Part 20

While she was dressing she kept wondering what urgency had prompted the adviser to contact her so quickly after the tragedy. Surely no guilty man would do such a thing. Perhaps Martin and Rio were wrong. Perhaps Roberts wanted to help.... Did he know about that picture of Martin the police had found in Carol’s pocket? Thank God, Martin had had an alibi. Or—did alibis really count!... Poor Carol! Was she responsible for his death? It was true that she had introduced him into this ill-assorted group of men who, more experienced in the conflicting currents of human emotion, could anticipate and often avoid such danger. She remembered little phrases and gestures of Carol which in retrospect seemed touching and child-like. She remembered the day she had gone to lunch with him—his earnest, immature face as he reflected the thoughts and effusions of this man whom she was meeting. What blindness of hers that she had not foreseen an approximate outcome of this relationship! Deane’s eyes were full of tears. She felt the tremendous sorrow of the immaculate woman for the spikes and chains which bind humanity’s certified incompetents. Too, for herself, there were tears of indignation—resentment over being drawn into this formidable unity. She finished dressing and hurried uptown.

* * * * *

In the restaurant, Roberts leaned slightly forward, over the table, his hands together.

“Deane,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me because of Carol’s tragedy. The child was drawn into a significantly dangerous vortex. But it is about this uncompromising whirlpool itself, which may engulf others whom I love, that I want to speak. There is something here—some sinister thing about us that is in deadly earnest. Do you sense it, Deane?”

“Yes, Roberts. Particularly now.”

“Martin,” continued the adviser, “does not appreciate the undercurrent of this danger. It is for this reason—for this one reason I begged you to see me.”

“Yes,” Deane repeated, feeling her skin tighten as it does under a great and hopeless fear.

“I have but one thought in mind—” Roberts proceeded, “Martin’s future. His temperament is one that will not adjust itself to the inevitable.”

Deane’s hand closed over her bag. A swift feeling of revulsion changed as quickly to one of anger.

“The inevitable?” she asked, controlling her voice.

“Yes,” said Roberts. “The inevitable routine of this world. I have it on good authority that he is about to lose his job at Miller’s Typographical. You know his history. He came to me a transient—a common seaman. I found him a good job. I made contacts for him in this respect which he used, or rather abused, with an amazing recklessness. I do not understand his lack of appreciation. But these things are unimportant. Regardless of his inconsideration, I feel that there is definitely something worth saving.”

“That’s good of you, Roberts,” said Deane, inclining her head a little, the large hat shading her eyes. “Martin would be pleased to know that you consider his regeneration a possibility.”

Roberts’ lips tightened at her irony. His fingers moved constantly over the white tablecloth, touching a cup—a spoon——

“I appeal to you, Deane,” he said finally. “I recognize your influence over him.”

She remained silent.

“Have you no answer?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Deane’s moist, red lips closed tightly.

Roberts picked up a spoon and tapped it nervously on the table.

“I have always respected your antagonism, Deane, but I am somewhat unprepared, just now, to face a personal issue. By coöperating with me, I feel that we can bring about some satisfactory adjustment on the part of Martin that will give him success and happiness.” The adviser waited, quiet and intent.

Deane’s eyes paled, the color fading into clearness. She looked at Roberts abstractedly. To her it seemed that an unhealthy whiteness moved now under his skin. His handsome face seemed trembling, disintegrating and forming anew, misshapen under the pressure of his mind. His cheeks appeared alive with white nerve roots, moving uncertainly, like microscopic serpents. The lens of Deane’s eyes penetrated through flesh into the dark coils of blood, visualizing curiously the spiraling, pallid germ.

Roberts jerked in his chair. He leaned sideways, holding to the table. His cuff brushed a tumbler and a little of the water spilled upon the cloth.

“Deane!” He spoke sharply. “What are you looking at?”

Her eyes grew deeper, lost their transparency.

“I was wondering.”

Roberts’ voice trembled. His words were insecure.

“You were wondering.... You were wondering at what? What are you looking at?”

Deane took her eyes from him.

“Please go on, Roberts.”

He hesitated.

