Strange Yesterday (7 page)

“Delighted to meet you,” said Mr. Lennox, inclining his head, sipping his rum, and studying John Preswick from beneath half-closed lids.

The man was handsome—handsome in a large way, with gray eyes set not too far apart, bushy eyebrows, side whiskers, and a full red mouth. He had a quick smile, and a good set of teeth beneath. His hands were chubby, the left having three gold rings, the right a diamond solitaire. Now he looked into John Preswick's eyes, the one pair as cold and level as the other, and the fire flickered from the blue into the gray.

“He is soft,” John Preswick thought; “otherwise I should like him. His eyes—”

“I think,” Mr. Cortlandt said, “you had better explain.” In his voice there was something disturbing and caustic.

Lennox spread his hands. “Yes. It is all very simple to explain. Mr. Cortlandt has described you to me, and from what he has said, I believe I can speak openly, without hedging. The matter is a small one. Three days from now, I am sailing upon this ship. I desire that a certain woman accompany me.”

John Preswick waited for more; when he saw that the other considered himself to have said enough, he shook his head. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Mr. Lennox smiled agreeably. “Of course, one does not understand those things at first. Let me make myself clear. There is a certain woman in this city—a person of no great prominence, but of large fortune, towards whom I cherish affection of a sort. Her mother, who is a Jewess, favors me, but I cannot seem to make the desired impression upon the girl. The father, long since dead, was the son of a merchant of incredible wealth—wealth which has increased by its own power and quite undeservedly since that day. Now they are very rich and very haughty, for New York is a place where a Jewess may be both rich and haughty. As for myself, I am a poor man of accomplishments. I have all of the graces; but I desire wealth—wealth which is surely serving no good end in the hands of a Jewess and her daughter. And I desire the daughter, who is beautiful in the manner of a Jewess, and who rightly should have been married several years ago. Now understand this—the run of the house is mine. Though I cannot penetrate the daughter's coat of ice—the like of which I have never before seen in a Jewess—I do, with all modesty, fascinate the mother, who is a person living in an age that is past. At least three times a week, I am a guest at dinner, and I am in the trust of the household—through a maid; but that is neither here nor there. They keep their gold in the house, some part of it, anyway, for they have a quite unfounded mistrust of banks. It is in an old-fashioned iron and wooden safe, which a few blows of a mallet will quickly demolish, and I have heard from reliable sources that the sum kept therein, unbelievable though it may seem, is hardly short of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Now, that I could manage very well myself, but I desire the girl, and have so entered into an agreement with Mr. Cortlandt. Do you grasp it now?”

“I think that I do,” John Preswick said slowly.

“You will need two men: one to help you with the girl, and one to help me with the gold—two men you can trust, and who will go as “far as you yourself without scruples. The place is in Cherry Street. I do not anticipate trouble, but if it does crop up, there is the knife, which I understand you know how to use.”

“Yes,” said John Preswick.

“You will have a chair there waiting for her and the gold. It may be necessary to shut her up—gag and bind her. Can I trust that to you?”

“You can,” said John Preswick.

“My hand, then.”

John Preswick took the hand with the solitaire.

As he was leaving, Mr. Lennox said: “One more thing. I'd like to have you over there to find the lay of land. It is a house of three stories, with a flat, red front. You cannot miss it. Yes, the name is Preswick.”

And with that, the door closed behind him. John Preswick had not stirred. Something there was about all of it that seemed strangely familiar—as though he had heard all before, as though it were a puzzle, each part fitting cleverly into the other. It was melodrama of the rankest sort, but to John Preswick it rang with a truth that was all but lifelike. What lacked, he could not say. But he knew, oh, so surely, that some day he would have the explanation. Some day. But there was a wistfulness to that, for he realized that the day was far, very far, off, and that perhaps, even with the day, he would not know. In a way, he was a fool, and that would matter. “Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “it has to do with the names, for Preswick is a common and yet an uncommon name….”

