Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Sherry made a bad break then. He approached Consuelo and laid a hand on her shoulder, meaning well enough; he intended to show her there was at least one friend near at hand. But he might as well have tried to stroke a bull in the arena.

  “You’re one of them!” she screamed at him. “You’re his son, aren’t you? You’re the brat of that thing, that owns the Tribune! You — you reckon yourself fit to kiss the ground she’s walked on? Don’t touch me, you young reptile! Hands off of her!”

  Sherry made a move toward Jacqueline, and that was Consuelo’s last straw. She threw her arms around Jacqueline — hugged her— “Oh, my poor darling — my poor darling honey-lamb!” — almost lifted her off the chair, set her down in another one by the fireplace opposite John Miro’s corner, seized the kettle that she had set on the hearth to boil when she first entered the cabin, and stood at bay. The kettle was full. The scalding water spluttered from spout and lid as she shook it.

  “Now out of here — the lot of you! Outside — and take that devil with you!”

  She shook the kettle at Wahl, and narrowly missed scalding him. Dad Lawrence sprang aside, letting go of Wahl, and Wahl sat up again.

  “Chief!” he yelled, “It’s a beat! It’s a whale of a beat! Get to the phone, man! Spill it to ’em!— ‘Lanier girl takes to the woods — slips through prohibition net and stands at bay with scalding water!’ — Go to it, Chief! It’s a pippin!”

  Mansfield scowled. Dad Lawrence jumped for Wahl and forced his head down on the pillow. Mansfield glanced at Miro, who was smiling and very deliberately lighting another cigarette. He held up his hand.

  “Put that kettle down,” he ordered.

  Consuelo glared defiance at him. She feared no man in that minute. She made a move as if to use the kettle and drive them all out of the room. But a tired, despairing voice, that touched her old heart even through the armor of that wrath, spoke from behind her:

  “Consuelo dear, please put the kettle down.”

  CHAPTER 33.

  “And you shall sit in the patio all day long and boss the niggers.”

  Mansfield walked over to Wahl and looked down at him.

  “Did you hear what that nurse said just now?” he asked.

  “You bet I did,” Wahl answered, sitting upright. “She’s a liar, that’s all.” Mansfield’s voice and air of authority seemed to bring him to his senses. His eyes looked suddenly less wild. “Don’t forget, I was there, Chief. I saw it! I got it all first hand.”

  “Did you check your facts?” asked Mansfield.

  “Sure!”

  Consuelo drew her breath in with a gasp — ready on the instant to renew the fight. Mansfield stopped her, holding up his hand.

  “How did you check them?” he demanded.

  “Interviewed the sister of Don Andres!” Wahl answered. “Saw her in private in her own room — got it straight from her. She told me all about the girl’s character. Donna Isabella wasn’t guessing, mind you — she’d lived in the same house with her for years!”

  Mansfield coughed dryly. Consuelo gave another gulp and started forward, words choking in her throat. Mansfield glanced at Sherry with a wry smile, and Sherry answered that by going over to Jacqueline and taking her limp hand in his. It was John Miro who entered the lists, as calmly as he did all other things. He tossed his cigarette into the fire and walked straight up to Mansfield.

  “The point is, are you man enough to confess mistakes?” he said, smiling. “As her cousin, and at one time the friend of her family, you’ll probably admit that I knew as much of Donna Isabella’s character as she ever knew of Jacqueline’s. Donna Isabella was as mad as your man Clinton Wahl. Are you mad too? I rather think not. Suppose you take another look at Miss Lanier. Judge for yourself, whether to believe her, and the nurse, and your own son, and me — or Wahl and Donna Isabella.”

  “Chief!” Wahl shouted. “Get to the phone! Don’t you trust your own men?”

  “Does it occur to you to trust me?” Dad suggested. Mansfield glanced at Jacqueline — and at Consuelo — and at Sherry. He was scowling; his brows nearly met over his eyes.

  “Get to the phone, man! O.K. that story of mine!” Wahl yelled at him.

  Mansfield looked at Wahl again steadily, for thirty seconds. Then he turned to the phone and took off the receiver.