“I was saying—I was saying that you have a remarkable influence over Martin. Doubtless he has told you of our early misunderstanding—a misunderstanding based on the assumption that I was instrumental in having him fired. As an intelligent woman you are probably aware of the fact that he lost his position because he neglected his work. He is not incompetent, but his social program affected his efficiency.”

Deane spoke without looking at him.

“Do you mean that I caused Martin to lose his position?” Her lack of resentment, her cold, unemotional question disconcerted the adviser momentarily.

“Indeed not,” he answered. “Please believe that I have valued and approved his friendships for certain people. Martin tends toward introspection and celibacy. It is most important that he cultivate the social quality. That is why I was so astonished that he should, of a sudden, become so interested in what constitutes society.”

“I do not constitute society, Roberts. I love him.”

Roberts lifted his eyebrows.

“Deane,” he said anxiously, “I hope that you do not believe that I have intended to invade your personal affairs. I am concerned only with Martin’s development. I truly desire his life to be a complete and happy one.”

“Then please tell me what you want.” Deane made an uneasy little gesture.

For one lost moment, Roberts’ pallid cheeks were covered as though by the light of a beautiful, dark flame and he leaned across the table with a desperate, hopeless lust.

“You know what I want, Deane. _You have always known._” Now, he was breathless and the color left his face, leaving him whiter and more distraught than before.

Deane sat erect. There was more than anger in her expression. There was the fury and the cruelty of all her sex against what she believed to be the pitiful, crippled shade of themselves—against the mist of a forever-damned kinship which thought as woman thought, desired with woman’s desire, and still was mist, without substance, without gratification. Deane’s voice was barely audible.

“Never,” she whispered.

At her expression and her exclamation, Roberts wet his lips and trembled slightly in his chair, gazing at her as though in some enchantment.

“Never?” he asked, in a voice as low as her own, but with the quality of a protesting and bewildered child.

“Roberts!” Deane spoke so sharply that he was shaken from his spell and sat more normally, looking at her now with quiet speculation. “What is it you wish me to do? I see no reason to protract a conversation so unpleasant.”

The adviser met her glance with restraint.

“My motives are misconstrued,” he said slowly. “You will forgive my naive desire to lend Martin my support?”

Again Deane’s eyes dimmed and faded. Catching his own reflection, Roberts’ pallor grew even more death-like. And again he gripped the table, his knuckles white under the transparent skin. In the opalescent mirror of the woman’s eyes he saw his image—saw the pale movement within himself. Deane, her face cruel, drove her thoughts in swift waves, building and clarifying the image until the naked picture of the man and his disease rose clearly in her mind. There was an odor of decay. Roberts half rose from his chair, slipped back into it, and leaning sideways on the table stared fixedly at her.

Terrified, she arose. In Roberts’ face there was no blood, no expression. His eyes were set and the cords of his throat made ridges in his white neck. Deane put her hands over her eyes. She knew now. Her thoughts raced.... “_He killed Carol. He wants to kill me!_” ... Without excusing herself she left the restaurant and hurried to a cab.

* * * * *

Roberts, his hands limp on the tablecloth, stared before him. He felt Deane’s movement as she left, but he remained as he was.

“Take your eyes, too!” he said aloud. His voice rose higher. “I say, take your eyes!”

Other diners looked curiously at him, smiling and nodding their heads. A small, dark woman exchanged glances with her escort.

“He’s had plenty,” she said. “I watched him and the woman. They had an argument. The man’s tight.”

Her escort regarded Roberts earnestly.

“I don’t know. It looks as though he has the horrors.”

Roberts gazed steadily at the translucent eyes floating across the table.

“All right, my dear. Stay there,” he said loudly.

The dark woman’s escort glanced at him worriedly and beckoned to a waiter.

“Say, waiter, there’s a chap over there with the jitters. He needs looking after.”

The waiter approached Roberts warily.

“Is there something you wish, sir?” he said, deferentially.

Roberts still watched the eyes. He stood up and spoke quietly.

“Very well, I shall go. You remain here.” Turning to the waiter, “My hat, quickly.”

Outside, the adviser hailed a taxi, climbed in unsteadily and directed the driver to his apartment.

Dropping his coat on the divan in the living room, he went hurriedly to the mirror and stared into it. The light on the glass wavered, a shadow appeared, and Deane’s eyes, large and transparent, materialized before him. Roberts cried out sharply.

