Nothing In Her Way (7 page)

“By God, you’re right,” he said. “They couldn’t take a chance, with what you know about it.” It was that easy.

Early the next morning I sent off the corny telegram to Charlie’s address in Houston. “Congratulations to the lucky couple. May all your troubles be little ones.” That was the code for him to call his friend in New York, who’d wire Goodwin from there that the head of the Occidental Glass Company’s legal department, who was en route to the West Coast, would like to stop off in Wyecross and discuss a business matter.

It was like shooting quail on the ground. Wednesday night Goodwin called me, full of excitement and almost sputtering. He’d received the wire from New York, all right, and then another from the lawyer himself, from Houston. He’d be in on the nine a.m. Westbound next day.

“All right,” I said. “You’re a businessman. You know what to do when you hold a hand like that.”

“Yes,” he said happily. “You bet I do.”

I was looking out the window of the drugstore the next morning after the train came in and saw Goodwin go by with him. Bolton looked like the legal department of Fort Knox, in a camel’s-hair coat that probably cost as much as a small car.

He had to stay all day, since there wasn’t another train until nine p.m. About nine-fifteen Goodwin called. He’d just got back from the station, seeing him off. “I did it,” he said, a little wildly.

“Good for you,” I said.

“He knew you’d told me, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He’d probably have killed you if he could have found you. I started him off at three hundred thousand, and he finally gave up at two-seventy-five.”

“The deal already made?” I asked.

“Not yet. They have to have a meeting of the board. But he says it’s almost certain to go through. They’ve got an option on it at that price, for ten days.”

“Fine,” I said. “That’ll give you just about time enough to have your title searched. Then you’re in.”

I put that in to help him along. He still hadn’t got it. He was going to, as soon as it soaked in, and as I said, it was poison. It could kill you if you had a bad heart. It wasn’t until the next afternoon around three that it finally got to him. He called me at the motel.

“Reichert,” he said wildly, “can you get over here right away? Something terrible’s come up, and I’ve got to have some advice. I’m trying to get hold of my lawyer now, and maybe he’ll be here by the time you are.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

He’d remembered it at last. The land was his, all right, and the title was clear, but about five months ago he’d sold the oil rights to a lease speculator by the name of Wallace Caffery.

The thing that made it bad was that the lease said “mineral rights.” And Wallace Caffery, of course, was Wolford Charles.

It wasn’t as dumb as it looked, and actually he probably hadn’t forgotten it at all. It was just that it didn’t matter. Land was often sold without the mineral rights, which around here meant simply oil, as that was the only mineral they had. Occidental Glass just wanted the sand. And sand wasn’t a mineral. Was it? Was it?

The lawyer was already there by the time I made it. They had a copy of the contract out, and Goodwin was slowly going crazy. The lawyer explained it to me.

“I’d have to look it up before I could say definitely,” he told Goodwin, “but just offhand I’d say you haven’t got a chance.” He turned to me again. “What is sand, Reichert? Technically, I mean. Rock, isn’t it? Silicia—sil-something.

“Silicon,” I said, praying Charlie’s coaching wouldn’t go back on me now. “Actually, it’s the oxide. Silicon dioxide is the correct name for it. Its nonorganic, of course. Physically, it’s nothing but small fragments of quartz.”

The lawyer shook his head. “There goes your ball game. Quartz is mineral to anybody.”

It was murder. Just a little matter of $275,000 thrown out the window for the miserable handful of chicken feed Caffery’d given him for the oil rights on land where there’d never been any oil and never would be any because there were two dry holes on it already. You could see it in his face. The eyes were beginning to look haunted. Pal, I thought, it took a long time, but how does it feel?

His only hope, of course, was to find Caffery and buy back the lease. And he had just ten days to do it. The only thing he knew was that Caffery was a small-time speculator and wildcatter who operated out of a hole-in-the-wall office in Houston when he wasn’t operating out of his suitcase. He grabbed the next train east. He was gone two days, and when he came back his eyes were no longer haunted. They were wild. His face was haggard.

He’d found Caffery, all right. And Caffery had just laughed at him. So there’d been some big oil-company geologists snooping around the land, and now he wanted to pull a fast one and get it back? Fat chance.

If I hadn’t kept reminding myself of the thing he’d helped do to my father and Dunbar, I’d have felt sorry for him. He could lose his sanity. It was more wealth than he’d ever dreamed of, and it was lying just beyond his outstretched fingers in a nightmare where he couldn’t move.

That was Monday. He kept calling Caffery and getting the brush-off every day until Thursday, when some girl who answered the phone said Caffery had gone out of town and she didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. You had to admit it; Charlie was a genius. It was magnificent. The final turn of the screw came within an hour or two after that last, useless telephone call. It was a telegram from El Paso, sent by Bolton, of course. He had received instructions from the president of Occidental Glass to take up the option, and would be in town on the nine-thirty eastbound Friday night with a certified check for $275,000. If you’d touched Goodwin he’d have twanged like a bowstring, or blown up before your eyes.

