 14 For a long time Cuddy sat perfectly motionless, his pipe at an upward angle, a fine commentary on the strength of his jaws, and his gaze boring into the shadows beyond his desk. What was uppermost in his thoughts now was a fateful twist of events that had brought the young man to the assured haven of this towering loft, all based singularly enough on his wanting to see Molly's girl for a few moments, and thus he had established himself in Cuddy's thoughts. Instead of turning to the police, she had turned to him, old Cuddy reaching around vaguely for something to stay the current age, hoping by seeing this living link twix the present and the past to stay the afterglow of youth. As if that could be done, he who had never paid any attention to gray hairs and wrinkles and time, all at once found himself in a position similar to that of the man who supposes he has an inexhaustible sum at the bank, and has just been notified that he has overdrawn. Cuddy knew that life wasn't really coordination and premeditation so much as it was coincident. Trivials. Nothing was absolute and dependable but death. Between birth and death, a series of accidents and incidents and coincidences which men called life. He tapped his pipe on the ashtray and stood up. He gathered the chrysa praise and restored the stones to the canvas bag. Then he carefully stacked the photographs and carried them to the portfolio. The green stones he deposited in a safe from which he took a considerable bundle of small notebooks returning to the desk with these. De-natured dynamite, these notebooks, full of political secrets, solutions of mysteries that baffle historians. A truly great journalist never writes history as a historian. He is afraid to. Sometimes conjecture is safer than fact. And these little notebooks were the repository of suppressed facts ranging over twenty odd years. Gerald Stanley Lee would have recognized them instantly as coming under their head of what he calls shh. An hour later, Cuddy returned the notebooks to their abiding place, his memory refreshed. The poor devil, a dissolute father and uncle, dissolute forebears, corrupt blood weakened by intermarriage. What hope was there? Only one, the rich, fiery blood of the Calabrian mother. But why had the chap come to America? Why not England or the Riviera, where rank, even if shorn of its prerogatives, is still treated respectfully? But America? Cuddy's head went up. Perhaps that was it. To barter his phantom greatness for money to dazzle some rich fool of an American girl. In that case, Karloff would be welcome. But wait a moment. The chap had come in from the west. In that event there should be an odyssey of some kind tucked away in the affair. Cuddy resumed his pacing. The moment his imagination caught the essentials he visualized the odyssey. Across mountains and deserts, rivers and seas, he followed two hawks in fancy pursued by an implacable hatred, more or less historical, of which the lad was less a cause than an abstract object. And Karloff, Cuddy understood Karloff now, always span near, his hate re-energizing his faltering feet. There was evidently some iron in this two hawks' blood. Fear never would have carried him thus far. Fear would have whispered, futility, futility, and he would have bent his head to the stroke. So then there was resource, and there was courage. And he lay in yonder room, beaten and penniless. The top piece in the grim irony to have come all these thousands of miles unscathed to be dropped at the goal. But America, well, that would be solved later. By the Lord Harry, Cuddy stopped and struck his hands together, the drums. From the hour kitty had pronounced the name, Stephanie Gregor, an idea had taken lodgement, and a repressible idea that somewhere in this drama would be the drums of jeopardy, the mark of the thong. Never any doubt of it now. Those magnificent emeralds were here in New York. The mob, the red guard, hammering on the doors, what would have been two hawks' most natural first thought? To gather what treasures the hand could be laid to and flee. Here in New York, and in Karloff's hands, ultimately to be cut up for Bolshevik propaganda. The infernal pity of it. The passion of the gem hunter blazed forth, dimming all other phases of the drama. Here was a real game, a man's game, a sport. Cuddy rubbed his hands together pleasurably, to recover those green flames before they could be broken up under the ancient ruling that findings is keepings. The stones, of course, meant nothing to Karloff beyond the monetary value, and upon this fact Cuddy began developing a plan. He stood ready to buy those stones if he could draw them into the open. Lord, how he wanted them. Murder and loot, always murder and loot. The thought of those two incomparable emeralds being broken up distressed him profoundly. He must act at once, before the desecration could be consummated. Two hawks, hawksly hereafter, for the sake of convenience, had an equity in the gems. But what of that? In smuggling them in, and how the deuce had he done it? He had thrown away his legal right to them. Cuddy needed his conscience into a satisfactory condition of quesions, and went on with his planning. If he succeeded in recovering the stones, and his conscience bits a little too deeply for comfort, why he could pay over to hawksly twenty percent of the price Karloff demanded? He could take it, or leave it. In a case like this, to a bachelor without dependence, money was no object. All his life he had wanted to find emerald to play with, and here was an opportunity to acquire too. If this plan failed to draw Karloff into the open, then every jeweler and pawnbroker in town would be notified and warned. What were the secret service operatives, and the agents of the Department of Justice on the watch for Karloff? Who would recognize his limitations of mobility? It was reasonable to assume that the Bolshevik would be only too glad to dicker secretly for the disposal of the stones. Now to work. Cuddy looked at his watch. Nearly midnight. Rather late, but he knew all the tricks of this particular kind of game. If the advertisement appeared isolated all the better. The real job would be to hide his identity. He saw a way around this difficulty. He wrote out six advertisements, all worded the same. He figured out the cost, and was delighted to find that he carried the necessary currency. Then he got into his engineers, dungerees, touched up his face and hands to the required griminess, and salad forth. Luck attended him until he reached the last mooring newspaper on the list. Here he was obliged to proceed to the sitter-room, a receipt business. A queer advertisement coming into the sitter-room late at night was always pried into as he knew from experience. Still he felt that he ought not to miss any chance to reach Karlov. He explained his business to the sleepy gate-boy who carried the advertisement and the cash to the Night City editor's desk. Ordinarily the Night City editor would have returned the advertisement with the crisp information that he had no authority to accept advertisements. But the drums of jeopardy caught his attention. And he sent a keen glance across the busy room to the rail where Cuddy stood, perhaps conspicuously. Hmm. He called to one of the reporters. This looks like a story. I'll run it. Follow that guy in the overalls and see what's in it. Cuddy appreciated the interlude for what it was worth. Someone was going to follow him. When the gate-boy returned to notify him that the advertisement had been accepted, Cuddy went down to the street. Hey there, just a moment. I owe the reporter. I want a word with you about that advertisement. Cuddy came to a standstill. I paid for it, didn't I? Sure, but what's this about the drums of jeopardy? Two great emerald I'm hunting for, explained Cuddy, recalling the man who stood on London Bridge and peddled sovereigns at two bits each and no buyer. Can it, can it? Jeer the reporter, be a good sport and give us a tip. Strike call among the city engineers. I'm telling you, like Mike you are. All right, it's the word to type the surface lines like Newark if you want to know. Now get the hell out of here before I hand you one on the jaw. The reporter backed away. Is that on the level? Call up the barns and find out they'll tell you what's on and listen, if you follow me, I'll break your head on your way. The reporter dashed for the elevator and back to the doorway in time to see Cuddy liking it for the subway. As he was a reporter of the first class, he managed to catch the same express uptown. On the way uptown, Cuddy considered that he had accomplished a shrewd bit of work. Karloff or one of his agents would certainly see that advertisement. And even if Karloff suspected a federal trap, he would find some means of communicating with the issuer of the advertisement. The thought of Kitty returned. What the Dickens would she say? How would she act? When she learned who this coxley was, he fervently hoped that she had never read Thaddeus of Warsaw. There would be all the difference in the world between an elegant refugee pole and a derelict of the Russian autocracy. Perhaps the best course to pursue would be to say nothing at all to her about the amazing discovery. Upon leaving elevator four, Cuddy said, Bob, I've been followed by a sharp reporter. Share him off with any tale you please and go home. Good night. I'll fix him, sir. Cuddy took a bath, put on his lounging robe and tiptoe to the threshold of the patient's room. The shaded light revealed a nurse's sleep with a book on her knees. The patient's eyes were closed and his breathing was regular. He was coming along. Cuddy decided to go to bed. Meantime, when the elevator touched the ground floor, the operator observed a prospective passenger. Last trip, sir, you'll have to take the stairs. Well, I find the engineer who went up with you just now. The man I took up, gone to bed, I guess. What floor? Nothing doing, Bo. I'm wise. You're the fourth guy with a subpoena that's been after him. Nix. I'm not a lawyer's clerk. I'm a reporter and I want to ask him a few questions. Gee, has that Jane of his been hauling in the newspapers? Good night. Tuttle along, Bo. There's nothing coming from me. Nix. Would $10 make you talk? Ask the reporter desperately. Yeah, about the case on his wood sign. Bye bye. The operator, secretly enjoying the reporter's discomforture, shut off the lights, slammed the elevator door to the latch and walked to the revolving doors to the tune of Gary Owen. The reporter did not follow him, but sat down in the first step of the marble stairs to think. But there was a lot to think about. He sensed it clearly enough that all this to talk about street railways, strikes and subpoenas was wrought. The elevator man and the engineer were in cahoots. There was a story here, but how to get to it was a puzzler. He had one chance in a hundred of landing it, tipped the mail clerk in the business office to keep an eye for open for the man who called for a double C mail. Eventually, the man who did call for that mail presented a card to the mail clerk. At the bottom of this card was the name of the chief of the United States Secret Service, and say to the reporter, who has probably asked to watch hands off, understand? Absolutely off. When the reporter was informed, he blew a kiss into air and sought his city editor for his regular assignment. He understood with the wisdom of his calling, that one didn't go whale fishing with trout rods. