A DOUBLE DEAL FOR DAVID

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 192, 16 August 1938, Page 17

A DOUBLE DEAL FOR DAVID

By SERQE -TCHERNESE

Short Story

HIS assets consisted of five dollare, one gold watch, one good suit, one not so good, and a fund of determination. From the window of his shabby room in the late afternoon light he could see the sun-baked, dusty main street of ■the little American town where he had finally come to rest after monthe of wandering in search of work and of occasionally finding temporary positions. The works managers had seemingly no use for a young English engineer. There was a knock at the door, and the apartment keeper, a tall gaunt woman, entered. "Mail for you, Mr. Gray," she rasped, handing him a letter. He took it eagerly. There was an English stamp on the envelope. "Dear David,' , he read, "I've just come into a bit of money and I'm starting a garage down here. I want a partner, and there is a fellow who I would like to come ill with me, but I'm net doing a thing until I hear from I you. How goes it? Are you thinking j i»f coming back? If eo, here's a chance. i Tin' amount required is not very much. j Think it over, old chap. Best wishes. j our pal, —Thomas (arrow." ' David smiled at the teree note which i had come so far. C'arrow evidently 1 thought lio Mas doing well out here, j but if he knew the true position he I would probably offer to advance his passage home. But lie would never appeal to C'arrow. he would fight his own battle to the very e.id, so he decided. And in a new mood of truculent deter- ' initiation he seized his hat and left the

house. Ho 'had not gone far along the sidewalk when lie noticed a disturbance of some sort was in progress, further up the street. He stepped briskly forward to investigate. The sounds of strife which were now getting distinctly audible fitted in with his present mood, so he broke into a run and arrived in time to see a strange sight. A tall man, obviously unsteady on bis feet, was making wild rushes at a much smalled man, who. in turn, was dancing round him. yelling defiance and making short ineffective jabs at his opponent. A small crowd had gathered round with laconic interest, but 110 attempt was being made to stop the unequal contest. David, taking it all in at a glance, decided to act. Pushing to one side the small mail and avoiding the flaillike milling of the other's arms, he planted a well-timed upper-cut to the jaw. The tall man fell like a log; then, feeling his jaw and shaking his head, he got up without a word, and ambled off unsteadily. The crowd dispersed and David was left alone with the small man. The latter held out his hand and remarked gravely. "Sid Gugepheim is the name— and I thank you." "David Gray is the name—and don't mention it," replied David politely in.s the same strain and made to go off. ; I "Say, listen," said the other sudI denly, "you can't go like that—l owe j you something. I guess you saved my life. Lemme tell you something about that guy. I' fired' him, and now he comes and beats ine up K the cheap drunk. Yes, .fliat's why I showed him the exit. Too fond of rye. Yes, sir.- Can't run the otice with a druftken hobo playing merry goof'guy, arid T/owe you something for : what ybq did/'Jthe. little inari paused, looked -quizzically at David, And .then rapped out; . '■'-'Buy. Carfamba Consolidated, that's a straight' line.,% Buy 'em now. I'm HolbtfOm and Peck, Kansas City—you can .liny through me. I'll tell you, boy, that stock's going up— and bow 1, See you later. Here's my card." • ■ • • • David's attention was attracted by a play bill carelesly pasted on a wall. It announced a variety show being held in a local theatre. He decided to go; it probably meant the reckless expenditure of at least a dollar, but he felt the need of companionship to-night, even if only amongst strangers. The theatre, drab and ordinary in the daylight, now presented a quite imposing aspect, bedecked as it was with coloured lights and attended by a tall, grinning, negro commissionaire. He entered the darkened auditorium. The present turn consisted of a couple of weary looking acrobats. The next item was a large lady with a rather acid soprano voice, with which she was expressing the desire to be a hummingbird. When the combined applause and catcalls had subsided, there was a general stir and rustling of programmes. A coloured light near the stage indicated "number nine." David looked at his programme; number nine consisted of Mr. Leo Mercuto and Miss Lena Martin, exhibition dancers. The curtain rose, and disclosed, two figures o"n' the stage.; a slim girl with honey-coloured hair and a dark Immactt-f lately clad man, whose hair and patent leather shoes were of the same degree of' brilliance. The band struck up one of the latest rhythms and the man and the. girl moved off together encircled ahd followed by a tinted limelight. The girl, with her graceful slimness, was a born dancer, and she and her partner seemed the very essence of the rhythm that flowed around them. David found himself admiring the girl's sweet composed air and wishing she might be anywhere but in the arms of the sleek looking individual who was piloting her. The dance ended amid applause, and, as the participants retired, a man stepped forward to the centre of the stage. He held up his hand to still the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "Invite any gentleman here in this audience, who thinks he can emulate the expertness of Signor Mercuto with his incomparable partner, Miss Martin, to compete for a prize which the management is offering to-night. This offer is absolutely genuine—genuine, and these two gentlemen,"—he indicated two other men who were also on the stage— "and myself will be the judges. Now, the prize for the best gentlemen dancer in the opinion of my respected colleagues and myself will be"—he paused to see the effect of his oration, "will be two hundred dollars!" A man seated next to David muttered morosely that he didn't believe it. There was a general reluctance to be the first to face the limelight, and David, taking I advantage of the general apathy, leapt to his feet, making for ,the gangway to I the stage. • • The managei\ fixed a badge on the ■ lapel of his coat, and he found himself j sailing away with the girl in his arms. J "You dance awfully well,", she said presently in a clear whisper, "but keep I away from the footlights." I "Why, you're English," hie whispered hack in aurpriae. She nodded, t -.avwi't heard a real English voice for months and months," he went on.

