Black-Eyed Stranger (6 page)

She looked him in the eye. “Yes, that's so,” she said.

His heart felt as if it curled at the edges. He threw out his hands. He said, “Lord …” He said, “Honey …” He said, “
No!
”

“Well,” she said with a little smile, “you put it in the silliest kind of way, but, just the same, I believe something like that. I don't know why.”

He sprang out of the chair and struck his hands together. “Where's your father? I want to see him. And see him quick.” He felt frantic.

She folded her underlip under her teeth and didn't budge. Her eye flashed. Her chin went up. “Do you want him to do something for you?”

“Oddly enough,” he snarled, “with all his money, he can't do a thing for me.”

“Then do you plan to tell him I went to that party?”

“Sister, look,
no.
”

She smiled as if she had tricked him. “You see? None of the bad reasons.”

“You don't know all the reasons, maybe.” He put his hand on her head, briefly. “You don't understand. I don't expect you to. Listen, I don't want to tell you what I came for, until I've seen your father. I just—I'd rather not.”

“All right,” she said.

“The fact is,” he blurted, “you do attract me. Not the way you think. Go get your father.”

“Maybe you don't quite know the way I think,” she said primly. “But I'll call Daddy, if you wish.”

“I wish you would,” he said, stony-eyed. “Please do.”

She unwound herself and got out of the chair, keeping her face both serene and severe. He heard a bell, somewhere, but paid no heed, for air was rushing into his chest, and he was afraid, and he was in a hurry, but just the same he did not want her to leave this place where they stood together. Already, a premonition told him that his little vision, the little projected scene in which having given the alarm he would sit beside her and gently try to make her understand, would never happen.

So he was surprised when a man's voice behind him said, “Kay? Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, Alan! Hi!” She walked across the rug and Sam turned slowly.

“Hello, darling.” The blond boy kissed her upturned face. His arm fell around her shoulder and her hand met his to hold it there.

“You know Mr. Lynch? Oh yes, I remember. Of course you do.”

Alan Dulain stood as stiff and cold as his voice. “How are you, Lynch?”

“I'm well,” Sam drawled. “And you?”

The girl stood there, in that embrace, and asked with a trace of mischief, “Where did you two meet? Do you mind my asking?”

“Why, no, Kay …”

“It was in his office,” snapped Sam. “He had me hauled in and he kicked me out again.”

“I'm not aware that I ever—”

“Figure of speech. Intents and purposes.” Sam bit a fingernail. Antagonism rippled between them. “Listen, I haven't time—”

“Very sorry,” Alan said, stiffly, removing his arm. “I didn't know you were busy, Kay.”

“Oh, but I'm not. Not at all.” Now she was saucy. “Mr. Lynch came to see Dad.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You don't. You don't, indeed,” muttered Sam. “But never mind. Sister, will you
please—
”

“If it is anything I can be helpful about,” began the blond boy smoothly, thrusting himself forward like a shield.

Sam's nerves screamed. “I want to see Charles Salisbury,” he snarled. “Do you mind?” He swung on the girl. “Where is he?”

“In the library, I think.” She turned as if to lead Sam there.

“Better … ask, dear,” Alan said warningly.

“Oh. Yes, I'd better.” She looked a little flustered and uncertain. “I'll tell him you're here.”

“I'd be so happy if you only would,” said Sam grimly.

He turned his back on Alan Dulain. Alan sat down and lit a cigarette. He said coldly, “You were not kicked out of any office of mine, Lynch.”

“It was kicked out in my language. I don't know what it was in yours.”

“I am in the habit of practicing the elements of courtesy.”

“Sure. ‘Thank you.' ‘Please.' ‘I beg your pardon.'”

“As you wish.” The patience in the voice was as insulting as Sam's sarcasm.

Sam turned around and the other crossed his legs. “It ought not to be necessary for me to say this,” Alan began.

“'Tisn't,” snapped Sam. “So don't.”

The blond man smoldered but he went on quietly. “I told Miss Salisbury that you were no good.”

“Katherine,” said Sam, “should have listened.”

