He looked thoughtfully across at Hooker’s long lean face. “It is queer, y’know, Hooker,” he began slowly, “that the three of us should have met like that, last night. Perhaps Edlin was right. I mean, that it wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I’d say it was. Careful, Darbyshire, don’t start being romantic.”
“But I was just thinking then how unscientific it was of you to suppose a thing like this is all pure chance. In the world of elements that you explore, surely you keep on finding that what was once thought to be pure chance isn’t really chance at all, that it isn’t a mere accident, for instance, when certain elements combine in a certain way to form certain compounds. Why do we assume—as most of us do assume now—that in human affairs it’s always chance that rules, that there’s nothing in our lives but accidents and coincidences?”
“Because,” replied Hooker promptly, “we don’t know enough about them to say anything else.”
“You mean, we’re mixed up in it, not standing well out of it, just trying experiments and comparing results. But I can’t help wondering whether it really was chance that I decided, at the last moment almost, to go down to Beaulieu for the tournament.”
“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have met the beautiful Andrea,” Hooker mocked, but good-humouredly. “All right, old son. You can go right on, telling me all about the lovely princess. I’ve had to go through it before, and I guess I can stand it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that part of it, you ass,” said Malcolm. “I was thinking that if I hadn’t gone there, I shouldn’t be here. And you—for all you’re so damned high-and-mighty and detached and scientific—are pulled along by the same string, for here you are. So was Edlin, just at the time we were too. How do we know that’s mere chance? Suppose we were brought here—by some power we don’t understand—to do something?”
“What?”
Malcolm looked rather confused, shy. “I know this sounds idiotic,” he confessed. “I can’t justify it, though I feel it may be true. But we might have been brought here, the three of us, to prevent something damnable happening. Honestly, Hooker, I believe there is something damnable behind all this, and Andrea MacMichael knows it, and that’s why she’s so queer and unhappy. Now then!”
He rose and looked down defiantly at his companion, who answered him with a rather sardonic but not unfriendly grin. Then the grin vanished, as Hooker rose too, and gave Malcolm a slap on the shoulder.
“You may be right, at that,” said Hooker, quite serious now. “I’ll admit this much. I don’t like those two MacMichaels I know—never did like Paul, though I admired him. Something wrong deep down. And it’s a pity about the girl. I wish she wasn’t one of ’em. And unless one of those guns goes off at a bad moment, I’m going to ask ’em what the hell they think they’re doing round here; and I’m going to stick around, old son, until I find out. So I’m with you, whether it’s chance or destiny or the ways of God or whatever you want to call it. And now, that pie seems a long way off, so let’s have another bite and then get some sleep.”
Although he was far less comfortable, Malcolm actually slept better than he had done the night before at the hotel, though when he finally wakened and found it was morning, he seemed to remember having had several long confused dreams. He told Hooker so, when they began to exchange sleepy remarks across the shack, still lying covered on their bunks.
“Don’t go in for dreaming much,” said Hooker, suddenly sitting up, “but I’ve just had a most peculiar dream. I wasn’t quite out of it, really, when you first spoke. I was in a great tower, a hell of a thing, with all kinds of people I knew drifting round in it, and I had to fetch something from the top and then get out of it—quick!—it was that kind of dream, when you’re under some mysterious compulsion—and finally I did get out—and, boy, was I in a sweat!—and then—wallop—the whole tower disappeared in a flash—as if it was a candle flame and somebody had blown it out. I tell you, that was some dream. I was still staring at the place where that tower had been when I woke up.”
They were still leisurely exchanging remarks from their bunks when Larrigan looked in, bringing them a most welcome pot of coffee.
“What’s the news this morning?” asked Hooker.
“Ain’t heard a thing yet, boys, so take it easy.”
“I’d like some hot water soon, please,” said Malcolm firmly.
“My friend likes to be all spruced up when he’s round here,” Hooker explained, with a grin.