Mr. Cortlandt said: “Can't say as I care for that, mixing up with a woman. Ordinarily, I wouldn't touch it; but this pays too well to let slip. I am leaving the details to you, Mr. Ridge. I will have sail up at nine and beat down for the Narrows. You will follow in the long-boat. The trust is yours.”

“You can rest—in it.”

“I'll count on that. And there will be more than enough for all.” He gave John Preswick his hand.

6

I
T
was upon the third evening after that that a sedan chair stopped before the tall brick house on Cherry Street. A man in a fawn-colored jacket and a gray beaver stepped out, shook loose his lace cuffs, tilted his stick under his arm at an angle; and walked to the door. The two men who had borne the chair looked about, and then, seeing that the street was empty, followed after him. However, they stood to one side in the shadow, while he lifted and let fall the cast-iron knocker. As the door opened, he walked in, and the two men darted up the stairs and slipped in after him.

A negro had opened the door to John Preswick, and now the startled black looked down at a pistol the man in the fawn-colored jacket held to his stomach. In a matter-of-fact way, John Preswick said:

“If you make so much as the slightest sound, I shall cheerfully put this ball into your groin. It will not be pleasant, so be wise and silent. You are William, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the negro. “I do not know how you know, but you are right. No, sir, I shan't make the least sound—no, sir.”

Pointing with the pistol, John Preswick said to the man behind him: “Gag him. Truss him up and roll him under the portieres.” And to the negro: “If you make any sound, if you tap with your feet, if you get loose, I shall return and give you that ball—where I said.” With that, he left him, the two men following after.

Beyond the foyer, there was a large chamber, paneled in dark wood, a hooded staircase climbing up one side of it. The floor was spread with a huge, incongruous Chinese rug of green and black. As they entered, John Preswick placed his beaver over the pistol, holding the hat in the same hand that gripped his stick. At that moment, a maid came down the steps, only seeing them when she was at the stairs' foot.

“Who are you?” she asked, not quite knowing whether to be alarmed or not. “Are you looking for something? William should—”

Her mouth open, she broke off from her words, as John Preswick took the pistol from beneath his hat and placed it at her breast, which, he noticed, was round and ripe. All in all, Lennox was a man of taste, he thought.

“Don't scream,” he begged of her. “Don't make a sound of any sort. It is much more desirable to live, really it is.”

“I will not scream,” she stammered.

John Preswick motioned with his stick. “Strap her up. Put her under the staircase—or any place where she will not be seen. Then wait outside this door until I call you. If any one comes, do the same.” Then he crossed the chamber, and, the pistol still in his hand, stepped through the double doors into the dining-hall, closing the doors behind him.

There were three about the table, and, as he entered, they looked up; they might have been expecting another, for at first they were not even startled; no, it was he who was startled. Never before had he seen two such beautiful women as were these in the flickering, bending light of the candles.

One, the older, gray-haired, sat at the end of the table facing to him; and upon either side of the table, across from each other, were seated Lennox and the girl of whom he had been told. The woman was old; the girl was young with fire.

As he stood there, pistol in hand, long, heavy, gilded and gleaming beneath the light, the three of them came to their feet, Lennox abruptly, the older woman with less haste, and the younger last of all. She, the youngest, said: “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?” And then, with her words, John Preswick knew that she was as terribly familiar as Lennox, that she was part of it; that there was to her a humor, something he could not understand, but which, nevertheless, provoked him to laugh. He also realized what Lennox had meant when he described her as coated with ice.

He attempted to match their calm with his, but the incredible loveliness of the scene had already unnerved him. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, unlike anything he had expected—this broad, high-ceilinged room, the corners lost in lilting, dancing, yet staid, shadows; this table, black, brown and white, the service already cleared; the chandelier hanging from directly above and sparkling with the reflected light of the candles beneath it; and the two women, exquisitely gowned and beautiful in a manner he had never before seen upon women, hot and cold, sensuous, their skin like soft cream, their eyes dark almost to ebony and with scarce a sparkle in all the light.… It unnerved him, but not apparently. With just a trace of a smile upon his lips, he stood there, the pistol steady, eyes aloof.

