“Charley, what brought about this sudden conclusion that anybody’s spying?”
“Instinct. I trust my instinct, which never fails. The present situation, fishy enough to start with, gets fishier and fishier as it goes along.”
“Shades of Dion Boucicault! If you must turn the whole business to melodrama, all right; I like melodrama. And yet you haven’t fully committed yourself on the most vexed question of all. Is there, or isn’t there, some conspiracy against Clay Blake?”
“I think there is. I thought so even before you got here tonight. That’s what whetted my curiosity.”
“But you said…!”
“All I said was that, if evilly disposed people have it in for our esteemed Clay, they can’t use Yvonne Brissard against him. They’ve got to have a hell of a lot more and a hell of a lot worse. I can’t say what it is or who’s behind it. And yet…
“Now get this. Less than ten days ago I was in New Orleans. I talked to the boys at the Sentinel; I dropped in at City Hall; I kept my ears open all over the place. And I came to certain conclusions.”
Charley pushed aside his coffee-cup and picked up the stogy, setting both elbows on the table.
“Never mind proof; forget proof. Any newspaperman worth his salt doesn’t make a whole string of deductions like Sherlock Holmes. He can smell something impending, as plain as the smell of sour beer in an Irishtown saloon. And you know it as well as I do.
“All right! In New Orleans, wherever I went, the one topic of conversation seemed to be Clay Blake and his fair Creole. Had the notorious Yvonne found true love at last, or was it only another interval pour passer le temps? What about Clay himself? Might he go the whole hog and ask her to marry him? If he did, ladies and gentlemen, what would be your verdict then?
“No, Jim; there’s no proof of anything, unless you can supply it before somebody stops you. Let’s you and I just look at the situation objectively, and see what we feel.
“Clay Blake and the two Lairds, father and son, all live in the Garden District, the best residential area in town. Along the shore of Bayou St. John, which in one sense may be considered outside town…”
“Charley, what’s the topography got to do with this?”
“Hearken and perpend. I told you, remember, that another branch of the Laird family must figure in any account of Clay Blake?”
“Yes, Young Alec’s cousin, Peter Laird, and a dowager you called Madam Ironface.”
“Don’t call her that to her face, for the love of God, unless you want even more trouble than you’re in already. I will now explain a seeming irrelevance.
“Old Alec Laird had a younger brother, Sam, since deceased. In one of the mansions beside Bayou St. John…”
“Is Bayou St. John near the Garden District?”
“No; it’s very far from the Garden District in another direction, towards Lake Pontchartrain. Will you shut up and listen?”
“Sorry; go ahead.”
“In one of the mansions beside Bayou St. John,” Charley continued, “lived for many years the aristocratic Creole family of de Jarnac. The last male head of the family, Guy de Jarnac, died without spouse or issue in 1907. A picturesque figure, old Guy, who has left several legends. He was mad on automobiles, for one thing; behind the Villa de Jarnac he built a miniature racetrack which is kept in some kind of order to this day.
“Now roistering Guy de Jarnac had a younger sister, Mathilde, who idolized him. In the early eighteen-eighties, Mathilde de Jarnac married Sam Laird, old Alec’s brother. As a wedding present to Sam and his bride, old Alec bought ’em another fine house near Bayou St. John, but on the opposite side of the road from the Villa de Jarnac, and a little closer to town.
“Sam and Mathilde Laird had one son, Peter, who’s just under thirty now. Though it’s said Mathilde de Jarnac Laird was gay and attractive in her youth, she’s developed into a very formidable old dame. Nobody can remember when she came to be christened Madam Ironface, or by whom. It must have been one of the Lairds, who are so damned Anglo-Saxon they won’t even Gallicize ‘madam’ by sticking an e on the end of it.
“Anyway! You can get some idea of Madam Ironface from the way she’s brought up her only child.
