Kitabı oku: «The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York», sayfa 14

CHAPTER XX – THE MARK OF THE ROPE

WHILE the Widow Van Flange and I sat waiting the coming of Gothecore, the lady gave me further leaves of her story. The name of Van Flange was old. It had been honorable and high in the days of Wouter Van Twiller, and when the town was called New Amsterdam. The Van Flanges had found their source among the wooden shoes and spinning-wheels of the ancient Dutch, and were duly proud. They had been rich, but were now reduced, counting – she and her boy – no more than two hundred thousand dollars for their fortune.

This son over whom she wept was the last Van Flange; there was no one beyond him to wear the name. To the mother, this made his case the more desperate, for mindful of her caste, she was borne upon by pride of family almost as much as by maternal love. The son was a drunkard; his taste for alcohol was congenital, and held him in a grip that could not be unloosed. And he was wasting their substance; what small riches remained to them were running away at a rate that would soon leave nothing.

“But why do you furnish him money?” said I.

“You should keep him without a penny.”

“True!” responded the Widow Van Flange, “but those who pillage my son have found a way to make me powerless. There is a restaurant near this gambling den. The latter, refusing him credit and declining his checks, sends him always to this restaurant-keeper. He takes my son’s check, and gives him the money for it. I know the whole process,” concluded the Widow Van Flange, a sob catching in her throat, “for I’ve had my son watched, to see if aught might be done to save him.”

“But those checks,” I observed, “should be worthless, for you have told me how your son has no money of his own.”

“And that is it,” returned the Widow Van Flange.

“I must pay them to keep him from prison. Once, when I refused, they were about to arrest him for giving a spurious check. My own attorney warned me they might do this. My son, himself, takes advantage of it. I would sooner be stripped of the last shilling, than suffer the name of Van Flange to be disgraced. Practicing upon my fears, he does not scruple to play into the hands of those who scheme his downfall. You may know what he is about, when I tell you that within the quarter I have been forced in this fashion to pay over twenty-seven thousand dollars. I see no way for it but to be ruined,” and her lips twitched with the despair she felt.

While the Widow Van Flange and I talked of her son and his down-hill courses, I will not pretend that I pondered any interference. The gamblers were a power in politics. The business of saving sons was none of mine; but, as I’ve said, I was willing, by hearing her story, to compliment the Reverend Bronson, who had suggested her visit. In the end, I would shift the burden to the police; they might be relied upon to find their way through the tangle to the advantage of themselves and the machine.

Indeed, this same Gothecore would easily dispose of the affair. Expert with practice, there was none who could so run with the hare while pretending to course with the hounds. Softly, sympathetically, he would talk with the Widow Van Flange; and she would depart in the belief that her cause had found a friend.

As the Widow Van Flange and I conversed, we were brought to sudden silence by a strange cry. It was a mad, screeching cry, such as might have come from some tigerish beast in a heat of fury. I was upon my feet in a moment, and flung open the door.

Gothecore was standing outside, having come to my message. Over from him by ten feet was Melting Moses, his shoulders narrowed in a feline way, crouching, with brows drawn down and features in a snarl of hate. He was slowly backing away from Gothecore; not in fear, but rather like some cat-creature, measuring for a spring.

On his side, Gothecore’s face offered an equally forbidding picture. He was red with rage, and his bulldog jaws had closed like a trap. Altogether, I never beheld a more inveterate expression, like malice gone to seed.

I seized Melting Moses by the shoulder, and so held him back from flying at Gothecore with teeth and claws.

“He killed me mudder!” cried Melting Moses, struggling in my fingers like something wild.

When the janitor with whom Melting Moses lived had carried him off – and at that, the boy must be dragged away by force – I turned to Gothecore.

“What was the trouble?”

“Why do you stand for that young whelp?” he cried. “I won’t have it!”

“The boy is doing you no harm.”

“I won’t have it!” he cried again. The man was like a maniac.

