The Black Bag, Louis Joseph Vance [some good books to read .txt] 📗

life.

 

It seemed hard to realize that one must forego it all for ever.

 

Presently he found himself acutely self-conscious. The sensation puzzled

him; and without appearing to do so, he traced it from effect to cause; and

found the cause in a woman—a girl, rather, seated at a table the third

removed from him, near the farther wall of the room.

 

Too considerate, and too embarrassed, to return her scrutiny openly, look

for look, he yet felt sure that, however temporarily, he was become the

object of her intent interest.

 

Idly employed with his cigar, he sipped his coffee. In time aware that she

had turned her attention elsewhere, he looked up.

 

At first he was conscious of an effect of disappointment. She was nobody

that he knew, even by reputation. She was simply a young girl, barely out

of her teens—if as old as that phrase would signify. He wondered what she

had found in him to make her think him worth so long a study; and looked

again, more keenly curious.

 

With this second glance, appreciation stirred the artistic side of his

nature, that was already grown impatient of his fretted mood. The slender

and girlish figure, posed with such absolute lack of intrusion against a

screen of rose and gilt, moved him to critical admiration. The tinted glow

of shaded candles caught glistening on the spun gold of her fair hair,

and enhanced the fine pallor of her young shoulders. He saw promise, and

something more than promise, in her face, its oval something dimmed by warm

shadows that unavailingly sought to blend youth and beauty alike into the

dull, rich background.

 

In the sheer youth of her (he realized) more than in aught else, lay her

chiefest charm. She could be little more than a child, indeed, if he were

to judge her by the purity of her shadowed eyes and the absence of emotion

in the calm and direct look which presently she turned upon him who sat

wondering at the level, penciled darkness of her brows.

 

At length aware that she had surprised his interest, Kirkwood glanced

aside—coolly deliberate, lest she should detect in his attitude anything

more than impersonal approval.

 

A slow color burned his cheeks. In his temples there rose a curious

pulsing.

 

After a while she drew his gaze again, imperiously—herself all unaware of

the havoc she was wreaking on his temperament.

 

He could have fancied her distraught, cloaking an unhappy heart with placid

brow and gracious demeanor; but such a conception matched strangely her

glowing youth and spirit. What had she to do with Care? What concern had

Black Care, whose gaunt shape in sable shrouds had lurked at his shoulder

all the evening, despite his rigid preoccupation, with a being as

charmingly flushed with budding womanhood as this girl?

 

“Eighteen?” he hazarded. “Eighteen, or possibly nineteen, dining at the

Pless in a ravishing dinner-gown, and—unhappy? Oh, hardly—not she!”

 

Yet the impression haunted him, and ere long he was fain to seek

confirmation or denial of it in the manner of her escort.

 

The latter sat with back to Kirkwood, cutting a figure as negative as his

snug evening clothes. One could surmise little from a fleshy thick neck,

a round, glazed bald spot, a fringe of grizzled hair, and two bright red

ears.

 

Calendar?

 

Somehow the fellow did suggest Kirkwood’s caller of the afternoon. The

young man could not have said precisely how, for he was unfamiliar with the

aspect of that gentleman’s back. None the less the suggestion persisted.

 

By now, a few of the guests, theater-bound, for the most part, were

leaving. Here and there a table stood vacant, that had been filled, cloth

tarnished, chairs disarranged: in another moment to be transformed into its

pristine brilliance under the deft attentions of the servitors.

 

Down an aisle, past the table at which the girl was sitting, came two,

making toward the lobby; the man, a slight and meager young personality, in

the lead. Their party had attracted Kirkwood’s notice as they entered; why,

he did not remember; but it was in his mind that then they had been three.

Instinctively he looked at the table they had left—one placed at some

distance from the girl, and hidden from her by an angle in the wall. It

appeared that the third member had chosen to dally a few moments over his

tobacco and a liqueur-brandy. Kirkwood could see him plainly, lounging in

his chair and fumbling the stem of a glass: a heavy man, of somber habit,

his black and sullen brows lowering and thoughtful above a face boldly

handsome.

 

The woman of the trio was worthy of closer attention. Some paces in the

wake of her lack-luster esquire, she was making a leisurely progress,

trailing the skirts of a gown magnificent beyond dispute, half concealed

though it was by the opera cloak whose soft folds draped her shoulders.

Slowly, carrying her head high, she approached, insolent eyes reviewing

the room from beneath their heavy lids; a metallic and mature type of dark

beauty, supremely selfconfident and self-possessed.

 

Men turned involuntarily to look after her, not altogether in undiluted

admiration.

 

In the act of passing behind the putative Calendar, she paused momentarily,

bending as if to gather up her train. Presumably the action disturbed her

balance; she swayed a little, and in the effort to recover, rested the tips

of her gloved fingers upon the edge of the table. Simultaneously (Kirkwood

could have sworn) a single word left her lips, a word evidently pitched

for the ear of the hypothetical Calendar alone. Then she swept on,

imperturbable, assured.

 

To the perplexed observer it was indubitably evident that some

communication had passed from the woman to the man. Kirkwood saw the fat

shoulders of the girl’s companion stiffen suddenly as the woman’s hand

rested at his elbow; as she moved away, a little rippling shiver was

plainly visible in the muscles of his back, beneath his coat—mute token

of relaxing tension. An instant later one plump and mottled hand was

carelessly placed where the woman’s had been; and was at once removed with

fingers closed.

