Everybody let out a shout. Roy filled Jimmy’s glass up with gin again.
“Oh Jimmy,” cooed Alice, “you lead the most thrilling life.”
James Merivale was going over a freshly decoded cable, tapping the words with a pencil as he read them. Tasmanian Manganese Products instructs us to open credit. … The phone on his desk began to buzz.
“James this is your mother. Come right up; something terrible has happened.”
“But I dont know if I can get away. …”
She had already cut off. Merivale felt himself turning pale. “Let me speak to Mr. Aspinwall please. … Mr. Aspinwall this is Merivale. … My mother’s been taken suddenly ill. I’m afraid it may be a stroke. I’d like to run up there for an hour. I’ll be back in time to get a cable off on that Tasmanian matter.”
“All right. … I’m very sorry Merivale.”
He grabbed his hat and coat, forgetting his muffler, and streaked out of the bank and along the street to the subway.
He burst into the apartment breathless, snapping his fingers from nervousness. Mrs. Merivale grayfaced met him in the hall.
“My dear I thought you’d been taken ill.”
“It’s not that … it’s about Maisie.”
“She hasnt met with an accid … ?”
“Come in here,” interrupted Mrs. Merivale. In the parlor sat a little roundfaced woman in a round mink hat and a long mink coat. “My dear this girl says she’s Mrs. Jack Cunningham and she’s got a marriage certificate to prove it.”
“Good Heavens, is that true?”
The girl nodded in a melancholy way.
“And the invitations are out. Since his last wire Maisie’s been ordering her trousseau.”
The girl unfolded a large certificate ornamented with pansies and cupids and handed it to James.
“It might be forged.”
“It’s not forged,” said the girl sweetly.
“John C. Cunningham, 21 … Jessie Lincoln, 18,” he read aloud. … “I’ll smash his face for that, the blackguard. That’s certainly his signature, I’ve seen it at the bank. … The blackguard.”
“Now James, don’t be hasty.”
“I thought it would be better this way than after the ceremony,” put in the girl in her little sugar voice. “I wouldnt have Jack commit bigamy for anything in the world.”
“Where’s Maisie?”
“The poor darling is prostrated in her room.”
Merivale’s face was crimson. The sweat itched under his collar. “Now dearest” Mrs. Merivale kept saying, “you must promise me not to do anything rash.”
“Yes Maisie’s reputation must be protected at all costs.”
“My dear I think the best thing to do is to get him up here and confront him with this … with this … lady. … Would you agree to that Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Oh dear. … Yes I suppose so.”
“Wait a minute,” shouted Merivale and strode down the hall to the telephone. “Rector 12305. … Hello. I want to speak to Mr. Jack Cunningham please. … Hello. Is this Mr. Cunningham’s office? Mr. James Merivale speaking. … Out of town. … And when will he be back? … Hum.” He strode back along the hall. “The damn scoundrel’s out of town.”
“All the years I’ve known him,” said the little lady in the round hat, “that has always been where he was.”
Outside the broad office windows the night is gray and foggy. Here and there a few lights make up dim horizontals and perpendiculars of asterisks. Phineas Blackhead sits at his desk tipping far back in the small leather armchair. In his hand protecting his fingers by a large silk handkerchief, he holds a glass of hot water and bicarbonate of soda. Densch bald and round as a billiardball sits in the deep armchair playing with his tortoiseshell spectacles. Everything is quiet except for an occasional rattling and snapping of the steampipes.
“Densch you must forgive me. … You know I rarely permit myself an observation concerning other people’s business,” Blackhead is saying slowly between sips; then suddenly he sits up in his chair. “It’s a damn fool proposition, Densch, by God it is … by the Living Jingo it’s ridiculous.”
“I dont like dirtying my hands any more than you do. … Baldwin’s a good fellow. I think we’re safe in backing him a little.”
“What the hell’s an import and export firm got to do in politics? If any of those guys wants a handout let him come up here and get it. Our business is the price of beans … and its goddam low. If any of you puling lawyers could restore the balance of the exchanges I’d be willing to do anything in the world. … They’re crooks every last goddam one of em … by the Living Jingo they’re crooks.” His face flushes purple, he sits upright in his chair banging with his fist on the corner of the desk. “Now you’re getting me all excited. … Bad for my stomach, bad for my heart.” Phineas Blackhead belches portentously and takes a great gulp out of the glass of bicarbonate of soda. Then he leans back in his chair again letting his heavy lids half cover his eyes.
“Well old man,” says Mr. Densch in a tired voice, “it may have been a bad thing to do, but I’ve promised to support the reform candidate. That’s a purely private matter in no way involving the firm.”
“Like hell it dont. … How about McNiel and his gang? … They’ve always treated us all right and all we’ve ever done for em’s a couple of cases of Scotch and a few cigars now and then. … Now we have these reformers throw the whole city government into a turmoil. … By the Living Jingo …”
Densch gets to his feet. “My dear Blackhead I consider it my duty as a citizen to help in cleaning up the filthy conditions of bribery, corruption and intrigue that exist in the city government … I consider it my duty as a citizen …” He starts walking to the door, his round belly stuck proudly out in front of him.
“Well allow me to say Densch that I think its a damn fool proposition,” Blackhead shouts after him. When his partner has gone he lies back a second with his eyes closed. His face takes on the mottled color of ashes, his big fleshy frame is shrinking like
