Lighted Windows, page 7
What did Bruce Harcourt think of it all? He was rarely in the office. One day he would be up the inlet in the launch to inspect the damage done by the rise of a stream, next he would be off with a section-gang and a steam-shovel; perhaps before forty-eight hours had elapsed he would be miles away inspecting the work of a ditcher. Not once had he entered the Samp cabin which had become the evening rendezvous for the engineers. Why didn’t he join them? Why did he treat Tubby Grant’s secretary with distant courtesy? Her leisure time was full. Jimmy Chester was teaching her to shoot; Tubby was patiently training her to be a fairly efficient photographer; the geologist of the outfit provided her with a hammer and showed her how to get at the secrets pebbles and rocks had concealed within them. What fun she and Bruce might have together.
The ring of the telephone brought her iridescent day-dream and the front legs of her chair down in a simultaneous crash. She answered the call.
“Office.”
“Hale speaking. Is this Miss Trent?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take pity on a poor duffer who’s been forbidden to write and take a letter or two for me?”
“Certainly, Mr. Hale. When?”
“At once if you will. I want it ready to go in the first plane that takes off.”
“I will come.”
As she removed protecting shields from the piqué cuffs of her beige jersey frock—Miss Martha had views as to her tax on laundry facilities—and picked up her note-book, she wondered what Tubby and Bruce would say about her going. What could she have done but consent? She had a great curiosity to see the deposed chief.
She had a sense of breathlessness as she pushed open the door of the Hale cabin. Joe Hale was seated in a wheel-chair near a window. A shaft of sunlight brought out gold and copper glints in his fair hair, etched deeper the lines in his face, ravaged by dissipation and depression. A brilliant Yakutat blanket was over his knees, an immaculate white shirt and an impeccable tie showed between the revers of a dark green lounging-robe. He would have been good-looking had he lived decently, Janice told herself in that first glance. She didn’t quite care for the little flames which leaped in his eyes as they met hers. She had seen that blaze in the eyes of men before and had hurriedly crossed to the other side of the street in spirit.
“Good of you to come, Miss Trent, particularly as I now have no claim on your time. Feel like a boob not to bring up a chair for you, but the doctors won’t let me take a step. Tyrants! Mrs. Hale ran over to see the Samp girls fifteen minutes ago. Seized this chance to get an outline made for a codicil to my will. Not that I have the least intention of passing out, but, I’ve had a tap on the shoulder.” He opened a brief case on a stand beside him and pulled out some papers.
Curious that his explanation left her with the same sense of uneasiness which had seized her as she entered the cabin, Janice thought. Of course it was nothing but her hectic imagination taking the bit in its teeth again. As she turned for a chair, she looked about the room. It was attractive, homelike, with no sense of overcrowding. She could care for that gorgeous screen before the door leading, she presumed, to another cabin; it must have come straight from the Orient. The stone fireplace was good too. That single massive blue jar filled with stalks of golden berries, on one end of the mantel picked up the groundwork in the cretonne hangings. Was smoke coming from that pipe laid on the mantel? Had Mrs. Hale been gone fifteen minutes? Would tobacco keep hot that long? If she were away and Hale himself couldn’t move, who had put it there?
It seemed as though she stared at the betraying smoke ages, but it couldn’t have been more than an instant as the man in the sunshine still rattled his papers. She looked at him as she placed the chair. Tubby had said: “Sometimes I wonder if he’s faking helplessness.” Was he faking? Was he? she asked herself. If so, why? Was he scheming against Bruce?
He selected a paper. “Here is the memorandum of what I want to dictate. You look as though you could keep a secret, Miss Trent. Beautiful women as a rule are dumb; I’ll bet my gold nuggets you’re an exception. I kiss your hands—in spirit.”
She had heard that caressing inflection before too, she told herself, with a bitter twist of her lips. If he wanted to impress her with a sense of friendliness, not in the manner of Ned Paxton should he approach her. She responded in her crispest voice.
“A secretary is supposed to be a machine, not a person when taking dictation, Mr. Hale. Ready.”
