Heed the Thunder (14 page)

Jeff sat down and began drawing on his shoes. “I expect,” he said politely, “I’ll have to be getting out to the capitol pretty quick.”

“You don’t want to go out there,” said Cassidy.

“I—don’t?”

“Huh-uh. They won’t do anything today.”

“Well—uh—how do you know, Jiggs? I mean they might.”

“Huh-uh,” the fat man repeated flatly. “There’ll be just two bills introduced. One’ll be a bill to outlaw theatrical performances on Sunday. The other one will increase taxes on the saloon industry.”

“Well, gosh!” said Jeff. “That’s pretty important.”

“Both bills will be tabled, Senator.”

“Be tabled! How do you—”

“Um-hmm. They’re always introduced and always tabled.” He sighed and motioned again as Jeff started to speak. “Y’see, Senator, those bills aren’t meant to pass. They’re just a gesture. The legislature just wants to show the theatrical and beverage industry that they’re interested in their affairs.”

“Oh,” said Jeff.

“Um-hmm. You could use a few cases of good whisky, couldn’t you, Senator? You wouldn’t mind having season passes to all the shows?…Well…”

He shrugged and folded his hands across his belly.

“So you see you’d just be wasting your time going out there today. What I’ve got to talk about is much more important. Y’know, I represent, in an unofficial way, one of your largest constituents.”

“Who do you mean?”

“The railroad, naturally.” The fat man seemed annoyed at being obliged to answer a question so obvious. “Yes, I represent one of your largest constituents, Senator. And knowing you to be an attorney of great talent—by the way, I read that complaint of yours in Fargo
vs.
God.…”

“Did you?” Jeff grinned.

“I certainly did. It was great.…But, as I was about to say, the railroad has delegated me to consult you on certain legal matters. They have asked me to obtain your opinion—your private opinion—on several problems which are pending in your district. And they have authorized me to reimburse you substantially for your services.…Does the proposition interest you, Senator?”

“No,” said Jeff.

“Now, let’s not be hasty—”

“Get out or I’ll throw you out!”

He started to advance upon the lobbyist; then the ridiculousness of the threat struck him and the fat man at the same time. They burst out laughing; and before Jeff had stopped, the fat man was talking again.

“You’ve got me all wrong, Senator. Look here now. I’m not trying to bribe you. A bribe is what you pay to have someone do something for you, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. But—”

The fat man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it onto the dresser. “That envelope has a thousand dollars in it—now, hold on! Listen to what I’ve got to say. That money is yours no matter what kind of opinion you give me. If it’s adverse to the railroad’s interests, it’s still yours. I’ll leave it there, and thank you, and get up and walk out. Now, that’s not bribery, is it?”

Jeff grinned. “Sure, it is.”

“No, it’s not, Senator. It’s merely a retainer for interest—adverse or favorable—in the railroad’s affairs. I’m not going to force it on you; but I am going to ask you a question: How do you expect to live on your salary as a legislator?”

“Why, I’ll get by all right,” the attorney declared.

“How? What are you paying for this room—three or four dollars a day?”

“Three or four dollars a day!” Jeff exclaimed. “O’ course not. I’m paying—”

He choked, suddenly, as a hideous fear billowed over him. Livid and shaking, he sank down upon the bed.

“Umm-hmm,” said Cassidy. “A lot of the boys make that mistake.”

“I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Where you going to? What’s a prominent man, a man of affairs like you, going to do—stop in a flop house? That’s just about what your salary would pay for. You’d probably have to do your own washing, at that.”

“Well—how do all the other legislators get by?”

Cassidy spread his hands. “How do you think?”

“Are you sure,” said Jeff, miserably, “that they’re charging me three dollars a day?”

“There’s a rate card on the door, if you want to check it. And that doesn’t include meals; it’s actually the smallest part of your expenses. I suppose”—he squinted thoughtfully—“you might live on twice your salary. If you were very careful.”

Jeff groaned; and the fat man raised his eyebrows.

“Why feel bad about it, Senator? Everything’s quite in order. Your voters don’t pay you enough to live on because they’re confident that you’ll make up the difference. I’m offering you the opportunity. I’m showing you how a man of your standing may maintain himself and at the same time lay a foundation for his re-election. You’re a brilliant man. You can go a long ways. I’m surprised that you’ve let this little affair upset you.”