  “That’s right, Chief!” Wahl shouted. “Run your own newspaper, and to hell with—”

  Dad Lawrence used the towel again. There was silence — the tenseness of impending tragedy.

  “Long distance — quick!” said Mansfield. “Operator — see how quickly you can get the San Francisco Tribune. There are several wires. Put me in on any of ’em. This is rush stuff. Step on her!”

  Miro joined Sherry beside Jacqueline. Dad Lawrence shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hello — Tribune? Who’s speaking? Give me the desk — quick! Hello — this is Mansfield. That you, Blair? D’you recognize my voice? All right — kill that Lanier story! What’s that? I don’t get you. Won’t be any first edition? I don’t care — I said kill the story — did you hear me?”

  The instrument buzzed into Mansfield’s ear for thirty seconds.

  “Dad, you’re white! I knew you were!” said Sherry, and leaned over and kissed Jacqueline. Consuelo watched him, fuming. Mansfield held up his hand for silence.

  “What’s that? You don’t believe it’s Mansfield speaking? Just try disobeying me, and see how soon I’ll prove it to you! Cancel the whole edition! If the vans have started, call ’em back — send people after ’em. I’ll fire the whole outfit if one of those papers goes on sale!”

  “All right, Chief!” The words could be heard distinctly all through the room, and Mansfield hung up. He glanced at Wahl.

  “Put him in one of the bedrooms,” he commanded. Dad — stay in there with him, and keep him quiet.”

  Sherry and Dad Lawrence carried Wahl out. Miro came forward and met Mansfield in mid-room.

  “You eat crow rather handsomely,” he said. “I like you for it. Blame it on the system and the public, though, not on that poor burned devil in the bedroom there.”

  Mansfield almost ignored him. He was thinking of something else. He walked toward Jacqueline, and Consuelo stepped into his way. He smiled at Consuelo, and though she bridled up and caught her breath, she stood aside again, watching him suspiciously. Then:

  “Miss Jacqueline Lanier!” Jacqueline looked up, very woebegone.

  “I wish to beg your pardon as humbly as a man may. I have never before in all my life retracted or apologized. Your presence is an honor to my cabin and I sincerely regret the cruelty and deep indignity to you for which the Tribune is in part responsible.”

  Consuelo burst out sobbing, but Jacqueline managed to smile, leaning forward and seizing Consuelo’s red hand, stroking it.

  “Mr. Mansfield—”

  But he had not finished yet. He interrupted.

  “I can promise you a full revenge, Miss Jacqueline! Whatever can be done to restore your fair name and reputation before the world shall be done by the Tribune immediately. I will sign the retraction and the other newspapers will copy it. They will make me look — and feel — extremely foolish.”

  “Mr. Mansfield, I don’t want revenge,” said Jacqueline. “I’ll hide, to save Sherry from—”

  “You can do that, if he’ll let you,” Mansfield interrupted. “But if he does let you I’ll never speak to him again.”

  Jacqueline laughed at last, and Sherry took her into his arms, but he hardly had time to kiss her once before Consuelo interfered. Mansfield turned his back, John Miro used better judgment — recognized the symptoms — knew that Consuelo’s wrath had left her half-hysterical. She would be trying to scratch Sherry’s eyes out in a minute. He stepped between them, and stood smiling down at Jacqueline.

  “There’s a point we’ve not explained yet,” he said kindly. “You surely knew I live in San Francisco, Jacqueline?”

  She nodded, just a little proudly.
>
  “D’you mind saying why you didn’t appeal to me at once for help?”

  “How could I, Mr. Miro? You and Desmio. I could not appeal to Desmio’s enemy.”

  John Miro laughed. “His enemy?” he answered. “Jacqueline, I loved the man! He and I were boys together. I knew him too well and intimately not to love him. The dear, old dignified Don Quixote! The only thing we ever quarreled over was my advertising, and at that it was he who quarreled with me, not I with him. I would have crossed the continent at any time for the sheer delight of shaking hands with him.”

  “But, Mr. Miro, I thought — you must have thought — that — that Desmio and I conspired to do you out of the estates. If he had married me—”

  “My dear girl, I never wanted your potato patch! I wouldn’t know what to do with it. It’s yours by every moral right.”

