The Man Who Died Twice

by The Man Who Died Twice (retail) (epub)

  Mike Fabyan had been born and brought up in New Bedford, where he had done the usual things a small boy does—and this meant, for the lucky ones in New Bedford, sailing small boats. In addition he had an uncle who owned an interest in a fishing trawler, which gave Mike not only a chance to know the sea but also the opportunity to make money during vacations. With the money he earned plus a football scholarship from a southern college he was able to get a degree, though he was still a none-too-successful salesman two years later when the war broke out. In view of his experience and feeling for the sea it was natural enough for him to go into the Navy under its officer-training plan, and later, when he had his first stripe, he was assigned to a destroyer escort; it was in these, and in destroyers, that he saw the war in the Pacific.

  “I got shot up a bit and was invalided out about the time the Japs gave up. I had some dough and I came down here to get healthy again and soak up some sunshine. I moved around from island to island and when I found this sloop I could buy cheap I decided to give it a whirl while I had a few bucks still left. I got one hand to help and found I was in business.”

  He went forward to see how things were going. When he came back he went on as though there had been no interruption.

  “Two years later I bought this job. That was in ’48. Put the engine in in ’49. I’ve got another schooner about this size building but I had a bit of hard luck when a fool captain I had put the sloop on a reef off Mustique a few months back. We saved her but she’s still on the beach getting patched up.”

  “You like it here,” Ward said. “You figure on sticking around?”

  “That’s how I see it. Give me another sound boat and I’ll handle the business end from the shore except when I want a change. Help is cheap. You don’t get rich but it don’t cost much to live. I got a hillside spot picked out in St. Vincent a couple of miles from Kingstown because I like the island and the people. You can raise about every vegetable you can raise at home and a lot of others you can’t. A fine year-around climate and no coal bills or bomb shelters. Let somebody else worry about those high income taxes and the atom. I had a look at a Baku-bomb close up off Okinawa and that’ll do me for a while. Until the Commies start landing in Canada or Mexico I’ll be in St. Vincent.”

  Ward had been watching the other as he talked and it came to him now that the resentment he had once felt existed no longer. He wondered about this, deciding he had been motivated by jealousy, not just because of Alma but because Fabyan was altogether too handsome. He was cocky, assured, well co-ordinated. He moved with a swagger but, Ward had to admit, he had the build for it. Here in the shade of the canvas, with just enough perspiration on his dark skin to give his nakedness a sheen, his fiat-muscled torso looked rugged, healthy, and beautifully proportioned.

  “With Judith?”

  Fabyan was watching the activity along the wharf. Now he turned his head to examine Ward, his gaze sardonic. He let one brow come up and his mustache twisted.

  “Could be, pal,” he said without rancor. “Could be.”

  Ward decided to keep prodding. “How do you stand, now that Johnny’s dead?”

  “You should know. You’re one of the big winners under the will, aren’t you?”

  “Would Johnny have taken you over next week on that mortgage?”

  “He could have closed me down or forced a sale I guess.” He thought a moment. “Now I have an idea the executors’ll give me an extension. Why the hell not? It’s a good loan; the assets are all here.”

  His glance moved shoreward, stopped. He waved carelessly. “Here’s a friend of yours,” he said. “Hi, Mel,” he called.

  Melvin Tenney returned the greeting from the dock. He put one foot on the curbing and one hand on his knee. “They told me at the house I might find you here,” he said to Ward. “Thought you might join me in a drink when you’ve finished.”

  Ward said he had finished. He thanked Fabyan for showing him around and said it looked like a nice set-up.…

  The place Tenney took Ward was on the second floor over a market, a spacious, airy room with a long bar, some tables spread along the front and side by the windows, and a dining-room at the rear. There were a half dozen men at the bar and tea was being served at some of the tables. Tenney found one overlooking Broad Street and put his hat on the window sill.

  “A whisky soda,” he said to the waiter, and Ward said to make it two.

  “I thought we might have a chat.” Tenney wiped the sides of his head where the blond hair clung wetly to his skin. He shot his cuffs and placed his forearms on the table, effectively hiding the frayed places on his jacket.

  Ward offered no help. He leaned back, waiting, a half smile on his face as he looked for some clue in the other’s pale bespectacled eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Tenney said finally. “About that chap I knew in London.”

  Ward was a little slow, or perhaps his mind wasn’t working as it should have been.

  “What chap?”

  “The one I knew in the hospital. I believe I mentioned it the other night when we met.”

  Ward remembered. He remembered how he had felt as Tenney rattled on at their introduction. He felt the same way now and there was nothing to do but sit still while the emptiness began to spread inside him. Somehow he knew exactly what was coming so that the only thing missing was the specific words. He waited for them.

  “This may prove embarrassing,” Tenney said finally, “but I thought I should mention it. This chap had been banged up a bit in Germany. Had the next bed to mine but one and we did a bit of talking. Same name as yours: MacQuade. Jim MacQuade. Oddly enough he lived in New York and he had an uncle in Barbados named John MacQuade.”

  He no longer looked at Ward. He took his glasses off and began to polish them with care.