“She’s been a very indulgent mother, after her fashion. She’s given Pete Laird everything he’s wanted except the thing he’s really wanted, and let him do anything at his will except whatever has been his will. ‘The boy mustn’t get hurt, the boy mustn’t get hurt!’ Even today, for the same reason, she won’t let him drive a car of his own. Oh, no! He must have a chauffeur, the sort that used to be called a chauffeur-engineer and was preferably French, to take him everywhere. Raoul, his personal chauffeur, has been with the family for some time. At the beginning of this year she bought Pete a brand-new Cadillac, with the self-starting device a child could operate. Raoul still does the driving.
“In short, she’s almost mothered Pete to death.
“Not that Pete Laird is or ever has been a mama’s boy; far from it! He’d have won his letter at football if the old lady had allowed him to play football. He’s got an eye for the women. He’s not bookish, as the other male Lairds have been bookish and as Clay Blake is, too. Pete’s hero is your friend Leo Shepley, the great football star of 1900. Any comment, Jim?”
Jim reflected.
“It’s of interest as human nature,” he said, “though hardly a very unusual family situation. And I don’t see what any of it has to do with Clay Blake.”
“You will in a moment, mon vieux. Guy de Jarnac, as already stated, died in 1907. Mathilde de Jarnac Laird, his sole surviving relative, inherited everything, including the Villa de Jarnac. She still occupied her own house over the road, Sam Laird having kicked the bucket a couple of years before Guy; but in honor of her brother she cherished the Villa de Jarnac with particular passion. Nobody must live in it, at least while she lived. It should stand forever empty, swept and garnished, a shrine to his memory.”
Charley spread out his hands.
“End of March, this year! Spring in the air and in the blood. Yvonne Brissard arrived in New Orleans and put up at that connoisseurs’ paradise, the Grunewald Hotel.
“Yvonne didn’t stay long at the hotel. She let it be known she wanted a place of her own. Though not ‘received,’ again as already stated, she called on Mathilde Laird. And by some means (I can’t tell you how), this more than considerable trollop persuaded Madam Ironface to rent her the Villa de Jarnac.”
“Yvonne is still there, is she?”
“She’s there in all her glory. And with Clay Blake as much on the premises as though he’d rented ’em himself.”
“Are you acquainted with Mathilde Laird, Charley?”
“I’ve never met her socially, meaning she’d never have condescended to meet me. But we have our spies everywhere. Ask anything you like.”
“What’s her opinion of our candidate for Congress?”
“She’s very fond of Clay. Another of her prime favorites, believe it or not, is the hell-roaring Leo Shepley. The pressures are piling up, aren’t they? Can’t you sense thunder in the air?”
“What particular thunder, for instance? There are inconsistencies, yes. But a little thought should provide an explanation for everything.”
“It’ll explain everything, will it?” Charley exploded. “Will it explain how old Madam Ironface, a worse puritan moralist than Alec Laird, made up her mind to encourage flaming passion practically where she could see the blaze? Will it explain a persistent rumor that the Villa de Jarnac is haunted? Will it explain why Clay Blake and Peter Laird almost came to blows in public, and had to be dragged apart by main force?”
“What?”
“I’m telling you. I’m also telling you,” said Charley, abruptly dragging out his watch, “we’re much later than I’d thought; it’s getting on towards nine o’clock. Come on back up to my hangout, and I’ll underline a few points before you have to catch your train. Mike, Mike, where the hell is that bill?”
“This is on me, Charley. You be quiet for a change.”
Five minutes later, they were again in the living-room of the ex-reporter’s apartment. The toy train circled its track; Charley fumed and paced the floor, smoking incessantly.
“There’s that big house amid the live-oaks,” he said, “with the covered way that still leads to the racetrack. These tales about a haunting aren’t too impressive. I can’t see the ghost of Guy de Jarnac roaring around the track in a spectral motor-car, or lurking in the hall to pinch some housemaid’s behind. But the place is lonely and ghostly enough, and there’s sufficient emotion among our cast of characters to blow any given roof off.”
“What about the near-fight between Clay Blake and Peter Laird?”
“It happened one night towards the middle of April, in the famous ‘Cave’ at the Grunewald Hotel. Clay was there…”
“In attendance on Mademoiselle Brissard?”
“He’s never seen with her in public, didn’t I say? On this occasion, apart from Pete Laird himself, not one of the other principals was present.