The attorney smiled weakly.

“Uh…just what was it you wished to consult me about?”

“Well, now, it’s quite a simple problem, today.” He wagged a finger. “Simple, but important. I won’t say, of course, that we won’t have something more difficult later on.”

“I see,” Jeff nodded. “But what was it today?”

“Do you think it will rain?”

“Why, no.” Jeff looked at him blankly. “I don’t think it will.”

“Thank you very much,” said the fat man.

He hoisted himself from the chair, shook Jeff’s limp hand warmly, and waddled out.

The envelope remained on the dresser.

T
he chief of police himself escorted Alfred Courtland to the railway station. He had been apologizing ever since he had talked to Philo Barkley, and he was still hard at it as the Omaha train pulled in.

“I surely hope you won’t hold this against us,” he repeated, for perhaps the fiftieth time.

“That’s quite all right,” said Courtland.

“It was kind of a natural mistake, you know, and—well, come back and see us some time.”

“I’ll do that,” said Courtland.

“Uh—well, I’m sure sorry, like I said, but you know how those things are, and it wouldn’t ever happen again, and—”

“I understand,” said Courtland. He picked up his grip as the train came to a halt, and nodded curtly. “I’ll have to be getting on. Good-by.”

“Good-by and good luck,” said the chief, with humble heartiness. He made as if to put out his hand, but the Englishman had already turned away.

For his part, despite his attitude, Courtland was well pleased with the outcome of the affair. He could have had no better piece of luck than to have been arrested. The police had called Barkley, demanding information and refusing to give any, in the way of all police since the beginning of time. And the slow-thinking banker had stated definitely and emphatically that the money was Courtland’s. He could never retract, now. Courtland had the law itself as his witness. If Barkley were so lacking in pride as to air his stupidity in court, he would not have a leg to stand on.

So that was all right. If only everything else could be settled as simply. Courtland lay back in the seat, thinking, trying to sleep.

Well, maybe everything else would turn out all right. Perhaps he could hit upon some way of squaring himself with Jeff. Perhaps the doctors…

He fell asleep, hoping.

He arrived at Omaha early that evening and registered at the best hotel in town. After dinner, he went to a show and, upon returning to the hotel, had several drinks in the bar. They apparently had no bad consequences upon him whatsoever. In fact, they affected him only pleasantly, as drink had in the old days.

He had a good night’s sleep, ate a hearty breakfast, and presented himself to the manager of the hotel. The manager was respectful to the point of being obsequious. (The room clerk had told him of the money which Courtland had left in the hotel’s vault.)

“I’m here on some business matters which haven’t quite matured,” the Englishman explained, “and I want to use my free time in getting a thorough medical check-up. Can you recommend a good physician?”

“I can do better than that,” the manager avowed. “Drs. McClintic and Tower have a clinic right here in the hotel. You’re familiar with their reputation, I suppose?”

“Why, yes. I believe I am.”

“They’re the men for you to see. I can recommend them without reservation. Shall I see if I can get you an appointment?”

“If you would, please.”

The manager picked up his desk phone, gave a number, and talked into the mouthpiece for several minutes. He hung up smiling, proud.

“I’ve got them to receive you right away,” he said, taking Courtland’s arm and leading him toward the elevator. “They’re on the top floor. Drs. McClintic and Tower, in the tower. Ha, ha!”

Courtland entered the elevator. A moment later he stepped off into an enclosed corridor which had been turned into a reception room. A trim receptionist arose from the desk and greeted him.

“Mr. Courtland? If you’ll go right through that door please.”

He entered the door indicated and was taken in charge by a pretty white-clad nurse who led him down a narrow aseptic-smelling hall to another room. It overlooked the street, and had little furniture aside from a metal-and-leather reclining table.

“Please remove your coat and shirt and lie down,” she directed crisply. Then she left him.

Courtland smiled, ruefully, as he removed the garments and lay down on the table. All this show; it would cost something. But what did it matter?

The door banged open, and he looked up into the face of a ruddy giant of a man of about sixty. Except for his doctor’s white smock and his indefinable air of breeding, he might have been taken for a blacksmith or a bartender.