  “But the trust deed, Mr. Miro—”

  “All that ever needed was my signature,” he answered. “Andres could have had it for the asking. The first thing I did after attending Andres’ funeral was to interview his lawyer Curtis Radcliffe. You’ll find your estates are in Radcliffe’s keeping. As I told Radcliffe, and repeat to you, whatever Andres wished to do with his estates is law as far as I’m concerned. We’ll terminate the Miro trust deed just as soon as Radcliffe submits the papers for my signature.”

  “But — but there’s Donna Isabella.”

  “No. She’s dead. I rather think I personally killed her. No, don’t look shocked — perhaps I claim more credit than is due me. I told her she was a snob, and it seems that nobody ever thought of telling her the truth before. She took to her bed that afternoon, and died yesterday.”

  Jacqueline felt genuinely sorry. She would much rather have endured Donna Isabella’s vinegary enmity for the rest of her life than hear of her dying all alone. She knew that Donna Isabella had no friends. Even Consuelo drooped at the news. But Mansfield senior made no pretense to any kind of grief; he strode back across the room and faced John Miro.

  “So you’re doing that for her?” he said pleasantly. “She’ll not be penniless, eh?”

  “Not by a million or so,” said Miro. “Maybe several million. I don’t know the figures.”

  “Well — Sherry will have the Tribune. That means at least as much for him.”

  “Don’t forget,” Miro answered, smiling, “that will be my doing too! I would have smashed the Tribune, and you with it, if—”

  “Here — shake hands and shut up prodding me” said Mansfield. “And give me one of your cigars; you drove that infernal car of yours so fast over the bumps that I broke all mine. Are you sleepy? It’s nearly morning. Let’s go out and hear the birds wake.”

  They walked out together, smoking. Consuelo, swallowing something in her throat, went into the room where Dad Lawrence was watching Wahl.

  “Good woman, that,” said Mansfield. “I was half-afraid, though, she’d stay in there and fight with Sherry. These two kids are best left alone now, to settle it between themselves.”

  “They won’t have very long,” said Miro. “I’m expecting some one.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. I used the telephone before I called on you at the Tribune office.”

  Mansfield turned on him sharply. “Not reporters from the other papers!”

  “Wait and see. That’s a car coming now.”

  It was a closed car that came much more slowly than Miro’s had done, but which none the less seemed in a hurry. A face framed in white in the window looked almost ghostly in the dim light from the cabin windows — the face of some one who leaned forward, strained and anxious. Miro strode up to the car as it swung in through the gate and stopped. A woman stepped out as he opened the door for her, and another followed.

  “You have found her?” she asked quickly.

  Miro nodded

  “Is she — ?”

  It was Mansfield, striding out of the shadow behind Miro, who interrupted.

  “You — Joan?” he exclaimed.

  She looked startled, but recovered instantly. “I came to see Jacqueline,” she said firmly.

  “Some mistake,” said Miro. “This is — pardon me — Mr. Mansfield — Sister Michaela.”

  “Thanks,” answered Mansfield, “I know my wife’s sister. She was Joan Sherwood before she took vows. Joan — how’s Sherry’s mother? Do you ever hear from Clara?”

  Her gray eyes looked straight back at him, and there was a pause before she answered:

  “I came to save Jacqueline from Clara’s fate!”

  Mansfield scowled. “Isn’t that man she ran away with kind to her?”

  “He was, John.”

  “Was?” He looked puzzled.

  “Was. He bore the blame you turned on him. They were neither of them guilty.”

  “Why didn’t she come back to me then?” he demanded.

  “How could she! You were too cruel. You divorced her. You spared her nothing. You and the newspapers were merciless. She was hounded. The notoriety was more than she could bear. She went away.”

  “Where?”

  “Where you will not find her.”

  “My God! You mean—”

  “I mean, she saved Sherry all she could. She changed her name — tried to hide — struggled, and then — I have a message from her for Sherry.”

  “He’s in the cabin. Give it to him,” said Mansfield, and stood staring down the road.