“You bet! Long as you don’t make trouble, I’ll do what I can for yer,” said Larrigan.
“Just let her run natural, Mr. Larrigan.”
“That’s it. Well, there’s your coffee, boys, to start the day with. Fine morning—an’ everything runnin’ natural.”
“The fact is,” said Malcolm later, over their coffee, “I can’t help still liking that old scoundrel. I can’t believe he’s one of their fanatics.”
“No, I’d say he’s just on the MacMichael pay-roll. Probably he was here when they came.”
“And they turned him into a new kind of lodge-keeper. This coffee’s good, but—golly!—I feel filthy. Hope he brings some water. Did he bring our shaving kits out of the car?”
“Yep—think so, though I don’t care. Might try a beard. I’d go big with a beard at the Weinberger Tech. It’ud look well at conferences too. What about an architect with a beard? Sounds just right to me. No? I believe you think that girl’s coming running out to meet you this morning, and you’re taking no chances.”
“She may not even know we’re here.”
“May not be there herself, old son. In fact, by this time, she may be happily married to an oil man and be living at Long Beach.”
“Oh—rot! Besides, didn’t that fellow at Barstow say he’d seen her a few days ago, and she was heading this way?”
“But you don’t expect to see her?”
“I don’t know—better not talk about it.”
It must have been about an hour later when Larrigan returned, this time bringing with him a pitcher of hot water and a bucket of cold. “You’d better be right smart with these, boys,” he told them. “Let’s see, you’re Hooker, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Anybody want me?”
“Shore! Mr. MacMichael just rung through. He wants you along there. He’s sending a car up for you, in about half an hour. So better get spruced up, if you’re that way inclined.”
“What about me?” asked Malcolm, feeling clean out of it.
“You’ll stay right here. Nothin’ said about you, except by Maw, who says you’re too good-lookin’ though can’t say I noticed it myself.” And Pa Larrigan went off chuckling, though that did not prevent him from turning the key on them again.
They washed, shaved, brushed themselves. Hooker was eagerly awaiting his visit to the MacMichaels, was indeed quite excited by the prospect, but was good-natured enough to try and console Malcolm, who was obviously cast-down. Hooker assured him that he would attempt to have him released as soon as possible. He would also try to tell the girl, if he should see her, that Malcolm was there. And, for the time being, nothing more could be done. But when Larrigan returned to take Hooker away, Malcolm, left to himself and heartily sick of this miserable little hole, was very gloomy. He could see neither the gate nor the road from the little window, which told him nothing but that it was a fine morning and he was not out in it. After he heard the car go, taking Hooker away, he passed a few minutes moodily tidying up the place. After that he sat on the edge of his bunk and tried in vain to recapture the fine determinations, the sense of high destiny, of the night before; but now he was just a gloomy young man, still absurdly in love, who had allowed himself to be locked in a hut miles from anywhere, a chump and not even a free chump.
Then the door gave place to a bright oblong of sunlight, and the next moment, when he loo
ked up, this sunlight framed somebody standing there. This was not old Larrigan again. No—his heart shouted. It was Andrea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TWICE JIMMY SEES THE WHITE TOWER
As Jimmy Edlin had guessed at once, Charlie Atwood was very drunk. They discovered him in the living-room of the ranch, roaring for the Mexicans and Deeks to come back. He was a reckless-looking, battered fellow in his thirties, and he was not one of your flushed, sloppy, dribbling drunks, but that more dangerous kind which turns white-faced, glittering-eyed, and takes on an air of quiet determined lunacy. Apparently he had been attempting some elaborate balancing feat, which involved half the furniture and ornaments of the living-room and a corps of willing assistants. The result had been disastrous, but the breakages were not so serious as they had appeared to be from outside. A large china bowl and an empty bottle and a glass or two had been broken, and Charlie had cut himself; but that was all. For a moment Charlie stared at them wildly, as if he could not understand how a Mexican family, an old-timer, two dogs and cat had contrived to return in this
guise.