  “It’s asking too much of coincidence to assume there could be two Jim MacQuade with uncles in Barbados. Uncles named John MacQuade, that is.”

  “What you’re trying to get at,” Ward said, “is that you think I’m a phony.”

  Tenney leaned back to let the waiter put down the drinks. He waited until they were alone again.

  “I’ve been trying to find some other possible explanation.” He raised his glass a few inches and said: “Chin-chin.” He drank and licked his lips and put his glass down gently.

  “I find myself in a rather difficult spot,” he said. “To go back a bit I left England three years ago and I shan’t be going back. There was a bit of trouble, a mix-up about some funds. A misunderstanding actually, but awkward. The family thought it best for me to take a holiday—a long one. They subsidized a trip to Canada and advanced me some capital in case I found some business I might like to try.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I didn’t find any business that appealed to me. I didn’t particularly like Canada either and it was more expensive than I had imagined. When a friend told me about Barbados I decided to have a go at it and I’m glad I did. I like it here. One can live very reasonably, and while I’m not exactly rolling I can earn enough to get by. I hope to do better in the future.”

  “So much for the prologue,” Ward said dryly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Ward tried to think logically. His first impulse was to tell Tenney that unfortunately someone else knew that he, Ward, was an impostor. He wanted to jar the thin, blond man, to tell him to go to hell and walk out on him. That he did not do so was due to Kate Royce’s warning suggestion. He still did not know whether she was right in her advice or not, but it seemed now that the best thing to do was to string Tenney along and see what he had to offer.

  “Let’s get down to cases,” he said. “You think I’m an impostor.”

  “I know you are.” Tenney sipped his drink. “I don’t know where Jim MacQuade is, or even if he is alive, but it occurs to me that the only possible reason you could have for coming down here would be to collect Jim’s inheritance. For all I know you could have killed Johnny to make sure you did collect.�
�� He gestured with the glass. “A word from me would spoil all that.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I—I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s most distressing actually. I never would have imagined I could hold my personal sense of honor and integrity so cheaply. If I was sure that I could marry Alma I would of course expose you.”

  “Naturally,” Ward said. “Because, through her, you would cash in nicely.”

  Tenney flushed and glanced away. He said: “Unfortunately I don’t know that she would have me. I do feel that my knowledge is worth something.”

  Ward kept crowding. There was no anger in him but he had trouble keeping the disdain from his voice.

  “How much would you say it was worth?”

  Tenney sighed. “If you are to receive half of the estate I think I should share in some small way.”

  “When I get it?”

  “Oh, naturally.”

  “What about now?”

  “I was hoping you might consider a token payment. As evidence of good faith. I hadn’t really made up my mind, you see. That’s why I wanted to have this chat with you.” He finished his drink and put the glass aside. “I thought if you could manage a hundred pounds now—”

  “I haven’t got that much.”

  “Perhaps you could write a check, or get an advance.”

  “I don’t know.” Ward eyed him morosely. “When would you have to have it?”

  “The banks are closed.” Tenney thought it over. “Say tomorrow morning.”

  Ward said he’d see what he could do and Tenney looked relieved. He wiped his face again and Ward signaled the waiter. He paid the check and pushed back his chair. He wanted mostly to get out but even as he stood up a new thought came to him.

  “You’re lucky,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lucky that Johnny’s dead. With him alive that information wouldn’t be worth quite so much.”

  Tenney was reaching for his hat. Now he looked at Ward and blinked. “I see what you mean.” He nodded absently. “You might even say it’s fortunate for both of us.”

  He put on his hat and there was no longer any embarrassment or uncertainty in his voice or manner when he said he appreciated Ward’s attitude and his generosity.

  14

  DUNCAN WARD noticed the boy on the bicycle as he crossed the court after having put the Vauxhall in the garage. The boy came pedaling up the drive, a lanky youth in tan ducks and tan helmet, and Ward waited at the entrance to see what he wanted.

  “A cable, sir,” the boy said. “For Mr. Leonard Osborne.”

  Ward said Osborne should be around somewhere but that he would sign and deliver the envelope if that was all right. The boy said it was and Ward gave him a coin. Then, entering the cool half-light of the drawing-room, he saw someone on the veranda so he walked on through to find Alma and Kate Royce sipping sherry while Osborne worked on a highball.

  They said hello and what would he like. He gave the cable to Osborne and said a boy had just brought it. He said he might have a long drink and proceeded to fix a whisky and soda with plenty of ice. He was about to take his first swallow when he heard the explosion of sound come from Osborne, not a word or expression but a breathy turbulence that was more an exhalation than a gasp.

  He turned to find Osborne staring wide-eyed at the message, his mouth still open and his face almost pale with shock. The flimsy sheet trembled violently in his hands and when he looked up his dark eyes were still wide with disbelief.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said in awed tones. “I’m afraid to believe it.”

  “You could be a little more polite,” Kate said dryly.

  Alma leaned forward in her interest, her lips wine-red and the shadows beneath her eyes making them more lovely than ever—at least to Ward.

  “Don’t believe what, Len?” she asked.

  “Oil.”

  “Oil?” Kate scowled at him. “What’re you talking about?”