“Let me tell you one thing,” I retorted, looking him between the eyes; “unless you walk with care and talk with care, you are no better than a lost man. One word, one look, and I’ll snuff you out between my thumb and finger as I might a candle.”

There must have been that which showed formidable in my manner, for Gothecore stood as though stunned. The vicious insolence of the scoundrel had exploded the powder in my temper like a coal of fire. I pointed the way to my room.

“Go in; I’ve business with you.”

Gothecore seemed to recall himself to steadiness. Without more words, he entered my door.

With as much dignity as I might summon in the track of such a storm, I presented him to the Widow Van Flange. She had heard the sound of our differences; but, taken with her own troubles, she made no account of them. The Widow Van Flange received the rather boorish salutation of Gothecore in a way politely finished. Upon my hint, she gave him her story. Gothecore assumed a look at once professional and deprecatory.

“An’ now you’re done, Madam,” said Gothecore, giving that slight police cough by which he intimated for himself a limitless wisdom, “an’ now you’re done, Madam, let me chip in a word. I know your son; I’ve knowed Billy Van Flange, now, goin’ on three year – ever since he comes out o’ college. I don’t want to discourage you, Madam; but, to put it to you on th’ square, Billy Van Flange is a warm member. I leave it to you to say if I aint right. Yes, indeed! he’s as hot a proposition as ever went down th’ line.”

Here the eye of Gothecore wandered towards the ceiling, recalling the mad pranks of young Van Flange.

“But these gamblers are destroying him!” moaned the Widow Van Flange. “Is there no way to shield him? Surely, you should know how to punish them, and keep him out of their hands!”

“I know that gang of card sharps in Barclay Street,” remarked Gothecore; “an’ they’re a bunch of butes at that! But let me go on: I’ll tell you what we can do; and then I’ll tell you why it won’t be fly to do it. In th’ finish, however, it will all be up to you, Madam. We’ll act on any steer you hand us. If you say ‘pinch,’ pinch goes.

“But as I was tellin’: I’m dead onto Billy Van Flange; I know him like a gambler knows an ace. He hits up th’ bottle pretty stiff at that, an’ any man who finds him sober has got to turn out hours earlier than I do. An’ I’ll tell you another thing, Madam: This Billy Van Flange is a tough mug to handle. More’n once, I’ve tried to point him for home, an’ every time it was a case of nothin’ doin’. Sometimes he shed tears, an’ sometimes he wanted to scrap; sometimes he’d give me th’ laugh, an’ sometimes he’d throw a front an’ talk about havin’ me fired off th’ force. He’d run all the way from th’ sob or th’ fiery eye, to th’ gay face or th’ swell front, accordin’ as he was jagged.”

While Gothecore thus descanted, the Widow Van Flange buried her face in her handkerchief. She heard his every word, however, and when Gothecore again consulted the ceiling, she signed for him to go on.

“Knowin’ New York as I do,” continued Gothecore, “I may tell you, Madam, that every time I get my lamps on that son of yours, I hold up my mits in wonder to think he aint been killed.” The Widow Van Flange started; her anxious face was lifted from the handkerchief. “That’s on th’ level! I’ve expected to hear of him bein’ croaked, any time this twelve months. Th’ best I looked for was that th’ trick wouldn’t come off in my precinct. He carries a wad in his pocket; an’ he sports a streak of gilt, with a thousand-dollar rock, on one of his hooks; an’ I could put you next to a hundred blokes, not half a mile from here, who’d do him up for half th’ price. That’s straight! Billy Van Flange, considerin’ th’ indoocements he hangs out, an’ th’ way he lays himself wide open to th’ play, is lucky to be alive.

“Now why is he alive, Madam? It is due to them very gamblin’ ducks in Barclay Street. Not that they love him; but once them skin gamblers gets a sucker on th’ string, they protect him same as a farmer does his sheep. They look on him as money in th’ bank; an’ so they naturally see to it that no one puts his light out.