"Well, you won't hear my voice much now," she whispered, again smiling. "I can't talk and dance at the same time." It was a novel experience for him and rather exhilarating. It finished all too soon, but his loneliness, was fast evaporating and he blessed the kind fate that led him to the place. "When can F see you "again?" he asked before they parted. "Perhaps after the show," she flashed back as the next competitor claimed her.

Just when he was getting bored with the proceedings, the manager stepped forward again and announced the contest was over. "Will the gentleman with the badge mar'-.ed 'E' kindly return to the stage?' , he shouted. There was no response. Suddenly. the man next to David nudged him. "Wake up, brother," he remarked through his cigar and pointing to his badge, "you're the winner!" It was only after he had left the smoke-laden atmosphere of the theatre, slightly bewildered by his good fourtune, that be remembered his appointment with the girl. Would she remember? Well, be was certainly going to wait. David strolled to and fro before the stage door which was now being guarded by the negro .commissionaire, less resplendent in mufti. He searched for a cigarette in his pockets and, in doing so came across Guggenheim's card and reflected. He turned on his heel and ground out his cigarette. The door clanged open and lie heard the commissionaire grumble out; "Good night, Miss Martin." She had come after all; he raised his hat. "It's wonderful to be talking to somebody from home," he eaid. "I felt like a lost soul before' I went to the theatre, and now, well, I feel as if I could talk all night." The girl laughed, and David thought he had never heard such an attractive ■sound in all his life. "Well, I'm afraid it won't be with me. Even a dancer gets a little tired sometimes."

