The Wonderful Scheme of Mr. Christopher Thorne, page 28
On the ground!
Erskine felt at that second that he looked mighty grim. On the ground! To nab Marceau! He knew full well who would be nabbed—if he were on the ground. It would be one Phillip Erskine. But he said nothing. As, indeed, he could not—under the grave circumstances surrounding his being here in St. John. But his foster-father was speaking again.
“And so, son, it looks very much, does it not, as though I have ended the story now of Kwan Yung? And now there are but one or two small things for me to attend to in order to rest easily. I do not feel that I am going to survive my illness, son, and if I am not, I desire to see matters all cleared up. I am going to turn over to you this note, outlawed and useless at—and on—midnight of February 26th, some sixteen days hence. And with it I am going to turn over to you, of course, the paper covering your adoption, and the legal mandate of the Fairfield County Court in Connecticut, showing my change of name from Kwan Yung to Yai Quong. And that—the note I refer to—together with a matter of some $800, is all I shall be able to leave you. Not much of a heritage, is it, son?”
“I wish, Daddy Quong, that you wouldn’t talk about heritages and death. For both are far away.”
“You think so?” smiled the other. He rolled his eyes back to a tin box on the shelf above him. “Hand me down that box, son, so I can unlock it with this little key hung around my neck here.”
Erskine reluctantly rose and took down the battered tin box. The older man opened it with his thin yellow fingers, and took from it a trio of papers held together by a single metal clip. He handed them to the younger man. “There, son, I turn them over to you. The principal one is the promissory note—a scrap of paper. A heritage of paper!”
Phillip Erskine had once before seen his adoption paper; so he did not bother to review it again. Not at this juncture, anyway. But the other two papers he did scan. First, the note, and with the intense interest engendered in him by his knowledge now of the drama it had meant in the life of this wasted man who lay before him. It was made payable to Kwan Yung for $31,250, which name and amount were neatly typed in in the proper blanks of the printed matter comprising the more-or-less standard terms of such instruments, as was also the date of the note, February 23, 1927, the words “3 days” for its time of maturity, and its legal interest rate of 6 per cent, evidently to make it appear valid. The one piece of handwriting on it, its signature, Oliver Edward Marceau, on the bottom line, was moreover, plain and distinct, and the ink was far from faded even after this lapse of nearly ten years. Studying the paper, however, Erskine put forth a question.
“I note, Daddy Quong, that this is a State of Illinois note—the location, Chicago, Illinois, being actually printed in. Just how does that happen?”
“Well, Oliver, it seems,” the older man replied, reminiscently, “got the note, on the night he typed it, from some company up the hall in his buildings—a canned foods products company which sold their goods to grocers on various extended terms, the country over. And their salesmen, at least in each big city, were provided with printed notes. Oliver happened to catch a Chicago salesman in there that night, and got a blank note. The firm—as is so often the case—left the payee line blank to be filled out with firm members’ names, for some kind of convenience in handling or suing, I know not which. And so Oliver cut the name of the firm off the top, thus getting a practical note-form—except, of course, for the printed location, reading ‘Chicago, Illinois,’ on the date line there. And that, son, was in a sense a somewhat fortunate thing.”
“Why, Daddy Quong? Wouldn’t it—oh, I see. Yes. A New York State note is outlawed 6 years after maturity.”
“Precisely, son. And this note being specifically an Illinois note, derives the advantage of the 10-year outlawry of that state. My attorney here in Canada confirmed that, even as Amos Lane affirmed it, years ago. And I but wish today that note had been a Louisiana note—for then its period of outlawry would have been 15 years.”
Erskine nodded slowly. And now turned the note over. There his foster-father had endorsed in a bracket two names, and had preceded them by a single transfer of his rights in the paper. It read:
Pay to the order of my legally adopted son—or, if any defect lie within my adoption thereof—to Phillip G. Erskine.
Kwan Yung
Yai Quong (by virtue of County Court Record), Redding Ridge, Connecticut, June 8th, 1927. Document A-12,256, Book 71, Page 242.)
