the drums of jeopardy-第33章

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newspaper　office　about　nine　and　leaves　between　five　and　six？〃

〃Every　day　but　Sunday。〃

〃Good　news。　　Two　bolts；　one　or　the　other　will　go　home。〃

About　the　same　time　in　Cutty's　apartment　rather　an　amusing　comedy
took　place。　　Professor　Ryan；　late　physical　instructor　at　one　of
the　aviation　camps；　stood　Hawksley　in　front　of　him　and　ran　his
hard　hands　over　the　young　man's　body。　　Miss　Frances　stood　at
one　side；　her　arms　folded；　her　expression　skeptical。

〃Nothin'　the　matter　with　you；　Bo；　but　the　crack　on　the　conk。〃

〃Right…o！〃　agreed　Hawksley。

〃Lemme　see　your　hands。　　Humph。　　Soft。　　Now　stand　on　that　threshold。
That's　it。　　Walk　t'　the'　end　o'　the　hall　an'　back。　　Step　lively。〃

〃But　〃began　Miss　Frances　in　protest。　　This　was　cruelty。

〃I'm　the　doctor；　miss；〃　interrupted　Ryan；　crisply。　　〃If　he　falls
down　he　goes　t'　bed；　an'　you　stay。　　If　he　makes　it；　he　follows　my
instructions。〃

When　Hawksley　returned　to　the　starting　line　the　walls　rocked；　there
were　two　or　three　blinding　stabs　of　pain；　but　he　faced　this　unusual
Irishman　with　never　a　hint　of　the　torture。　　A　wild　longing　to　be
gone　from　this　kindly　prison　…　to　get　away　from　the　thought　of　the
girl。

〃All　right；〃　said　Ryan。　　〃Now　toddle　back　t'　bed。〃

〃Bed？〃

〃Yep。　　Goin'　t'　give　you　a　rub　that'll　start　all　your　machinery
workin'。〃

Docilely　Hawksley　obeyed。　　He　wasn't　going　to　let　them　know；　but
that　bed　was　going　to　be　tolerably　welcome。

〃Well！〃　said　Miss　Frances。　　〃I　don't　see　how　he　did　it。〃

〃I　do；〃　said　the　ex…pugilist。　　〃I　told　him　to。　　Either　he　was　a
false　alarm；　or　he'd　attempt　the　job　even　if　he　fell　down。　　The
hull　thing　is　this：　Make　a　guy　wanta　get　well　an'　he'll　get　well。
If　he's　got　any　pride；　dig　it　up。　　Go　after　'em。　　He　hasn't　lost
any　blood。　　No　serious　body　wound。　　A　crack　on　the　conk。　　It
mighta　killed　him。　　It　didn't。　　He　didn't　wabble　an'　fall　down。
So　my　dope　is　right。　　Drop　in　in　a　few　days　an'　I'll　show　yuh。〃

Miss　Frances　held　out　her　hand。　　〃You've　handled　men；〃　she　said；
with　reluctant　admiration。

〃Oh；　boy！　　…　millions　of　'em；　an'　each　guy　different。　　Believe　me！
Make　'em　wanta。〃

Cutty　attended　his　conferences。　　He　learned　immediately　that　he　was
booked　to　sail　the　first　week　in　May。　　His　itinerary　began　at
Piraeus；　in　Greece；　and　might　end　in　Vladivostok。　　But　they　detained
him　in　Washington　overtime　because　he　was　a　fount　of　information　the
departments　found　it　necessary　to　draw　upon　constantly。　　The
political　and　commercial　aspects　of　the　polyglot　peoples；　what　they
wanted；　what　they　expected；　what　they　needed；　racial　enmities。　　The
bugaboo　of　the　undesirable　alien　was　no　longer　bothering　official
heads　in　Washington。　　Stringent　immigration　laws　were　in　the　making。
What　they　wanted　to　know　was　an　American's　point　of　view；　based　upon
long　and　intimate　associations。

Washington　reminded　him　of　nothing　so　much　as　a　big　sheep　dog。　　The
hazardous　day　was　over；　the　wolves　had　been　driven　off　and　the　sheep
into　the　fold；　and　now　the　valiant　guardian　was　turning　round　and
round　and　round　preparatory　to　lying　down　to　sleep。　　For　Washington
would　go　to　sleep　again；　naturally。

Often　it　occurred　to　him　what　a　remarkable　piece　of　machinery　the
human　brain　was。　　He　could　dig　up　all　this　dry　information　with　the
precise　accuracy　of　an　economist；　all　the　while　his　actual　thoughts
upon　Kitty。　　His　nights　were　nightmares。　　And　all　this　unhappiness
because　he　had　been　touched　with　the　lust　for　loot。　　Fundamentally；
this　catastrophe　could　be　laid　to　the　drums　of　jeopardy。