  She turned to Miro and he led the way up the cabin steps, holding the door open for her. She paused on the threshold. Dad Lawrence was standing in the door of the room where they had laid Wahl, and from behind him came the weak voice of a man in delirium, raving:

  “Takes to the woods — that’s a hot one! Caught with Sherry Mansfield — uses scalding water! Get that Chief? Go to it, man! Get to the phone—”

  Sherry and Dad — and Dad was not dry-eyed — were watching Jacqueline. Her hand was on Consuelo’s shoulder. Consuelo knelt beside her, choking with sobs, her head on her beloved’s lap.

  “Oh, honey—”

  “You old dear! Consuelo, you dear, faithful friend! I’ve brought all this on you, and you’ve had much the worst of it. But I love you, Consuelo. And we’re going back, dear, to Louisiana — and you shall always be with us — and you shall sit in the patio all day long — and boss the niggers, — and — and be just as good and kind to Sherry as you’ve always been to me. Will you do that? Will you promise?”

  “Honey, dear—”

  THE END

  THE NINE UNKNOWN

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. “I cut throats with an outward thrust!”

  CHAPTER II. “Produce but the gold, thou Portuguese!”

  CHAPTER III. “Light and longer weapons.”

  CHAPTER IV. “Here’s your Portuguese!”

  CHAPTER V. “The nine’s spies are everywhere.”

  CHAPTER VI. “They fled before me!”

  CHAPTER VII. “Shakespearean homeopathic remedy!”

  CHAPTER VIII. “He is very dead!”

  CHAPTER IX. “Silence is silent.”

  CHAPTER X. “Can’t hatch a chicken from a glass egg.”

  CHAPTER XI. “Allah! Do I live, and see such sons?”

  CHAPTER XII. “I am dead, but the silver cord is not yet cut.”

  CHAPTER XIII. “I felt the tingle of the magic and fell unresisting.”

  CHAPTER XIV. “We’ve got your chief!”

  CHAPTER XV. “Abandon can’t and cant all ye who enter here!”

  CHAPTER XVI. “Sahibs, that is a true speech!”

  CHAPTER XVII. “There will be no witnesses — say that and stick to it!”

  CHAPTER XVIII. “He has whatever she had!”

  CHAPTER XIX. “Once, when they who keep the secrets—”

  CHAPTER XX. “Nevertheless, I will take my sword with me!”

  CHAPTER XXI. “My house is clean again!”

  The first edition’s cover

  CHAPTER I. “I cut throats with an outwa
rd thrust!”

  I HAD this story from a dozen people, or thirteen if you count Chullunder Ghose, whose accuracy is frequently perverted. One grain of salt is never enough to add to the fat babu’s misstatements, although anyone who for that reason elected to disbelieve him altogether would be just as wide of the mark as the credulous who take what he says at face value. Chullunder Ghose should he accepted warily. But the others are above suspicion, as for instance King, Grim, Ramsden, the Reverend Father Cyprian, and Jeremy Ross, all of whom regard the truth from various points of view as economical.

  Chullunder Ghose considers all truth merely relative at best — likes to be thought a liar, since under that cloak he can tell diluted truth unblushing. Consequently he is the only one whose real motive for taking part in this magnificent adventure is not discoverable; he scratches his stomach and gives a different reason every time he is asked, of which the likeliest is this:

  “You see, sahib, bad luck being habitual is bad enough, but better than absolutely no luck. Consequently I took chances, trembling much, stirring innate sluggishness of disposition with galvanic batteries of optimism, including desire to keep wolf from door of underfed family and dependents.”

  He certainly took chances, and he appears to have survived them, for I had a letter from him only a week ago begging the favor of a character reference and offering in return to betray trade secrets in the event of his securing the desired employment.

  Then there is Leonardo da Gama the Portuguese, who is dead and tells no tales; but his death corroborates some part of what he said to me, for one, and to others as will presently appear. His motive seems to have been mercenary, with the added zest of the scientist in search of a key to secrets, whose existence he can prove but whose solution has baffled men for generations.

  The Reverend Father Cyprian, past eighty and custodian of a library not open to the public, aimed and still aims only at Hindu occultism. He regards it as the machinery of Satan, to be destroyed accordingly, and it was for that reason he gave King, Grim, Ramsden and some others access to books no human eye should otherwise have seen. For Father Cyprian collects books to be burned, not piecemeal but in one eventual holocaust.