Hard Money (20 page)

They were both standing in the dark alleyway at the side of Dan Stole's opera house and had been for some minutes. It was a dark well here, casting their voices in hollow echo to the very sky. A segment of the street was visible through a peephole, like spying. Two men left the sidewalk, stepped into the alley and passed a bottle between them, out of which they both drank, then went their way.

Hugh laughed, and Sharon had the feeling that a murder might easily be committed here without the town discovering it.

“What time did he say he would let you in, Hugh?”

“It's five minutes past that now.”

Just then the exit door creaked open and fat Dan Stole appeared. He held up a warning hand and then greeted Sharon, who nodded indifferently.

“Everything all right, Dan?” Hugh asked.

“I think so. They're calling for the performance now. You'll have to hurry, Mr. Mathias—you and the lady.”

“Lead off.”

“This is absurd,” Sharon repeated, but she stepped in behind Dan Stole and entered the opera house. They were right by the gallery stairs, and Sharon climbed them impatiently, Hugh at her heels. There was a rhythmic clapping below, which seemed almost to shake the building. Raucous shouts and more raucous laughter rose over the clapping. Dan Stole led them down a corridor, opened a door, and they were in the smaller corridor onto which the boxes opened. The corridor was deserted. At one of the box doors Dan Stole paused and said to Hugh, “It's dark in there, Mr. Mathias. You said no lights, remember.”

“That's right.” Hugh slipped him a gold piece and then opened the door, and he and Sharon slid inside. The house was dark, the curtain still lowered, and it was with difficulty that Sharon found a chair.

When they were seated she said. “These are wretched seats, Hugh.”

“Did you want to be seen?” Hugh countered.

Sharon did not have time to reply before a man stepped out from the wings and raised both hands. He had the flashy, arrogant air of a professional entertainer, or a gambler, and he could not command silence for some minutes.

“Gentlemen,” he began—and was roundly hissed. He laughed. Sharon looked bored.

“Men of Tronah,” he shouted. There was wild applause. It rose wave on wave from the whisky-sodden air.

“Men of Tronah,” he said again. “The first number on this evening's olio will be Miss Margie Borden, the peerless—”

He could get no further. A mighty roar of protest went up from the audience below. They hissed and booed and jeered and shouted for a full minute, until the master of ceremonies raised his hands to command silence again.

“I am in the wrong, gentlemen,” he announced. “The first number on the evening's olio will be the main attraction. Mr. Buck Hanighen, of Winnemucca and points north, will pit his bulldog against the wildcat owned by Shagnasty Will Durbin, of local fame.”

A shout of applause drowned out the rest of his speech, and he subsided, waiting until there was comparative silence again.

“The fight will be to the finish, gentlemen. There is a hundred-dollar side bet as a prize, between the owners of the principals. Place your bets, gentlemen!” he shouted and lowered his arms and went into one of the wings. His advice was unnecessary. Bets had been made for the past week, and the prospect of this bloody fight to the finish had been so well advertised that seats tonight were at a premium.

There was a preliminary shiver of the curtain before it sailed up, revealing a stage bare except for a huge chickenwire pen some ten feet high.

There was more applause, and then the audience started to stamp and clap.

Mr. Buck Hanighen was first on the stage, and he was pulled onto it by a bulldog on the end of a leash. The dog was a squat, head-heavy brindle bull with a monstrously ugly head and face, so scarred it was laughable. Nose glued to the floor, bowed legs almost straight behind him with the exertion of pulling his master, he followed some invisible trail with implacable relish until he came to the footlights. The roar of the crowd made him look up, and he eyed it briefly with a good-natured cynicism before he resumed his sniffing. Master Buck Hanighen touched his derby hat and grinned.

When Shagnasty Will Durbin entered with his protégé, there was a wild yelling. Shagnasty, bald as a rock and perspiring freely, had a good-sized wildcat by the scruff of the neck, and he lugged it in like a satchel, spitting and yowling and helpless, for its feet were strapped together. The bulldog showed no interest at first, but when Shagnasty Will approached the footlights the bulldog woke up. He gave one savage lunge, which almost pulled his master's arm from its socket, and Shagnasty Will Durbin retreated.

