Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

  “Ah, yes,” returned Geary, putting his chin in the air, “that was your agent’s valuation five years ago; but you know property out there, in fact, property all over the city, what they call inside property, has been going right down for the last ten years. That’s what I’ve always been telling you. You couldn’t possibly get more than nine thousand for that block to-day. You see the railroad there hurts it.”

  “I suppose so,” replied Vandover. “I’ve heard the governor say as much in his time.”

  “Of course,” exclaimed Geary, delighted at this unexpected turn.

  “Well, then, he can have my bonds,” said Vandover. “I’ve got eighty-nine hundred in bonds; he can have those. Let him have anything he wants.”

  “Oh, don’t touch your bonds,” answered Geary. “Hang on to those. Bonds are always good — U.S. bonds. You don’t want to sell those, Van. You see, the homestead is already mortgaged. And, besides, you know, too, that the banks are asking an awful big per cent. for mortgages on real estate; it’s seven and a half nowadays. Don’t sell your bonds. I’ll tell you why: U.S. bonds are always good; they never depreciate, but it’s different with realty, especially in this city just now. It’s been depreciating ever since your father’s time, and it’s going to go right on depreciating. If you want to sell anything, sell your realty before it gets any lower. Now you don’t want to sell your home, do you? You don’t like that idea. You’ve lived there so long, and then what would you do with the furniture; besides, the rent of that,” he glanced again at his notes, “is bringing you in a good hundred and twenty-five a month. If you’ve got to sell at all, why not sell your Mission block?”

  “All right,” said Vandover, as if wearied by Geary’s clamour, “I’ll sign it over to him.”

  “No, that’s not the idea at all,” Geary insisted. “He wants the ready money; he don’t want depreciated real estate. You’ll have to find a purchaser in the next week if you possibly can in such a short time, and make over the money to Wade. But if you can’t sell in that time you will have to dig up ten thousand instead of eight. It’s a hard position for you, Van; it’s just a chance, you know, but I thought I would give you the benefit of that chance. If you want to give me a power of attorney I’ll try and sell it for you.”

  “I guess Brunt would do that,” replied Vandover.

  “Yes,” retorted Geary, watchful as a lynx, “but they would charge you a big commission. Of course I wouldn’t think of asking you anything more than the actual costs. I am afraid that they would try to sell it at auction, too, if they knew you had to realize on it in so short a time, and it would go for a mere song then; you know how it is.”

  “I thought,” inquired Vandover, “that you wanted that property.”

  “Yes,” replied Geary, hesitating, “I — I did want to buy it of you once; well, for that matter I do now. But you know how it is with me.”

  “I might as well sell it to you as to any one else,” returned Vandover.

  “Well, now, it’s like this, Van,” said Geary. “I know that block is worth nine thousand dollars; I won’t deceive you. But I can only give you eight thousand for it. That’s all the money I’ve got. But I’m not going to take advantage of your position to jew you down. I want the block, I’ll admit that, but I’m not going to have you sacrifice it for me, or for any one else. I think you can get nine thousand for it. I know you could if we had a little more time, and I’m not sure but what I could find a purchaser for you within the next week that would give you nine thousand.”

  “Oh, I don’t care, Charlie; I’m sick of everything; eight thousand, nine thousand, anything you like; take it at your own figure.”

  Geary began to tremble once more, and this time his excitement was so great that he hardly dared to trust himself to speak; his breath grew short, his hands in his pockets twitched nervously, and curled themselves into fists, his heart seemed to him to beat high in his throat; he hesitated long, pretending to deliberate as he steadied himself.

  Vandover remained silent, his hands still clasped back of his head, staring at the opposite wall with eyes that saw nothing. The little clock began to strike ten.

  “I don’t know, Van,” said Geary; “I don’t like to do this, and yet I would like to help you out of this muss. You see, if I should ever benefit by the property you would feel as though I had taken advantage of you at this time and worked a flim-flam on you!”

  “Oh, I’ll look out for that,” returned Vandover.