“That’s how it stands, Madam!” And now Gothecore made ready to bring his observations to a close. This Billy Van Flange, like every other rounder, has his hangouts. His is this deadfall on Barclay Street, with that hash-house keeper to give him th’ dough for his checks. Now I’ll tell you what I think. While he sticks to th’ Barclay Street mob, he’s safe. You’ll get him back each time. They’ll take his stuff; but they’ll leave him his life, an’ that’s more than many would do.

“Say th’ word, however, an’ I can put th’ damper on. I can fix it so Billy Van Flange can’t gamble nor cash checks in Barclay Street. They’ll throw him out th’ minute he sticks his nut inside the door. But I’ll put you wise to it, Madam: If I do, inside of ninety days you’ll fish him out o’ th’ river; you will, as sure as I’m a foot high!”

The face of the Widow Van Flange was pale as paper now, and her bosom rose and fell with new terrors for her son. The words of Gothecore seemed prophetic of the passing of the last Van Flange.

“Madam,” said Gothecore, following a pause, “I’ve put it up to you. Give me your orders. Say th’ word, an’ I’ll have th’ screws on that Barclay Street joint as fast as I can get back to my station-house.”

“But if we keep him from going there,” said the Widow Van Flange, with a sort of hectic eagerness, “he’ll find another place, won’t he?” There was a curious look in the eyes of the Widow Van Flange. Her hand was pressed upon her bosom as if to smother a pang; her handkerchief went constantly to her lips. “He would seek worse resorts?”

“It’s a cinch, Madam!”

“And he’d be murdered?”

“Madam, it’s apples to ashes!”

The eyes of the Widow Van Flange seemed to light up with an unearthly sparkle, while a flush crept out in her cheek. I was gazing upon these signs with wonder regarding them as things sinister, threatening ill.

Suddenly, she stood on her feet; and then she tottered in a blind, stifled way toward the window as though feeling for light and air. The next moment, the red blood came trickling from her mouth; she fell forward and I caught her in my arms.

“It’s a hemorrhage!” said Gothecore.

The awe of death lay upon the man, and his coarse voice was stricken to a whisper.

“Now Heaven have my soul!” murmured the dying woman. Then: “My son! oh, my son!”

There came another crimson cataract, and the Widow Van Flange was dead.

“This is your work!” said I, turning fiercely to Gothecore.

“Or is it yours?” cries he.

The words went over my soul like the teeth of a harrow. Was it my work?

“No, Chief!” continued Gothecore, more calmly, and as though in answer to both himself and me, “it’s the work of neither of us. You think that what I said killed her. That may be as it may. Every word, however, was true. I but handed her th’ straight goods.”

The Widow Van Flange was dead; and the thought of her son was in her heart and on her lips as her soul passed. And the son, bleared and drunken, gambled on in the Barclay Street den, untouched. The counters did not shake in his hand, nor did the blood run chill in his veins, as he continued to stake her fortune and his own in sottish ignorance.

One morning, when the first snow of winter was beating in gusty swirls against the panes, Morton walked in upon me. I had not seen that middle-aged fop since the day when I laid out my social hopes and fears for Blossom. It being broad September at the time, Morton had pointed out how nothing might be done before the snows.

“For our society people,” observed Morton, on that September occasion, “are migratory, like the wild geese they so much resemble. At this time they are leaving Newport for the country, don’t y’ know. They will not be found in town until the frost.”

Now, when the snow and Morton appeared together, I recalled our conversation. I at once concluded that his visit had somewhat to do with our drawing-room designs. Nor was I in the wrong.

“But first,” said he, when in response to my question he had confessed as much, “let us decide another matter. Business before pleasure; the getting of money should have precedence over its dissipation; it should, really! I am about to build a conduit, don’t y’ know, the whole length of Mulberry, and I desire you to ask your street department to take no invidious notice of the enterprise. You might tell your fellows that it wouldn’t be good form.”