“I’m McClintic,” he boomed. “Now, what’s the matter with you?”

“Well, I don’t really know, Doctor—”

“You don’t know?” McClintic winked at the room at large. “How the devil do you expect me to know, then?”

Courtland smiled, cheered by the big man’s attitude. He started to explain that he did certain unaccountable things, at times, when he had been drinking.

“What sort of things?”

“Well, yesterday I insulted a man whom actually I like very much. And the funny part about it is, I’d had very few drinks at the time. I can’t understand—”

“Wait a minute!” McClintic interrupted as the door opened. “Tower, what do you think of this gentleman? He says he does peculiar things when he’s been drinking. Never heard of anything like that before, did you?” He winked again.

“Very odd,” agreed Dr. Tower, coming over to the table.

He was the antithesis of McClintic in almost every way. He was thin, short, and so pale that his skin seemed almost transparent. His eyes, behind their thick-rimmed glasses, were like two fat gray bugs.

“Why do you keep rubbing your chest?” he asked in a dry, quiet voice.

“Now that’s something else I was going to ask about,” said Courtland. “You see—”

He broke off as Tower unbuttoned his underwear and exposed his chest. Both doctors bent over him.

“How long have you had that rash?”

“Well, it comes and goes. I’ve had it this time for three or four months.”

“Ever had it on any other part of your body?” It was McClintic.

“Yes, I’ve had it in several different places.”

“When did you first notice it? That is, when did it first appear at any place on your body?”

Courtland hesitated.

“Just approximately.”

“Well,” said the Englishman, “six or seven years ago, at least.”

The doctors straightened. Courtland could not be sure, but he felt that they had exchanged glances. He could not be sure, but somehow he knew that they had nodded to each other.

“Is—is something seriously wrong?” he said anxiously.

“Now you just mind your own business,” said McClintic bluffly. “We’ll take care of you.”

He adjusted the metal reflector on his forehead and bent over the Englishman. He drew back first one lid, then another, and stared into Courtland’s eyes. He jerked his head at his partner, and Tower repeated the process.

And when they stood back that time, there was no doubt about their nodding.

“I’m going to have to ask you a personal question or two, old man,” said McClintic.

“That’s all right.”

“Did you ever have a sore on your genital organ?”

“No.”

“Are you positive?” asked Tower in his dehydrated voice. “Not even a very tiny sore—one the size of a pinhead, say?”

“Well, I believe I might have, at that. It never bothered me, however.”

“It disappeared, eh? And then, a few months later, this rash came out. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you—had you had intercourse a short time before that sore appeared?”

“What?” Courtland looked at him blankly, not at once understanding the question. “Well, it wasn’t a short time. As I remember, it was thirty days or so.”

McClintic chuckled beefily. “Thirty days is pretty short in a lifetime, young man.…Well, what do you think, Doctor?”

Tower shrugged.

“Want to try a Wassermann?”

“I see little point in it. The reaction could very easily be negative after such a long period.”

“You don’t think we might discover something from the spinal fluid?”

“A great deal, I imagine,” said Tower dryly; and McClintic seemed to suppress a guffaw.

Tower scrubbed his hands and left the room, not to return again in Courtland’s presence. The big doctor looked at Courtland thoughtfully and shook his head. And the air of the room suddenly seemed stifling to the Englishman.

“Is it something serious?” he asked.

McClintic made no answer. Stepping around to the end of the table, he slid his hand under the back of Courtland’s head.

“Married, Mr. Courtland?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Very good.”

“I am married,” said Courtland, abruptly. “Is there anything—”

“No children?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good, at least. Are you pretty well fixed, financially?”

“Quite.”

“That’s good, too. Can you feel my fingers there—do you know what part of the brain that is?”

“I used to, but I don’t any more.”

“That’s the cerebellum. It’s the co-ordinating or inhibiting center for the cerebrum and medulla oblongata. To oversimplify, it keeps the other brains on the right track—stops ’em from making damned fools of themselves.”

“I see.”

“I don’t believe I’d drink any more if I were you, Mr. Courtland. You need to have that little hinder brain in as good working order as possible. What there is left of it.”

Courtland sat up with a cry. “What there is left of it! What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. You have syphilis of the brain.”

