The Last Drive and Other Stories
- Автор: Стаут Рекс Тодхантер
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
- ISBN: 978-1-5040-1134-1
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The Last Drive and Other Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
“’Sh,” interrupted the fat man. “Break off, Claire, and give me the fate of the fizz later. Here comes the new one. Let’s see if she’s got anything.”
They turned to look at the stage as the orchestra began the introduction to a popular song. The young woman who appeared on the platform was visibly ill at ease. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers were pressed nervously against the skirt of her black, clinging gown; her shoulders and arms were bare and startlingly white, and her golden hair assumed a striking luminosity in the glare of the spotlight. It was an effective picture, and a slight ripple of applause ran over the immense room.
She began to sing. It was easy enough to see that she was new to the cabaret. She made no flowing gestures, she did not roll her eyes, she did not even clasp her hands over her heart when she sang of love; she merely stood still and sang, in a tender and sweet voice, two verses and two choruses of a silly song. Once, toward the end of the second verse, she faltered and nearly stopped, with an appearance of sudden agitations; but she avoided catastrophe. It was probably her physical attractiveness that earned the burst of applause that followed — whereupon she repeated the chorus and retired with a little smile and a bow.
“Not so rotten,” said the fat man graciously, turning to his companions at the table. “A little bit of the pose à la country lyceum, but all she needs is some action. Did you see her stumble when some guy winked at her or something? She’ll get over that. Lord, when I think of Mawsey! Take it from me, old Snyder knew what she was here for. That kind don’t get away with it for nothing. Was you here, Bronson, the night she — what’s the matter, man? You’re white as a ghost! What’s the matter?”
Bronson’s sallow countenance had lost every vestige of color, and he was gazing at the empty platform with a vacant, dull state that was almost terrifying.
“What’s the matter?” Claire and the fat man repeated together in surprise.
Bronson drew himself together with an apparent effort, shifting his gaze uncertainly, while a sudden flow of color came to his cheeks.
“I don’t know,” he stammered finally. “Something funny — I guess it’s my stomach — I don’t feel well. Very sudden. I... I’ll be back soon.”
And he rose abruptly, with a nod, and began to make his way through the maze of tables and chairs to a café for men at the other end. When he had reached it he found a chair in a secluded corner and sank down, burying his face in his hands. Soon he lifted his head, and for a long time he sat looking at nothing with strained, suffering eyes. Now and then he would sigh deeply, and his chin would sink slowly on his chest; then he would pull himself up with a start and resume his vacant stare. He seemed half dazed.
“I wonder,” he murmured aloud, suddenly, “if Dibby has taken her out. I suppose he has.”
He stood up to look through the glass partition over the heads of the diners in the main room. His eyes sought the table he had left half an hour before: it was empty. Evidently Claire and the fat man had gone off together. Bronson reentered the room and made his way down the aisles. As he passed he heard whispers on either side: “That’s him. That’s the dancer.” He did not stop till he had reached the left of the platform, at the rear, where several small tables were gathered together in a group.
At one of these tables, over against the wall, a young woman with golden hair and bare arms and shoulders was sitting alone, with her chin resting on her hands and her eyes downcast. It was the new soprano.
For a long minute Bronson stood looking at her in silence, while the color came and went in his sallow face. Then suddenly he shook himself, took a quick step forward, and touched her on the arm.
“Rina,” he said, in a strange, suppressed voice.
She started and looked up, and as she caught sight of him an expression of amazed recognition came into her eyes.
“Harry!” she exclaimed in so loud a tone that those at near-by tables glanced over curiously.
“Yes; it is I.” Bronson paused a moment, then, moving slowly and deliberately, seated himself at the other side of the little table and crossed his arms on the cloth. “Quite a surprise, isn’t it? It was for me, a little while ago, when I saw you come on the platform.”
“It is — yes,” stammered the young woman, looking from one side to the other to avoid meeting his eyes. She seemed terribly embarrassed. “I didn’t know you were in New York,” she observed lamely.
The corners of Bronson’s mouth were twisted into something like a smile. “No,” he said slowly; “I suppose you didn’t. You wouldn’t, you know. But that isn’t — that doesn’t matter.” He broke off and gazed at her for a moment in silence, then said abruptly:
“What are you doing here?”
“Why” — she gave a little uneasy laugh — “you see — working.”
“When did you leave Granton?”
“A month ago.”
“Have you been here ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Singing?”
“Trying to. This is my first job.”
“Where’s Guilford?”
“I don’t know. He is— He is—”
The answer wouldn’t come. Bronson waited a moment, then continued abruptly:
“Didn’t you marry him?”
There was another pause, longer than before. The young woman sat motionless, with her eyes on the table, giving no sign that she had heard. Bronson was fingering a napkin nervously; his face was very white. He called a waiter and ordered some Scotch, telling him to hurry, then turned to the young woman and repeated his question in a voice that trembled.
“Didn’t you marry him?”
Another pause; then suddenly she looked up and met his eyes for the first time. Her face, too, was white.
“No,” she said slowly and distinctly; “I didn’t. He... he jilted me.”
Bronson straightened up with a movement of surprise, then the twisted smile appeared again on his lips.
“What?” he said. “What? You don’t mean—”
“Yes; I mean just that.” She leaned forward. “Harry, I want to tell you—”
“Wait a minute, Rina. Where the deuce — oh, there he is!.. Here, waiter! Yes; that’s right. No, leave the bottle here.”
He tipped the bottle till his glass was three-fourths full of amber liquid, then lifted it and drained it to the bottom, while a slight shiver passed over him. Almost immediately the color came to his cheeks. He turned to the young woman.
“Now go on, Rina. You say you didn’t marry him?”
“No, I didn’t. And I’m glad, Harry, I’m glad. No, wait till I tell you. I never liked him — really. I’ve wanted to tell you so. It was because he was rich, and I’d always been so poor, and you were poor, and I hated Granton — I’ve wanted to tell you—”
Her tongue was loosened now; the words would not come fast enough. She leaned forward, looking into Bronson’s eyes, and spoke rapidly, disconnectedly, as one who feels the pressure of time.
“I was selfish and mean, but you don’t know what those things — money, and living in New York, and all that — are to a girl. That night, the night you left — it will be a year tomorrow — I cried myself to sleep. I didn’t lie when I said I... cared for you. No, I didn’t, Harry. If you had only stayed!
“But you went away — I didn’t know where — and then he... he began — I don’t know, but after a while he went away, back home, to New York. I didn’t care. I wanted you. I didn’t know where you were. I stood it in Granton as long as I could, and then I ran away and came here. There! I wanted to tell you, and ask you — to forgive me.”