  “No, no, I don’t feel quite right about it,” answered Geary, wagging his head and shutting his eyes. “Better see what we can do at a forced sale.”

  “Why, don’t you see you would be doing me a favour?” said Vandover wearily. “I ask you to buy the block. I don’t care what your figure is!”

  Once more Geary hesitated, for the last time going over the whole deal in his mind from beginning to end, testing it, looking for weak points. It was almost perfect. Suppose the boot and shoe people did not buy the lot? He could resell it elsewhere, even below its appraised value and yet make money by the transaction; the lot was cheap at ten thousand; it might bring twelve; even as an ordinary, legitimate speculation it was to be desired at such a figure. Suppose the boot and shoe people backed out entirely, suppose even he could not find another purchaser for the property, why, then, he could hold on to it; the income from the rents was fully 10 per cent. of the price he would have paid for it.

  “Well, Van,” he said at last, making a slow, awkward gesture with his left hand, all the fingers extended, “well, I’ll take you up — but I don’t feel as though I should—” He suddenly interrupted himself with a burst of sincerity, exclaiming: “Sure, old man, if I had nine thousand I’d give it to you for the block, that’s straight goods.” He felt that he was conscientious in saying this. It was true he would have given nine thousand if he had had it. For that matter he might have given ten or twelve.

  “Can’t we settle the whole matter to-day?” said Vandover. “Right here — now. I’m sick of it, sick of everything. Let’s get it done with.”

  Geary nearly bounded from his seat. He had been wondering how he might accomplish this very thing. “All right,” he said briskly, “no reason in waiting.” He had seen to it that he should be prepared to close the sale the moment that Vandover was willing. Long ago, when he had first had the idea of buying the block, he had spent a day in the offices of the county recorder, the tax collector, and the assessor, assuring himself of the validity of the title, and only two days ago he had gone over the matter again in order to be sure that no encumbrances had been added to the block in the meanwhile. He found nothing; the title was clear.

  “Isn’t this rather rushing the thing through?” he asked. “Maybe you might regret it afterward. Don’t you want to take two or three days to think it over?”

  “No.”

  “Sure now?” persisted Geary.

  “But I’ve got to sell before three days,” answered Vandover. “Otherwise he’ll want ten thousand.”

  “That’s a fact,” admitted the other. “Well,” he went on, “if your mind’s made up, why — we can go right ahead. As I say, there’s no reason for waiting; better take up Wade while he’s in the mood for it. You see, he hasn’t signed any proposition as yet, and he might go back on us.” Vandover drew a long breath and got up slowly, heavily, from the couch, saying:

  “What’s the odds to me what I sell for? I don’t get the money.”

  “Well, what do you say if we go right down to a notary’s office and put this thing right through,” Geary suggested.

  “Come on, then.”

  “Have you got your abstract here, the abstract of the block?” Vandover nodded. “Better bring it along, then,” said Geary.

  The office of the notary adjoined those of the firm of Beale & Storey; in fact, he was in a sense an attaché of the great firm and transacted a great deal of legal business for them. Vandover and Geary fell upon him in an idle moment. A man had come to regulate
the water filter, which took the place of an ice cooler in a corner of one of the anterooms, and while he was engaged at his work the notary stood at his back, abusing him and exclaiming at the ineffectiveness of the contrivance. The notary was a middle-aged man with a swollen, purple face; he had a toothpick behind each ear and wore an office coat of gray linen, ripped at the shoulders.

  Then the transfer was made. It was all settled in less than half an hour, unceremoniously, almost hastily. For the sake of form Geary signed a check for eight thousand dollars which Vandover in his turn made over to Hiram Wade. The notary filled out a deed of grant, bargain, and sale, pasting on his certificate of acknowledgment as soon as Vandover and Geary had signed. Geary took the abstract, thrusting it into his breast-pocket. As far as Vandover was concerned, the sale was complete, but he had neither his properly nor its equivalent in money.