“I told you to stay!”

He jerked around, went to a chair, sat on the edge of it and put his head in his hands, rocking gently on his toes.

“My God, Martin!—to think that I could have loved you! After all, Devaud, you’re nothing but a sailor. A hostile, bestial—” Roberts’ head jerked back and he jumped to his feet, breathing heavily. “Deane,” he panted, “you’re in this room! It won’t help to try and hide. I can locate you by your eyes. They’re in that glass there.” He pointed. “You think you know my secret. It’s a lie! It’s a dream, and you’re a lie!” He leaned against the chair, his cheeks darkening. “I’ll find Martin. Martin will be fair.... Martin—you always liked me. You didn’t deserve a job.... Take her away, Martin! I want to sleep. I can’t sleep while she’s hiding here.” He stopped speaking, a crafty expression changing his face. Tiptoeing into the bathroom, he pulled the mirror from the cabinet and holding it under his arm, crept back to the living room.

Approaching the larger glass which hung at the end of the room, he quickly drew the other mirror from under his arm and held it so that the two of them reflected into each other. Then, bursting into short, sobbing laughter, he shook the smaller glass furiously.

“There! Look at yourself! You’re sick, too!” His laughter became fiercer until his body rocked from its violence. Suddenly he stiffened. The mirror dropped from his hands, the glass splintering, and Roberts fell.

_CHAPTER XXVII_

Martin and Rio walked along the waterfront in silence. All activity seemed suspended. It was a lonely and a menacing panorama to both men who realized that the very heart of the city had been pierced. Imported goods and products for exportation were lying quiet, slowing up the commerce of the world. Union longshoremen and truckmen had walked out with the striking seamen; and the desperate efforts of independent groups could not compensate for the loss of regimentated teamwork and good fellowship, so vital. Policemen patrolled each pier to prevent acts of violence between organized and unorganized Labor. Between the entrances, the scattered trucks rolled about like confused ants.

“Damn the governors!” said Rio, thrusting out his jaw.

“Who?”

“_Who?_” repeated Rio, in exasperation. “Capital, you bastard! Capital! _You’ve_ eaten their sour pudding and slept on their lousy blankets!—and you ask _me_ ‘who’! It’s Capital that smashes Labor!”

“Money and work,” said Martin serenely. “Money and work.”

Rio turned on him nervously.

“Cut out that speakin’ in tongues, or whatever the hell it is, Martin. I’ve heard you damn the Companies from Shanghai to Port Said. Anyway, what about the printin’ plant?”

“It’s closed. The boys walked out. That’s all.”

“Why?”

“The same reason they’re walking out everywhere—for better hours, better conditions.”

“When do they open?”

“I don’t know. There’ll be arbitration, of course. Most of the men though, have put away enough chips to ride it. I haven’t.”

“Well,” said Rio, “what are you goin’ to do?”

“I don’t know that either. I have enough left to run me for a few weeks. Then if things haven’t opened I’ll have to ship out.”

“And leave Deane with Roberts around? You told me not to mention her, but I guess it’s O.K. now.”

“Deane will be all right,” Martin nodded. “Roberts had a stroke. He can’t move.”

“Roberts? A stroke?” Rio looked pleased, and there was a definite satisfaction in his voice as he continued. “Maybe that’s why my idea didn’t work. I went to his place that night, and the next. The second time he was home, but there was lights....” Rio shook his head wisely. “And I work in the dark,” he added, looking at Martin. “But about the plant—can’t you get another job ashore?”

“I doubt it. I don’t know another trade.”

“Then what the hell good did college do you?”

“College? That’s another one I can’t answer,” said Martin. “I was too young. The world turned backwards. I hated my young, fresh hair and the child in my face. I needed the forest and the open sea—an insane wind that held my breath. I hated pedantry, and the inquisitive eyes of girls.”

“What else?” asked Rio.

“It’s too old to hurt now,” answered Martin.

“Go on,” said Rio.

“It wasn’t much. It taught me to drink incredibly bad gin—corrosive enough that it’s a wonder I have any guts left. Why go on?”

