Fair Tomorrow

by Emilie Loring

  Hale summoned witness after witness to testify to the state of destitution and nerves to which the plaintiff had been reduced through the machinations of her stepdaughter. He was prodigal with his smile, suave to the women, impassioned at strategic points. He pulled out the simpatico stop in his voice organ at the dramatic moment and set his listeners sniffing. A high-voltage advocate, indubitably.

  Only once he seemed perturbed. After the noon recess, pink-frocked Milly Pike slipped into a seat left vacant by a witness. He scowled at her inquiringly for an instant before he returned to the matter at hand. Pamela looked quickly at Philip Carr where he sat on the front bench reserved for spectators. His eyes were on Milly, his lips were tightly compressed.

  Phineas Carr’s cross-examinations were superficial, quite as if having established the two facts, first, that Cecile Mortimer Leigh was an actress, second, that she had paid out seventeen hundred and fifty dollars for stocks, nothing else really mattered to him. Nevertheless, by questions and pleas for exceptions, he managed to keep the plaintiff’s witnesses on the stand, Hale jumping up with objections, until the afternoon session closed. Why, Pamela wondered impatiently, why didn’t he push along and get it over with? Was he stalling, waiting for certain evidence? The case had come to trial a week before he had expected.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! All persons having anything further to do before the Honorable the Justices of this Court, at present depart and give your attendance at this place tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, to which time and place the sitting of this court is now adjourned.

  “God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

  The judge left the room. The jury filed out their special door. Spectators whispered, looked back curiously as they straggled to the street.

  “Be on hand promptly tomorrow morning, Miss Leigh. Hale says he has one more witness to present. After that — we’ll mop ’em up,” with which prophecy Phineas Carr picked up his papers and departed.

  Pamela’s courage trailed its wings as she left the court-house. It seemed as if Cecile and her attorney had stolen the show. As she hurried toward the lane where she had parked the sedan, a sarcastic voice drifted back to her.

  “Thought you said Carnation Carr was a fire-eater? A spell-binder?”

  The second voice was distinctly apologetic. “He is usually. Don’t know what cramped his style today. Perhaps he got notional.”

  “Perhaps ’twas the plaintiff. She’s a honey. Like to see her on the screen. The jury just lapped her up.”

  “The defendant was more my style. She’s got class. She was as white as a dead girl but she sat with her hands quiet. Notice how the other one was twisting her beads, or jingling her bracelets, or straightening her hat, or arching her neck like a bird looking for a worm? Every minute on the move. If I’d been her lawyer I’d have knocked her one over the head — as you do a drowning person when they struggle, so you can save them. That plaintiff needs to be rescued from herself.”

  Philip Carr was waiting for Pamela beside the sedan. His eyes were brilliant; he pulled at his slight mustache. He was taking this case hard. From time to time she had glanced at him in the court-room. His expression had been tense. Had he doubted his father’s skill?

  “What was Carnation Carr saying to you just before you left, Pam?”

  “That the plaintiff’s counsel had but one more witness to put on in the morning, then it would be our turn. Don’t worry, Phil. I have absolute faith in my attorney.”

  She knew that he watched her as she drove away. Something was on his mind. Doubt of his father? Doubt clutched at her own heart. Carnation Carr had seemed so — so casual.

  As she drove up to the Silver Moon, Mehitable Betts, gray hair streaming like the witch of Endor’s, rushed out before she could stop the car.

  “Pamela! Pamela! Your Pa’s gone!”

  “Gone!”

  The girl slid out of the seat. Caught the woman’s bony shoulder.

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. He flew off in a plane!”

  Chapter XVIII

  Pamela stared at Mehitable Betts with the incredulity she would have felt had the gaunt woman announced Harold Leigh’s departure for the moon.

  “How did he get to the field?”