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Drums of Jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 15 Early the next morning in a bedroom in a rooming house for aliens in 15th Street, a man sat in a chair scanning the want columns of a newspaper. Occasionally, he jotted down something on a slip of paper. This man's job was rather an unusual one. He hunted jobs for other men. Jobs in steel mills, great factories, in the textile districts, the street car lines, the shipping yards and docks, any place where there might be a grain or two of the powder of unrest and discontent. His business was to supply the human matches. No more parading the streets, no more haranguing from soap boxes. The proper place nowadays was in the yard or shop corners at noontime. A word or two dropped at the right moment, perhaps a printed pamphlet, little wedges wherever there were men who wanted something they neither earned nor deserved. Here and there, across the land, little flares, one running into the other, like wildfire in the plains, and then the upheaval. As in Russia, so now in Germany, later, England and France and here, the proletariat was gaining power. He was no fool, this individual. He knew his clay, the day laborer, with his parrot-like mentality. Though the victim of this peculiar potter absorbs sounds, he doesn't often absorb meanings. But he takes these sounds and respects them and convinces himself that he is some kind of Moses, headed for the promised land. Inflammable stuff. Hence the strikes which puzzle the average intelligent American citizen. What is it all about? Nobody seems to know. Once upon a time men went on a strike because they were being cheated and abused. Now they strike on the principle that it is excellent policy always to be demanding something. It keeps capitalism where it belongs, on the ragged edge of things. No matter what they demand, they never expect to give an equivalent, and a just cause isn't necessary. Thus the present day agitator has only one perplexity, that of eluding the iron hand of the Department of Justice. Suddenly the man in the chair brought the newspaper close up and stared. He jumped to his feet, ran out and up the next flight of stairs. He stopped before a door and turned the knob a certain number of times. Presently the door opened the bearish crack. Then it was swung wide enough to admit the visitor. Look! He whispered, indicating cut his advertisement. The occupant of the room snatched the newspaper and carried it to a window. We'll purchase the drums of Jeopardy at top price. No questions asked. Address this office. Double C. Very good. I might have missed it. We shall sell the accursed drums to this gentleman. Sell them? But imbecile. What we must do now is to find out who this man is. In the end he may lead us to him. But it may be a trap. Leave that to me. You have work of your own to do and you had best be about it. Do you not see beneath who but the man who arbors him would know about the drums? The man in the evening clothes. I was too far away to see his face. Get me all the morning newspapers. If the advertisement is in all of them I will send a letter to each. We lost the young woman yesterday and nothing has been heard of Vladimir and Stemler. Bad. I do not like this place. I moved to the house tonight. My old friends definitely may be lonesome. I dare not risk daylight. Some fool may have talked. To work. All of us have much to do to wake up the proletariat in this country of the blind. But the hour will come. Get me the newspapers. Karlov pushed his visitor from the room and locked and bolted the door. He stepped over to the window again and stared down at the cluttered push carts, trays and trucks and human beings that tried to go forward and got forward only by moving sideways or warming through temporary breaches seldom directly. The way of humanity. But there was no object lesson in this for Karlov who was not philosophical in the peculiar sense of one who was demanding a reason for everything and finding allegory and comparison and illusion in the ebb and flow of life. The philosophical is often misapplied to the stoical. Karlov was a stoic, not a philosopher, or he would have not been the victim of his present obsession. The idea of live and let live has never been the propaganda of the Anarch. To the Anarch and the death of somebody or the destruction of something is the cornerstone to his madhouse. Nothing would ever cure this man of his obsession, the death of Huxley and the possession of the emeralds. Moreover, there was a fanatical belief in his poor disordered brain that the accomplishment of these two projects would eventually assist in the liberation of mankind. Abnormally cunning in his methods of approach, he lacked to those imaginative scales by which we weigh our projects in which we call logic. A child alone in a house with a box of matches, a dog on one side of Fifth Avenue that sees a dog on the other side, but not the automobiles. An exorable logic, irresistible force, whizzing up and down the middle of that thoroughfare. It is not difficult to prophesy what is going to happen to that child, that dog. Karlov was, at this moment, reaching out toward a satisfactory solution relative to the disappearance of the gems. They had not been found on his enemy. They had not been found in the Gregor apartment. The two men assigned to the task of securing them would not have risked a certain death by trying to do a little bargaining on their own initiative. In the first instance, they had come forth empty-handed. In the second instance, that of intimidating the girl to disclose his whereabouts, neither Vladimir nor Stemmler had returned. Sinister. The man in the dress suit again? Conceivably, then. The drums were in the possession of this girl, and she was holding them against the day when the fugitive would reclaim them. The advertisement was a snare. Very good. Two could play that game as well as one. The girl, was it not always so? That breed. God's curse on them all. A crooked finger and the women followed hypnotized. The girl was away from the apartment the major part of the day, so it was in order to search her rooms. A pretty little fool. But where were they hiding him? Gaul and Warmwood, that he should slip through Boris Karlov's fingers after all these torturous windings across the world. Patience. Sooner or later, the girl would lead the way. Still, patience was a galling hobble when he had so little time, when even now they might be hunting him. Boris Karlov had left New York rather well known. He expanded under this thought. For the spiritual breath of life to the anarchist flattery, attention. Had the newspapers ignored Trotsky's advent into Russia, had they omitted the daily chronicle of his activities? The Russian problem would not be so large as it is this day. Trotsky would have died of chagrin. He would answer this advertisement. Trap? He would said one himself. The man who eventually came to negotiate would be made a prisoner and forced to disclose the identity of the man who had interfered with the great projects of Boris Karlov. Plenty potentiary, extraordinary for the red government of Russia. Midtown, Cuddy tapped his breakfast egg dubiously. Not that he speculated upon the freshness of the egg. What troubled him was that advertisement. Last night, Keith Hybe has a remarkable discovery of the identity of his guests and his acupidity relative to the emeralds. He had laid himself open. If he knew anything at all about the craft, that reporter would be digging in. Fortunately, he had resources unsuspected by the reporter. Legitimately, he could send a secret service operative to collect the mail, if Karlov decided to negotiate. Still within his rights, he could use another operative to conduct the negotiations. If in the end, Karlov strayed into the net, the use of the service for private ends would be justified. Lord, those greenstones. Well, why not? Something in the world worth a hazard. What had he in life but the second grand passion? They're shot into his mind obliquely an irrelevant question. Supposing in the old days he had proceeded to reach for Mali as he was now reaching for the emeralds, a bit lawlessly. After all these years to have such a thought strike him, hadn't he stepped aside meekly for Conover? Hadn't he observed an envied Conover's dazzling assault? Supposing Mali had been wavering and this method of attack had decided her. Never to have thought of that before. What did a woman want? A love storm and then an endless after calm. And he'd had taken him twenty odd years to make this discovery. Fact, he had never been shy of women. He had somehow preferred to play comrade instead of gallant, and all the women had taken advantage of that. Used him callously to pair with old maids, fated wives, and homely debutantes. What impalent was driving him toward these introspection? Kitty, Mali's girl. Each time he saw her or thought of her, the uninvited ghost of her mother. Any other man upon seeing Kitty or thinking about her would have jumped into the future from the spring of a dream. The disparity in years would not have mattered. It was all nonsense, of course, but for his dropping into the office and casually picking up the thread of his acquaintance with Kitty, Mali, the memory of her, would have gone on dimming. Actions, tremendous and worldwide, had set his vision toward the future. He had been too busy to waste time in introspection and introspection. Thus, instead of a gently rising and falling tide, healthily recurrent, a flood of mixed longings that were swirling him into uncertain depths. Those emeralds had bobbed up just in time. The chase would serve to pull him out of this bog. He heard a footstep and looked up. The nurse was beckoning to him. What is it? He's awake, and there is sanity in his eyes. Great, has he talked? No, the awakening happened just this moment and I came to you. You never can tell about blows on the skull or brain fever. Never ending too easy is a lie. Kitty threw down his napkin and accompanied the nurse to the bedside. The glance of the patient trailed from Kitty to the nurse and back. Don't talk, said Kitty. Don't ask any questions. Take it easy until later in the day. You are in the hands of persons who wish you well. Eat what the nurse gives you. When the right time comes, we'll tell you all about ourselves. You've been robbed and beaten, but the men who did it are under arrest. One question, said the patient weekly. Well, just one. A girl who gave me something to eat? Yes, she fed you and later probably your life. Thanks. Foxley closed his eyes. Cutty and the nurse watched him interestedly for a few minutes, but as he did not stir again, the nurse took up her temperature sheet and Cutty returned to his eggs. Was there a girl? No question about the emerald. No interest in the day and the hour. Was there a girl? The last person he had seen, Kitty, the first question after coming into the light, had he seen her? Then and there, Cutty knew that when he died, he would carry into the beyond of all his earthly possessions a chuckle. Human beings. The yarn that that reporter had missed by a hair. Front page, eight column head. But he had missed it, and that was the main thing, the poor devil. Beaten and without a Sue Marquini's pockets, his trail was likely to be crowded without the assistance of any newspaper publicity. But what a yarn, what a whale of a yarn. In his fevered flights, Foxley has spoken of having paid Kitty for that meal. Kitty had said nothing about it. Supposing. Telephone sire announced the chap, lady. Molly's girl. Cutty sprinted to the telephone. Hello, that you kissing? Yes, how is Johnny