She tried to remain indifferent to the meaning of the codicil she was transcribing, but it was startling. He interpolated remarks into his dictation, as to his longing for a home, his intention to settle down and become a solid citizen, his private fortune. He paid her several fulsome compliments. She sensed a chuckle behind the words as though he were in possession of a secret. Trying to make her realize that he knew from whence she had come and why she had come? Whatever he was insinuating he was boring. Once she stopped him.
“Please keep to the dictation, Mr. Hale; you confuse me.”
“My mistake, Miss Trent. I’ve been shut up here so long it’s a temptation to be garrulous. Where were we? Oh yes—close with, ‘This is—’ ”
Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! The sounds came from behind the screen. Small revelatory crashes that meant but one thing. A broken string of beads. So, Mrs. Hale was at home. Listening. What was the big idea? By a supreme effort of will Janice kept her voice indifferent.
“What was that?”
Was it imagination or did Hale relax?
“Buttons. That nitwit dog of Millicent’s has upset her work-basket again.”
A brilliant blue bead rolled soundlessly across the rug and stopped behind his chair. Janice brought her teeth sharply into her lip to keep back an exclamation. Tatima! Tatima was behind the screen.
Hale’s suave voice broke into her reflections. “So, you ran away from marriage. Kiss and run type, yes?”
Janice’s blood sang in her ears from fury. She managed to keep her voice steady.
“Go on with your dictation, Mr. Hale. I have left important work at the office.”
“Where were we? I remember. That’s all.” He pulled a thick roll from his coat pocket. Peeled off a ten-dollar bill. “Take this. I’ve no right to your time.”
Janice rose. “Thank you, no. I will type the material at once and send it for you to look over.”
“Efficient, aren’t you? I’d thought of letting the deserted bridegroom know where you were, but, we need you here.”
She looked steadily back at him as she snapped the rubber band on her note-book.
“May I suggest that you mind your own business?”
The force with which she closed the door behind her relieved her overcharged spirit. In her dash from the cabin she collided with Jimmy Chester. His thin, worn face was white, his gloomy dark eyes were smoldering coals as he caught her by the shoulder.
“Someone told me that you were here. What do you mean by coming when Millicent is at the Samps’?”
For an instant Janice stared incredulously. Then she twisted herself free. She vented the remainder of her fury on him.
“What business is it of yours why I went there?”
“I’ll make it my business,” he answered savagely and pulled open the cabin door.
Her breath was still coming raggedly when she reached the office. She gazed unseeingly out of the window. Why had Hale sent for her when his wife was out? Was that codicil the real thing or had he used it as an excuse? How did he dare carry such a wad of money in this camp? Who had told Jimmy Chester where she was? Bruce would better send him off laying tracks again or there would be trouble. His brother-in-law was getting on his nerves. Why had Tatima been behind the screen? Had the Indian girl laid the lighted pipe on the mantel or had Hale been standing there when she had rapped on the door? What would be his object in pretending invalidism? Should she tell Bruce and Tubby her suspicions?
Harcourt loomed in the doorway. “Good morning.” He crossed to his desk. Two little lines deepened between his brows as he opened letters. Had he even heard her reply to his greeting, Janice wondered. A shadow fell across the floor. He looked up from his papers. Smiled.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hale. How’s Joe?”
Millicent Hale stood in the doorway. Under one arm was her toy Pekinese. Her haunted eyes were smooched with shadows as violet as her frock. Her lips drooped. Her slim body sagged. Her laugh was as unsteady as her hands, yet her voice held the assurance of a woman confident of her welcome, secure in her charm.
“I know that I’m breaking rules, your rules, coming to the office, Bruce, but I’m desperate. I—I—” she bit her lips, clenched her frail hands as though with all her being she were holding back a flood of emotion. “Tubby Grant told me that you and he were to air-trot tomorrow, were to scout out a place on the river from which to start the road toward the new bridge. That after that you would fly to the city. Take me. I’m fed-up on myself, on everything in this terrible wilderness. I haven’t left our cabin for more than an hour since Joe’s break-down, my nerves are on edge. If I go I can get some things he needs. Mary Samp promised to look after him. Why not take Miss Trent, that is if Argus of the Hundred Eyes will let her go.”