  “Now don’t take it so hard, Pam, he’ll come back all right — if he don’t, I don’t know as ’twould matter. Eddie Pike was here working over the chickens. I nearly lost my mind when your Pa walked into the kitchen — though I know he’d been talking excited over the phone; the minute you left he put in a long distance call — he pushed me aside when I would have stopped him, just as though he was lord of the universe and I a laborin’ ant in his way, and announced he was going out. He was dressed fine. ’Course Eddie hasn’t any mind to lose, but, I thought his lower jaw had come permanently unhinged when your father stood over him and ordered him to take him to the field in that old flivver of his — somehow Eddie’s got the front wheels on again — he kept looking over his shoulder as if he thought a goblin’d got him.”

  “Do you suppose Father ran away to avoid testifying in the case? The defense begins tomorrow.”

  “Land’s sakes, does it? Glad I know so I can put my hair up in curlers tonight. How did it go? Did Phineas Carr lay ’em all out flat?”

  “No, he didn’t. He was as mild as cream cheese.” Pamela’s eyes were troubled as she remembered the comment of the stranger. “Don’t know what cramped his style today.” And yet the way in which her counsel had seared into the jurors’ minds the fact that Cecile was an actress, that it was her business to get her effects across, had been masterly.

  “Any telephone calls, Hitty?”

  “Six for reservations. I turned ’em all down. You’d thought I was talking a lollipop away from a baby, they were so resentful. Seems restful, doesn’t it, not to have a lot of cars tooting up the drive, and folks walking all over the house as if they owned it, and wantin’ to buy the furniture? Later, Terrence is going to have supper with one of the Academy teachers. When it’s time I’ll bring you something to eat in the living room on a tray.”

  “Will you really, Hitty? It would be marvelous.” Pamela’s voice was unsteady. “I am tired. Not physically, but tired of turning things over and over in my mind, wondering what is the best thing to do in the extraordinary complications of my life. Things were in a mess before, but with this queer getaway of Father’s I don’t know what to expect — but,” she added loyally, “of one thing I am sure, had he thought he could help me he would not have gone.”

  With an angular, work-worn hand Mehitable Betts awkwardly patted the girl’s shoulder.

  “Keep on keeping on, Pam. Things will straighten out. Things have a cur’ous unbelievable way of straightening out. When they get so’s it seems as though you just couldn’t bear ’em another minute, something breaks to clear them up. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. ‘Fair tomorrow!’ your Grandma used to say. Stop worrying about your Pa. He’ll land on his feet like a cat. You go change your clothes — ’twill rest you.”

  In her own room Pamela thoughtfully regarded the telephone. Any chance of reaching Scott Mallory at his office? Even if he were not interested in her, he would advise her what to do about her father. She glanced at the clock. Not too late to try.

  She put in the call, drew a bath, recklessly emptied into it the perfumed crystals she had been hoarding, laid out fresh lingerie as she waited for the telephone to ring. She eagerly answered the bell.

  “Mr. Mallory’s office? … Gone! … Out of town! For two weeks! … No. No message. Good-bye!” That was that.

  She was about to slip her frock over her head — the georgette frock the color of orangey-red zinnias which always buoyed her spirit — when she heard a commotion. She dropped the filmy thing as she ran to the window. Milly Pike was at the gate of the White Hope’s yard! Her head was superciliously tilted as if challenging doubt of her courage. Coral comb and wattles twitching, the great rooster was prepa
ring to charge. Didn’t the silly girl know better than to go near that fighter?

  Pamela bolted down the back stairs, dashed through the kitchen to the accompaniment of Hitty Betts’ shrill protest.

  “For the land’s sake! Where you goin’ —”

  As she sprinted from the door, Milly was shrieking toward the drive with the infuriated rooster on the hop, skip and jump after her. Pamela ran after them calling as she went:

  “Terry! Terry! Terry!”

  Milly looked over her shoulder. Strategic error. She stubbed her toe, fell. With a victorious squawk the rooster pounced. Pamela grabbed for the bird’s legs. He pecked at her as she caught them. She held the heavy, flapping creature at arm’s length.

  “Get up, Milly. Quick! Run. I can’t hold him.”

  The girl scrambled to her feet. She sobbed, panted, gurgled. “Terry said he bet I wouldn’t dare go into the rooster’s yard. I’m not afraid of anything but — he flew at me and —”

  “Run, Milly, run! I can’t hold him much longer if he flaps like th-this.”