two hogs? Back to earth. When can I see him? I'm just crazy to know what the story is. Say the third or fourth day from this. We'll have him shape and sitting up then. Has he talked? Not permitted. Still determined to stay the run of your lease? Cutty heard a laugh. All right, only I hope you will never have cause to regret this decision. Fiddlesticks. Well, I've got to do in danger to press a button and press toe. Here's Bernini. Kitty, did Hawksley pay you for that meal? Good heavens, no. What makes you ask that? In his delirium, he spoke of having paid you. I didn't know. Cutty's heart began to rap against his ribs. Supposing, after all, Karloff hadn't the stones. Supposing Hawksley had hidden them somewhere in Kitty's kitchen. Anything about Gregor? No. Remember you're to call me up twice a day and report the news. Don't go out nights if you can avoid it. I'll be good. Kitty agreed. And now I must hide me to the job. Imagine, Cutty, writing personalities about stage folks and gap-festing with burling game, and all the while my brain boiling with his affair. The city room will kill me, Cutty, if it ever finds out that I held back such a yarn. But it wouldn't be fair to Johnny and two Hawks. Cutty, did you know that your wonderful drums of Jeopardy are here in New York? What? Marked Cutty. Somebody's offering to buy them. There was an advertisement in the paper this morning. Cutty? Yes. The first problem in arithmetic is two and two make four. Bye-bye. Dizzily, Cutty hung up the receiver. He had not reckoned on the possibility of Kitty seeing the damn full advertisement. Two and two made four, and four and four made eight, so on indefinitely. That is to say, Kitty already had a glimmer of the startling truth. The initial misstep on his part had been upon her pronouncement of the name Stephanie Gregor. He hadn't been able to control his surprise. And yesterday, having frankly admitted that he knew Gregor, all that was needed to complete the circle was that advertisement. Cutty tore his hair. Literally. The very door he hoped she might overlook he had thrown open to her. Thaddeus of war saw, but it should not be. He would continue to offer a haven to that chap, but no nonsense. None of that sinister and unfortunate blood should meddle with Kitty Conover's happiness. Her self-appointed guardian would attend to that. He realized that his attitude was rather inexplicable, but there were some adventures which hypnotized women, and one of this sort was now unfolding for Kitty. That she had her fear of common sense was negligible in face of the fact that she was imaginative and romantical and adventuresome. And that for the first time, she was riding one of the great middle currents in human events. She was Molly's girl. Cutty was going to look out for her. Mighty odd that this fear for her should have sprung into being that night. Quite illogically, pre-science? He could not say. Perhaps it was a borrowed instinct, fatherly, the same instinct that would have stirred her father into action, the protection of that dearest to him. If he told her who Huxley really was, that would intrigue her. If he made a mystery of the affair, that too would intrigue her. And there you were, Twix the Devil in the deep blue sea. Dang it. What if a luck had stirred him to tell her about those emeralds? Already she was building a store to satisfy her dramatic fancy. Two and two made four, which signified that she was her father's daughter, that she would not rest until she had explored every corner of this dark room, wanting to keep her out of it and then dragging her into it through his cupidity. Devil take those emeralds. Always the same trouble wherever they were. The real danger would rise during the convalescence. Kitty would be contriving to drop in frequently, not to see Huxley especially, but her initial success in playing hide-and-seek with secret agents, friendly and otherwise had tickled her fancy. For a while, it would be an exciting game, then it might become only a means to an end. Well, it should not be. Was there a girl? Already Huxley had recorded her beauty. Very well, the first son of sentimental nonsense and out he should go, Karlov or no Karlov. Kitty wasn't going to know any hurt in this affair. That much was decided. Cutty stormed into his study, growling audibly. He filled a pipe and smoked savagely. Another side, Kitty's entrance into the drama has promised to spoil his own fun. He would have to play two games instead of one. A fine muddle. He came to a stand before one of the windows and saw the glory of the morning flashing from the myriad spires and towers and roofs, and wondered why artists bothered about cows and pastures. Touching his knees was an antique Florentine bridal chest, with exquisite carving and massive lock. He threw back the lid and disclosed a miscellany never seen by any eye save his own. It was all the garret he had. He dug into it and at length resurrected the photograph of a woman whose face was both roguish and beautiful. He sat on the floor at a turk and studied the face, his own tender and wistful. No resemblance to Kitty except in the eyes. How often he had gone to her with the question burning his lips only to carry it away unspoken. He turned over the photograph and read, to the nicest man I know, with love from Molly, with love, and he had stepped aside for Tommy Conover. By George, he dropped the photograph into the chest, let down the lid and rose to his feet. Not a bad idea that. To intrigue Kitty himself, to smother her with attention and gallantries, to give her out of his wide experience and to play the game until this intruder was on his way elsewhere. He could do it and he based his assurance upon his experiences and observations. Never a squire of dames, he knew the part. He had played the game occasionally in the capitals of Europe when there had been some information he had particularly desired. Clever scheming women too. A clever, passably good looking elderly man could make himself peculiarly attractive to young women and women in the 30s. Dazzlement for the young, the man who knew all about life, the trivial little courtesies a younger man generally forgot, the moving of chairs, the holding of wraps, the gray hairs which served him by trust and confidence, which lolled the eternal feminine fear of the male. To the older women, no callow youth but a man of discernment, discretion, wit and fancy and daring, who remembered birthdays, husbands forgot, who was always around when wanted. There was no vanity back of these premises. Cutty was merely reaching about for an expedient to thwart what his anticipatory mind promised to be an inevitability. Of course the glamour would not last, it never did, but he felt he could sustain it until yonder chap was off into a. That evening at five thirty, Kitty received a box of beautiful roses with Cutty's card. Oh, the lovely things! She cried. She kissed them and set them in a big copper jug, arranged and rearranged them for the simple pleasure it afforded her. What a dear man this Cutty was to have thought of her in this fashion. Her father's friend, her mother's and now hers, she had inherited him. This thought cost her to smile, but there were tears in her eyes, a garden some day to play in, this mad city far away, a home of her own. Would it ever happen? The bell rang. She wasn't going to like this collar for taking her away from these roses. The first she had received in a long time, roses she could keep and not toss out the window, for it must not be understood that Kitty was never besieged. Outside stood a well-dressed gentleman, older than Cutty, with shrewd inquiring gray eyes and a face with strong salience. Pardon me, but I am looking for man by the name of Stephen Gregory. I was referred by the janitor to you. You are, Miss Conover? Yes, answered Kitty. Will you come in? She ushered the stranger into the living room and indicated a chair. Please excuse me for a moment. Kitty went into her bedroom and touched the danger button which would summon Bernini. She wanted her watchdog to see the visitor. She turned to the living room. What is it you wish to know? Where I may find this Gregory? That nobody seems able to answer. He was carried away from here in an ambulance, but we have been unable to locate the hospital. If you will leave your name. That is not necessary. I am out of bounds, you might say, and I'd rather my name should be left out of the affair, which is rather peculiar. In what way? I am only an agent, and I am not at liberty to speak. Could you describe Gregory? Then he is a stranger to you? Absolutely. Kitty described Gregory deliberately and at length. It struck her that the visitor was becoming bored, though he nutted at times. She was glad to hear Bernini's ring. She excused herself to admit the Italian. A false alarm, she whispered, somewhat inquiring for Gregory. I thought it might be well for you to see him. I'll work the radiator stuff. Very well. Bernini went into the living room and fussed over the steamcock of the radiator. Nothing the matter with it missed just stuck. Sorry to have troubled you, so the stranger, rising and picking up his hat. Bernini went down to the basement, obfuscated for he knew the visitor. He was one of the greatest bankers in New York, that is to say, in America, asking questions about Stephanie Gregor. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Of The Drums of Jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 16 About nine o'clock that same night a certain rich man, having established himself comfortably under the reading lamp, a fine book in his hands, and a fine after-dinner cigar between his teeth, was succeedingly resentful, when his butler knocked, entered, and presented a card. My orders were that I was not at home to anyone. Yes, sir, but he said you would see him because he came to see you regarding a Mr. Gregory. What? Yes, sir. Damn these newspapers! Wait! Wait! The banker called for the butler was starting for the door to carry the anathema to the appointed head. Bring him in, he's a big bug and I can't afford to front him. Yes, sir, with a colorless tone of a perfect servant. When the visitor entered, he stopped just beyond the threshold. He remained there even after the butler closed the door. Blue eye and gray clashed, two masters of fence who had executed the same stroke. The banker laughed and Cuddy smiled. I suppose, said the banker, you and I ought to sign an armistice, too. Agreed. And you've always been rather puzzled to me. A rich man, a gentleman, and yet sticking to the newspaper game. And you're puzzled to me, too. A rich man, a gentleman, and yet sticking to the banking game. What the devil was our row about? Can't quite recall. Whatever it was, it was the way you went at it. A reform was never yet accomplished by purring and pussy-footing, said Cuddy. Come over and sit down. Now, how the devil did you find out about this Gregory affair? The banker held out his hand, which Cuddy grasped with honest pressure. If you are here in the capacity of a newspaper man, not a word out of me. Have a cigar? I never smoke anything but pipes that ruin curtains. You should have given your name to Miss Conover. I was under promise not to explain my business, but before we proceed, an answer. Newspaper? No. I represent the Department of Justice, and we'll get along easier when I add that I possess rather unlimited powers under that head. How did you happen to stumble into this affair? Through Captain Radbone, my prospective son-in-law, who is in coblence. The cable arrived this morning, instructing me to