 

To the girl, watching her face covertly, Kirkwood turned for clue to the

incident. He made no doubt that she had observed the passage; proof of that

one found in her sudden startling pallor (of indignation?) and in her eyes,

briefly alight with some inscrutable emotion, though quickly veiled by

lowered lashes. Slowly enough she regained color and composure, while her

vis-�-vis sat motionless, head inclined as if in thought.

 

Abruptly the man turned in his chair to summon a waiter, and exposed his

profile. Kirkwood was in no wise amazed to recognize Calendar—a badly

frightened Calendar now, however, and hardly to be identified with the

sleek, glib fellow who had interviewed Kirkwood in the afternoon. His

flabby cheeks were ashen and trembling, and upon the back of his chair

the fat white fingers were drumming incessantly an inaudible tattoo of

shattered nerves.

 

“Scared silly!” commented Kirkwood. “Why?” Having spoken to his waiter,

Calendar for some seconds raked the room with quick glances, as if seeking

an acquaintance. Presumably disappointed, he swung back to face the

girl, bending forward to reach her ears with accents low-pitched and

confidential. She, on her part, fell at once attentive, grave and

responsive. Perhaps a dozen sentences passed between them. At the outset

her brows contracted and she shook her head in gentle dissent; whereupon

Calendar’s manner became more imperative. Gradually, unwillingly, she

seemed to yield consent. Once she caught her breath sharply, and, infected

by her companion’s agitation, sat back, color fading again in the round

young cheeks.

 

Kirkwood’s waiter put in an inopportune appearance with the bill. The young

man paid it. When he looked up again Calendar had swung squarely about

in his chair. His eye encountered Kirkwood’s. He nodded pleasantly.

Temporarily confused, Kirkwood returned the nod.

 

In a twinkling he had repented; Calendar had left his chair and was wending

his way through the tables toward Kirkwood’s. Reaching it, he paused,

offering the hand of genial fellowship. Kirkwood accepted it half-heartedly

(what else was he to do?) remarking at the same time that Calendar had

recovered much of his composure. There was now a normal coloring in the

heavily jowled countenance, with less glint of fear in the quick, dark

eyes; and Calendar’s hand, even if moist and cold, no longer trembled.

Furthermore it was immediately demonstrated that his impudence had not

deserted him.

 

“Why, Kirkwood, my dear fellow!” he crowed—not so loudly as to attract

attention, but in a tone assumed to divert suspicion, should he be

overheard. “This is great luck, you know—to find you here.”

 

“Is it?” returned Kirkwood coolly. He disengaged his fingers.

 

The pink plump face was contorted in a furtive grimace of deprecation.

Without waiting for permission Calendar dropped into the vacant chair.

 

“My dear sir,” he proceeded, unabashed, “I throw myself upon your mercy.”

 

“The devil you do!”

 

“I must. I’m in the deuce of a hole, and there’s no one I know here besides

yourself. I—I—”

 

Kirkwood saw fit to lead him on; partly because, out of the corner of his

eye, he was aware of the girl’s unconcealed suspense. “Go on, please, Mr.

Calendar. You throw yourself on a total stranger’s mercy because you’re in

the deuce of a hole; and—?”

 

“It’s this way; I’m called away on urgent business imperative business.

I must go at once. My daughter is with me. My daughter! Think of my

embarrassment; I can not leave her here, alone, nor can I permit her to go

home unprotected.”

 

Calendar paused in anxiety.

 

“That’s easily remedied, then,” suggested Kirkwood.

 

“How?”

 

“Put her in a cab at the door.”

 

“I … No. The devil! I couldn’t think of it. You won’t understand. I—”

 

“I do not understand,—” amended the younger man politely.

 

Calendar compressed his lips nervously. It was plain that the man was

quivering with impatience and half-mad with excitement. He held quiet only

long enough to regain his self-control and take counsel with his prudence.

 

“It is impossible, Mr. Kirkwood. I must ask you to be generous and believe

me.”

 

“Very well; for the sake of the argument, I do believe you, Mr. Calendar.”

 

“Hell!” exploded the elder man in an undertone. Then swiftly, stammering

in his haste: “I can’t let Dorothy accompany me to the door,” he declared.

“She—I—I throw myself upon your mercy!”

 

“What—again?”

 

“The truth—the truth is, if you will have it, that I am in danger of

arrest the moment I leave here. If my daughter is with me, she will have to

endure the shame and humiliation—”

 

“Then why place her in such a position?” Kirkwood demanded sharply.

 

Calendar’s eyes burned, incandescent with resentment. Offended, he offered

to rise and go, but changed his mind and sat tight in hope.

 

“I beg of you, sir—”

 

“One moment, Mr. Calendar.”

 

Abruptly Kirkwood’s weathercock humor shifted—amusement yielding to

intrigued interest. After all, why not oblige the fellow? What did anything

matter, now? What harm could visit him if he yielded to this corpulent

adventurer’s insistence? Both from experience and observation he knew this

for a world plentifully peopled by soldiers of fortune, contrivers of

snares and pitfalls for the feet of the unwary. On the other hand, it is

axiomatic that a penniless man is perfectly safe anywhere. Besides, there

was the girl to be considered.

 

Kirkwood considered her, forthwith. In the process thereof, his eyes sought

her, perturbed. Their glances clashed. She looked away hastily, crimson to

her temples.

 

Instantly the conflict between curiosity and caution, inclination and

distrust,