  The girl shot down the drive.

  “Hi, Pam!”

  Breathless, crimson-faced, Terrence erupted from nowhere. He was in the throes of mirth as he grabbed the rooster. Indignation crowded at the heels of Pamela’s relief.

  “Terrence Leigh! What did you mean by daring Milly to open that gate? The rooster might have injured her seriously. Want another law-suit on our hands?”

  “I was watching.” The youth’s jaw tightened. “She’s been sneaking round here long enough. Either she’s spying for the second Mrs. Leigh or she’s in league with chicken thieves. Haven’t decided which. She pretends that she likes me. Hooey!” He grinned. “I told her that the White Hope after this would be on the loose, he needed more exercise. She —”

  “Pamela, what you doing prancing round here in your underclothes?” Hitty Betts’ shrill protest drowned Terrence’s explanation.

  “In my what?” Pamela looked down at her slim body simply and revealingly attired in a pink crêpe step-in. Terrence checked an hilarious shout, to tilt a lance in his amazed sister’s defense.

  “Don’t get excited, Hitty. Pam’s bundled up compared to most of the girls when they go swimming.” He chuckled infectiously. “Just the same, you’d better beat it, woman. There’s a car shooting up the drive. One of the Academy teachers coming to take me off to supper.”

  Pamela shot for the house with Mehitable Betts breathing hard at her heels. Safely in the kitchen, she explained:

  “I saw Milly fooling with that gate. Forgot I hadn’t my gown on, forgot everything but that she was in danger of being spurred.”

  “Serve her right if she had been. She comes hanging round here every day — hmp, she wouldn’t have so much time if M’s Carr was at home. She comes poking her nose into what I’m doing, asking questions about the folks who come. Yesterday, she sat on the porch rail for almost ten minutes talking to your Pa. I told Terrence about it. Says she comes for eggs. Eggs! It’s Terry she’s after. She’s boy and clothes crazy. You better go put something on or you’ll catch cold.”

  Had she done everything she could do to locate her father, Pamela asked herself, as after supper she curled up in a corner of the swing couch on the porch. She missed him, missed the feeling that he was in his room, missed the murmur, the music, even the static of the radio which so often had exasperated her. Heavenly night. Not too cool for a thin frock, not too warm. A spatter of pale stars, a gay old-blade of a moon, if the come-hither glint in the one eye visible, the quirk of the corner of a mouth, were a token. A pink glow in the west, sleepy chirps from the orchard, a mint-scented breeze, satin-fingered, on her lids when she closed them.

  She kept the seat gently in motion with one foot. In the excitement of the rooster’s attack on Milly she had forgotten to ask Terrence if he knew of his father’s mysterious departure. She would not worry about him. He had been gaining steadily in health and strength. The fact that he was able to dress and walk through the kitchen “as if he was lord of the universe,” proved that he was infinitely better. She should be grateful for his desire to get away, not alarmed by it. Perhaps she had needed this anxiety to make her realize how much, deep in her heart, she loved him. Flying! Where? He still kept his box in a Trust Company’s vault in New York. She knew because she had typed an order for certain securities to be sent to Scott Mallory. Brown of Boston! The name boiled up from her subconscious. Had her father gone to confer with the man with whom he had been in correspondence? If so, Brown would undoubtedly notify his family if he showed signs of dementia. Dementia! That hectic suggestion helped. She would not worry about him. She would drop responsibility on the broad shoulders of Brown; somehow she was sure they were broad.

  Several times she had assured herself of the absurdity of worry about a man of the world like her father before a light swept up the drive. An engine purred softly as a car disappeared behind the house. Only two persons she knew drove a high-powered roadster. Philip Carr and Scott Mallory. Could it be Scott? His secretary had said that he was out of town. Gone for two weeks. Had he purposely planned to be away during the trial? She waited on the steps. Two coming. Terry’s whistle. A laugh, Philip Carr’s — not Scott’s. She had the sensation as of a non-stop drop from the top floor of a skyscraper. She heard Terrence say in a high, excited voice:

  “Hitty reported that yesterday she cornered Father again. I tell you, Phil — we’ve got to —”

  “Sssh, not so loud, boy — oh, there you are, Miss Pamela Leigh.” The change in Philip Carr’s voice from mystery to simulated casualness would have been funny at any other time than at this, Pamela reflected.