proceed precisely in the manner I did. Rathbone is an intimate friend of the man I was actually seeking. The apartment of this man Gregory was mentioned to Rathbone in a cable as a possible temporary abiding place. What do you want to know? Whether or not he is undesirable. Decidedly, I should say, desirable. You make that statement as an American citizen? I do. I make it unreservedly because my future son-in-law is rather a difficult man to make friends with. I am acting merely as Rathbone's agent. On the other hand, I should be a cheerful liar if I told you I wasn't interested. What do you know? Everything. Answered cutty quietly. You know where this young man is? At this moment, he is in my apartment, rather seriously battered, and absolutely penniless. Well, I'll be tinkered damned. You know who he is, of course. Yes, and I want all your information so that I may guide my future actions accordingly. If he is really undesirable, he shall be deported the moment he can stand on his two feet. The banker pyramided his fingers, rather pleased to learn that he could astonish this interesting beggar. He has, on account, at my bank, half a million dollars. Originally, he had eight hundred thousand. The three hundred thousand under cable orders from Yokohama was transferred to our branch in San Francisco. This was withdrawn about two weeks ago. How does that strike you? All in a heap? Confessed cutty. When was this fund established with you? Shortly before Kerensky's government blew up, the funds were in our London bank. There was, of course, a lot of red tape, excessive charges and exchange and all that. Anyhow, about eight hundred thousand arrived. What brought him to America? Why didn't he go to England? That would have been the safest haven. I can explain that. He intends to become an American citizen. Some time ago he became the owner of a fine cattle ranch in Montana. Well, I'll be tinkered damned, too. Exploded cutty. A young man with his ideas in his head ought eventually to become a first-rate citizen. What do you say? I am considerably relieved. His forebears. The blood. His mother was a healthy Italian peasant, a famous singer in her time. His fortune, I take it, was his inheritance from her. She made a fortune singing in the capitals of Europe and speculating from time to time. She sent the boy at the age of ten to England, afraid of the home influence. He remained there under the name of Hoxley for something like fourteen years under the guardianship of this fellow, Gregory. Of Gregory I know positively nothing. The young fellow is, to all purposes, methods of living, points of view, and Englishmen. Rathbone, who was educated at Oxford, met him there and they shared quarters. But it was only in recent years that he learned the identity of his friend. In 1914 the young fellow returned to Russia. Military obligations. That's all I know. Mighty interesting, though. I am much obliged to you. The white elephant becomes a normal drab pack-a-term, said Cuddy. Still, something of an elephant on your hands. I see. Bring him here, if you wish. And seek the Bolshevik at your door. That's so. You spoke of his having been beaten and robbed. Bolshevik. Yes. An old line of reasoning first put into effect by Oliver Cromwell. The axe. The poor devil. Fact. I'm sorry for him, but I wish he would blow away conveniently. Rathbone says he's handsome, gay, but decent, considering. Humanity is being knocked about some. The hour has come for our lawyers to go back to their offices. Politics must step aside for business. We ought to hang up signs in every state capital in the country. Men wanted. Specialists. A steel man from Pittsburgh. A mining man from Idaho. A shipowner from Boston. A meatpacker from Omaha. A grain man from Chicago. What the devil do lawyers know about these things? The energies that make the wheels of this country go around. By the way, that Miss Conover was a remarkably pretty girl. She seemed a bit suspicious of me. Good reasons. That chap went to Gregor's. Gregor is his name, and was beaten, robbed, and left for dead. She saved his life. Good Lord, does she know? No, and once more I don't want her to. I am practically her guardian. Then you ought to get her out of that roost. Hang it, I can't get her to leave. I'm not legally her guardian, self-appointed, but she has agreed to leave in May. I'm glad you dropped in. Command me in any way you please. That's very good of you, considering. The war is over. Would be a fine pair of fools to let an ancient grudge go on. They tell me you have a wonderful apartment on top of that skyscraper of yours. Will you come to dinner some night? Any time you say, I should like to bring my daughter. She doesn't know? No. A herd of hoxley thinks he's English. I am certainly agreeable. This would be a distinct advantage to Kitty. I see you have a good book there. I'll take myself off. In the avenue, Cutty loaded his pipe. He struck a match on the flagstone and cupped it over the bowl of his pipe, thereby throwing his picturesque countenance into ruddy relief. Opposite emotions filled the hearts of the two men watching him, in one chagrin, in the other exaltation. Cutty decided to walk downtown the night being fine. He set his foot to a long, swinging stride. An elephant on his hands, truly. Poor devil, for a fad. Nobody wanted him, not even those who wished him well. Wanted to become an American citizen. He could have been tolerably safe in England. Here he would never be free of danger. A ranch. The beggar would have a chance out there in the west. The anarchist and the Bolshevik were town cooties. He's one chance, actually. The poor devil. Cutty had the right idea. It was a mighty fine thing, these times, to be a citizen under the protection of the American doctrine. Three hundred thousand. And Karloff had got that along with the drums. The devil's own for luck. The fool would be able to start some fine ructions with all that capital behind him. Episodes in the night. Kitty dreamed of wonderful rose gardens, endless and changing, but strab as she would, she could not find Cutty anywhere, which worried her, even in her dream. The nurse heard the patient utter a single word several times before he fell asleep. What is it, she asked. Fan. And he smiled. She haunted him for the palm leaf, but with a slight gesture he signified that that was not what he wanted. Cutty played solitaire with his chrysophrase until the telephone broke in upon his reveries. What he heard over the wire disturbed him greatly. You were followed from the avenue to the apartment. How do you know? I'm Anderson. You assigned me to watch the apartment in eightieth through the night. I followed the man who followed you. He saw your face when he lit the pipe. When the banker left me his gun over, he was followed home. That established him in the affair. The follower hung around and so did I. You appeared. He took a chance, shot in the dark. Not sure but doing a bit of clever guessing. You still followed him? Yes. Where did he wind up? A house in the warehouse district. Vacant warehouses on each side. Some new nest. I can lead you to it, sir, any time you wish. Thanks. Cutty pushed aside the telephone and returned to his green stones. After all, why worry? He was unfortunate, of course, but the apartment was more inaccessible than the top of the Matterhorn. Still they might discover what his real business was and interfere seriously with his future work on the other side. A ruin in the warehouse district. A good place to look for Stephanie Greger, if he were still alive. He was. And in his dark room he cried piteously for water. Water. Water. End of chapter sixteen. Chapter seventeen. Of The Drums of Jeopardy. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Drums of Jeopardy. By Harold McGrath. Chapter seventeen. A March day, sunny and cloudless, with fresh bracing winds. Green things pushed up from the soil. An eternal something was happening to the tips of the tree branches. An eternal something was happening in young hearts. A robin shook the dust of travel from his wings and bathed publicly in a park basin. Here and there under the ten thousand roofs of the great city, poets were busy with ink pots, trying to say an old thing in a new way. Woe to the pinched soul that did not expand this day, for it was spring. Expansion. Nature perhaps she was relenting a little. Perhaps she saw that humanity was sliding down the scale. Withering. And a bit of extra sunshine would serve to check the dissension and breed a little optimism. Cutty study. The sunlight, thrown westward, turned windows and roofs and towers into incomparable bijoux. The double reflection cast a white light into the room, lifting out the blue and old rose tints of the aspen rug. Cutty shifted the chrysophrase irresolutely for him. A dozen problems, and it was mighty hard to decide which to tackle first. Principally there was Kitty. He had not seen her in four days, deeming it advisable for her not to call for the present. The Bolshevik agent who had followed him from the bankers might decide, without the aid of some connecting episode that he had wasted his time. It did not matter that Kitty herself was no longer watched and followed from her home to the office, from the office home. Was Karloff afraid, or had he some new trick up his sleeve? It was not possible that he had given up oxley. He was probably planning an attack from some unexpected angle. To be sure, that Karloff would not find reason to associate him with Kitty, Cutty had remained indoors during the daytime and gone forth at night in his dungeries. Problem two was quite as formidable. The secret agents who had passed as a negotiator for the drums of Jeopardy had disappeared. That had sinister significance. Karloff did not intend to sell the drums. Merely wanted precise information regarding the men who had advertised for them. If the secret servicemen weakened under torture, Cutty recognized that his own usefulness would be at an end. He would have to step aside and let the great current sweep on without him. In that event, these 52 years would pile upon his head full measure for the only thing that kept him vigorous was action, interest. Without some great incentive, he would shrivel up and blow away like some exhumed mummy. Problem three, how the deuce was he going to fascinate Kitty if he couldn't see her? But there was a bit of silver lining here. If he couldn't see her, what chance had Hogsley? The whole sense and prompting of this problem was to keep Kitty and Hogsley apart. How this was accomplished was of no vital importance. Problem three then hung fire for the present. Funny how this idea stuck in his head that Hogsley was a menace to Kitty. One of those full ideas, probably, but worth trying out. Problem four, that night, all on his own, he would make an attempt to enter that old house sandwiched between the two vacant warehouses. There would be a trap on the roof of that house. Doubtless it would be covered with tin, fairly impregnable if latched below. But he could find out. From the third floor windows of either warehouse, the drop was not more than six feet. If anywhere in town, poor old Stephanie Gregor would be in one of those rooms. But to storm the house frontally, without being absolutely sure, would be folly. George would be killed. The house was, in fact, an insane asylum, occupied by super-insane men. Warned they were capable of blowing the house to kingdom cum, themselves with it. Problem five was a mere vanishing point. He doubted if he would ever see those emeralds. What an infernal pity. He built a