Whom had she meant by that jibe? Including her in the party was an after-thought, Janice deduced, even as she answered:
“Nice of you to think of me, Mrs. Hale, but—wouldn’t two women be frightfully in the way on an exploring expedition?”
“It’s not an exploring expedition, it’s a scouting party.” Millicent Hale slipped her hand under Harcourt’s arm. “Please take me—us, Bruce.”
Her voice, her wistful lips, her misty eyes set off fiery pinwheels of anger in Janice’s mind. Harcourt smiled indulgently. Men were pulp, mere pulp, in the hands of a soft, purry, “little woman” like that, the girl told herself furiously.
“Do you realize that we start at sun-up? That we won’t land till we get to the city at breakfast time?”
Hooey! His voice hadn’t been so smooth as that when he had spoken to her a moment ago. He was stooping to parley. Millicent Hale sensed her advantage, pressed it eagerly.
“All the more fun. You will take me—us, won’t you?”
“If Miss Trent will come. Care to go air-trotting, Miss Trent?”
Fly! Janice throttled her imagination, attested fervently:
“I’d love it.”
“Then it’s a date. Be sure you’re ready on time. The plane starts the minute the sun pokes its rim above the horizon, passengers or no passengers.”
With eager assurance of a prompt appearance Millicent Hale departed. As Bruce Harcourt returned to his desk, Janice inquired:
“What did she mean by ‘If Argus of the Hundred Eyes will let her go’?”
His grave face broke into laughter. “Forgotten your mythology? Argus was the watch-dog of Olympus, the favored mountain of the greater gods and goddesses. The engineers have dubbed Martha Samp Argus of the Hundred Eyes. Get the connection?”
“Do they mean—that she’s guarding me?”
His jaw tightened, the smile left his eyes. “I mean that Martha Samp—Argus of the Hundred Eyes—is all that stands between you and a quick return to civilization. You know you shouldn’t be here. I know it. While we’re on this subject I’ll suggest that you go slow with Jimmy Chester.”
A little demon of contrariness took possession of Janice. She thoughtfully nibbled the end of her fountain pen, as she looked up with ingenuous eyes.
“I’m surprised that you don’t include Tubby Grant in the taboo.”
“Tubby’s immune. He’s working to prove to a girl back home that he can make good. Jimmy’s different.”
Janice indulged in a delicately regretful sigh. “He is fascinating even if his eyes are tragically old.”
Harcourt left his desk, loomed over her. “Attractive! Jimmy’s a corking engineer, but he’s pulp where girls are concerned. The war left his eyes old and his temperament slightly twisted. You might as safely play with high explosives. He’s the type who would do something desperate if he got the wrong slant.”
Her laughing voice challenged. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
His eyes darkened. “We were talking about Chester. Watch your step.”
“Is that a threat or a warning?”
“Neither. It’s a reminder.”
VII
Squatted cobbler-fashion on the cot bed in her cabin Janice regarded herself in a roughly framed mirror above a dressing-table fashioned from a packing-box. Even the gay chintz cover couldn’t disguise its strictly humble, if useful, beginnings. The looking-glass faithfully reflected the sheen of her dahlia satin pajama coat, the orchid of blouse and trousers, the soft rose of the brocade bedspread. As though brushed in with living colors, caught there, held there, her figure stood out, clean-cut against an impressionistic background of log walls.
She barely breathed as she met the mirrored eyes. Who was that girl really? What was she? Did she herself know what lay deep in her mind? What profundities of passion and sorrow, love and hate smoldered within her visible body? She had come north in quest of a different self, a fearless self. Had she found it? At least she had exposed her mind to new ideas; to a drastic reversal of her mode of luxurious living. Where was it taking her? Bruce had warned her to watch her step. Should she have told him that she had been to Hale’s cabin? No. He might resent it and the feeling between the two men was sufficiently bitter as it was. Why had Jimmy Chester been so furious? She wouldn’t admit it to Bruce but he had been waxing uncomfortably sentimental of late. She had treated him with the same friendliness she had bestowed on the other engineers, he was beginning to resent their presence in the Samp living-room in the evening. She was conscious that Millicent Hale was warily watching their friendship. She had had her Pekinese under her arm when she had stopped at the office door. A basket overturned by the little dog, Hale had explained the scatter of beads. Buttons! He hadn’t seen that straying bit of blue glass. Why had Tatima been behind the screen?