“But your franchise does not call for a conduit.”

“We will put it on the ground that Mulberry intends a change to the underground trolley – really! That will give us the argument; and I think, if needs press, your Corporation Counsel can read the law that way. He seems such a clever beggar, don’t y’ know!”

“But what do you want the conduit for?”

“There’s nothing definite or sure as yet. My notion, however, is to inaugurate an electric-light company. The conduit, too, would do for telephone or telegraph, wires. Really, it’s a good thing to have; and my men, when this beastly weather softens a bit, might as well be about the digging. All that’s wanted of you, old chap, is to issue your orders to the department people to stand aloof, and offer no interruptions. It will be a great asset in the hands of Mulberry, that conduit; I shall increase the capital stock by five millions, on the strength of it.”

“Your charter isn’t in the way?”

“The charter contemplates the right on the part of Mulberry to change its power, don’t y’ know. We shall declare in favor of shifting to the underground trolley; although, really, we won’t say when. The necessity of a conduit follows. Any chap can see that.”

“Very well!” I replied, “there shall be no interference the city. If the papers grumble, I leave you and them to fight it out.”

“Now that’s settled,” said Morton, producing his infallible cigarette, “let us turn to those social victories we have in contemplation. I take it you remain firm in your frantic resolutions?”

“I do it for the good of my child,” said I.

“As though society, as presently practiced,” cried Morton, “could be for anybody’s good! However, I was sure you would not change. You know the De Mudds? One of our best families, the De Mudds – really! They are on the brink of a tremendous function. They’ll dine, and they’ll dance, and all that sort of thing. They’ve sent you cards, the De Mudds have; and you and your daughter are to come. It’s the thing to do; you can conquer society in the gross at the De Mudds.”

“I’m deeply obliged,” said I. “My daughter’s peculiar nervous condition has preyed upon me more than I’ve admitted. The physician tells me that her best hope of health lies in the drawing-rooms.”

“Let us trust so!” said Morton. “But, realty, old chap, you ought to be deucedly proud of the distinction which the De Mudds confer upon you. Americans are quite out of their line, don’t y’ know! And who can blame them? Americans are such common beggars; there’s so many of them, they’re vulgar. Mamma DeMudd’s daughters – three of them – all married earls. Mamma DeMudd made the deal herself; and taking them by the lot, she had those noblemen at a bargain; she did, really! Five millions was the figure. Just think of it! five millions for three earls! Why, it was like finding them in the street!

“‘But what is he?’ asked Mamma DeMudd, when I proposed you for her notice.

“‘He’s a despot,’ said I, ‘and rules New York. Every man in town is his serf.’

“When Mamma DeMudd got this magnificent idea into her head, she was eager to see you; she was, really.

“However,” concluded Morton, “let us change the subject, if only to restore my wits. The moment I speak of society, I become quite idiotic, don’t y’ know!”

“Speaking of new topics, then,” said I, “let me ask of your father. How does he fare these days?”

“Busy, exceeding busy!” returned Morton. “He’s buying a home in New Jersey. Oh, no, he won’t live there; but he requires it as a basis for declaring that he’s changed his residence, don’t y’ know! You’d wonder, gad! to see how frugal the old gentleman has grown in his old age. It’s the personal property tax that bothers him; two per cent, on twenty millions come to quite a sum; it does, really! The old gentleman doesn’t like it; so he’s going to change his residence to New Jersey. To be sure, while he’ll reside in New Jersey, he’ll live here.

“‘It’s a fribble, father,’ said I, when he set forth his little game. ‘Why don’t you go down to the tax office, and commit perjury like a man? All your friends do.’

“But, really! he couldn’t; and he said so. The old gentleman lacks in those rugged characteristics, required when one swears to a point-blank lie.”