  “How’d you make out today, Pam?” Terrence chuckled reminiscently. “Your appearance at the ringside at the White Hope’s little bout, in your pink undies, knocked the trial clean out of my head.”

  Pamela smiled at young Carr. “Greetings, Phil! Counsel for the prosecution got his testimony in except for one witness, Terry. He will put him or her on first thing tomorrow, then we present our side. You were there all through it, Phil. Who else can that man Hale produce? It seems tragically possible that he already has put in an unbeatable lot of evidence. Of course, it wasn’t true, but, what have you?”

  Carr dropped to the steps beside her. “I think I know whom he’s got up his sleeve — if he can catch her — him. Cap’n Iry Crockett’s testimony that, ‘It looked as if Pam-ee-lia had set the dog on her stepmother,’ was a bomb. I thought you and he were great pals.”

  “We are. He was under oath. He had to tell the truth. He said the same thing to me here.”

  “Did Carnation Carr know that?”

  “Yes. After our first interview I felt as if I had told your father everything I had thought, done, or emoted since I left the cradle.”

  “He knew also about the letter you had written your stepmother?”

  “Boy! Did the second Mrs. Leigh’s lawyer lug that in?”

  “He not only lugged it in, he read it to the jury, Terry. Such passion. Such fervor. It certainly was good. As a piece of creative literature I was proud of it. It would have taken a prize in a hew-to-the-line contest.”

  “I’ll bet it would. You can sling a mean typewriter when you get started.”

  Philip Carr observed thoughtfully: “I followed the testimony as close as a trailer hitched to a fliv. That man Hale handed out some body blows which seemed as if they must knock the stuffing out of the defense. I thought Father would start out on high and smash through their evidence till the plaintiffs counsel would be put to it to scoop up the splinters. He didn’t. He just sat there and took them. As a parent I may not be crazy about your attorney; but, as a lawyer I’ve thought there was nothing bigger, better, bull-dogisher in the world. This time he’s got me guessing.”

  His voice was troubled. Pamela took up cudgels in defense of Carnation Carr. There was more assurance in her voice than she felt.

  “He is doubtless saving his ammunition — incl
uding a few poison-gas bombs — for tomorrow. You must be on hand, Terry. Get excused from the Academy.”

  “That’ll hurt. Will our invalid be able to testify?”

  For the first time since their arrival Pamela’s thoughts reverted to her father.

  “He’s gone!”

  “Gone! What d’you mean, gone? Passed out?” The boy’s face was pale with surprise.

  “No, Terry, no.” Swiftly she repeated Mehitable Betts’ story of the departure. “At first I was stiff with anxiety; then I got hold of myself, tried to get hold of myself — I’m still panicky inside — argued that if he were able to carry-on like that, he was able to see the project through.”

  “Perhaps he shot for the promised land to side-step testifying.”

  “Meaning New York City, Phil?”

  “What else could I mean? If I’d been caught in this tidepool for months and a nice big wave of energy washed me out, I’d keep going till I reached the white lights.”

  “Where do you suppose he went, Pam?”

  “I am as stumped as you are, Terry. It costs heaps of money to fly. I don’t believe he had enough to go far. He might think we were treating him like a child and be furious if we try to find him.”

  “Might phone old Scott and set him detecting.”

  Pamela felt her color deepen. She was glad that the gay old-blade of a moon had hidden its light as well as its come-hither eye behind a cloud.

  “I — I thought of that. Called his office. He is out of town for a few days.”

  “Then I guess you have done all that is possible. Father has played us a low-down trick, after the months we’ve been waiting on him hand and foot, to step out without an explanation. I hope he does get lost. I hope he spends the night in the hoosegow.”