coronet and leaned back, a wisp of smoke darting up from the bowl of his pipe. I say, you know, but that's a ripping game to play. Drawed a tired voice over his shoulder. Cuddy turned his head, to behold, hogsly, shaven, pale and handsome, wrapped in a bed quilt and swing slightly. What the deuce are you doing out of your room? Growled, Cuddy, but with the growl of a friendly dog. Hogsly dropped into a chair weakly. End of my rope. Gotta talk to someone, but go dotty else. Questions. Skull aches with them. I want to know whether this is a foretaste of the life I have a right to live, or the beginning of death. Be a good sport, and let's have it out. What is it you wish to know? Asked Cuddy gently. The poor beggar. Where I am, who you are, what happened to me, what is going to happen to me? Rather breathlessly. Don't want any more suspense. Don't want to look over my shoulder anymore. Straight ahead. All the cards in the table, please. Cuddy rose and pushed the invalid's chair to a window, and drew another up beside it. My word, the top of the world. Bolly old roost. You will find it safer here, than you would on the shores of Kathos-Komor. Replied Cuddy gravely. The Caspian wouldn't be a healthy place for you now. With wide-eyed hawks listed across the shining, wavering roofs. A pause. What do you know? He asked faintly. Everything. But wait. Cuddy fetched one of the photographs, and laid it upon the young man's knees. Know who this is? Two hawks? A strained tense gesture as Hawksley seized the photograph. Then his chin sank slowly to his chest. A moment later Cuddy was profoundly astonished to see something sparkle on its way down the bed quilt. Tears. I'm sorry, cried Cuddy, troubled and embarrassed. I'm terribly sorry. I should have had the decency to wait a day or two. On the contrary, thank you, Hawksley flung up his head. Nothing in all God's muddled world could be more timely, the face of my mother. I am not ashamed of these tears. I am not afraid to die. I am not even afraid to live. But all the things I loved, the familiar earth, the human beings, my dog, gone. I am alone. I'm sorry, repeated Cuddy, a bit choked up. This was honest misery, and it affected him deeply. He felt himself singularly drawn. I want to live, because I am young. No, I want to prove to the shades of those who loved me, that I am fit to go on. So my identity is known to you, dejectedly. Yes, you wish me to forget what I know? Will you, eagerly, will you forget that I am anything but a naked, friendless human being? Yes, but your enemies know. I rather fancy they will keep the truth to themselves. Let them publish my identity, and a hundred havens would be offered. Your government would protect me. It is doing so now, indirectly. But why do you not want it known? Freedom. Would I have it if known? Could I trust anybody? Would it not be essentially the old life in a new land? I want a new life in a new land. I want to be born again. I want to be what you patently are, an American. That is why I risked life a hundred times in coming all these miles. Why I sit in this chair before you, with the room rocking because they battered in my head. I do not offer a human wreck, an illiterate mind, in exchange for citizenship. I bring a tolerably decent manhood. Try me. Always I have admired you people. Always we Russians have. But there is no Russian now that I can ever return to. Huxley's head drooped again, and his bloodshed eyes closed. Cutty sensed confusion, indecision. All his deductions were upset in the face of this strange appeal. Russian, born of an Italian mother, and speaking Oxford English as if it were his birthright, and wanting citizenship. Wasn't ashamed of his tears. Wasn't afraid to die or die. Cutty searched quickly for a new hand-hold, to his antagonism, but he found only straws. He was honest enough to realize that he had built this antagonism upon a want, a desire. There was no foundation for it. Downright likable, a chap who had gone through so much, who was in such a pitable condition, would not have the wit to manufacture a character, camouflage his soul. Hang it, he said briskly, you shall have your chance. Talk like that will carry a man anywhere in this country. You shall stay here until you are strong again. Then some night I'll put you on your train from Montana. You want to ask questions. I'll save you the trouble by telling you what I know. But his narrative contained no mention of the emeralds. Why? A bit conscious-stricken, because, if he could, he was going to rob his guest on the basis that he had never seen before. Cutty wasn't ready to analyze the emission. Perhaps he wanted Huxley himself to inquire about the stones, test him out. If he asked, frankly, that would signify that he had brought the stones in honestly, paid his obligations to the customs. Otherwise, smuggling, and in that event, conscience wouldn't matter. The emeralds became a game anybody could take a hand in. Anybody who considered the United States customs and infringement upon human rights. What a devil of a call those stones had for him. Did they mean anything to Huxley aside from their intrinsic value? But for the nebulous idea, originally, that the emeralds were mixed up somewhere in this adventure, Cutty knew that he would have sent Huxley to a hospital, left him to his fate, and never known who he was. All through the narration, Huxley listened at motion, and he knew that the emeralds All through the narration, Huxley listened at motionless, with his eyes closed, possibly to keep the wavering instability of the walls, from interfering with his assimilation of this astonishing series of fact. Found you insensible on the floor, concluded Cutty, hoisted you to my shoulders, took you to the street, and here you are. Huxley opened his eyes. I say, you know, what a devil of an old Sherlock he must be, and you carried me on your shoulders across that firescape, ripping. When I stepped back into that room I heard a rushing sound, I knew, but I didn't have the least chance. You and that bully girl. Cutty swore under his breath. He had taken particular pains to avoid mentioning Kitty, and here, first off, the fat was in the fire. He remembered now that he had told Huxley that Kitty had saved his life. Fortunately, the chap wasn't keen enough with that banged-up head of his to apply reason to the omission. Saved my life, suppose she doesn't want me to know. Cutty jumped at this, doesn't care to be mixed up with the Bolshevik end of it, besides she doesn't know who you are. The fewer that know, the better. But I always remember her kindness, and that bully pistol with a fan in it. But you? Why did you bother to bring me up here? Couldn't decently leave you where Karloff could get to you again? Is Stephanie Gregor dead? I don't know, probably not, but we are hunting for him. Cutty had not explained his interest in Gregor. Those plaguey stones again, they were demoralizing him. Loot. You spoke of Karloff, who is he? Why, the man who followed you across half the world? There were many. What is he like? A gorilla. Ah, Hogsley became galvanized and extended his fists. God let me live long enough to put my hands on him. I had the chance the other day to blood out his face with my boots. But I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it. He sagged in the chair. No. No, just a bit groggy. All right in a moment. By the Lord Harry, I'll see you through. Now, buck up. Hear that? Cried Cutty throwing up a window. Music. Look through that street there. I see that glint of bayonets. American soldiers marching up Fifth Avenue. Thousands of them. Free men who broke the vaunted Hiddenburg line. God bless them. Americans, every mother's son of them, who went away laughing. Who returned laughing. Who will go back to their jobs laughing. The ability to laugh, that's America. Do you know how to laugh? I used to. I'm jolly weak just now. But I'll grin if you want me to. And hoxley grinned. That's the way. A grin in this country will take you quite as far. All right. In five years you'll be voting. I'll see to that. Now back to bed with you and no more leaving it until the nurse says so. What you need is rest. Cutty sent a call to the nurse who was standing undecidedly in the doorway and together they put the derelict back to bed. Then Cutty fetched the photograph and set it on top of the dresser where hoxley could see it. Now no more gallivanting about. I promise old top. This bed is a little bit of all right, I say. I say. What? How long am I to be here? If you're good two weeks. Interpose the nurse. Two weeks. I say. Would you mind in me a trifling favor? I'd like a violin to use myself with. A fiddle. I don't know a thing about them except that they sound good. Cutty pulled at his chin. Whatever it costs I'll reimburse you the day I'm up. All right I'll bring you a bundle of them and you can do your own selecting. Out in the corridor the nurse said I couldn't hold him, but he'll be easier now that he's got the questions of his mind. He will have to be humored a lot. That's one of the characteristics of head wounds. What do you think of him? He seems to be gentle and patient, and I imagine he's hard to resist when he wants anything. Winning you'd call it. I suppose I mustn't ask who he really is? No, poor devil, the fewer that know the better. I'll be home round three. Once in the street Cutty was besieged suddenly with irresistible desire to mingle with the crowd over in the avenue, to hear the military bands that shouts, to witness the gamut of emotions which he knew would attend this epochal day. Of course he would view it all from the aloof vantage of the historian and store away commentaries against future needs. And what a crowd it was. He was elbowed and pushed, jostled and trod on, carried into the surges, relegated to the eddies, and always the metallic tap-tap of still-shot boots on the asphalt, the bayonets throwing back the radiant sunshine sharp clear flashes. The keen joys faces of those boys, God, to be young like that, to have come through that hell on earth with the ability still to smile. Cutty felt the tears running down his cheeks. Instinctively, he knew that this was to be his last thrill of this order. He was fifty-two. Quit your crowding there, barked a voice under his chin. Sorry, but it's those behind me, said Cutty, looking down into a floored countenance with a raggedy gray moustache and a pair of blue eyes that were blinking. I'm so damn short I can't see anything. Neither can I. Neither can I. You could if you wiped your eyes. You're crying yourself, declared Cutty, blinking jackass. Got anybody out there? All of them. I get you, old son of a gun. No flesh and blood, but they're ours all the same. Couple of old fools, huh? Sure, Pop. What right have two old carjers got here anyhow? What brought you out? What brought you? Same thing. Damn it, if I could only see something. Cutty put his hands upon the shoulders of these chance acquaintance and propelled him toward the curb. There were cries of protests, curses, cat calls, but Cutty bored on ahead until he got his man where he could see the tin hats, the bayonets, and the colors, and thus they stood for a full hour. Each time the flag went by, the little man yanked off his derby and turned troculently to see that Cutty did the same. Say, he said as they finally dropped back, I'd offer to buy a drink, only it sounds flat. And it would taste flat after a mighty wine like this, replied Cutty. Maybe you've heard of the nectar of the gods. Well, you've just drunk it, my friend. I sure have. Those kids out there are smiling after all