle had said that an amateur might see nothing wrong but to an experienced observer the values might not be right. There was something wrong in the picture now. There was something wrong about Mr. Wilkie. H
e was betraying an excitement which was not natural. His eyes were too bright. He was laboring under some excitement beyond Wilson’s knowledge but there was one thing of which Wilson was sure. For some reason of his own, Mr. Wilkie wanted him out of the way. He wanted him aboard that boat. He remembered that his uncle had spoken of Mr. Wilkie’s sampan. He could not help remembering that only yesterday Mr. Wilkie had been almost hostile. He presented his last thought to Mr. Wilkie in a question which was almost blunt. As he did so, he looked at Mr. Wilkie again. There was no doubt that Mr. Wilkie was agitated—in spite of all his efforts to be casual.
“You didn’t feel this way yesterday. What has made you change?” he asked.
Mr. Wilkie’s face grew serious.
“Sober afterthought, if you want the truth,” he said. “Eva is like my own little girl, Mr. Hitchings. I have felt her wrongs very keenly and I have felt the anomalous position in which she has been put through no fault of her own. When you came here yesterday, your assurance annoyed me; but I am over all that now. The best thing for Eva and the best thing for the firm is to have her take your offer. Eva understands it now, I think. She’ll be down at the sampan in half an hour.”
Wilson Hitchings listened carefully; his opinion of Mr. Wilkie was falling as he listened. It seemed to him that Mr. Wilkie was not the man to be head of the Hitchings office; that he was weak and full of contradictions.
“I am wondering,” Wilson said, “just what you heard about Hitchings Plantation to make you change your mind. Have you heard anything, Mr. Wilkie?”
Mr. Wilkie opened his mouth and closed it.
“Heard about Hitchings Plantation?” he answered. “Why, what is there to hear? It’s a trifle illegal, but it’s conducted by the authorities, and it’s very well conducted. I never go there, myself, except to see Eva now and then. I don’t understand you, Hitchings. What could I have heard?”
The very vagueness of Mr. Wilkie’s answer made Wilson believe him. It was the answer of a man who had allowed himself to fall into a languid rut until he had become oblivious to everything, except what went on immediately around him.
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