But the other man had control. He said, patiently, “She is too young, Lynch, as you must see. Too inexperienced, too romantic, to understand what I said, literally. She really doesn't know what it's all about. Therefore, it's up to you.”

“Why?” Sam was furious.

“Surely—”

“I'm no good. She's too dumb. But
you
know what's best for everybody. You're sitting on a cloud, seeing the right.
You
fix it, why don't you?”

“I will,” snapped Alan. “I'll do that.”

They waited in silence. Time stretched, and Sam's nerves with it. He thought of his car down in the street, a badge of his presence here. Where he seemed to have fallen into a bog, to be struggling, weighted by delay and again delay. And delay was stupid. It could only work against him. For his neck was out.

He lit a cigarette, and his eyes fled nervously from the blond boy, who sat quietly, toward the door through which the girl had gone, and then skipped around the walls of the huge dim room, and he put out the cigarette and lit another.

Chapter 6

CHARLES SALISBURY had a clean and “talcumed” look. Even his hair looked powdered. His eyes were oyster gray. His suit was gray with a palergray woven in but lying like a frost on the fabric. He made one think of a seascape on a dull day, all clean grays. Middling tall, erect, he walked in with so measured and deliberate a stride that his daughter beside him seemed to curvet like a pretty pony.

“How do, Alan?”

“Afternoon, sir.” Dulain, for his manners, rose.

Kay turned her father with a touch on his arm. “Dad, this is Mr. Lynch who wants to talk to you about something.”

The oyster-gray eyes were cool and inquiring.

“Alone,” said Sam rudely. He heard Dulain clear his throat. “He's about to warn you to look out for me,” said Sam quickly, “so let's take that for said, and let's get this over. Can't we?”

“I was merely going to identify you as an ex-newspaperman.” Dulain's voice was buttery. It said, I am a gentleman.

“I'll identify myself whenever it's necessary.”

Charles Salisbury said frostily, “What is this all about?”

“I'll tell you what it's about,
alone.
”

“Then suppose you wait in there.” Salisbury was curt.

“I'm in a hurry,” snapped Sam.

“Daddy,” the girl spoke gently, “I should have said that Mr. Lynch is a friend of mine.” Her reproach was not for her father, Sam knew, but for him.

“Sorry,” said her father more genially, “But your manner, sir.”

“I've got no manners,” said Sam, “not really, and no time for any right now. Let's get to it.” None of them knew what drove him. It was a mistake to sound so rude. But his sense of a long time wasted and the presence of Dulain combined to be infuriating.

“If,” said Alan, now tolerantly, indulgently, “this is so private, Kay, perhaps you and I …”

“No, no,” said Salisbury gracefully, “we can as well …”

Sam's voice rose. “Listen. Everybody. I want to see Salisbury a minute alone. And quick.
Now, can it be arranged?
”

Salisbury moved his frosted brows. “Is what you have to say at all important?”

“Very important,” gasped Sam.

“Very well. I'll give you a minute. If you will come with me.”

Sam stumbled toward the indicated door. He felt reduced and compressed into a ruthless order, Salisbury's sense of order, his measured pace, the marching regularity of his arrangements. He also felt like a boor and he felt angry.

And once again Salisbury turned back. “Oh, Alan, about that boat of yours, use my anchorage, of course.”

“Ooooh!” cried the girl, young as morning, clapping her hands. “Alan, you bought it?”

“I sure did.” The blond boy was happy that she was happy and the father was held, watching, smiling at her pleasure, and Sam groaned.

“Take me out on the Sound?” she cried. “When?”

“Tomorrow? You don't have afternoon classes?”

“No, but, darn it, I've got my music lesson.”

“How about after that?”

“Wouldn't it be too late?”

Sam Lynch, leaning on the wall, said heavily, “Yeah.”

“What?”

“Too late.” He lifted both hands and they were shaking. “Listen. Please. What do I have to
do?
” His anxiety, his irritation cracked in the room. He knew it was wrong to expect them to meet his mood without his information. He tried hard to be fair. He said, without anger, “It's urgent.” But it came out flat.