It took two men inside the ring to hold down the wildcat while Shagnasty unstrapped its feet. Then the dog was lifted in and held by two more men. At a given signal, the dog was unleashed, the cat freed, and the four men dived for the gate of the ring.

Sharon gave a tiny cry of concern, and Hugh laughed.

There had never been any doubt in the bulldog's mind as to his purpose here, but there was evidently some in the mind of the cat. Ears flat back on its head, eyes wide and mouth wider, it bounded to one side, and the dog crashed into the gate, its legs working furiously on the slippery stage floor to check its momentum. And then came the rout. The cat ran round and round the circle, a great tawny streak of motion, the bulldog lunging vainly for its hindquarters and crashing into the wire netting. The miners roared with delight at the sight.

At one of the collisions with the wire, the flimsy gate gave way, but no one seemed to notice it. Suddenly the cat did. It bounded through the gate and paused for one brief second while the bulldog proceeded to try to batter the cage down in snarling fury.

There was a sudden silence in the house.

Someone yelled, “Shagnasty, get that damned thing!”

Then the cat moved. In one bound it cleared the footlights and landed on top of the piano in the orchestra pit. The dog by this time had stopped his assault on the wire and had got outside the cage by tracking the cat. Nose to the boards, he ran after her, crossed the footlights and tumbled off the stage. A crash among the orchestra chairs was plainly audible.

And then pandemonium broke loose as the men in the first row realized that the scene of the fight would very likely be transferred to their laps.

Sharon, eyes wide with excitement, half rose in her seat. “Hugh, they're both loose!” she cried, but Hugh was at the edge of the box, looking down.

Nothing is more contagious than panic, even good-natured panic. There was a wild scramble in the front rows for the protection of the rear, and in less than thirty seconds complete pandemonium let loose.

A howling, shouting, laughing, fighting mob was clawing its way to the exits. Four men peered over the footlights, waving their arms frantically, while the bulldog, in a fury of frustration, was trying to climb up the piano to get at the cat. The cat stood this for a moment, then lazily leaped clear of the orchestra pit to land on the row of seats. Then crazily, slipping and falling, it picked its way across the now empty seats to one of the gallery pillars and started to climb it. The dog was hot after it, its savage snarls filling the house with terrible sound.

“Hugh!” Sharon cried. “We've got to get out of here.”

Hugh was already pulling Sharon's chair out of the way. “Easy, darling. They're both on the other side.”

Sharon ran out into the corridor, and Hugh strode behind her. At the stairs the whole gallery was draining down to the main floor, and soon Sharon was in this jostling, riotous mob. Somehow, Hugh managed to wedge himself between her and the crowd, and the very panicked momentum of the mob carried them down stairs and out the side exit. Once on the street, Sharon, disheveled, breathless and frightened, took hold of Hugh's arm and let him lead her across the street and to the hotel.

Once in the parlor, Sharon sank down in a chair and stared at Hugh. Hugh's face showed first concern, and then faint amusement, and then he burst into laughter. Sharon's eyes danced with cold anger as she watched him, but Hugh could not restrain himself.

“Hugh!” Sharon said angrily, stamping her foot. “Stop that!”

Hugh subsided gradually and drew out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes, while Sharon looked on coldly.

“I'm sorry, darling,” Hugh said faintly. “The combination was too much.”

“Is a person's genuine fright a laughing matter to you?” Sharon demanded icily.

“Not at all,” Hugh said soberly. “It was—well, everything, the whole ridiculous thing.”

“If you knew it would be ridiculous, why did you insist that I go?” Sharon asked hotly.

“I'm sorry,” Hugh said apologetically.

“But why did you, Hugh?” Sharon persisted. She knew she was being unreasonable, but then she felt an unreasonable anger, an anger that was as hot as it was humiliating.

Hugh's face changed subtly, and he reached in his breast pocket for a cigar. “Now calm down, dear,” he said soberly, almost warningly. “The whole affair is over, and I'm very sorry I dragged you to it. I thought it would amuse you.”

“Since when has the spectacle of two animals tearing each other to shreds amused me?” Sharon said coldly.