  “Well,” declared Geary at length, “I guess that’s all there is to be done. I’ll get a release from old man Wade and send it to you to-morrow or next day. Now, let’s go down to the Imperial and have a drink on it.” They went out, but the notary returned to the anteroom, turning the spigot of the filter to right and left, frowning at it suspiciously, refusing to be satisfied.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That particular room in the Lick House was well toward the rear of the building, on one of the upper floors, and from its window, one looked out upon a vast reach of roofs that rose little by little to meet the abrupt rise of Telegraph Hill. It was a sordid and grimy wilderness, topped with a gray maze of wires and pierced with thousands of chimney stacks. Many of the roofs were covered with tin long since blackened by rust and soot. Here and there could be seen clothes hung out to dry. Occasionally upon the flanking walls of some of the larger buildings was displayed an enormous painted sign, a violent contrast of intense black and staring white amidst the sooty brown and gray, advertising some tobacco, some newspaper, or some department store. Not far in the distance two tall smokestacks of blackened tin rose high in the air, above the roof of a steam laundry, one very large like the stack of a Cunarder, the other slender, graceful, with a funnel-shaped top. All day and all night these stacks were smoking; from the first, the larger one, rolled a heavy black smoke, very gloomy, waving with a slow and continued movement like the plume of some sullen warrior. But the other one, the tall and slender pipe, threw off a series of little white puffs, three at a time, that rose buoyant and joyous into the air like so many white doves, vanishing at last, melting away in the higher sunshine, only to be followed by another flight. They came three at a time, the pipe tossing them out with a sharp gay sound like a note of laughter interrupted by a cough.

  But the interior of the room presented the usual dreary aspect of the hotel bedroom — cheerless, lamentable.

  The walls were whitewashed and bare of pictures or ornaments, and the floor was covered with a dull red carpet. The furniture was a “set,” all the pieces having a family resemblance. On entering, one saw the bed standing against the right-hand wall, a huge double bed with the name of the hotel in the corners of its spread and pillowcases. In the exact middle of the room underneath the gas fixture was the centre-table, and upon it a pitcher of ice-water. The blank, white monotony of one side of the room was jarred upon by the grate and mantelpiece, iron, painted black, while on the mantelpiece itself stood a little porcelain matchsafe with ribbed sides in the form of a truncated cone. Precisely opposite the chimney was the bureau, flanked on one side by the door of the closet, and on the other in the corner of the room by the stationary washstand with its new cake of soap and its three clean, glossy towels. On the wall to the left of the door was the electric bell and the directions for using it, and tacked upon the door itself a card as to the hours for meals, the rules of the hotel, and the extract of the code defining the liabilities of innkeepers, all printed in bright red. Everything was clean, defiantly, aggressively clean, and there was a clean smell of new soap in the air.

  But the room was bare of any personality. Of the hundreds who had lived there, perhaps suffered and died there, not a trace, not a suggestion remained; their different characters had not left the least impress upon its air or appearance. Only a few hairpins were scattered on the bottom of one of the bureau drawers, and two forgotten medicine bottles still remained upon the top shelf of the closet.

  This had been the appearance of Vandover’s new home when he had first come to it, after leaving his suite of rooms in the huge apartment house on Sutter Street. He had lived here now for something over a year.

  It had all commenced with the seizure of his furniture by the proprietors of the apartment house. Almost before he knew it he owed for six months’ room and board; when the extras were added to this bill it swelled to nearly a thousand dollars. At first he would not believe it; it was not possible that so large a bill could accumulate without his knowledge. He declared there was a mistake, tossing back the bill to the clerk who had presented it, and shaking his head incredulously. This other became angry, offered to show the books of the house. The manager was called in and attempted to prove the clerk’s statement by figures, dates, and extracts from the entries. Vandover was confused by their noise, and grew angry in his turn; vociferating that he did not propose to be cheated, the others retorted in a rage, the interview ended in a scene.

  But in the end they gained their point; they were right, and at length Vandover was brought around to see that he was in the wrong, but he had no ready money, and while he hesitated, unwilling to part with any of his bonds or to put an additional mortgage upon the homestead, the hotel, after two warnings, suddenly seized upon his furniture. What a misery!