that hell, and you and me on the sidewalk blubbering over him. What's the answer? We're Americans. You said it. Goodbye. Cutty pressed onto the floor and went along with it, lighter in the hearts than he had been in many a day. These two million who lined Fifth Avenue, who cheered, laughed, wept, went silent, cheered again. What did their presence here signify? That America's day had come. That as a people they were homogeneous at last. That that which laws had failed to bring forth had been accomplished by an ideal. Bolshevism, socialism, call it what you will, would beat itself into fragments against this rock of democracy, which went down to the center of the world and whose pinnacle touched the stars. Reincarnation, the simple ideals of the forefathers restored. And with this knowledge tingling in his thoughts, and perhaps there was a bit of spring in his heart, Cutty continued on without destination, chin jutting, eyes shining, he was an American. He might have continued on indefinitely, had he not seen obliquely a window filled with musical instruments. Hoxley's fiddle. He had all but forgotten. All right, if the poor beggar wanted to scrape a fiddle, scrape but he would. The least he, Cutty could do, would be to accede to any and every whim, Hoxley expressed. Wasn't he planning to rub the beggar of the drums, happen they ever turned up? But how the deuce to pick out a fiddle, which would have a tune in it? Of all the hypercritical duffers, the fiddle was the worst. Beside a fiddle of the first rank, the rich old maid with the poodle was a hail-fellow well-met. Of course, Gregor had taught the chap, that meant he would know instantly, just as his host would instantly observe the difference between green glass and green barrel. Cutty turned into the shop infinitely amused. Fiddles. What next? Having constituted a guardianship for Kitty, he was now playing impresario to Hoxley. As if he hadn't enough parts to play. Wouldn't he be risking his life tonight trying to find where Stephanie Gregor was? Fiddles. Fiddles and emeralds. What a choice old hypocrite he was. Fate has a way of telling you all about it afterward, conceivably, that humanity might continue to reproduce its species. Otherwise humanity would proceed to extinguish itself forthwith. Thus Cutty was totally unaware upon entering the shop that he was about to tear off his hinges. The door he was so carefully bolting and latching and padlocking between Kitty Conover and this duffer who wanted to fiddle his way through convalescence. Where there is fiddling there is generally dancing. If it be not the feet, then it will be the soul. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of the Drums of Jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 18 There are some men who know a little about all things and a great deal about many. Such a man was Cutty. But as he approached the counter behind which stood an expectant clerk, he felt for once that he was in a far country. There were fiddles and fiddles, just as there were emeralds and emeralds. Never again would he laugh over the story of the man who thought Botticelli was a manufacturer of spool thread. He attacked the problem, however, like the thoroughbred he was, frankly. I want to buy a violin, he began, knowing that in polite musical circles the word fiddle was taboo. I know absolutely nothing at all about quality or price. Understand, though, while you might be able to fool me, you wouldn't fool the man I'm buying it for. Now, what would you suggest? A clerk, a salesman, familiar with certain urban types, thinly including the Fifth Avenue, which came in for talking machine records, recognized in this well-dressed, attractive elderly man that which he designated the swell. Hateful word, yes, but having a perfectly legitimate niche, since in the minds of the Hoepalloi, it nicely describes the differences between the poor gentleman and the gentleman of leisure. To proceed with the digression, to no one is the word more hateful than to the individual to whom it is applied. Cuddy would have blushed at the clerk's thought. Perhaps I'd better get the proprietor, was the clerk's suggestion. Good idea, Cuddy agreed. Take my card along with you. This was a Fifth Avenue shop, and Cuddy knew there would be a who's who or a Bradstreet somewhere about. In the interim he inspected the case-lined walls. Trombones. He chuckled. Lucky that Hoxley's talent didn't extend in this direction. True, he himself collected drums, but he did not play them. Something odd about music. Human beings had to have it, the very lowest in the scale. A universal magic. He was himself very fond of good music, but these days he fought Shah of it. It had the faculty of sweeping him back into the 20s and reincarnating vanished dreams. After a certain length of time, from the corner of his eye, he saw the clerk returning with a proprietor, the latter wearing an amiable smile, which probably connoted a delving into the four-set volumes of attainment and worth. Cuddy hoped this was so, as it would obviate the necessity of going into details as to who he was and what he had. Your name is familiar to me, began the proprietor. You collect antique drums. My clerk tells me that you wish to purchase a good violin. Very good, I have in my apartment rather a distinguished guest who plays the violin for his own amusement. He is ill and cannot select for himself. Now I know a little about music, but nothing about violins. I suggest that I personally carry half a dozen instruments to your apartment and let your guest turn to you. How much is he willing to pay? Top price, I should say, shall I make a deposit? If you don't mind, merely precautionary. Half a dozen violins will represent quite a sum of money, and taxicabs are unreliable animals. A thousand against accidents. What time shall I call? The proprietor's curiosity was stirred. Musical celebrities, as he had occasion to know, were always popping up in queer places. Some new star probably whose violin had been broken and who did not care to appear in public before the hour of his debut. Three o'clock, said Cutty. Very well, sir, I promise to bring the violins myself. Cutty wrote out his check for a thousand and departed, the chuckle still going on inside of him. Versatile old Codger, wasn't he? Promptly at three the dealer arrived, his arms in his hands gripping violin cases. Cutty hurried to his assistants, accepted a part of the load, and beckoned to the man to follow him. The cases were placed on the floor, and the dealer opened them, putting the rosin on a single bow. Huxley, a fresh bandage on his head, his shoulders propped by pillows, eyed the initial maneuvers with frank amusement. I say, you know, would you mind tuning them for me? I'm not top whole. The dealer's eyebrows went up, and Englishman bewildered he bent to the trifling labour of tuning the violins. Huxley rejected the first two instruments after thrumming the strings with his thumb. He struck up a melody on the third but did not finish it. My word, if you have a violin there, why not let me have it at once? The dealer flushed, try this, sir, but I do not promise you that I shall sell it. Ah, Huxley stretched out his hands to receive the instrument. Of course, God he had heard of Amati and Stradivari, master and pupil, he knew that all famous violinists possessed instruments of these schools, and that such violins were practically beyond the reach of many. Only through some great artist's death or misfortune did I find violin returned to the marks. But the rejected fiddles had sounded musically enough for him, and looked as if they were well up in the society of select fiddles. The fiddle Huxley now held in his hands was dull, almost black. The maple neck was worn to a shabby gray, and the varnish had been sweated off the chin rest. Huxley laid his fingers on the strings and drew the bow with a powerful flourishing sweep. The rich sonorous tones vibrated after the bow had passed. Then followed the tricks by which an artist seeks to discover flaws or wolf notes. A beatific expression settled upon Huxley's face. He nestled the violin comfortably under his chin and began to play softly. Cutty, the nurse, and the dealer became images. Miners, a bit of a dance, more minors. Nothing really begun, nothing really finished. Sketches with a melancholy note running through them all. While that pouring into his ears enchained his body, it stirred recollections in Cutty's mind. The fared Novgorod. The fiddling Montpaks. Russian. Perhaps the dealer's astonishment was greatest. An Englishman. Who ever heard of an Englishman playing a violin like that? I will buy it. Said Huxley, sinking back. Sir, began the dealer, I am horribly embarrassed. I cannot sell that violin because it isn't mine. It is an amati worth ten thousand dollars. I will give you twelve. But sir, name of prize. Interrupted Huxley rather imperiously. I want it. Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood to want anything was to have it. I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It belongs to a Hungarian who is now in Hungary. I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the amati as security. Until I learn if he is dead, I cannot dispose of the violin. I am sorry. But because you are a real artist, sir, I will loan it to you if you will make a deposit of ten thousand against any possible accident. And that upon demand, you will return the instrument to me. That's fair enough, interposed Cutty. I beg pardon, said Huxley. I agree. I want it, but not at the price of anyone's dishonesty. He turned his head toward Cutty. You are a thoroughbred, sir. This will do more to bring me around than all the doctors in the world. But what deduces the difference? Cutty demanded with a gesture toward the rejected violins. The dealer and Huxley exchanged smiles, said the latter. The other violins are pretty wooden boxes with tolerable tunes in their insides. This has a soul. He put the violin against his cheek again. Masenet's elegy, Moskowski's serenade, a transcription, and then the aria from Lucia. Not a composition's professional violinists would have selected. Cutty felt his spine grow cold, as this aria poured goldenly toward heaven. He understood. Huxley was telling him that the shade of his glorious mother was in this room. The boy was right. Some fiddles had souls. An odd depression bore down upon him. Perhaps this surprising music, topping his great emotions of the morning, was a straw too much. There were certain exaltations that could not be sustained. A whimsical forecast. His chap here in the dingy parlor of his Montana ranch, playing these indescribable melodies to the stars. His cowmen outside wondering what was the matter with their innards. Somehow this picture lightened the depression. My fingers are stiff, said Huxley. My hand is tired. I should like to be alone. He laid back, rather inertly. In the corridor, Cutty whispered to the dealer, what do you think of him? As he says, his touch shows a little stiffness, but the wonderful fire is there. He's an amateur, but a fine one. Practice will bring him to a finish in no time. But I never heard an Englishman play a violin like that before. Nor I, Cutty agreed. When the owner sensed for that fiddle, let me know. Mr. Huxley might like to dig her for it. If you know where the owner is, you might cable that she have an offer of twelve thousand. I'm sorry, but I haven't the least idea where the owner is. However, there is an understanding that if the loan isn't covered in eighteen months, the instrument becomes saleable for my own