  Osborne swallowed. His eyes looked off into the distance and for a second or two longer he did not seem to be aware of them. Finally he managed to bring his attention to the message and began to read.

  “Caldwell number 1 in at 3550. Estimate 200 barrels daily flowing.” He dropped his hand holding the message and looked about from one to another. Finally he began to grin, a sudden excitement in his voice. “I’m in for a sixteenth,” he said.

  Kate cleared her throat. She wore a black lace dress with long sleeves, suitably formal and contrasting nicely with her white hair. She put her sherry aside and reached for a cigarette.

  “You’re talking gibberish, Len,” she said. “Why not take your time and tell us exactly what you mean?”

  Osborne stuffed the cable in his pocket and stood up to make another drink. “There was a fellow here last Fall,” he said. “Sort of geologist for the Tri-State Company when they were doing that exploratory work to find out if they’d eventually start drilling here. A little sunburned guy named Slade.”

  “I remember him,” Alma said. “I met him at Morgan’s.”

  “He told me he was thinking of going on his own,” Osborne said. “He wanted to look over some leases in Texas. He said if he found anything that looked good he’d let me know. Well, three weeks or so ago he unexpectedly phoned me from Trinidad. He said his outfit was putting down three wells in Texas and that if I wanted to come in with them I could have a sixteenth interest for the equivalent of seventy-five hundred dollars. They had already started drilling but he’d fly over here the next day on his way to Texas if I could raise the cash.”

  “Seventy-five hundred,” Kate said. “Dollars? Don’t tell me Johnny gave it to you?”

  “Gave it to me?” Osborne looked at her. “Are you crazy? Of course he didn’t give it to me. When I asked him he said no, just like he always did when I wanted money. But this time I argued. I reminded him that he had promised to leave me five thousand pounds and I asked why he couldn’t let me have the money as an advance. He was still in bed with the stroke and I think he was scared. That may have influenced him because he listened, and finally gave in. He said if I’d make out a note he’d let me have the cash.”

  He glanced at Ward. “You’ll probably find the note when you go over his things,” he said. “He wouldn’t give me dollars; said he wanted them. But he gave me pounds enough to cover the seventy-five hundred at the current rate of exchange. It was a little illegal,” he said with mild embarrassment. “My part with Slade, I mean. You see, Johnny always kept quite a lot of cash in the safe and he was able to trade in foreign currency through his New York agents. How much did he generally keep on hand, Alma?”

  “Before the stroke he had ten thousand in dollars, the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in Swiss francs, the same in pounds.”

  “Well, he gave me the pounds. Something under twenty-seven hundred as I recall. Of course Slade was supposed to declare his money when he left but if he had they wouldn’t have let him take it out, so he didn’t declare it. He said he could sell the pounds for dollars in the States, but”—he grinned crookedly—“I’d just as soon that part didn’t get around.”

  “I should think so,” Kate said shortly.

  “Anyway,” Osborne continued, taking no offense, “they put one well down to 2,700 feet and it was dry, and this is the second. I got word on Monday that they would drill to the Caddo—I guess that’s some sort of reef formation—and prospects looked favorable. But this—” He broke off and then turned to Ward, the excitement still working on him. “Come on up to my room,” he said. “I’ll show you the agreements.”

  Ward tried to duck it. He wanted to talk to Kate—now. And yet how could he with Alma sitting there? He stalled, he said he ought to take a shower.

  “All right,” Osborne said. “Take it and then come in. I want to check the acreage figures anyway.”

  “I think it’s wonderful, Len,” Alma said. “I’m almost as excited as you are. And will there be other wells?”
>
  “There should be,” he said. “The way I understand it, when you get a producer on your lease you put other wells down near the first one. Slade told me if we could hit just one out of the three we should get a minimum of five to ten producers on the same lease.… Come on,” he said, taking Ward by the arm, “I can’t sit still any longer.”

  Osborne was pacing back and forth across his room when Ward came in after showering and changing. His dark good-looking face was shiny with moisture, his hair was tousled, and the excitement was still working on him as he offered Ward a chair by the window and then stepped over to pick some papers from his desk.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For the emotional display. For acting like a kid. The fact is I can’t help it.”

  Ward said he did not blame him. He said he’d hate to think what would happen to him if he had an interest in an oil well. Then he was looking at the agreement Osborne handed him, which was dated March first and proclaimed that the company of Marbury and Slade had leases on three parcels of acreage in certain counties of Texas, that the said company agreed to put down three wells to certain formations and depths unless oil or gas was discovered in paying quantities above such depths or unless igneous or other impenetrable matter was encountered.

  The first paragraph referring to a prospective operation guaranteed to go to the Flippin Lime and Osborne said that was the dry one. The one mentioned in the cable as being a producer was to have been drilled to the Caddo Lime as Osborne had said.

  “Isn’t there some commission in Texas that limits the amount of oil you can take out?” Ward asked.

  “Sure. It tells about that on that mimeographed prospectus. I think we’re permitted a discovery allowable—I guess that means until the wells are paid for—and then so much a day. But that doesn’t matter because the less you pump the longer the well will last. I think we’re allowed forty barrels a day on the one that came in.”