  In a moment of time it was all taken from him, all the lovely bric-à-brac, all the heavy pieces, all the little articles of vertu which he had bought with such intense delight and amongst which he had lived with such happiness, such contentment, such never-failing pleasure. Everything went — the Renaissance portraits, the pipe-rack, the chair in which the Old Gentleman had died, the Assyrian bas-reliefs and, worst of all, the stove, the famous tiled stove, the delightful cheery iron stove with the beautified flamboyant ornaments. For the first few months after the seizure Vandover was furious with rage and disappointment, persuaded that he could never live anywhere but in just such a room; it was as if he had been uprooted and cast away upon some barren, uncongenial soil. His new room in the hotel filled him with horror, and for a long time he used it only as a place where he could sleep and wash. For a long time even his pliable character refused to fit itself to such surroundings, refused to be content between four enormous white walls, a stuccoed ceiling, and a dark red carpet. He passed most of his time elsewhere, reading the papers at the Mechanics Library in the morning, and in the afternoon sitting about the hotel office and parlours until it was time to take his usual little four o’clock stroll on Kearney and Market streets. He had long since become a familiar figure on this promenade. Even the women and girls of Flossie’s type had ceased to be interested in this tall, thin young man with the tired, heavy eyes and blue-white face. One day, however, a curious incident did for a moment invest Vandover with a sudden dramatic interest. It was just after he had moved down to the Lick House, about a month after he had sold the block in the Mission. Vandover was standing at Lotta’s fountain at the corner of Kearney and Market streets, interested in watching a policeman and two boys reharnessing a horse after its tumble. All at once he fell over flat into the street, jostling one of the flower venders and nearly upsetting him. He struck the ground with a sodden shock, his arms doubled under him, his hat rolling away into the mud. Bewildered, he picked himself up; very few had seen him fall, but a little crowd gathered for all that. One asked if the man was drunk, and Vandover, terrified lest the policeman should call the patrol wagon, hurried off to a basement barber shop near by, where he brushed his clothes, still bewildered, confused, wondering how it had happened.

  The fearful nervous crisis which Vandover had undergone had passed off slowly. Little
by little, bit by bit, he had got himself in hand again. However, the queer numbness in his head remained, and as soon as he concentrated his attention on any certain line of thought, as soon as he had read for any length of time, especially if late at night, the numbness increased. Somewhere back of his eyes a strange blurring mist would seem to rise; he would find it impossible to keep his mind fixed upon any subject; the words of a printed page would little by little lose their meaning. At first this had been a source of infinite terror to him. He fancied it to be the symptoms of some approaching mental collapse, but, as the weeks went by and nothing unusual occurred, he became used to it, and refused to let it worry him. If it made his head feel queer to read, the remedy was easy enough — he simply would not read; and though he had been a great reader, and at one time had been used to spend many delightful afternoons lost in the pages of a novel, he now gave it all up with an easy indifference.

  But, besides all this, the attack had left him with nerves all unstrung; even his little afternoon walk on Kearney and Market streets exhausted him; any trifling and sudden noise, the closing of a door, the striking of a clock, would cause him to start from his place with a gasp and a quick catch at the heart. Toward evening this little spasm of nerves would sometimes come upon him even when there was nothing to cause it, and now he could no longer drop off to sleep without first undergoing a whole series of these recoils and starts, that would sometimes bring him violently up to a sitting posture, his breath coming short and quick, his heart galloping, startled at he knew not what.

  At first he had intended to see a doctor, but he had put off carrying his intention into effect until he had grown accustomed to the whole matter; otherwise, he was well enough, his appetite was good, and when he finally did get to sleep he would not wake up for a good eight hours.

  One evening, however, about three months after the first crisis and just as Vandover was becoming well accustomed to the condition of body and mind in which it had left him, the second attack came on. It was fearful, much worse than on the first occasion, and this time there was no room for doubt. Vandover knew that for the moment he was actually insane.