protection. There is a year still to run. Four o'clock found Cutty pacing his study. The room blew with smoke. Of all the queer chaps he had met in his varied career, these two hawks topped a lot. Constant internal turmoil must be going on, the instincts of the blood, artist and autocrat. And in the end, the owner of a cattle ranch, if he had the luck to get there alive, it is the old world. Something else happened at four o'clock. A policeman strolled into 80th Street. He was at peace with the world. Spring was in his whistle, and he stride in the twirl of his baton. Whenever he passed a shop window, he made it serve as a mirror. No waistline yet, a comforting thought. Children swarmed the street and gathered at corners. The older ones played boldly in Mead Street, while the toddlers invented games that came to the sidewalk and curb. The policeman came stealthily upon one of these latter groups, Italians. At the side of his brass buttons they fled precipitately. He laughed. Once in a month of moons he was able to get near enough to touch them. Natural. Hadn't he himself hiked in the old days at the side of a copper? Sure he had. A bit of color on the sidewalk attracted his eye, and he picked up the object. Something those kids had been playing with. A bit of red glass out of a piece of cheap jewelry. Not half bad for a fake? He would put one over on Maggie when he turned in for supper. Certainly this was the age of imitation. You couldn't buy a brass button with any confidence. He put the trinkets in his pocket and continued on, soon to forget it. At six he was off duty. As he was leaving the prison the desk sergeant called him back. God changed for a dollar and I'll settle that pinocchio debt. Offered the sergeant. I'll take a look. The policeman emptied his coin pocket. What statue got there? Which? The red stone. Oh that! Picked it up on the sidewalk. Some Italian kids dropped it as they skedaddled. Let's have a look. Sure the policeman passed over the stone. Gee that looks like real money. Say they can do anything with glass these days. They sure can. A man in civilian clothes, a detective from headquarters went up to the desk. What you guys got there? A ruby these boo picks up off in the sidewalk, said the sergeant, winking at the finder who grinned. Let's have a squint at it. The stone was handed to him. The detective stared at it carefully, holding it on his palm and rocking it gently under the desk light. Crimson darts of flame answered to this treatment. He pushed back his hat. Well you boobs, he drawled. What's the matter? Matter? Why? This is a ruby. A wail of a ruby and pigeon blood at that. I didn't work at the appraiser's office for nothing. But for broken point, kids probably tried to crack it. It would stack up somewhere between three and four thousand dollars. The sergeant and the policeman barked simultaneously. What? A pigeon blood. Where was it you found it? Holy Moses on 80th. Any chance of finding that bunch of kids? Not a chance, not a chance. If I got the whole district here there wouldn't be nothing doing. The kids would be too scared to remember anything. A pigeon blood ruby and I wasn't going to pick it up at first. Lock it up sergeant, ordered the detective. I'll pass the word to headquarters. Too big for a ring. Probably fallen from a pin. But there will be a holler in a few hours. Lost or stolen there will be some big noise. You two boobs. Well what do you know about that? Why the policeman and me thinking it was glass. But there was no big noise. No one had reported the loss or theft of a pigeon blood ruby of unusual size and quality. End of chapter 18. Chapter 19 of The Drums of Jeopardy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Drums of Jeopardy by Harold McGrath Chapter 19 Kitty came home at nine that night dreadfully tired. She had that day been rocked by so many emotions. She had viewed the parade from the windows of a theatrical agency and she had cheered and cried like everybody else. Her eyes had still smarted and her throat betrayed her every time she recalled what she had seen. Those boys. Loneliness. She had dined downtown and on the way home the shadow had stalked beside her. Loneliness. Never before had these rooms seemed so empty, empty. If God had only given her a brother and he had marched in that glorious parade what fun they too would be having at this moment. Empty rooms. Not even a pet. Loneliness. She had been a silly little fool to stand so aloof just because she was poor and lived in a faded locality. She mocked herself, poor but proud like the shop girl in the movies. Denied herself companionship because she was ashamed of her genteel poverty and now she was paying for it. Silly little fool. It wasn't as if she did not know how to make and keep friends. She knew she had attractions. Just a senseless false pride. Her best friends in the world after a series of rebuffs would drop away. Her mother's friends never called anymore because of her aloofness. She had only a few girlfriends and even these no doubt were beginning to think her upish. She did not take off her hat and coat. She wandered through the empty rooms undecided. If she went to a movie the rooms would be just as lonely when she returned. Companionship. The urge of it was so strong that there was a temptation to call up someone, even someone she had rebuffed. She wasn't the mood to confess everything and to make an honest attempt to start all over again, to accept friendship and let pride go hang. Impulsively she started for the telephone when the doorbell rang. Immediately the sense of loneliness fell away, another chapter in the great game of hide and seek that had kept her from brooding until tonight. The doorbell carried a new message these days. Nine o'clock. Who could be calling at that hour? She had forgotten to advise Cuddy of the fact that someone had gone through the apartment. She could not positively assert the fact. Those articles in her bureau she herself might have disturbed. She might have taken a handkerchief in a hurry, hunted for something under the lingerie, impatiently. Still she could not read herself of the feeling that alien hands had been rifling her belongings. Not Bernini, decidedly. Remembering Cuddy's advice about opening the door with her foot against it, she peered out. No emissary of Bolshevism here. A weary little messenger boy with a long box in his arms called her name. Miss Conover? Yes. The boy thrust the box into her hands and clumped to the stair head. Kitty slammed the door and ran into the living room, tearing open the box as she ran. Roses from Cuddy, she knew it. The old darling. Just when she was on the verge of breaking down and crying, she let the box fall to the floor and cuddled the flowers to her heart, her eyes filling. Cuddy. One of those ideas which sometime or another spring into the minds of all pretty women who are poor, sprang into hers, an idea such as an honest woman might amuse over only to reject. Sinister and cynical. Kitty was at this moment in rather a desperate frame of mind. Those two inherent characteristics which she had fought valiantly, love of good times and of pretty clothes, made ingress easy for this sinister and cynical idea. Having gained a foothold, it pressed forward boldly. Cuddy, who had everything, strength, calmliness, wisdom and money, to live among all those beautiful things, never to be lonely again, to be waited on, fussed over, made much of, taken into the high world, never more to add up accounts, to stretch five dollar bills across the chasm of seven days. An old man's darling. No, no, no. She burst out passionately. She drew a hand across her eyes, as if that gesture could rub out an evil thought. It is all very well to say avant, but if the idea will not, I couldn't. I couldn't. I'd be a liar in a cheat. But he is so nice. If he did want me. No. No, just for comforts. I couldn't. What a miserable wretch I am. She caught up the copper jug and still holding the roses to her heart, the tears streaming down her cheeks, rushed out to the kitchen for water. She dropped the green stems into the jug, buried her face in the buds to cool the hot shame on her cheeks, and remembered, what a ridiculous thing the mind was, that she had three shirt wastes to iron. She set the jug on the kitchen table, where it remained for many hours, and walked over to the range to the flat iron shelf. As she reached for a flat iron, her hand stopped in midair. A fat black wallet. Instantly she knew who had placed it there. That poor Johnny Two Hawks. Kitty lifted out the wallet from behind the flat irons. No doubt of it, Johnny Two Hawks had placed it there when she had gone to the speaking tube to summon the janitor. Not knowing if he would ever call for it. Preferring that she, rather than his enemies, should have it. And without a word. What a simple yet amazing hiding place. And but for the need of a flat iron, the wallet would have stayed there until she moved. Left it there with a premonition that he was heading into trouble. But what if they had killed him? How would she have explained the wallet's presence in her apartment? Good gracious, what an escape. Without direct consciousness she raised the flap. She saw the edges of money and documents, but she did not touch anything. There was no need. She knew it belonged to Johnny Two Hawks. Of course there was an appalling attraction. The wallet was figuratively begging to be investigated. But resolutely she closed the flap. Why? Because it was as though Two Hawks had placed the wallet in her hands, charging her to guard it against the day he reclaimed it. There was no outward proof that the wallet was his. She just knew that was all. Still she examined the outside carefully. In one corner had been originally a monogram or a crest effectually obliterated by the application of fire. Who he was and what he was by a simple turn of the wrist. It was Cuddy's affair now, not hers. He had a legal right to examine the contents. He was an agent of the federal government. The drums of Jeopardy and Stephanie Greger and Johnny Two Hawks all interwoven. She had waited in vain for Cuddy to mention the emeralds. What signified his silence? She had indirectly apprised him of the fact that she knew the author of that advertisement offering to purchase the drums. No questions asked. Who but Cuddy New York would know about them? The mark of the thong. Johnny Two Hawks had been carrying the drums, and Karlov's men had torn them from their victim's neck during the battle. Was there any reason why Cuddy should not have taken her completely into his confidence? Palace is looted. If Stephanie Greger had lived in a palace, why not his protégé? Still it was possible. Cuddy was holding back until he could tell her everything. But what to do with it? If she called him up and made known her discovery, Cuddy would rush up as fast as a taxi cab could bring him. He had preemptorily ordered her not to come to his apartment for the present. But to sit here and wait, to be alone again after he had gone, it was not to be borne. Orders or no orders she would carry the wallet to him. He could lecture her as much as he pleased. Tonight at least she would lay aside her part as parlour made in the drama. It would give her something to do, keep her mind off herself. Nothing but excitement would pull her out of this semi hysterical daldrum. She hid the wallet in the pocket of her underskirt. Already her blood was beginning to dance. She ran into her bedroom for two veils. A grey automobile puggery and one of those heavy black affairs with butterflies scattered over it, quite