“Nobody knows what caused the trouble. To all appearances they were just having a sociable drink. But their voices went lower and lower as the atmosphere grew more heated, until Clay said, ‘Why, you presumptuous—’ Pete had just started to go for him, leading with a left, when all of a sudden Raoul, Pete’s personal chauffeur, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him. Then some strangers intervened for everybody’s good.”
“New Orleans, Charley, has at least the reputation for something else. It didn’t get anywhere near a duel challenge, did it?”
“It didn’t; it couldn’t have. The last encounter under the Dueling Oaks, City Park, took place in 1889. Somebody sent a challenge as recently as four years ago, but the challenge wasn’t accepted. No, Jim. The duello’s as dead as Bernard de Marigny; the War between the States has been over for nearly fifty years. Whatever started the row between Clay and young Pete…”
“Could young Pete have his eye on Yvonne Brissard, too?”
“He could, I suppose, as anybody could. But it’s never been suggested; and, anyway, his mother would have cut him off with a throw to first base. Anyone else you’re interested in?”
“I could bear to hear a little something on everybody. For instance, what can you tell me about an influential politician named Raymond P. Chadwick, other than the fact that both he and Clay Blake are lawyers?”
“They’ve got a different approach, for one thing. Clay handles a lot of criminal cases and seems to like addressing juries. Happy Chadwick’s the kind of lawyer who calls a backroom conference and settles out of court. He won’t actually cheat anybody, but he’ll get both your collar-buttons unless you’re very careful. You see…”
For over an hour Charley continued to smoke and pace the floor, freely discussing all the persons he had mentioned but adding little more to Jim’s knowledge. At length he stopped himself, stopped the toy train, and consulted his watch.
“I can’t speak for you, my lad. Myself, I’m one of the people who like to be at stations well before train time.”
“So am I. What about transportation?”
“There aren’t many cabs in this area at night. Never mind. A friend of mine does part-time work in that way of business; Walt’s usually on tap when I need him. Just a moment!”
Charley disappeared into the little hallway, and could be heard speaking in a conspiratorial voice to the telephone.
“That was Walt Winkelhorst,” he explained, rubbing his hands together as he returned. “Be here in less man five minutes, Walt says. Now, Jim, since you enjoy playing detective…”
“I think I might have enjoyed playing detective, if I’d ever had the chance to do it.”
“Well, you’ve got the chance now. See what you can discover about a conspiracy. First see Clay Blake himself, without letting on you think there’s dirty work. You can reach him at his office or at home (he’s in the phone book), and he’ll make no difficulty about meeting you. If you need help or advice, go to the Sentinel.”
“That’s what Colonel Harvey said. He gave me a card to the managing editor.”
“The managing editor is Bart Perkins, who’ll do. So will Harry Furnival on the city desk. The man you give the card to is Alec Laird; you’ll find him in the owner’s office on the top floor. In the meantime…”
Charley darted to one of the two windows overlooking East Capitol Street, and peered down with a hand shading his eyes.
“I don’t see anybody lurking there,” he reported after a pause. “Whoever’s been spying on you…”
“Will you get it through your head, Charley, that there’s no such person?”
“If that’s what you think, rash adventurer, it won’t be many hours before you learn your mistake. Get set for a shock when the thing blows up in your face. In the meantime, I say, just keep your eyes peeled and look a leedle oudt. That’s not asking too much, is it?”
“No, but…”
“Walt Winkelhorst will be here any minute; he’s only just up the road. You won’t travel in style or grandeur, but he’ll get you there. Don’t let him soak you more than fifty cents, and…there!” Charley started. “You hear, Jim? That’s the noise of the car now…it’s pulling up…and there’s Walt honking his horn. Goodbye, remember what I’ve counseled, and give my regards to the gang!”
The night had gone very still when Jim left the Congressional Apartments; not a breath of wind now stirred.
The car, a battered Stoddard Dayton tourer of several years back, faced west behind the soft glow of acetylene lamps. Walt Winkelhorst himself, youngish and fat and surly, had switched off its engine. Since this model had no windshield, Mr. Winkelhorst wore cap and goggles, though he lacked the long dust-coat motorists still needed in open country.