When Morton was gone, I gave myself to pleasant dreams concerning Blossom. I was sure that the near company and conversation of those men and women of the better world, whom she was so soon to find about her, would accomplish all for which I prayed. Her nerves would be cooled; she would be drawn from out that hypochondria into which, throughout her life, she had been sinking as in a quicksand.

I had not unfolded either my anxieties or my designs to Blossom. Now I would have Anne tell her of my plans. Time would be called for wherein to prepare the necessary wardrobe. She should have the best artistes; none must outshine my girl, of that I was resolved. These dress-labors, with their selections and fittings, would of themselves be excellent. They would employ her fancy, and save her from foolish fears of the De Mudds and an experience which she might think on as an ordeal. I never once considered myself – I, who was as ignorant of drawing-rooms as a cart-horse! Blossom held my thoughts. My heart would be implacable until it beheld her, placed and sure of herself, in the pleasant midst of those most elevated circles, towards which not alone my faith, but my admiration turned its eyes. I should be proud of her station, as well as relieved on the score of her health, when Blossom, serene and even and contained, and mistress of her own house, mingled on equal terms with ones who had credit as the nobility of the land.

Was this the dream of a peasant grown rich? Was it the doting vision of a father mad with fondness? Why should I not so spread the nets of my money and my power as to ensnare eminence and the world’s respect for this darling Blossom of mine? Wherein would lie the wild extravagance of the conceit? Surely, there were men in every sort my inferiors, and women, not one of whom was fit to play the rôle of maid to Blossom, who had rapped at this gate, and saw it open unto them.

Home I went elate, high, walking on air. Nor did I consider how weak it showed, that I, the stern captain of thousands, and with a great city in my hands to play or labor with, should be thus feather-tickled with a toy! It was amazing, yes; and yet it was no less sweet: – this building of air-castles to house my Blossom in!

It stood well beyond the strike of midnight as I told Anne the word that Morton had brought. Anne raised her dove’s eyes to mine when I was done, and they were wet with tears. Anne’s face was as the face of a nun, in its self-sacrifice and the tender, steady disinterest that looked from it.

Now, as I exulted in a new bright life to be unrolled to the little tread of Blossom, I saw the shadows of a sorrow, vast and hopeless, settle upon Anne. At this I halted. As though to answer my silence, she put her hand caressingly upon my shoulder.

“Brother,” said Anne, “you must set aside these thoughts for Blossom of men and women she will never meet, of ballrooms she will never enter, of brilliant costumes she will never wear. It is one and all impossible; you do not understand.”

With that, irritated of too much opposition and the hateful mystery of it, I turned roughly practical.

“Well!” said I, in a hardest tone, “admitting that I do not understand; and that I think on men and women she will never meet, and ballrooms she will never enter. Still, the costumes at least I can control, and it will mightily please me if you and Blossom at once attend to the frocks.”

“You do not understand!” persisted Anne, with sober gentleness. “Blossom would not wear an evening dress.”

“Anne, you grow daft!” I cried. “How should there be aught immodest in dressing like every best woman in town? The question of modesty is a question of custom; it is in the exception one will find the indelicate. I know of no one more immodest than a prude.”

“Blossom is asleep,” said Anne, in her patient way. Then taking a bed-candle that burned on a table, she beckoned me. “Come; I will show you what I mean. Make no noise; we must not wake Blossom. She must never know that you have seen. She has held this a secret from you; and I, for her poor sake, have done the same.”

Anne opened the door of Blossom’s room. My girl was in a gentle slumber. With touch light as down, Anne drew aside the covers from about her neck.

“There,” whispered Anne, “there! Look on her throat!”

Once, long before, a man had hanged himself, and I was called. I had never forgotten the look of those marks which belted the neck of that self-strangled man. Encircling the lily throat of Blossom, I saw the fellows to those marks – raw and red and livid!

There are no words to tell the horror that swallowed me up. I turned ill; my reason stumbled on its feet. Anne led me from the room.

“The mark of the rope!” I gasped. “It is the mark of the rope!”