as effectual as a mask. She wound the puggery about her hat. When the right moment came, she would discard the puggery and drop the black veil. Her coat was of dark blue lined with still grey taffeta. Turned inside out it would fool any men. She wore spats. These she would leave behind when she made the change. Someone might follow her as far as the knickerbocker, but beyond there, never. She was sorry, but she dared not warn Bernini. He might object, notify Cuddy and spoil everything. By the time she reached the street, exhilarations suffused her. The melancholia was gone. The sinister and cynical idea had vanished, apparently. Merely it had found a hiding place and was content to abide there for the present. Such ideas are not without avenues of retreat. They know the hours of attack. Cuddy was alive to but one fact. The game of hide and seek was on again. She was going to have some excitement. She was going into the night on an adventure, as children play at bears in the dark. The youth in her still rejected the fact that the wolf and warp of this adventure were murder and loot and pain. And route to the subway she never looked back. At 42nd Street she detrained, walked into the knickerbocker, entered the lady's dressing room, turned her coat, redraped her hat, checked her gaiters and sought a taxi. Within two blocks of Cuddy's she dismissed the cab and finished the journey on foot. At the left of the lobby was an all night apothecaries with a door going into the lobby. Kitty proceeded to the elevator through this avenue. Number four was down and she stepped inside raising her veil. You miss? Very important, take me up. The boss is out. No matter, take me up. You're the doctor. What a pretty girl she was. No come on in her eyes, though. The boss may not get back until morning. He just went out in his engineer tugs. He sure wasn't expecting you. Do you know where he went? Never know, but I'll be in this bird cage until he comes back. I shall have to wait for him. Up she goes. As Kitty stepped out into the corridor, a wave of confusion assailed her. She hadn't planned against Cuddy's absence. There was nothing she could say to the nurse, and if Johnny II Hawks was asleep, why all she could do would be to curl up on a divan and await Cuddy's return. The nurse appeared. You miss Conover? Yes. Kitty realized at once that she must take the nurse into her confidence. I have made a really important discovery. Did Cuddy say when he would return? No, I am not in his confidence to that extent, but I do know that you assumed unnecessary risks in coming here. Kitty shrugged and produced the wallet. Is Mr. Hawksley awake? He is. It appears that he left this wallet in my kitchen that night. It might buck him up if I gave it to him. The nurse, eyeing the lovely animated face, conceded that it might. Come, I've been trying futilely to read him asleep, but he is restless. No excitement, please. I'll try not to. Perhaps, after all, you had better give him the wallet. On the contrary, that would start a series of questions I could not answer. Come along. When Kitty saw Hawksley, she gave a little gasp of astonishment. Why? He was positively handsome. His dark head, standing out boldly against the bolstering pillows. The fine lines of his face, definite, the pallor. He was like a Roman cameo. Who and what could he be, this picturesque foundling? His glance flashed into hers delightedly. For hours and hours the constant wonder where she was, why no one mentioned her, why they evaded his apparently casual questions. To burst upon his vision in the nadir of his boredom and loneliness like this. She was glorious, this American girl. She made him think of a golden scabbard housing a fine Toledo blade. Hadn't she saved his life? More, hadn't she assumed a responsibility in so doing? Instantly he proposed that she should not be permitted to resign the office of Good Samaritan. He motioned toward the nurse's chair, and Kitty sat down, her errand in total eclipse. Just when I never felt so lonely, ripping. His quick smile was so engaging that Kitty answered it, kindred spirits subconsciously recognizing each other. Fire, but neither of them knew that, or that two lonely human beings of opposite sex, in touch, constitute a first-rate combustible. Quietly the nurse withdrew. There would be a tonic in this meeting for the patient. Her own presence might neutralize the effect. She had not spent all those dreadful months in base hospitals without acquiring a keen insight into the needs of sick men. No harm in letting him have this pretty self-reliant girl alone to himself for a quarter of an hour. She would then return with some broth. How, how are you? asked Kitty innately. Top whole considering, quite ready to be killed all over again. You mustn't talk like that, she protested. Only to show you I was bucking up. Thank you for doing what you did. I had to do it. Most women would have run away and left me to my fate. Not my kind. Rather not, your kind would risk its neck to help a stray cat. I say, what's that you have in your hand? Good gracious, Kitty extended the wallet. It is yours, isn't it? Yes, I wanted you to bring it to me the way you have. If I hadn't come back out of that, it was to be yours. Mine, Dom founded, but why not? Gregor gone, there wasn't a soul in the world. I was hungry and you gave me food. I wanted that to pay you. I'll wager you've never looked into it. I had no right to. See? He opened the wallet and spread the contents on the counterpane. I wasn't so stony as you thought. What? Cash and unregistered ponds. They would have been yours absolutely. But I don't, I can't quite, Kitty stammered, but I couldn't have kept them. Positively, yes. You would have shown them to that rippling garden of yours and he would have made you see. Indeed, yes, he would have been scared to death. You poor man, can't you see? Circumstantial evidence that I had killed you. Good Lord, and you're right too. So it goes, you can't do anything you want to. The good Samaritan is never requited and I wanted to break the rule. Lord, what a bolly mixup I'd have tumbled you in. I forgot that you were you, that you would have gone straight to the authorities. Of course, I knew if I pulled through and you found the wallet, you would bring it to me. Kitty no longer had a foot on earth. She floated. Her brain floated too because she could not make it think coherently for her. A fortune for a dish of bacon and eggs. The magnificence, the utter prodigality of such generosity, for a dish of bacon and eggs and a bottle of milk. Had she left home, hadn't she fallen asleep the victim of another nightmare? A corner of the atmosphere cleared a little. A desire took form. She wanted the nurse to come back and stabilize things. In a wavering blur, she saw the odd young man restore the money and bonds and other documents to the wallet. I want you to give this to your guardian when he comes in. I want him to understand. I say, you know, I'm going to love that old thoroughbred. He's fine. Fancy is carrying me on his shoulders and eventually bring me up here among the clouds. Americans, are you all like that and you? Kinney's brain began to make preparations to alight as it were. Cutty, that gave her a touch of earth. She heard herself say faintly, and what about me? You were brave and kind to help an unknown friendless beggar like that when you should have turned him over to the police makes me feel a bit stuffy. They left me for dead. I wonder. What? If it wouldn't have been just as well. You mustn't talk like that. You just mustn't. You're with friends, real friends who want to help you all they can. And then with a little flash of forced humor, because of the recurrent tightening in her throat, who could be friendless with all that money? Instantly she felt like biting her tongue. He would know nothing of the sad American habit of trying to be funny to keep a wobbly situation on its legs. He would interpret it as heartlessness. I didn't mean that. With the Irish impulsiveness which generally weighs acts in retrospection, she reached over and gripped his hand. I say you too. Huxley closed his eyes for a second. Wanting to buck up a chap because you're the sort. You're that sort. All right. I'll stick it out. You too. And I might be the worst scoundrel on Hung. He drew her hand toward his lips, and Kitty had not the power to resist him. She felt strangely theatrical, a character in a play. For American men, except in playful burlesque, never kissed their women's hands. The moment he released the hand, the old wave of hysteria rolled over her. She must fly. The desire to weep, little fool that she was, was breaking through her defenses, loneliness, the two of them all alone but for Cutty. She rose, crushing the wallet in her hand. Ah, never had she needed that darling mother of hers so much as now. Tears did not seem to afford relief when one shed them into handkerchiefs and pillows. But on that gentle bosom, to let loose this brimming flood, to hear the tender voice consoling. Oh, I say now, please! She heard Johnny Twohawks cry out. But she rushed on blindly, knocking against the doorjam and almost upsetting the nurse who was returning. Somehow she managed to reach the living room. Glad it was dark. Alter Sundry reaching about, she found the divine and flung herself upon it. What would he think? What would the nurse think? That Cutty Conover had suddenly gone stark raving crazy. And now that she was in the dark alone, the desire to weep passed over and she lay quietly with her face buried in the pillow. But not for long. She sat up. Music, violin music, a gay waltz that made her think of flashing water, the laughter of children, Tchaikovsky. Thrilled she waited for the finale. Silence. Charwenka's polished dance with a swing and a fire beyond anything she had ever heard before. Another stretch of silence, a silence full of interrogation points. Then a tender little sketch, quite unfamiliar. But all at once she understood. He was imploring her to return. She smiled in the dark, but she knew she was going to remain right where she was. Miss Conover? It was the voice of the nurse. Yes, I'm over here on the divan. Anything wrong? A good gracious no. I'm overtired. A little hysterical maybe. The parade today with all those wounded boys in automobiles, the music and color and excitement have rather done me up. And the wear rushed up here and not finding Cutty. Anything I can get for you? No thanks. I'll try to snatch a little sleep before Cutty returns. But he may be gone all night. Will it be so very scandalous if I stay here? You poor child. Go ahead and sleep. Don't hesitate to call me if you want anything. I have a mild sedative if you would like it. No thanks. I did not know that Mr. Huxley played. Wonderfully. But does it bother you? It kind of makes me chokey. I'll tell him. Cutty now strangely at peace snuggled down among the pillows. Some great Polish violinist who had roused the bitter enmity of the anarchist. But no, he was Russian. Cutty had admitted that. It struck her that Cutty knew a great deal more than Cutty connover, and so far as she could see there was no apparent reason for this secrecy. She rather believed she had Cutty. Either he should tell her everything or she would run loose. Bolshevik or no Bolshevik. Sheep. She boosted one over the bars. Another and another. Round somewhere in the thirties the bars dissolved. The next thing she knew she was blinking in the light. Cutty his arms folded staring down at her somberly. There was blood on his face and blood on his hands. End of chapter nineteen.