I was at his house when it came, and it was an awful thing to watch. He had to fight himself to keep from babbling and becoming incoherent when he talked. He was sweating as he called Houston again. He asked me to listen in on the extension, just in case Caffery was there, so I could see if I could detect any signs of weakening. The stupid girl popped chewing gum in his ear. Mr. Caffery? No, he was still out of town. But wait, come to think of it, he had called in from some little town just about an hour ago. She thought he was down there where he was drilling an oilcat well. No, she was trying to think of the name of the town, but she couldn’t remember it. It sounded like Snookum. Was there a town that sounded like Snookum? It was on the coast somewhere, not too far from Houston—she thought. There was something familiar about her voice, even under the seven layers of stupidity.

I got off the extension and we both started tearing wildly through road maps, looking for it, while Goodwin kept the long-distance line open. We couldn’t locate anything that looked like it. Goodwin went back on the phone and pleaded with her. Couldn’t she possibly think of it?

Oh, yes, she said; she’d just remembered. She had written it down and forgotten she had. And wasn’t it funny, it didn’t sound like Snookum at all. It sounded like Cuddly. The name of the town was Ludley. Mr. Caffery would be at the hotel there. There was only one hotel, she thought. Oh, you’re welcome, she said sweetly, and popped her gum. God, I thought, Charlie must have hired Shirley Booth for the job. Then it rang on me at last. It was Cathy.

So she was in San Antonio, was she? So she could be near me? I tried to stifle the red blaze of anger.

Goodwin finally got through to the hotel at Ludley. Caffery was out. Then, the next time, his line was busy. I listened in on the extension when he got through to him at last.

It sounded as if a battle was going on in the hotel room, or they were having a stevedores’ union meeting. If Charlie was making all the noise alone, he should have been a one-man band.

“Hello! Hello! Yes, Caffery speaking,” he yelled. “Who is it? Who? Goodwin? What the hell do you want?…Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” His voice became muffled, as if he’d put a hand over the transmitter, but we could still hear him. “Pipe down! Give me a chance to answer the phone. You’ll get your money.”

Then he was back on the line. “Who is this now? Oh, Goodwin.” He broke into a string of profanity. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not for sale. I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand. What!” This last was apparently for somebody in the room. We could hear his voice going on, muffled. “Look, this is none of your business. I told you I’d get it, and I’ll do it. Go on out there and start fishing for that bit. I tell you my credit’ll be good anywhere in the state the minute we bring it in.”

He was yelling into the telephone again. “Look, Goodwin, where can I get hold of you if I have to? Will you be at home? All right! All right! But don’t call me again. I’m busy.” He hung up.

Goodwin was limp and ready to collapse over the table. “What do you think, Reichert?” was all he could say.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think he’s in a jam himself, from the way it sounds. Sweat it out. I’ve got a hunch he’ll come to you.” Some hunch, I thought. Charlie was due to make his appearance just after eight tomorrow morning, according to the schedule.

It was all over except tying up the loose ends and actually getting the money, and it was time to be getting ready to run. Bolton was already in the clear, of course, since he was in El Paso. As soon as Charlie got his hands on the cash, he’d head for El Paso, and Cathy was to come by from San Antonio at noon of the day we pulled it off and pick me up, and we’d meet them in El Paso at the hotel. We’d split up and be out of the state before Goodwin got wise, which would be when he met the train Friday at nine-thirty and there was nobody on it.

Mrs. Goodwin called me the next morning around seven-thirty. Would I come over and just talk to Goodwin? He’d been up all night, waiting for a call from Caffery, and there hadn’t been any. Maybe I could help her calm him down before he collapsed.

I went over in a hurry, knowing Charlie’d be there at eight. Goodwin was on the telephone again, haggard and hollow-eyed. He had the hotel at Ludley, but Caffery had checked out. He put the phone back in its cradle, let out a long, hopeless sigh, and put his head down in his hands. He was whipped.

I was looking out the window when the mud-spattered car drove up in front of the house. I saw Charlie get out, and put my hand on Goodwin’s shoulder. “Say, is this your man?” I nodded toward the street.

He came alive as if I’d prodded him with a high-voltage cable. “Hell, yes,” he said excitedly, springing up. “But you’ll have to get out of sight. We don’t want to make him any more suspicious than he is now. I’ll tell you. Go up there at the head of the stairs.”

I made it just as the doorbell rang. By peeking around the corner of the landing, I could see them. Charlie was wearing khaki pants and boots and a leather jacket with mud on it, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for three days or slept a week. His eyes were red, and there were lines of weariness around his mouth. Charlie was a perfectionist.

He was magnificent. Watching him and listening, I was conscious of thinking what an actor the stage lost when Charlie became a crook. He was being crucified. Nobody kept faith with him. Goodwin was taking advantage of him. He’d bought the lease in good faith, and now Goodwin had found out some oil company wanted it, and his creditors were hounding him, and…He could make you cry.