“I know,” said Rio. “You had it your way, and I had it mine. But it was all the same.... I had the wind you longed for, and it put scissors in my throat! Let’s forget it. Look!” He pointed to a wharf near them. One group of men walking along it held signs in the air. Another, grimly silent, stood by the entrance to the warehouse pier, watching those who came out and those who entered. “We’ll forget our trouble in _that_ scramble, Martin! It looks like our boys have tied up a ship.”

“Let’s see. That’s Pier V7. What ship’s that?”

“The _Leana_. She makes Pedro, and Puget Sound, I think.”

One of the men who were carrying signs stopped when he saw them.

“Howdy, Rio.”

“Hello, Brick. What’s the jibe?”

“They paid us off an’ are tryin’ to ship a fink crew,” answered the man, hitching the sign a little higher. “We dumped the mattresses over the side last night comin’ in. The bedbugs had made ’em Snug Harbor. I slept on the hatch off the coast of Mexico. And God!—what roaches!”

“Hmm,” said Rio, and he and Martin walked on.

They had started uptown when a man came out of the warehouse. One of the union men who was watching the doorway ran after him and knocked off his cap with the flat of his hand. The other tried to fight back but was smothered with punches before a policeman broke it up.

“Like old times,” said Martin.

“Yeah. Let’s go up to the Hall,” suggested Rio.

They reached South Ferry, walked to Pearl Street and went up the stairs into an old building. The room was crowded with seamen. Some of them, in chairs tilted against the wall, were sitting quietly or exchanging stories. Others were playing cards. The air was full of tobacco smoke, stale and close. Rio and Martin went to the desk. A jumpy-eyed man behind it knew them and nodded. Martin took out his book. His dues were paid to the following month, but he laid down eight more dollars.

The nervous fellow looked at him, then took the book and examined it carefully.

“I see you ain’t got in no picket duty since you left the west coast,” he said.

“No.”

“We could use a man on the line to-night.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Put me down, too,” said Rio. “I need a good sleep.”

“Yeah!” snapped the agent. “This ain’t Frisco, nor Portland, where they bat their scabby brains out. Here, the Company takes these fink bastards from the ship by car and leaves ’em in town. The boys make a few clap joints, meet the transportation and are brought back to the ship.” The agent licked his lips, showing perfect teeth, shining and yellow. “It’s silk—till they sail under.” He bit a fingernail and turned to another man.

Rio was growling when he and Martin left the Hall.

“God damn the finks,” he said.

“That’s right,” agreed Martin. “They struck me midships once. They nearly sank me.”

“You know,” said Rio, angrily, “I like you. But for Christ’s sake, don’t give me your end of the sea! You’re about as salty as lard.”

Martin smiled.

“Yes, they nearly sank me,” he repeated. “The ship was listing fourteen degrees when the bos’n ran into the fo’c’sle in his dirty underwear. He danced the ise-odori with a bottle of Saki under one arm and an ordinary seaman under the other, on a deck that would have frozen grandmother’s mittens. Now Rio, do you figure yourself a deep water sailor? Because you’ve pulled in the log on a cold night and lashed barrels to a hatch with your butt to the wind—are you sure of the ocean?... Have you ever curled a sea egg around your elbow?—kissed a barracuda over black water?—raced a shark in a harbor full of battle-wagons dumping garbage, with your own boat forty feet away against the wind? Have you winked at a sea spider and made him shuffle backwards till his legs ruffled slow sand in your face?”

“Well,” said Rio, laughing, “I told you once you were the ‘part of.’”

They were back at Pier V7. Other men were concentrating from the Hall to relieve the day pickets.

“They brought in two cars full,” said a tall fellow who had been heading the day men. He turned to Rio. “You take care of the night gang. We’ll bring down coffee. The Company is usin’ black sedans—some of the blinds was down when they pulled in. A couple of cops is standin’ by the gate so you can’t do much there. But if you divide your gang and send half of ’em up the alley a ways, you can get a sign. Hop on the runnin’ board, an’ you know what to do. Another thing. All the deck officers walked out when we was paid off except the third mate. That’s one Company man I’d like to see you get. The finks may not get no leave to-night, but the _Leana_ don’t sail for four days. If we keep a good lookout, maybe we can get a couple of the bastards. That’s all, except don’t do no drinkin’.”

“What’s that on your breath?” asked someone. “Orange juice?”