The　alluring　possibility　of　finding　those　damnable　green　stones　…　the
unsuspected　kink　in　his　moral　rectitude　…　had　tumbled　him　into　this
pit。　　Had　not　Kitty　pronounced　the　name　Stefani　Gregor　…　in　his
mind　always　linked　with　the　emeralds　…　he　would　have　summoned　an
ambulance　and　had　Hawksley　carried　off；　despite　Kitty's　protests；
and　perhaps　he　would　have　seen　her　but　two　or　three　times　before
sailing；　seen　her　in　conventional　and　unemotional　parts。　　At　any
rate；　there　would　have　been　none　of　this　peculiar　intimacy　…　Kitty
coming　to　him　in　tears；　opening　her　young　heart　to　him　and
discovering　all　its　loneliness。　　If　she　loved　some　chap　it　would
not　be　so　hard；　the　temptation　would　not　be　so　keen　…　to　cheat　her。
Marry　her；　and　then　tell　her。　　This　dogged　his　thoughts　like　a
murderer's　deed；　terrible　in　the　watches　of　the　night。　　Marry　her；
and　then　tell　her。　　Cheat　her。　　Break　her　heart　and　break　his　own。

Fifty…two。　　Never　before　had　he　thought　old。　　His　splendid　health
and　vigorous　mentality　were　the　results　of　thinking　young。　　But　now
he　heard　the　avalanche　stirring；　the　whispering　slither　of　the
first　pebbles。　　He　would　grow　old　swiftly；　thunderously。　　Kitty's
youth　would　shore　up　the　debacle；　suspend　it　indefinitely。　　Marry
her；　cheat　her；　and　stay　young。　　Green　stones；　accursed。

Kitty's　days　were　pleasant　enough；　but　her　nights　were　sieges。　　One
evening　someone　put　Elman's　rendition　of　Schubert's　〃Ave　Maria〃　on
the　phonograph。　　Long　after　it　was　over　she　sat　motionless　in　her
chair。　　Echoes。　　The　Tschaikowsky　waltz。　　She　got　up　suddenly；
excused　herself；　and　went　to　her　room。

Six　days；　and　her　problem　was　still　unsolved。　　Something　in　her
　…　she　could　not　define　it；　she　could　not　reach　it；　it　defied
analysis　…　something；　then；　revolted　at　the　idea　of　marrying　Cutty；
divorcing　him；　and　living　on　his　money。　　There　was　a　touch　of
horror　in　the　suggestion。　　It　was　tearing　her　to　pieces；　this　hidden
repellence。　　And　yet　this　occult　objection　was　so　utterly　absurd。
If　he　died　and　left　her　a　legacy　she　would　accept　it　gratefully
enough。　　Cutty's　plan　was　only　a　method　of　circumventing　this
indefinite　wait。

Comforts；　the　good　things　of　life；　amusements　…　simply　by　nodding
her　head。　　Why　not？　　It　wasn't　as　if　Cutty　was　asking　her　to　be
his　wife；　he　wasn't。　　Just　wanted　to　dodge　convention；　and　give　her
freedom　and　happiness。　　He　was　only　giving　her　a　mite　out　of　his
income。　　Because　he　had　loved　her　mother；　because；　but　for　an
accident　of　chance；　she；　Kitty；　might　have　been　his　daughter。　　Why；
then；　this　persistent　and　unaccountable　revulsion？　　Why　should　she
hesitate？　　The　ancient　female　fear　of　the　trap？　　That　could　not　be
it。　　For　a　more　honourable；　a　more　lovable　man　did　not　walk　the
earth。　　Brave；　strong；　handsome；　whimsical　…　why；　Cutty　was　a　catch！

Comfy。　　Never　any　of　that　inherent　doubt　of　man　when　she　was　with
him。　　Absolute　trust。　　An　evil　thought　had　entered　her　head；　fate
had　made　it　honourably　possible。　　And　still　this　mysterious
repellence。

Romance？　　She　was　not　surrendering　her　right　to　that。　　What　was　a
year　out　of　her　life　if　afterward　she　would　be　in　comfortable
circumstances；　free　to　love　where　she　willed？　　She　wasn't　cheating
herself　or　Cutty：　she　was　cheating　convention；　a　flimsy　thing　at
best。

Windows。　　We　carry　our　troubles　to　our　windows；　through　windows　we
see　the　stars。　　We　cannot　visualize　God；　but　we　can　see　His　stars
pinned　to　the　immeasurable　spaces。　　So　Kitty　sought　her　window　and
added　her　question　to　the　countless　millions　forlornly　wandering
about　up　there；　and　finding　no　answer。

But　she　would　return　to　New　York　on　the　morrow。　　She　would　not
summon　Bernini　as　she　had　promised。　　She　would　go　back　by　train；
alone；　unhampered。