Her glance dropped to the profusion of silver and rose enameled appointments on the dressing-table. Over the room it traveled, past the rough wall to the washstand, with its elaborately monogrammed towels, came back to the mirror.
“Bruce was right; you shouldn’t be here with this absurd paraphernalia—absurd for this camp. You ought to have the sense to wear a flannel bath coat when you rest after work, but these gay things pep you up and help keep up your morale, don’t they? They put color and romance into quiet Miss Mary’s life too; they’re making her style-conscious, they and the fashion magazines for which you subscribed when you knew that you were coming into the wilderness—not that you had the slightest conception of what it really was, Miss Trent. No matter what anyone says or thinks, my dear, keep on changing for evening as you would at home. It might grow easy to be careless and sloppy in this wilderness, and a sloppy woman’s the meanest work of God.”
Through the open window drifted the notes of a bugle. Retreat! She jumped from the bed to watch the slowly lowered Stars and Stripes gathered in by outstretched hands. She blinked her long lashes, swallowed hard. The sight of the Colors in this northern frontier tightened her throat.
Light as day. Thin clouds like torn veils streaked the sky. No sign of rain. All indications pointed to a perfect day for tomorrow’s flight. Bruce hadn’t appeared madly enthusiastic at the prospect of taking women passengers. Why worry? He had consented to their going, that was enough. It would be the first time she had been far from headquarters since her arrival. She had been up the inlet a way in the motorboat, had taken long tramps with Jimmy Chester and the geologist over the rough roads, but tomorrow she would fly hundreds of miles. It seemed unbelievable.
Dishes were rattling in the Waffle Shop. That meant that supper preparations were going forward. She’d better slip into her gown. Miss Martha would be sending a tray into the living-room shortly. The Samp sisters would not permit her to step foot in the Shop when the men were eating there. She was guarded with nineteenth century standards of propriety. They were dears. Could she ever repay them for their kindness?
Kadyama was filling the wood-box in the living-room, she could hear him shuffling back and forth. Regular as clockwork. One could tell the time by his coming and going. A curious character. Sardonic. Taciturn. She avoided him when she could.
What was that sound? Coat half off, she listened. Something running round and round like mad. Blot having a fit?
She thrust her arm back into the satin sleeve, dashed through the passage, stopped on the threshold of the living-room. Overturned chairs waved legs in air as though in exercise of their Daily Dozen. Spools rolled on the floor from the overturned work-basket. A slammed door cut a terrified “Meow!” in half.
Blot! Blot had been kidnapped! By Kadyama? Hadn’t Bruce said that the natives feared the cat as they did the Evil Spirit? It would break the Samp girls’ hearts if anything happened to their pet. Could she rescue it?
She jerked open the door, ran in pursuit of a bent, scurrying figure hooded in a brilliant Yakutat blanket. The tip of a lashing black tail hung below it. Where was the Indian taking the cat?
Janice’s breath came unevenly, the wide, full trousers swished about her feet, the strap of one parchment-kid sandal snapped. “Darn!” She was neither shod nor costumed for a rescue stunt, she told herself with an hysterical giggle. Silly, just as though clothes mattered if she could save Blot from harm. Not that she liked the cat. To her mind he was the last word in treachery. But she couldn’t stand by and see the Samp girls hurt. Where was the man going? Was she the only person on location who saw him? He had passed the Waffle Shop without being noticed. To the kennels? They were back of the office. Surely someone there would see him. What was the kidnapper’s idea? He didn’t intend—he did! He did!
Her shout of protest cracked in her dry throat—for all the world as though she were shrieking for help in a nightmare—as a struggling, kicking, spitting black ball was flung with terrific force into the yard where a dozen or more slant-eyed, ruby-tongued huskies were yipping and yelping and rollicking. They stiffened to rigidity as they regarded the motionless black heap. A trimly built Siberian broke the spell with a joyous yelp. He nosed the stunned cat, tossed it. A husky with baleful yellow eyes caught it, sent it whirling back. Like a shuttlecock it flew from dog to dog to an accompaniment of barks and growls.