“Oh—Charlie!” cried little Mrs. Atwood reproachfully, “you’re drunk again.”
Being no ordinary drunk, Charlie did not attempt to deny this. “Rosalie, glad to see you. Welcome home,” he said, with a sort of desperate seriousness. “And you’re quite right. I’m bottled, stewed. In fact, very bottled, very stewed.”
“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You know you’ve promised—over and over again.”
“Over and over and over again,” he said gravely, as if correcting a careless statement. “Given my solemn word, Rosalie.”
“Yes, I know you have.”
“Not worth a damn.” He shook his head mournfully, then looked in a glassy fashion at Jimmy. “No, sir, not worth a damn. How are you?”
Rosalie, after pulling a little warning face at Jimmy, introduced them. “And now you ought to go to bed.”
He appeared to think this over. “What do you say?” he asked Jimmy.
“I think I’d call it a day, if I were you,” Jimmy replied gravely.
“Call it what day?” asked Charlie earnestly. “What day is it?” They told him, and this too gave him food for thought. “There’s a day missing,” he announced finally, and looked sternly at them both, as if he thought they had been up to some trick with the calendar. “Clean gone. How long have I been here?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. You weren’t here when I went away. I can ask Deeks when you came, if you like.”
“Deeks? He wouldn’t know. He’s too old. Deeks—Deeks—old Deeks,” he stammered, “why he’s older than anybody. God’s truth—he’s a kind of mummy. If anybody has to be blamed—besides me, of course—for all this, I’d blame Deeks. Too damned ancient.” He looked at Jimmy. “Would you like to see me go clean round this room without ever touching the floor?”
“No, Charlie, please, not again.”
“Rosalie, allow this gentleman—your friend—to answer. Now would you? I go round the walls, see?”
“I’ll tell you, old man,” replied Jimmy, who had met these fellows before and knew how to deal with them. “I’d like to see you do that—it’s a dandy trick—but to-morrow, to-morrow.”
“Why to-morrow?” asked Charlie suspiciously.
“Because I’m tired—I’ve had a long day—and I’d enjoy it a lot better to-morrow.”
“Surely, surely.” Charlie nodded approvingly, then turned to his sister-in-law. “A nice fellow. Very nice fellow. Treat him right, Rosalie——”
“Now Charlie, don’t be silly,” cried Mrs. Atwood, somewhat confused. She was now trying to put the room to rights. “Mr. Edlin’s only a friend—a new friend—we have—we have some business to do together.”
Charlie, a man of sentiment, ignored this nonsense, and now turned to Jimmy. “You know how to pick ’em. Trust Rosalie. She’s a peach. I don’t know how to pick ’em. That’s been my trouble. Isn’t that so, Rosalie?”
“I must say, you haven’t been very lucky, Charlie.”
“Lucky? Did ever a fellow have such an eye for chromium-plated pieces as I’ve had? They’ve taken the very laces out of my shoes before now. All the same—studio extras, hospital nurses—I’ve had plenty of them because I’ve been busted so often—and fortune tellers, Gipsy Tea Room bits with ear-rings as big as your fist—and that manicure girl with a cork leg——”
“Now, Charlie, behave yourself,” cried Rosalie anxiously, though she could not help adding: “I don’t believe she had a cork leg either. You were drunk that time, I do believe.”
“Not me. She was drunk. Didn’t she stick a fork in it?”
“That’s what you say.”
“I saw her. Did it just to make me mad. Up to all kinds of tricks—all of ’em. Things you’d never dream of. Look at that one who ate nothing but nuts and oranges, down at Malibu. There was something to look at. Eyes like lamps, and black hair that came down to her knees——”
“Stuffy!” cried Rosalie, in a disgusted tone.