She hold out her hand. He took it and looked down into deep blue eyes which Keemed quite dark in the starlight. '"When shall we meet again?" he enquired. ''When shall we meet again?" she repeated with a smile. "To-morrow, if you like, at Bennaro's Candy Store—at three. Good-bye, Mr. — ?" "David," he supplied to a slim retreating form. A door closed none too quietly and be was left in sole possession of the street. On the next day, before the stand-up counter at Bennaro's, David had coniided his prospect* to Lena, together with a rough sketch of his past life. "Do you know what I've done?" he enquired suddenly of his companion, who was busily extracting nourishment from an ice cream frappe and looking completely fascinating in the process. "From what you've told me, you might me capable of anything." "Well, I've bought some stock. I got a tip from a man I met by accident." "And the two hundred dollars have gone." "Yes." "Oh, David, how ridiculously absurd of you; you'll probably lose all your money. And now I suppose you haven't got a cent. Well, I'm going to pay for these," she remarked, indicating the ruins of their ice creams. "Things are not as bad ae- all that," he replied laughing, "and I'm a euperoptimist, Lena." i•• • • In one room of her small two-roomed apartment Lena was busy with the domesticities of existence, plunging tinted garments in and out of a foam of soap suds and singing happily all the while, for a reason ehe pretended not to know. Aβ she wrung out the last garment, the bell in the little sitting-room trilled, and, on opening the door, she found David outside. She thought he seemed a trifle and even his ordinary manner appeared to have something underlying it. However, she pretended not to "notice any difference, and he, on hie part, was well content just to sit and watch her flit round the room preparing tea. It was very pleasant in that sunny room with the bright coloured curtains and the little golden motes dancing in a slanting ray of sunlight. "I may be going away," said Lena without looking at him. "I've been offered a chance in another town." He took his eyes away from the sunlit window.

infr form

"With Mercuto?' , he enquired slowly. "I've been trying to get a single act, but the managers don't seem keen and

He started forward in his chair suddenly, without thinking of the cup and saucer he held in his hand, and they crashed to the floor in pieces. They both bent down to pick up the fragments, and, somehow, David found himself holding her hand. "You can't go away like that, Lena," he said, "when I—er—l care for you very much. Oh! lam an idiot." They both rose, holding the remnants of the accident. "What do you mean—that doesn't sound very complimentary, does it?" she remarked coolly, placing the pieces on the table. "I am sorry," he continued. "I'm sorry I broke the tea cup." Eena raised her eyebrows, and David wondered dully, as other young men must have wondered in similar circumstances, why he should be bereft of intelligent speech just when he most needed it. "I'm pretty well broke," he continued hurriedly. "That is—l think I've mesised up the only chance I had, and now I've got to start all over acaki. Do you—?" ■ "Do I what, David?" "I mean, do you?" "Do I?" "Well—do you?" "I think you've been very silly," Lena remarked. "Do you really?" said David more hopefully. "Yes, and now you must go." David opened the door, and was just on the point of leaving when Lena suddenly darted across the room and, fling, ing her arms round his neck, gave him one kigg and slammed the door. • • • • One morning a few days later, when his bright optimism was a shade less in evidence, David turned to the "city" page of his paper—looked for the price of his lamentable Carrambas stockgave one yell—and dashed away out of hit apartment and, in no time, arrived at the stage door of the Theatre of Vanitiea.

"Is Mjss Martin here?" gasped David. "That she ain't, sun. Went away, she did, a little while ago." "Went away J" "Yes, suh. Tha'e been an almighty 'alltalkation,' suh, between Mr. Mercuto and the boss, an , he's packed up. Terribls 'alltalkation,' suh, it sh' was. Said he was gwin' to the station and ah reckons he'll be taking the 2.30 for Ohio." "But, Miss Martin?" inquired David with a slight sinking feeling which he sought to ignore. "Has she gone too?" "They went together, suh, in Mr. Ikfcrcuto'e automobile. Ah helped him to put a small trunk and two grips in, but Ah couldn't say if they's Miss Martin's. Ah reckons he's broken up the act, suh, 'an Miiss Martin she won't be wanted no' mo'." "I see," cut in David hurriedly. "Can you get me a taxi straight away ?" "A taxi, suh? Certainly, suh." When he finally reached the station, the train could already be seen in the distance, and presently it arrived and clanked to a standstll.