“I can hold it,” said the tall fellow.

The pickets laughed and the day men left. The night gang joined around Rio.

“I’ll take a few of you up there.” Rio pointed to a pile of dunnage. “The rest of you watch the gate. If a Company car comes, give me a light three times and get out. We’ll take care of the rest of it. Don’t talk to the cops unless they talk to you first. Keep your distance from the gate. Have you got a torch you can signal me with, Billy?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“I got mine here,” said one of the men, pulling out a flashlight.

“Give it to Billy,” said Rio. “He’s worked with me before. Remember, Billy—burn it at me three times.”

“O.K.”

It was almost dark and Rio selected his men, including Martin. They walked up the street to an old pile of lumber by a dark pier.

“Get this, boys—no knives. A club’s best, but not a piece of pipe. Work on ’em hard, but don’t kill ’em. You, Eddy—and you, Martin—an’ me’ll hop the runnin’ board. Smash the glass an’ bring her to the side. We got to work fast before brass-buttons shows up.”

“What if they’re Company officials?” asked Martin.

“_They_ won’t be here,” said Rio, amused. “But if they are, give ’em two, instead of one.”

“What’s the matter with ye, sonny?” asked a dwarf-like man with immense shoulders. “Is yer belly soft?” He glared at Martin.

“We’ll find out soon, my muscle-bound patriot,” said Martin walking toward him swiftly.

Several seamen jumped between them.

“I’ll hear one more crack from either of you, an’ I’ll bat your thick skulls together,” said Rio quietly. “Our union is split already. We got work to do, an’ you start a parade. You ain’t fit to work.”

“I’ll work,” said Martin.

“Me, too,” said the heavy seaman.

“Shake hands,” said an older man with grizzled hair and an intense, strained face.

“It was my fault,” said Martin.

“Naw, it was mine,” objected the squat fellow sheepishly as they shook hands.

“You don’t need to kiss,” said Rio sharply. Then he held up his hand. “Get this straight,” he continued. “It ain’t no joke we’re playin’. Maybe this’ll help.” He took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around, each man taking a shot of the liquor. Rio finished it and tossed the bottle under the dunnage. “It’s about time for the rats to come out if they’re goin’ ashore,” he went on. “Keep an eye to the pier.” He turned suddenly to one of the younger seamen. “You ain’t got no club.”

“My brother was killed in Detroit that way, Rio. Lemme use my fists.”

Rio turned his face aside for a moment. When he looked at the boy again it was like metal.

“Get yourself a club, buddy.”

Hesitatingly, the seaman took up a knotty piece of wood. He held it in his hands one way and then another, his face white.

One of the men came up to Rio and took him to one side. He said something in a low voice and Rio nodded. The man returned his nod and left hurriedly.

“_This is the time, dear Mother_—” hummed a seaman.

“Shut up,” said his partner.

They waited silently, watching the pier for any light. Suddenly, a man came upon them, startling them as he shuffled in and laid down a large package.

“Here it is, Rio.” The man was panting. “It’s me—Al.”

“Beer!” The men exulted quietly, peering through the early darkness.

Al now took a short automatic from his pocket and handed it to Rio.

“Drink up,” Rio said to the men.

Each man took a bottle and waited in turn for the opener except one seaman who, impatient, knocked off the cap of his bottle against a block of wood.

“Take the rest down to the men at the pier,” said Rio to Al, who shambled away noiselessly.

Someone struck a match. In the flare Rio saw Martin regarding him steadily. He grinned. It was a painful, smashing look and he didn’t take his eyes away. The match flickered out and Martin came up to him slowly.

“Watch for the lights, Eddy,” cautioned Rio, as he and Martin walked a few yards away from the lowered sounds of the men.

“So you believe, Martin, that I’d pull this?” Rio twisted the automatic in his hand. “Al got this for me. He’d eat out of my hand. Never mind why. This—belongs to Roberts. It was used one night. I got it for you.”

“You told the story?” asked Martin.

“I told no story. Al’s a thief. He does what I say, but his heart is finer than yours.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Martin, feeling the gun and Rio’s hands in the dark. Breaking it under Rio’s wrist, he suddenly threw back his arm and spun the automatic into the river.... Vaguely he heard Rio say there were lights....