And　in　his　cellar　Boris　Karlov　spun　his　web　for　her。



CHAPTER　XXVI


Hawksley　heard　the　lift　door　close；　and　he　knew　that　at　last　he　was
alone。　　He　flung　out　his　arms；　ecstatically。　　Free！　　He　would　see
no　more　of　that　nagging　beggar　Ryan　until　tomorrow。　　Free　to　put
into　execution　the　idea　that　had　been　bubbling　all　day　long　in　his
head；　like　a　fine　champagne；　firing　his　blood　with　reckless
whimsicality。

Quietly　he　stole　down　the　corridor。　　Through　a　crack　in　the　kitchen
door　he　saw　Kuroki's　back；　the　attitude　of　which　was　satisfying。
It　signified　that　the　Jap　was　pegging　away　at　his　endless　studies
and　that　only　the　banging　of　the　gong　would　rouse　him。　　The　way　was
as　broad　and　clear　as　a　street　at　dawn。　　Not　that　Kuroki　mattered；
only　so　long　as　he　did　not　know；　so　much　the　better。

With　careful　step　Hawksley　manoeuvred　his　retreat　so　that　it　brought
him　to　Cutty's　bedroom　door。　　The　door　was　unlocked。　　He　entered
the　room。　　What　a　lark！　　They　would　hide　his　own　clothes；　so　much
the　worse　for　the　old　beggar's　wardrobe。　　Street　clothes。　　Presently
he　found　a　dark　suit；　commendable　not　so　much　for　its　style　as　for
the　fact　that　it　was　the　nearest　fit　he　could　find。　　He　had　to　roll
up　the　trouser　hems。

Hats。　　Chuckling　like　a　boy　rummaging　a　jam　closet；　he　rifled　the
shelves　and　pulled　down　a　black　derby　of　an　unknown　vintage。　　Large；
but　a　runner　of　folded　paper　reduced　the　size。　　As　he　pressed　the
relic　firmly　down　on　his　head　he　winced。　　A　stab　over　his　eyes。　　He
waited　doubtfully；　but　there　was　no　recurrence。　　Fit　as　a　fiddle。
Of　course　he　could　not　stoop　without　a　flash　of　vertigo；　but　on　his
feet　he　was　top…hole。　　He　was　gaining　every　day。

Luck。　　He　might　have　come　out　of　it　with　the　blank　mind　of　a　newborn
babe；　and　here　he　was；　keen　to　resume　his　adventures。　　Luck。　　They
had　not　stopped　to　see　if　he　was　actually　dead。　　Some　passer…by　in
the　hall　had　probably　alarmed　them。　　That　handkerchief　had　carried
him　round　the　brink。　　Perhaps　Fate　intended　letting　him　get　through
　…　written　on　his　pass　an　extension　of　his　leave　of　absence。　　Or　she
had　some　new　torture　in　reserve。

Now　for　a　stout　walking　stick。　　He　selected　a　blackthorn；　twirled　it；
saluted；　and　posed　before　the　mirror。　　Not　so　bally　rotten。　　He　would
pass。　　Next；　he　remembered　that　there　were　some　flowers　in　the
dining　room　…　window　boxes　with　scarlet　geraniums。　　He　broke　off　a
sprig　and　drew　it　through　his　buttonhole。

Outside　there　was　a　cold；　pale　April　sky；　presaging　wind　and　rain。
Unimportant。　　He　was　going　down　into　the　streets　for　an　hour　or　so。
The　colour　and　action　of　a　crowded　street；　the　lure　was　irresistible。
Who　would　dare　touch　him　in　the　crowd？　　These　rooms　had　suddenly
become　intolerable。

He　leaned　against　the　side　of　the　window。　　Roofs；　thousands　of　them；
flat；　domed；　pinnacled；　and　somewhere　under　one　of　these　roofs
Stefani　Gregor　was　eating　his　heart　out。　　It　did　not　matter　that
this　queer　old　eagle　whom　everybody　called　Cutty　had　promised　to
bring　Stefani　home。　　It　might　be　too　late。　　Stefani　was　old；　highly
strung。　　Who　knew　what　infernal　lies　Karlov　had　told　him？　　Stefani
could　stand　up　under　physical　torture；　but　to　tear　at　his　soul；　to
twist　and　rend　his　spirit！

The　bubble　in　the　champagne　died　down　…　as　it　always　will　if　one
permits　it　to　stand。　　He　felt　the　old　mood　seep　through　the　dikes
of　his　gayety。　　Alone。　　A　familiar　face　…　he　would　have　dropped　on
his　knees　and　thanked　God　for　the　sight　of　a　familiar　face。　　These
people；　kindly　as　they　were　…　what　were　they　but　strangers？
Yesterday　he　had　not　known　them；　to…morrow　he　would　leave　them
behind　forever。　　All　at　once　the　mystery　of　this　bubbling　idea　was
bared：　he　was　going　to　risk　his　life　in　the　streets　in　the　vague
hope　of　seeing　some　face　he　had　known　in　the　days　before　the　world
had　gone　drunk　on　blood。　　One　familiar　face。

Of　course　he　would　never　forget　…　at　any　rate；　not　the　girl