The younger man gave but a casual glance at the smaller of the other two crisp documents, which he saw bore a seal and the stamp of a court clerk, and showed that one Kwan Yung had been duly changed, so far as his name went, to Yai Quong. He folded it together and looked up.
“Now, Daddy Quong, I’ve been mighty interested in hearing all this story and mighty glad that you confided in me. For the present, I’m not going to take my heritage, for it will be many years yet before you and I part company. So suppose we just put the three papers back in the tin box on the shelf, and begin to talk about something cheerful—about how you are going to get well, and how I am going at last to pick up Marceau’s whereabouts when he phones in or wires in, or even comes in—on February 25th—or even February 26th, yes—to the place of my employer, Thorne—after Xenius Jones, Britisher, has unfurled his—triumphal deductive banner!—yes—in the morning papers of—of February 25th. Yes. Then—bing! A municipal court suit filed. Something which, as I see you, too, have wisely reasoned, Daddy Quong, we manifestly can not file ahead of his appearance, as a story of Kwan Yung suing Oliver Edward Marceau would make as many papers as the André Marceau case itself—and tip Oliver Edward right off—that we were laying for him. I’ll say! But only ten minutes to file that municipal court suit, Daddy Quong—oh, I’ve learned down there in Thorne’s offices how to file court suits in a jiffy. Then service, within thirty minutes, on Marceau—directly or by registered wire or cable. And judgment pro-tem—or pro-re-nata against him inside of half an hour—while the note is still unexpired—sure, Daddy Quong!—plenty of justices available to hand it down if he can be shown positively to be alive—I know of at least three—and then we’ve got him tied up nicely, if he’s got anything—and, if not, we just proceed in due course to grab that surplus money of his he’s got coming from Thorne, or will have coming—in the next 9 years—$9000. Or $4500—his compromised half of it, anyway. That’s ‘somep’n’—as our Mr. Andy says on the American radios. We’ll catch Oliver Marceau this time, Daddy Quong. And now that I know what it’s all about, it’ll be the thrill of a lifetime to sit in Thorne’s office—and catch Marceau’s inquiry on the wire—to see him himself, beaked nose and all, barging into that reception room. I—I—”
And Erskine, breaking off, gave a dry little laugh. For in the extravagant sweep of his fancy, let loose at first to buoy up the man before him, he had himself been carried, for the moment, completely away from reality—had forgotten utterly, over that last twenty seconds in which he had been speaking, that he himself would not again be sitting in the Thorne offices. And he wondered how he, the supposed embezzler, certain evidence of a sort against him, presumed even now to have left the North American continent, his substitute Pete Cantrell journeying southward in his place, could step back close enough to the precincts of Christopher Thorne’s business—to wait for Oliver Edward Marceau! On top of which came the further realization of something that had evidently not ever even occurred to his foster-father’s mind: namely, that Marceau, if alive, knew that that huge note stood out against him—that it was outlawed on February 26th, 1927. Maybe that—that was why he had waited—these past 21 months. And, whether or no, it wouldn’t be much of a wait for Marceau, from the morning of February 25th—when he might, at that, learn for the first time of André Marceau’s death—to February 26th midnight, when no instruments whatever would stand out against him. Erskine half shook his head. It was all—all a hopeless enigma: he, unable to be in Thorne’s offices—and Marceau, moreover, perhaps, waiting coolly for the note to expire. A double set of obstacles—not by any means so easy to solve! He reached out instead and put a hand upon his foster-father’s forehead. “Daddy Quong, it seems to me you’ve got a bit of a fever. You must rest now. And we’ll make some plans tomorrow as to what we’ll do when you’re well and better.”
“All right, son. I feel relieved now. I think I shall sleep a bit. But I had to tell you all this. I hear the Widow Em coming in. Just sit by the bed there, so that I can feel you are near. I like to know that the only son ever vouchsafed to me—cheng-fong-gwai that I am—is by my side.” And he closed his eyelids, and soon was breathing regularly.
