The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (best manga ereader .TXT) đ
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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âAnd Iâm sorry.â
Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over his mustache, glanced
alertly up at Kirkwood, as if momentarily inclined to question his tone,
then again stared glumly into the fire; for Kirkwood had maintained an
attitude purposefully colorless. Not to put too fine a point upon it, be
believed that his caller was lying; the manâs appearance, his mannerisms,
his voice and enunciation, while they might have been American, seemed all
un-Californian. To one born and bred in that state, as Kirkwood had been,
her sons are unmistakably hall-marked.
Now no man lies without motive. This one chose to reaffirm, with a show of
deep feeling: âYes; Iâm from Frisco, too. Weâre companions in misfortune.â
âI hope not altogether,â said Kirkwood politely.
Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the response and mustered up a
show of cheerfulness. âThen youâre not completely wiped out?â
âTo the contrary, I was hoping you were less unhappy.â
âOh! Then you areâ?â
Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel. âI have just heard from
my partner at home,â he said with a faint smile; and quoted: ââEverything
gone; no insurance.ââ
Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling inaudibly. âToo bad, too
bad!â he murmured sympathetically. âWeâre all hard hit, more or less.â
He lapsed into dejected apathy, from which Kirkwood, growing at length
impatient, found it necessary to rouse him.
âYou wished to see me about something else, Iâm sure?â
Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. âEh? ⊠I was dreaming. I beg
pardon. It seems hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood, that this awful catastrophe
has overtaken our beloved metropolisââ
The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly he cut in. âWould a
sovereign help you out, Mr. Calendar? I donât mind telling you thatâs about
the limit of my present resources.â
âPardon me.â Mr. Calendarâs moon-like countenance darkened; he assumed a
transparent dignity. âYou misconstrue my motive, sir.â
âThen Iâm sorry.â
âI am not here to borrow. On the other hand, quite by accident I discovered
your name upon the register, down-stairs; a good old Frisco name, if you
will permit me to say so. I thought to myself that here was a chance
to help a fellow-countryman.â Calendar paused, interrogative; Kirkwood
remained interested but silent. âIf a passage across would help you, IâI
think it might be arranged,â stammered Calendar, ill at ease.
âIt might,â admitted Kirkwood, speculative.
âI could fix it so that you could go overâfirst-class, of courseâand pay
your way, so to speak, by, rendering us, me and my partner, a trifling
service.â
âAh?â
âIn fact,â continued Calendar, warming up to his theme, âthere might be
something more in it for you than the passage, ifâif youâre the right man,
the man Iâm looking for.â
âThat, of course, is the question.â
âEh?â Calendar pulled up suddenly in a full-winged flight of enthusiasm.
Kirkwood eyed him steadily. âI said that it is a question, Mr. Calendar,
whether or not I am the man youâre looking for. Between you and me and the
fire-dogs, I donât believe I am. Now if you wish to name your _quid
pro quo_, this trifling service Iâm to render in recognition of your
benevolence, you may.â
âYe-es,â slowly. But the speaker delayed his reply until he had surveyed
his host from head to foot, with a glance both critical and appreciative.
He saw a man in height rather less than the stock size six-feet so much
in demand by the manufacturers of modern heroes of fiction; a man a bit
round-shouldered, too, but otherwise sturdily built, self-contained,
well-groomed.
Kirkwood wears a boyâs honest face; no one has ever called him handsome. A
few prejudiced persons have decided that he has an interesting countenance;
the propounders of this verdict have been, for the most part, feminine.
Kirkwood himself has been heard to declare that his features do not fit;
in its essence the statement is true, but there is a very real, if
undefinable, engaging quality in their very irregularity. His eyes are
brown, pleasant, set wide apart, straightforward of expression.
Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr. Calendar had acted upon
impulse in sending his card up to Kirkwood. Possibly he had anticipated a
very different sort of reception from a very different sort of man. Even in
the light of subsequent events it remains difficult to fathom the mystery
of his choice. Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger things have happened at
the dictates of a manâs Destiny.
At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in penetration; men of his
stamp are commonly endowed with that quality to an eminent degree. Not slow
to reckon the caliber of the man before him, the leaven of intuition began
to work in his adipose intelligence. He owned himself baffled.
âThanks,â he concluded pensively; âI reckon youâre right. You wonât do,
after all. Iâve wasted your time. Mine, too.â
âDonât mention it.â
Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for his hat and umbrella.
âPermit me to apologize for an unwarrantable intrusion, Mr. Kirkwood.â He
faltered; a worried and calculating look shadowed his small eyes. âI was
looking for some one to serve me in a certain capacityââ
âCertain or questionable?â propounded Kirkwood blandly, opening the door.
Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation. âSorry I disturbed you.
Gâdafternoon, Mr. Kirkwood.â
âGood-by, Mr. Calendar.â A smile twitched the corners of Kirkwoodâs
too-wide mouth.
Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As he strodeâor rather,
rolledâaway, Kirkwood maliciously feathered a Parthian arrow.
âBy the way, Mr. Calendarâ?â
The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and âYes?â came from the
gloom of the corridor.
âWere you ever in San Francisco? Really and truly? Honest Injun, Mr.
Calendar?â
For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh breathing; then, in a
strained voice, âGood day, Mr. Kirkwoodâ; and again the sound of departing
footfalls.
Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simultaneously, with a smart bang
of finality. Laughing quietly he went back to the window with its dreary
outlook, now the drearier for lengthening evening shadows.
âI wonder what his game is, anyway. An adventurer, of course; the woods are
full of âem. A queer fish, even of his kind! And with a trick up his sleeve
as queer and fishy as himself, no doubt!â
IIâAND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST UPON THEMâ
The assumption seems not unwarrantable, that Mr. Calendar figuratively
washed his hands of Mr. Kirkwood. Unquestionably Mr. Kirkwood considered
himself well rid of Mr. Calendar. When the latter had gone his way,
Kirkwood, mindful of the fact that his boat-train would leave St. Paneras
at half-after eleven, set about his packing and dismissed from his thoughts
the incident created by the fat chevalier dâindustrie; and at six
oâclock, or thereabouts, let himself out of his room, dressed for the
evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the other hand a cane,âthe
drizzle having ceased.
A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground floor of the
establishment in something short of five minutes. Pausing in the office
long enough to settle his bill and leave instructions to have his luggage
conveyed to the boat-train, he received with entire equanimity the affable
benediction of the clerk, in whose eyes he still figured as that radiant
creature, an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby, where he
surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-room attendant, ere entering
the dining-room.
The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner, the handsome room but
moderately filled with patrons. Kirkwood absorbed the fact unconsciously
and without displeasure; the earlier, the better: he was determined to
consume his last civilized meal (as he chose to consider it) at his serene
leisure, to live fully his ebbing moments in the world to which he was
born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate draught of luxury.
A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a corner table in
juxtaposition with an open window, through which, swaying imperceptibly the
closed hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of the London eveningâs sweet,
damp breath.
Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh of pleasure. He was dining,
for the last time in Heaven knew how long, in a first-class restaurant.
With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him the menu-card. He had
served in his time many an âAmerican, millionaireâ; he had also served this
Mr. Kirkwood, and respected him as one exalted above the run of his kind,
in that he comprehended the art of dining.
Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing, his order complete.
To distract a conscience whispering of extravagance, Kirkwood lighted a
cigarette.
The room was gradually filling with later arrivals; it was the most favored
restaurant in London, and, despite the radiant costumes of the women, its
atmosphere remained sedate and restful.
A cab clattered down the side street on which the window opened.
At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy. Incuriously Kirkwood
glanced her way. She was bending forward, smiling, flattering her escort
with the adoration of her eyes. They were lovers alone in the wilderness of
the crowded restaurant. They seemed very happy.
Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of emotion. It took him some time
to comprehend that it was envy.
He was alone and lonely. For the first time he realized that no woman had
ever looked upon him as the woman at the adjoining table looked upon her
lover. He had found time to worship but one mistressâhis art.
And he was renouncing her.
He was painfully conscious of what he had missed, had lostâor had not yet
found: the love of woman.
The sensation was curiousânew, unique in his experience.
His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he sat pondering. Abstractedly,
he ground its fire out in an ash-tray.
The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered.
He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce doing it justice. His dream
troubled himâhis dream of the love of woman.
From a little distance his waiter regarded him, with an air of
disappointment. In the course of an hour and a half he awoke, to discover
the attendant in the act of pouring very hot and black coffee from a bright
silver pot into a demi-tasse of fragile porcelain. Kirkwood slipped a
single lump of sugar into the cup, gave over his cigar-case to be filled,
then leaned back, deliberately lighting a long and slender panetela as a
preliminary to a last lingering appreciation of the scene of which he was a
part.
He reviewed it through narrowed eyelids, lazily; yet with some slight
surprise, seeming to see it with new vision, with eyes from which scales of
ignorance had dropped.
This long and brilliant dining-hall, with its quiet perfection of
proportion and appointment, had always gratified his love of the beautiful;
to-night it pleased him to an unusual degree. Yet it was the same as ever;
its walls tinted a deep rose, with their hangings of dull cloth-of-gold,
its lights discriminatingly clustered and discreetly shaded, redoubled in
half a hundred mirrors, its subdued shimmer of plate and glass, its soberly
festive assemblage of circumspect men and women splendidly gowned, its
decorously muted murmur of voices penetrated and interwoven by the strains
of a hidden string orchestraâcaressed his senses as always, yet with
a difference. To-night he saw it a room populous with lovers, lovers
insensibly paired, man unto woman attentive, woman of man regardful.
He had never understood this before. This much he had missed in
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