The Delafield Affair. Florence Finch Kelly

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ shoulder, could not see that his face had gone suddenly white and that underneath his brown moustache and pointed beard his lips were pale and tense.

      “Well, well, Lucy,” he said presently, his voice calm and caressing, “there’s no need to be tragic over it. Is it any of our affair, even if Conrad is our good friend? Possibly Delafield wasn’t as bad as he says—it’s likely Curt exaggerates about him—he usually does when he dislikes anybody. And perhaps Delafield suffered as much as—the others. Come, dear, brace up and don’t be hysterical.”

      Lucy straightened up and gave her father a wavering, wistful smile. “It was silly of me, wasn’t it, daddy, to act like that! I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know why I cried—I guess it was because I am tired.”

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

MISTAKE, OR BLUNDER?

       Table of Contents

      With eager pleasure Conrad gazed from his car window the next morning at the narrow bright ribbon of verdure with which the Rio Grande pranks itself on its southward course through New Mexico. The unkempt fields, the orchards and meadows, and the softened and caressing sunlight were as balm to his eyes, accustomed to the pale, grim southern plain and its fierce white sunshine. As the train rushed northward along the banks of the muddy stream, he looked at the little adobe houses, wondering how long these peaceful Mexican homes could withstand the pressure of the dominant American. He became aware that the men behind him were discussing the same question.

      “It will be only a few years,” one of them was saying, “until this rich valley with all this water for irrigation will be in American hands.”

      “The greasers are safe enough,” said his companion, “until they begin to borrow on mortgages. Then their fate is settled.”

      “I heard the other day,” responded the first, “that Dell Baxter’s been corralling a lot of mortgages on the land hereabouts.”

      The other chuckled. “You bet. Dell ain’t the man to let a little chance like this slip by him. These paisanos look on him as a sort of ‘little father’ and borrow money of him with utter heedlessness of the day of reckoning. He jollies them along and tells ’em they’re good fellows and hard workers, and he’s sure they’ll be able to pay when the time comes. Of course they never pay back a blessed peso, and Baxter gets the ranch. I’ll bet it won’t be long till he’ll be exploiting a big land improvement company and selling these ’doby farms for ten times what they cost him.”

      The talk of the two men drifted into politics, and presently Conrad heard them discussing Bancroft’s loyal support of Baxter for Congress. “He’s got to do it,” said one of them. “Dell’s been loaning him money and taking mortgages until Bancroft couldn’t do anything else if he wanted to. Dell knows that Bancroft’s support is a mighty important asset on account of the confidence people have in him, and Dell’s been careful to cinch it good and tight.”

      As Curtis bought an Albuquerque morning paper from the train-boy he thought indignantly, “That’s all poppycock! Aleck’s got too much grit to let anybody throttle him with a few dirty pesos. Hullo! What’s this about Jenkins?” His eye had caught the name of the man he wished to see in a column of local news. As he read, “Rutherford W. Jenkins came down from Las Vegas yesterday and is stopping at the Metropolitan,” his face shone with satisfaction. “Good luck!” he thought. “We’ll be in Albuquerque in half an hour, and I’ll go for my man like a steer on the prod!”

      At the hotel he found Jenkins, with a number of other men, smoking and talking on the porch. He did not expect to be remembered, for they had met only once, months before. But Jenkins came forward with his hand outstretched in greeting. “How do you do, Mr. Conrad! You don’t get up to this part of the Territory very often; but we’re always glad to see you.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I’ve come this time especially to see you, and as soon as you have a moment or two to spare I’d like a private conversation.”

      “Certainly! With pleasure! Just excuse me for a minute, will you, till I finish up the business I have with these men, and then we’ll go up to my room.”

      Conrad waited, tense and expectant, the quite apparent fact that Jenkins was engaged in mere desultory chat and story-telling increasing his irritation at the delay. He had jumped to the conclusion that Jenkins knew who Delafield was, and his breath came short and chokingly at the thought that in a few minutes he, too, would know. To know would be to act. His revolver was in his hip-pocket, and he intended to go straight from the interview to that meeting which for half his years had been the one goal of his thought. He glanced at Jenkins, saying to himself, “He looks like a weasel, and I reckon he is just enough of one to have wormed around and worked this thing out.” Jenkins was tall, slender, and slightly stooped, his face long and thin, with its salient features crowded too close together. “I reckon he knows, all right,” Conrad’s thought went on, “and he’ll tell me if I make the inducement big enough—he’d do anything for money!”

      Under cover of the conversation Jenkins had been doing his share of rapid thinking, prolonging the talk for that very purpose. He was putting together, with the acumen of a man in whom detective processes are a natural endowment, enough facts to convince him of the reason for Conrad’s visit, considering the while just what he should do. He felt sure that he must expect a direct question about Delafield’s identity, but he put off decision upon his response until he should hear the inquiry.

      “Now, Mr. Conrad, we’ll go straight up to my room,” he said cordially, laying a familiar hand upon the other’s shoulder. Curtis shrank back a little, falling behind with a promptitude that left no doubt of his intention to keep the interview entirely formal. Jenkins licked his lips with an unwholesome smile, and led the way in silence. As the door closed behind them, Conrad became aware of an increase of repugnance toward this man so great that the necessity of dealing with him was an irritation.

      “Well, Mr. Conrad,” said Jenkins, cheerfully, giving the other no time to state his mission, “I hear you are putting in some good licks for Johnny Martinez down in Silverside. What do you think of his chances down there? Pretty good, aren’t they?”

      “Yes, I think so,” Curtis replied curtly; and plunged into his own affair. “I have understood, Mr. Jenkins, from my friend Mr. Littleton, of Chicago, whom you met last week, that you are interested in a matter of prime importance to me, and that you have some information I want to get hold of.”

      “Oh, yes; I remember meeting Littleton last week,” Jenkins broke in. “A good fellow, too. So he’s a friend of yours, is he? Yes; he and I scraped up quite a friendship and had a good time together. But say, Conrad, the amount of throat varnish that man can stand is something amazing!”

      Curtis straightened himself in his chair impatiently. “He wrote me that he had some conversation with you about Sumner L. Delafield, formerly of Boston, but now, I have reason to believe, living here in New Mexico under an assumed name.”

      “Yes; I believe we did have a little talk about Delafield,” Jenkins interrupted again. “But I’ll have to confess,” he went on jocularly, “that my mental condition wasn’t perfectly clear and it’s likely my remarks were a little foggy too. But I recall that we did have some СКАЧАТЬ