After a few minutes, Erskine pulled down the shade a bit and tiptoed from the bedchamber. He made arrangements with the widow for a room upstairs. It was a little room, fitted up in old-fashioned manner, with rag carpet on the floor. He went up to it and unpacked. From afar, as he did so, he heard the whistle of the paper mill blowing the hour for the afternoon return to work—one o’clock. And it caused him to reflect that, at that moment, some 1500 miles more or less directly to the south, the Amazonian Queen was rapidly pulling away from New Orleans-bearing one Peter Cantrell to new and better things.
Just a boat—pulling out.
But what of that other bark—the bark of Yai Quong?
Ai!
CHAPTER XIX
The Bark of Yai Quong
Erskine ate supper that night with the widow in her kitchen. Several times, during the long afternoon, he had tip-toed in to see his foster-father, but the older man was sleeping peacefully. Dr. McQuaid came once, toward mid-afternoon, muffled in a greatcoat, nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin reflectively, and left some medicine and instructions, too, about calling him—if anything untoward should happen at any time. And the doctor went.
And at nine o’clock, Yai Quong wakened and was in distress of some sort. The medicine relieved it but temporarily only. And at ten that night, Erskine and the widow had to summon the doctor, just as the latter returned from a call far out in the country, and he came again, his neck shrouded in a great plaid woolen muffler. The sick man appeared to be suffering a sinking spell.
“I—I allowed him to talk too much,” Erskine told the doctor troubledly, in the seclusion of the kitchen.
“No, my boy,” McQuaid assured him kindly. “No amount of expenditures of physical energy has any effect on the outcome of a case like his. I assure you of that.”
Nevertheless, in cheerless mien, he administered hypodermic restoratives. But the sick man’s breathing grew still more labored. Erskine felt suddenly cold—cold all over. Cold as ice. He beckoned McQuaid back to the kitchen.
“You don’t think, do you—” he broke off.
“My boy,” the medical man said, “I didn’t want to tell you this when you came this morning; I—I wanted you to get it by degrees—but the curve I have plotted daily, on his rate of corpuscular breakup, indicated this morning specifically that—”
“When?” asked Erskine, his voice sounding utterly unknown to him—his veins running now with ice spicules.
“About midnight, my boy—” McQuaid broke off, shaking his head.
Erskine breathed sharply.
Curves! Lying loops of ink—connecting points on a paper. All medicine was a lie. Was known to be wrong—ten times out of twenty. Was known—
He found himself back in the bedroom—not knowing how he got there. He leaned down over the bed. Tried, with a rigid, disarming smile on his lips, to mask the turmoil in his soul.
“Feeling a—a little distressed, Daddy Quong?”
The sick man smiled up at him.
“Just—just—son—those birth pangs—as the second cycle opens.” He smiled again.
Erskine stood erect suddenly. And turned away. Tears in his eyes. The second cycle! Why—why must it be? Why—
The doctor was looking more regretful by eleven o’clock. And in addition to another hypodermic, he administered to the ill man the vapors from several ampules which he broke open. But the precious thread of vitality appeared to be snapping now. By 11:30 Yai Quong, obviously oblivious to all around him, was muttering strange Chinese phrases, forgotten no doubt, in his own conscious mind, over many decades. Just before midnight he muttered the single word “Bella.” And then his face grew curiously rigid—masklike.
The doctor made as if to use his stethoscope—but shook his head instead. And drew the sheet over the face, nodding silently.
And Erskine, stepping dazedly forth from the little bedroom, just as the paper mills hollowly blew the hour of midnight, the doctor behind him grave and sad, and the Widow Em in front of him in tears, knew that he was not only fatherless and motherless—but devoid now of even a foster-father.
Alone in his upstairs room that night, he tried to come to a decision of some sort. Before the inevitable tide of grief should melt the temporary anesthesia of feeling which his foster-father’s sudden passing had created in him. As for “Daddy Quong,” he should be buried in the little Canadian town here where he had spent these last two years. But what of himself—Erskine? No longer could he appear on the streets of Chicago, the only city whose byways and people were like friends to him, for Christopher Thorne would undoubtedly attempt, in that case, to send him to the penitentiary—and might very likely succeed, considering the facts and evidence which had come together to cause his banishment two—nearly three—nights ago. True, no longer did he have to fear that one dread thing—bringing down the arm of the law on his foster-father’s head. For the arm of a bigger law had descended gently thereon. So Erskine could, he knew, so far as he himself was concerned, stalk boldly, arrogantly, back into Chicago. But strangely, in his heaviness of heart at this moment, neither Chicago nor any other city on the globe appeared to him to hold forth any welcoming arms. For Alicia had deserted him in his hour of need—and without Alicia in the scheme of things eternal, nothing seemed to matter—one way or the other.