The Englishman swayed dizzily. The room seemed to spin. Gamely, he gripped the edge of the table, biting his lip to hold his consciousness. He opened his eyes again, managed a smile, and slid off the table to his feet.

“Thank you very much, Doctor. If you’ll tell me what I owe you…?”

“Nothing. No, I mean it. There’s nothing we can do for you.”

“There’s no medicine or treatment of any kind—”

“Not at this stage of the game. If we had caught it, say, six months after the infection, but now—” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’s this damned hush-hush about things of this kind that’s responsible. Sometimes I think the whole bleeding American public would rather die of gonorrhea than say it. They don’t know the symptoms of these diseases. They don’t seem to want to know. Consequently, our cemeteries and madhouses are—” He broke off abruptly, his good-natured face apologetic. “I’m sorry, Courtland.”

“That’s quite all right,” the Englishman nodded.

…Probably because he had suspected something of the kind all along, there was no shock-reaction after the doctor’s first brutal statement. There was not even a great amount of fear. His principal emotions were regret for what he had done to Myrtle, and gratitude that he could leave her well provided for, when the inevitable end came.

He spent the day in selecting some earrings and a bracelet for her, and in buying a few accessories for himself. He also opened accounts in two banks, depositing the bulk of his money. The following morning he caught the train for Verdon.

Fifteen minutes before the train pulled into the town, he took the single half-pint of whisky from his grip and drank it. He knew what effect it would have on him. He needed it for what he had to do.

…Bella, her eyes suspicious, admitted him to the banker’s house. Without acknowledging her greeting, which was by no means friendly, Courtland shoved past her and entered the dining room.

Supper was on the table, and Barkley arose with his napkin still stuck under his chin. A fixed, paternal scowl was on his face, and he waved his fork at Courtland before the latter was well into the room.

“Now, see here, Alf, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Some fellows called me up from Grand Island and wanted to know if that was your money, and I said it was, and—”

“It is. I’m going to keep it, you know.”

Barkley waved his hand impatiently. “Now, Alf. This is no time for kidding. I want to know how you made out on those trades, and then you better explain—”

“I didn’t make any trades. I told you: I’m keeping the money for myself.”

“What?” The banker sank down into his chair. “What are you talking about, Alf? You can’t keep that money.”

“What’s to prevent me?” said Courtland coolly. “It’s simply a breach of trust.”

“But—but, Alf, it’s my money.”

“It was, Bark.”

“What’s this all about, Father?” Bella swept over to her father’s side, keeping her burning gaze fixed upon Courtland. “Did he steal some money from you?”

Barkley nodded brokenly. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-five—!” The girl gasped. Even with her limited knowledge of finances, she knew just about what that sum represented—that it would be practically their all. “You give it back, you hear? I—we need our money! I’ll make you give it back!”

Courtland watched her approach, a cold, unpleasant smile on his lips. Dispassionately, he thought that he had never seen her more beautiful. Her eyes were great black burning pools. Her face was the color of rich cream on which rose petals have been floated. Above her daringly low camisole her full breasts were half exposed from the heaving of her passion.

“You give it back!” she repeated.

“I’ll suggest,” he said, “a way for you to earn it back.”

She gasped. “Why—you—you—”

Furiously she started to fling herself upon him. But something in his manner—the way he rocked nonchalantly on the balls of his feet, his smile, his eyes—something brought her up short: the knowledge that he would strike her and enjoy doing it.

She fell back, her hand to her mouth. And Barkley watched the silent interchange stupidly, not catching its significance, his mind filled only with the thought of his lost fortune. For he knew, now, that it was lost.

“What—what will I do?” he stammered, his voice filled with self-pity. “What will people think?”

“They won’t need to know,” said Courtland. “I’ll say that I inherited some money; they’ll believe that. And you’ve been in harness so long no one’ll see anything odd about your retiring. I’ll pay you for your fixtures and take care of your bills due. I know you’re not completely flat. What the devil? You have your home here. You can go into some small business later on. If you’d lived as I have these past eight years, you’d consider yourself mighty well off.”

The dull coals of Barkley’s anger suddenly burst into flame. With an oath, he lurched from his chair, jerked open the doors of the utility cupboard and drew out a shotgun. He leveled its two barrels at his clerk and snapped back the twin hammers.