He was surprised to see Mercuto's car, a brightly painted roadster which he had noticed on other occasions, among -them, and he hurried forward to investigate. Mercuto was seated at the wheel and talking volubly. He was hatless, and his sleek black hair was slightly disarranged. The car was flanked on either side by two cynical looking men, and another, smoking a cigar, was leaning on the bonnet. David recognised the latter at once; it was the man who had acquainted him with hie good luck that night at the theatre. "You've got me wrong," Mercuto was saying. "I can prove I'm not the man you want. I'm a professional dancer. Here you are, look—" he fumbled in his pockets and brought out various papers. "Give me a fair deal. You've got me wrong." "We've got you brother," observed one of the men, "and that's good enough for sure. You can do all your proving before the District Attorney. I guess he'll need some convincing. And that's enough boloney from you. Some guys won't talk—l'll say you're not one of them. Keep the little dancer just where he is, Corrigan."

. David approached the cigar smoking gentleman, and the recognition was mutual. "Hullo, son,", he remarked. "Well, well, if it ain't the guy that took the kitty at the Variety The—ater. What can I do for you?" "I'm looking for a lady—she was with that fellow in the car. Do you know where she is?" Mercuto, overhearing his question from the car gave an elaborate sneer. It was wasted, for David had his back turned to him. "The dame?" queried the man with the cigar. "We ain't got nothing against her. Can't eay where she is now. When we got this guy, we let her go. But say, how the — did you come in on this?" David explained. Just then there was a commotion round the car, and the other hastily dropped his cigar and, whipping round, had his hand at his hip pocket with. lightning speed. "Hold him, boys!" he shouted, for Mercuto had one leg over the side of the car and was attempting- to escape. He was soon overpowered, however, and eventually manacled to the steering wheel. ' When the disturbance was over the man with the cigar recovered his discarded weed and puffed calmly. "That bozo eays he's a professional dancer," he observed, indicating Mercuto. "Maybe he is. But I tell you— his real racket is writing other guy's names other guy's cheques. We've been watching him. He ain't done nothing here, but in other burgs, we—ll. I'll eay that little girl had a narrow shave with that bird. You look after her. So long."

David looked -uncertainly at him. "But I don't know where she's gone," he said. "Well, she ain't gone by this train. You try her apartment. I guess I know something about dames and I'll lay you a dollar she's there crying her dear little eyes out. Well, if I don't see you again—so 10ng." % "So long." He reached Lena's apartment and rang the bell. Lena opened the door. "So there you are," he said rather shortly. "Yes. Oh, David, I'm so glad you're here." "Glad?" "Can't you understand, David? I wasn't going away with Mercuto at all." "Well, what were you doing, then?" She paused 'a minute and, producing a small handkerchief, she looked away before' replying. "If only I had known what he really was. It was terrible at the station; I thought those men were going to arrest me, too. He told me—oh how I hate him; I always did, David, really I did—" * "Well what did lie tell you?" "He said he'd heard there was an engagement going, in a town not far from here—and—and—there wae an audition this afternoon. He'd broken up the act, and—and I had nowhere to go—" "Do you know that train you were going to take with him was a non-stop express to Ohio?" "What!" Oh—oh, what shalll do?" One forlorn tear did trickle down her cheek at this juncture. "Darling," said David, taking her in his arms, "you muan't worry. I've just had the greatest luck—" "Oh, what are you doing, David?" she inquired, then, for David had freed himself and was writing something down on a cable form which he had been cariying about with him all day. ,She read over his should: "Carrow, Telford Village, Suesex, England. Arrive shortly with wife. Hold offer open. David." "But David—?" she asked. "Come on quick; I'm going to the cable office. Get your hat—any sort of hat will do," he replied.' .In the cable office Lena ' said once more, "But, David, you haven't—" "I know "I haven't," he replied, pushing the cable form across the counter to the waiting operator. "Darling, will you marry me?" said he. And the 'operator looked first at the message end then at the sender, and, glancing at hie grinning colleague, he made a #low movement with a pencil at the side of his head.