He said eighty thousand. Goodwin, recovering a little of his business sense now that there was hope, said thirty. They went at it again. Charlie came to a dead standstill at sixty-five thousand, and Goodwin finally had to meet it. Then Charlie said it had to be in cash, and he had to have it within an hour so he could get started back to the well. Goodwin agreed, but said it would take two hours. The bank wouldn’t be open until ten.

Charlie nodded. “All right,” he said wearily. Then he went on, with great bitterness. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing to me. Some big oil company wants to put down a well out there, don’t they? Well, brother, you couldn’t have beat me if we hadn’t lost a bit in that hole last week.”

To calm him, Mrs. Goodwin asked him to come out in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. I sneaked down the stairs and left as soon as they were out of the room. When I was out in the street I let out a big sigh. I was weak myself.

Back at the motel I started throwing things in the two bags. She’d be here at twelve. I stopped, thinking how it would be now, with nothing to keep us apart. On our way to San Francisco, to hunt down Lachlan, we’d stop off in Reno as we’d planned. We would be married. I looked at my watch. It was only nine-fifteen. Keep your shirt on, I thought; Charlie hasn’t even got the money yet.

At a quarter to eleven Goodwin called. He was almost hysterical with joy. “I’d ask you to come over, if it weren’t that you’re probably worn out too. I’d like for you to see this lease burning up in the fireplace.”

“So it’s all set?” I asked.

“He just left, five minutes ago. Boy, talk about your photo finishes! And, say, Reichert, don’t think I’m going to forget you for all you’ve done.”

No, you probably won’t, pal, I thought, as I hung up—any more than I’ve forgotten you. It’s going to be a little rugged around nine-thirty tonight when nobody gets off that train.

I was all packed. By eleven-thirty I was straining my ears for the sound of tires on the gravel outside. About ten minutes to twelve I heard a car come swinging in. I jumped up and threw the door open. It was somebody else. I sat down again, feeling the impatience mount.

By twelve-thirty I was chain-smoking cigarettes and wearing a path in the shabby rug. God knows she’d never been anywhere on time in her life, but she couldn’t be late today. This was the day we’d been looking forward to for nearly a month. We had to get going.

She didn’t come. It was two o’clock. It was three. I’d long since passed the stage where I could sit still at all. I felt as if all the nerves in my body had worked through and were on the outside of my skin. She was dead. She’d been killed in a wreck. I couldn’t keep Donnelly out of my mind. She wouldn’t listen to me, so he had gone back and found her. He’d killed her. I thought of that ten-gauge shotgun, and shuddered. He was capable of anything. Why hadn’t I made her listen?

No, how did I know where she’d been? She’d said she was going to be in San Antonio, and still that was her voice over the phone from Houston.

How could I even find out what had happened? I had to get back there some way. It wasn’t until then that the whole thing balled up and hit me. I sat down on the bed, feeling the weakness and the sick feeling come up through me. I’d been worried only about her, but what about myself, too? I couldn’t go anywhere. I was trapped. She might be all right, but I was a sitting duck.

The bus had gone through twenty minutes ago, and there wouldn’t be another one in either direction until eleven o’clock tonight. And by nine-thirty Goodwin would know he had been taken.

It was about as near to complete panic as I’d ever been. For a few minutes I couldn’t think at all. The only thing my mind could get hold of was that I was the sucker, the fall guy, the one they’d thrown to the wolves. They’d gone off and left me. No, I tried to tell myself, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have left me stranded like this. But that meant, then, that something had happened to her.

I tried to calm down. I was in danger enough, without losing my head completely. There’d be the westbound train through at nine. But what good would that do me? Goodwin would probably already be at the station, waiting to meet the eastbound. Or if he wasn’t, at least a dozen people would see me get on it. As soon as they told him, he’d know the truth, and police would be waiting for me at some station up the line before I got to El Paso. Even if there were a bus through, the same thing would happen.

Time went on in its slow crawl around the rim of my watch. There was no hope now that she was coming. It was four-fifteen. I watched the small oblong of yellow sunlight from the window creep up the wall as the sun went down. It was like sitting in a cell. I shuddered.

I couldn’t just sit there and wait for them. I’d have to snake a run for it some way. Maybe I could hitch a ride if I got out on the highway. Then I thought of it—that freight, the one I’d put Donnelly on. It would be along, westbound, a little after seven.

But I had to get away and get on it without being seen. The only way to do it was just to fade, and let them wonder afterward when I’d left and which way I’d gone. The only trouble, however, was that there was no way out of here except the drive and archway in front. The cabins and garages were joined in a solid wall all the way around. I’d have to leave the bags. No, there was a way to do it. The bathroom had a small window that looked out onto the open prairie to the east.

I sweated out another hour and a half until it was dark. I looked carefully around the harsh little cubicle to be sure I hadn’t left anything that would identify me. The only things were the .22 rifle and the rest of the sand boxes. I put on the topcoat, carried the bags into the bathroom, and cut the lights.