“All right, it never has,” Hugh said, a little edge to his voice. For a moment they stared at each other, Sharon with a quiet malevolence that amazed Hugh. Slowly, he laid down his unlighted cigar and rose and came across to her. Facing her, he spread his legs and put his hands on his hips.

“In heaven's name, Sharon, what has got into you lately?” he asked with quiet urgency. “You were looking at me then as if you hated me.”

Sharon only shook her head and bit her lip.

“It's my turn to ask questions now,” Hugh said. “I repeat, what has got into you?”

“The devil of doubt,” Sharon murmured almost inaudibly.

“What did you say?” Hugh asked, bending over a little.

“Nothing. I don't know.”

“Nor do I. Nothing I do seems to please you any more. You—aren't the same.”

“How not the same, Hugh?” Sharon asked softly.

Hugh hesitated, wondering if he detected a note of flippancy in her voice. He decided he didn't; Sharon was never flippant in serious moments, and this was a serious moment.

“Why—it used to be easy to amuse you, Sharon. We liked the same things, enjoyed the same people, went the same places and had a good time.” He laughed shortly. “Lord knows, this camp is dull enough for a woman. But you've money, darling. You've the same sort of friends you're used to. You have comforts. You have—”

“Maybe that's just the trouble, Hugh,” Sharon put in quietly.

Hugh frowned. “I don't understand. What more could you want?”

“Oh nothing,” Sharon sighed. “I—I've changed, Hugh. I don't think the end and aim of life is to be amused any more, that's all. Everything is the same; I'm different.”

“But why?”

“I can't think it's a virtue to be idle. Hugh. I can't see the holiness of having a lot of money. I don't think a man is a swine because he wears a soiled shirt. I don't think people who sleep at night instead of playing are dull and somehow vicious.” She raised her hands in a gesture of inarticulate and unknowing pleading. “This isn't the real thing, Hugh. I'm on a bridge looking down at the water. I'm dry and comfortable, but I have a terrible longing to swim.”

“Then swim.”

“I can't.”

Hugh said dryly, “If I smelled of sweat when I called every night, if I left at ten because I need sleep to work, if my hands were horny with calluses, if I resented the good fortune of other people and cursed them, would it make you admire me more, Sharon?”

“Yes!” Sharon said quickly, with such violence that she surprised even herself. “None of those things are virtues in themselves, Hugh, but they point to one thing. That the man who has them is human! Even the resentment at good fortune! Envy is human. You haven't it! Sweat is vulgar, and it's human too, Hugh. Weariness is human. Discouragement is human. Lust and cruelty and foolishness and brawling and cowardice and bravery are all human, Hugh. And you are without them.”

Hugh's face flushed. “I'm greedy enough to want ten million dollars for you, Sharon. I lust enough to want you terribly. I'm cruel enough to use every method I can to get on top. I'm coward enough to be afraid of a street brawl. And I'm brave enough to admit this all to you, Sharon. Am I not human enough now?”

Sharon had one impulsive moment of affection for him, a moment which she fought with all her will. She wanted to kiss him and make up, to be safe in his arms, safer in the knowledge that he loved her. But a wild and untamable hope stirred within her, and she instinctively knew that this was too easy, and because it was, it was also cheap.

She shook her head gently. “No, Hugh. Don't ask me why. You—you just aren't.”

Hugh's anger was gone. He said gently, “Tonight, Sharon, I was going to remind you of a promise. Do you remember? You must have been expecting it. Don't you remember what I was pledged to ask when the tunnel went through?”

“Yes,” Sharon said in a small voice. “You were going to ask me to set the date for our wedding.”

“Yes.” Hugh looked steadily at her, and Sharon had no answer for him. He turned away and went over to the table and picked up his cigar and dropped it again. Then he said, without turning around, “Is there someone else, Sharon?”

“Who could there be?” Sharon asked wearily.

Hugh pivoted on one heel to face her. “The only man I know who meets those requirements is a man you know too, Sharon. He brawls, and he's cruel and he's—he's human enough, God knows.” He paused. “It's Phil Seay.”

Sharon felt her pulse quicken at the mention of that name, but she was not afraid to hear it. She regarded Hugh levelly, silent.