This model had no doors either: only apertures. Jim climbed into the back. Crank in hand, the driver descended from his perch, set the engine thumping, and mounted to his perch again. Away they went, bearing to the right, through a darkness only spangled with street-lights.
It was much the same course as that by which Jim had been driven from the station: genteel boarding houses on the edge of near-slums. But you breathed a good deal of dust in this car; you couldn’t see too clearly either. Streets all but deserted, hardly another vehicle moving in either direction.
Except…
Jim sat back, not sure whether to be amused or irritated by Charley Emerson’s fit of nerves. Reading ominous meanings into the behavior of some casual tramp! Spies, prowlers, God knew what! Whereas, of course…
They were within sight of Union Station, a pale shimmer beyond the immense sweep of its approach, when the driver spoke.
“Lookit!” he said suddenly. “If you’re the famous Mr. Jim Blake…?”
“My name is Blake. I’m not the famous anybody.”
“Well, Charley Emerson said you was. All right; don’t make no difference! Whoever you are, ain’t nobody got it in fer you, have they?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“I can’t be dead sure; some people just don’t like to pass. But I think somebody’s a-follerin’ us. Look at them headlamps back there!”
Jim had already seen the car in their wake, only a black shape beyond the twin beams of its lamps. The glowing circles hung there, about thirty feet away; they neither grew nor diminished. Jim touched the driver’s arm.
“Try speeding up a little and then slowing down,” he suggested. “See if the fellow behind us does the same.”
“I just done that, a little ways back. He done it, too. And don’t tell me to shake him off, neither! That there’s a new Thomas Flyer, and she’s a beaut!”
“I won’t tell you to shake him off. But there’s something else you might do.”
“What is it?”
“The station arcade seems clear of cars or carriages. He may not follow us there, or at least follow so closely, in which case he’s an innocent motorist and it’s o
nly accident. Here’s what you do if he’s not so innocent. Try a burst of speed now. As we go in under the arcade, just before you swing left to let me off at the entrance, jam on your brake and pull up.”
“That might not be so bright, might it? What if he smacks into me?”
“He won’t smack into you. If he does and there’s any damage, you may hold me responsible.” Jim leaned forward and pushed a ten-dollar bill into the breast pocket of his companion’s coat. “There’s some slight earnest that I mean what I say. After all, tramps don’t ride in a Thomas Flyer.”
“Howzzat?”
“Never mind. Will you do it?”
“Oh, I’ll do it! I’m just crazy enough to do it, I reckon. But what you up to, Mr. Blake? What you tryin’ to prove?”
“I want to know what this is all about,” Jim said. “The only way to learn is to stand and face it.”
A small wrath burned deep inside him. He had scoffed at Charley’s suggestion of carrying a gun; he still scoffed at it. If Charley Emerson at sixty had not hesitated to charge unarmed against the enemy, he himself wouldn’t be backward either.
Walt had instantly put on speed. The old Stoddard Dayton bucketed across the approach to the station, past scattered vehicles and over a pattern of streetcar tracks, under lights moon-wan. The Thomas leaped in pursuit, a reflected gleam on its high windshield.
Up loomed the station’s white façade and arches. Jim rose to his feet and braced himself by gripping the top of the front seat. They swept in under the arcade; he just kept his balance as the car clanked, shivered, and stopped dead. Jim jumped out and down on the left-hand side, wheeling to face an oncoming pursuer.
The Thomas did not run him down; it did not even pursue further. Without slackening speed it swerved widely, made a full turn, and roared away in the direction of distant Pennsylvania Avenue. He had only a brief glimpse of the five-seater’s two occupants: its hunched-over driver and another man in the back. Then he looked for the D.C. number-plate. The car had no number-plate.
Heat had crawled up under Jim’s collar; he could feel the beating of his own heart. But a certain satisfaction warmed him, too. You stood to meet the enemy, and the enemy turned tail.
The Ghosts' High Noon Page 4