There was a murmuring exchange between the men.

Salisbury said, “Yes … er … I … er …” And then to Sam, briskly, “This way.”

Sam wheeled but the girl's voice came after him. “I hope you will come to see
me,
some day.”

He heard Dulain's voice warn, “Kay.”

But she said, defiantly sweet, “Won't you, Sam?”

He said, “I guess not, sister. I don't think so. Thanks all the same.” He followed where he was led, leaving the girl and the blond boy without another word or a glance, without turning his head. He followed through a door, down a short passage, into a small room full of books and leather.

Charles Salisbury moved toward the desk. He rested his fingertips on its surface. All here was peace, was order. It was due time. “Mr. Lynch?” Now that he gave his attention he gave it totally. Sam stood in this man's aura, a radiation of his decency and order. And Sam, too, leaned on the desk, with no time to waste.

He said, quietly, “Mr. Salisbury, I came here to tell you that I overheard a plan to kidnap your daughter, Katherine.”

“What,” said Salisbury with a bridling movement of his head, “are you talking about!”

Sam was willing to concede that it took some time. He was willing to wait until this penetrated. He felt sorry for this man. He said, rather dryly, but patiently, “I'm talking about a plan to kidnap your daughter.”

“You must be—” Slowly, Charles Salisbury sat down.

“Don't let her go to that music lesson. Don't let her be on the street at any time without a guard.” It was too fast.

“But you—” The man did not know how to look bewildered. He simply looked blank. “You must give me some grounds. I can't believe—”

“You don't have to believe it,” said Sam, still patient. Still sorry. “You can't afford to take the chance that I might be mistaken.” The father said nothing, but sat behind the desk, looking numb and blank. “You can see that, can't you?” Sam pressed more sharply. Then he shrugged and half turned, for he must wait a little.

“Just a minute, young man.” Now, the gray eyes showed a glint of anger and Sam suspected it was a way to cover and deny a thrill of fear. “What makes you think you can walk into my house and make so horrifying and sensational a statement without any—” But the father's hands began to flap helplessly. The shell of his placid orderliness was cracking. “You must give me some facts,” he said, loud with his dismay. “Do you expect me to take you seriously?”

“I do,” said Sam. “And,” he continued in a slow drawl, “perhaps you'll notice, I am doing you quite a favor in this matter.”

“Then you can do me the further favor,” said Salisbury sharply, “of explaining how you happened to—did you say—overhear?” His immaculate fingers tapped on the desk.

“What do you care how it happened?” said Sam roughly. “I overheard it and I'm here to tell you so at considerable risk to myself.”

“Nonsense!” said Charles Salisbury.

“What do you mean, nonsense?” But Sam knew what he meant. The ideas before him were so foreign and unfamiliar that the man's mind threw them out.

“What's behind this?” Salisbury's face was hostile and suspicious. “This is absolute melodrama.”

“That's right,” said Sam gently. He had the image of feeding a strange new food with a small spoon to a reluctant baby. “That's what it is.”

Salisbury's face colored. He said, flatly, “I don't believe it.”

“And what's the point of my coming up here and lying about it?”

“I don't know. I'm sure I do not know. But you will have to give me something more than a bald statement.”

“Will I?” said Sam, ominously. He began to feel he had been patient long enough.

“Who is planning such a thing?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Do you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then, why don't you say?”

“Because,” Sam shrugged, “if it gets out I'm up here naming names, I'm a gone gander.” He said it because he knew it. It was hard for him to remember that this might come fantastic to his listener's ear.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Salisbury again. He rose from the chair and leaned on his hands, fastening his eyes on the dark man's face as if he would bore through to the essence of the mind behind it.

“What do you think I am?” Sam said uneasily. “A loony? Listen.”

“This talk about
your
danger. That's too much really.” The gray eyes probed while the mouth sneered.

“It's my life,” Sam said, “and I'm fond of it. And I've got it in my mouth. And I suppose it's no worry of yours. But
she
is. What's the matter? Didn't you hear what I told you? Don't you read your paper? You think such things can't be?”