Then the older woman gasped—gasped and sank back into her chair. “I thought—” she whispered—“I thought it was you,' Johnny—come back.” Staring with broad, bewildered eyes, she gazed at him.

Then he said, directing the gun at Lennox: “You come here.”

And as Lennox came close to him: “They are outside.” Still holding Lennox at the point of his gun, he moved in a circle, motioning him to the doors. Just before he opened them, the girl cried:

“Ralph!—but you are not going to leave us, Ralph!”

Lennox shrugged his shoulders. The doors closed behind him, and he was gone.

When John Preswick turned again to the girl, he saw that her head was thrown back, and that her dark eyes blazed with light. And for the first time he noticed how heavy her hair was, and how it spread, and lay upon her bare neck.

Replying to the contempt in her gaze, he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “he is something of a pig,” moving his head just a bit in the direction of the doors.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you mean by breaking in like this?—and what do you want?”

“My name is John Ridge. I do what I please, and I account for my actions to no man—or woman. I want certain things in this house—and you.”

“That,” the girl said coolly, “is rather melodramatic. You are an unusual thief. I believe that I have seen you somewhere before.”

And with a sudden flash of light, John Preswick knew that she had, and he thought that he would see her again, and she him. But then, as quickly, the light faded, and what for an instant he had grasped fell through his fingers.

“If you had,” John Preswick smiled, “you would remember me. But enough of that! Will you come in the manner of a lady, or will you scream and be objectionable? In the latter case, I shall throttle you.”

“You are a pleasant person,” the girl remarked, seeming not at all disturbed. Staring into her wide, dark eyes, John Preswick could not help but admire her. She might have been in the stars, looking down upon him condescendingly.

The older woman spoke—slowly, in a half-hesitating, broken manner, with no defiance, with no fear: “Tell me who you are.”

“I have told you. My name is John Ridge, and I don't care if the world knows it!”

“That is your name?”

“Yes. And now—”

“But you cannot take her! She is my daughter. She is the only thing I have that I value. Oh, there is money a-plenty in this house, and jewels—to such a sum as you would never dream of. Have it all, only—”

“Mother,” the girl interrupted her.

Still in the chair, without the strength to rise, she said: “Inez, if they take you—”

“If it is ransom,” said the girl, “we can pay well.”

“It is not ransom.”

“You are a fool. You cannot leave this house. There are the servants.”

“The servants have been taken care of.”

“The crime is death in New York.”

“Do you imagine, my lady, that I am impressed unduly by such rewards?”

“Oh, what do you want?”

Wearily he shrugged. “My lady, you are making the worse of an already poor situation.” But she was damnably, unreasonably beautiful!

Her mother said, with slow emphasis: “I thought, at first, that you were another. It is still in your eyes, the same look, the same expression, the same unfeeling, lifeless voice. For that I can love you. Whoever you are, you must not do this.”

He exclaimed, shaking his head: “This is all a mad-house! I do not want you, old woman.” And to the girl: “Will you come, or must I call for my men and bind and gag you and roll you up in a bundle like that nigger servant of yours?”

“I will come,” she replied calmly. She went about the table, bent and kissed her mother. The gray-haired woman held to her, but she drew herself away.

“Inez—”

“But you can do nothing, Mother. It is better this way.”

“After all,” he said to himself, “she is nothing but a Jewess, which should allow much,” and aloud: “I have no scruples towards shooting either of you. If your mother makes a sound, I shall shoot you, not her. I shall shoot very low—”

Then she laughed at him, exclaiming: “What a child you are! What a little boy! Do you imagine that you frighten me? Do you think that for myself I would be afraid of that pretty pistol of yours! My father laughed in the face of a thousand such pistols. My father was a man—but you would not understand. Come, let us go!”