And thus he sat, chin in hands, eyes staring through darkness, until through the glass panes of the one little window, frosted almost to opaqueness by the intense cold without, the first red rays of the rising sun filtered in and lit up the room, and downstairs he heard the Widow Em building a fire in the woodburning stove.
CHAPTER XX
Mr. Cantrell Thinks It Over
Who is there who, sweltering in the heat of midsummer, has not sworn by the beards of all the prophets that winter, with its crisp air and cozy interiors and snow-covered sidewalks, is exactly one degree removed from the Biblical Heaven? And who is there, likewise, who, buffeted by the cold winds from the north—and points beyond, harassed by heavy overcoat, bulky, cumbersome and buttoned in at the neck, the tip of his nose stinging with the cold, and his fingers stiffened, does not sigh for a clime where Old Man Winter—and Brother Boreas—never come? Thus it was with Pete Cantrell. For weeks prior to his lucky meeting with Erskine on North Ashland Avenue, not far from Madison Street, the hunting grounds of the down-and-outers, the floaters, the hoboes and the drifters, he had been thus buffeted about, his body half frozen at times, his toes numbed, his nose nipped, his hands chapped, sleeping on the floors of drafty missions with “mission stiffs,” and in cold government warehouses with “reliefsters,” never more than partially protected from the elements by the ragged second-hand overcoat that he wore; and with the promise that was given to him that he might go to a country of South America where flowers bloomed and the sun shone hot, he had glimpsed a veritable look into the promised land.
But it was a somewhat different emotion that filled him when he got off of the Illinois Central train in New Orleans at nine o’clock on the night of Tuesday, the ninth of February. Long before the train reached New Orleans—in fact, almost since noon that day, and all the while it had been speeding across the cane-brake fields of Mississippi—the insinuating heat of America’s South had been creeping in. The steam had been turned off in the coaches early that morning, and from noontime on windows had been open, allowing the fresh warm air of Tennessee to give place to that of Mississippi, and then in turn to be supplanted by that of the low Louisiana country. And when Pete Cantrell, his dingy paperoid suitcase in one hand, his ragged overcoat over his arm, dismounted in the train sheds of the Illinois Central Depot in the Crescent City, and wandered somewhat dazedly out into the front, he came upon a vista that made the cold rigors he had left a sort of wild nightmare.
South Rampart Street, crazy and crooked, winding north-east from the depot, its ancient, sunbaked buildings fronted by giant porticoes held up by wooden posts, testified to the existence of a city where the sun more than made itself felt, and suggested Steamboat Days with planters wearing broad gray-brimmed hats, afoot for a bit of a lark. A scantily clad Negro boy, trousers held up by one suspender, cap askew on his shaven head, ragged shirt open at the breast, ground away at a hand-organ which in any city of the North would have been in charge of a swarthy son of Italy. Thousands of Negroes of all shades—but the majority of the blackest ebony—threaded back and forth, some tall, and some short, some thin and some fat, some resplendent in tan shoes, brilliantly checked suits and straw hats with flamboyant bands, and others ragged and shuffling, while here and there, a standard Southern mammy waddled along, head swathed in bright red bandanna, fat body wrapped in all the rags that generations of “w’ite folks” had discarded, and shoes consisting of but flapping bits of leather tied together with coarse twine. At open upstairs windows that had never known the frost—but not one of which, however, was minus its swinging shutter that could close out the fierce heat of the mid-day—sat Negroes thrumming guitars and playing banjoes, and as Pete Cantrell made his way eastward along this street, following directions given him in the depot for reaching New Orleans’ main thoroughfare, he was conscious already that he was in a city where care was forgot.