“And she’d slip that fancy robe off—you could never stop her—and there she was, a Venus——”
“That’ll do, Charlie, we don’t want to hear about these awful women——”
“Just what I’m saying. Crazy as coots or tough as hell, once they started to work on you. I just couldn’t pick ’em.”
“I must be thinking about supper,” Rosalie murmured.
“Did you bring back anything to drink?” asked Charlie, with the finely assumed casual air of a man who had not had a drink for some time and rather fancied one. “That’s the point.”
“No, I didn’t. And I’ll bet you’ve finished up everything here, haven’t you?”
“There isn’t anything left, Rosalie. You’ll have to watch Deeks and that Mexican. I’ve told you before.”
“Deeks! What have you had to eat to-day? Do you want any supper?”
Charlie shook his head, and gave himself the appearance of a disdainful ascetic. “Couldn’t face it. All the same, women, even Rosalie, Mr. Whosit. Always want to pack food into you—great lumps of greasy food—soup—stews—hash—ugh!”
“Then you can stay and watch us eat,” said Rosalie briskly. Artfully too, because she knew her man and realised that by this time he would do anything but what was suggested to him. “Then we can have a nice long talk.”
“That’s another thing,” said Charlie mournfully, out of his deep despair of the sex. “That nice long talk business. Always want a nice long talk. About what? About nothing. They’ve said it all and yet they want to go on saying it. No, sir, not for Charlie. I’ll go to bed. Yes,” he added sternly, looking from one to the other of them, as if defying them to stop him, “to bed.” And off he went, there and then, and must have fallen asleep immediately for they saw and heard no more of him that night.
“There isn’t a bit of real harm in poor Charlie,” Mrs. Atwood explained, an hour or two afterwards, when she had completely restored order, brought back the Mexicans, shown Jimmy his room, and was now setting before him an excellent supper. “He really can’t help it. I’ve done everything I could for him, but there isn’t much I can do, beyond keeping him here now and then to build him up a bit. You see, he went into the War when he was only a boy, and became a pilot. Then afterwards there wasn’t anything much for him to do—and he was very wild—so he came out here to Hollywood and became a stunt man—you know, he jumped out of airplanes and drove cars just in front of locomotives and rolled over precipices and all that—oh!—you wouldn’t believe the things he did for them—and he’s had his arms and legs broken I don’t know how many times. And, of course, he always spent every cent he made, helped by all those awful women you heard him talk about—and then when the talkies came along, they didn’t want so many stunt men—they hardly
use any now, Charlie says—and of course he’s tried other things—he was with a sort of flying circus one time—but he can’t settle to anything, and gets terribly discouraged—poor Charlie!—and so he drinks. He must have excitement, you see. An ordinary life’s no good to him at all.”
“I can see that,” said Jimmy, who now realised that he had been foolish to feel even vaguely jealous of the wild brother-in-law. “But where does this airplane come in?”
“Oh—that! Well, it’s a terrible old thing really, and Charlie had it given him years ago by a man he was working with. And Charlie, who’s clever with things like that, has kept it—through thick and thin, you might say—because now and then he makes a few dollars out of it, doing stunts with it or taking people up—he’s often asked me but I won’t go up in the awful old thing—I’m sure it’s falling to pieces. Charlie says he’s fixed it so that it doesn’t take much gasoline—he couldn’t afford to run it if it did——and he comes out here in it—and wanders round. Poor Charlie! I hope you didn’t mind him, Mr. Edlin?”
“Jimmy,” he corrected her.
“All right then—Jimmy? You didn’t mind him being like that, did you?”
“Not me. I’ve seen plenty of ’em. Matter of fact, I rather took to him. And—I’ve been wondering, Mrs. Atwood—Rosalie, I mean. Most certainly I mean Rosalie.”
“Go on.”
“You and I will have to do some talking about this Brotherhood business, won’t we?”
“Yes, and that reminds me—Jimmy. I want you to tell me all about it, right from the beginning, because I’m still muddled.”
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