The Crimson Tide: A Novel

“Palla!”

“Yes.”

“Listen! This is to serve notice on you. I’m going to make a fight for you.”

After a silence, he heard her sweet, uncertain laughter.

“Jim?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I suppose it would shock you if I made a fight for–you!”

He took it as a jest and laughed at her perverse humour. But what she had meant she herself scarcely realised; and she turned away from the telephone, conscious of a vague excitement invading her and of a vaguer consternation, too. For behind the humorous audacity of her words, she seemed to realise there remained something hidden–something she was on the verge of discovering–something indefinable, menacing, grave enough to dismay her and drive from her lips the last traces of the smile which her audacious jest had left there.

The ladies from Chicago were to dine with her; her maid had hooked her gown; orchids from Jim had just arrived, and she was still pinning them to her waist–still happily thrilled by this lovely symbol of their renewed accord, when the bell rang.

It was much too early to expect anybody: she fastened her orchids and started to descend the stairs for a last glance at the table, when, to her astonishment, she saw Angelo Puma in the hall in the act of depositing his card upon the salver extended by the maid.

He looked up and saw her before she could retreat: she made the best of it and continued on down, greeting him with inquiring amiability:

“Miss Dumont, a thousand excuses for this so bold intrusion,” he began, bowing extravagantly at every word. “Only the urgent importance of my errand could possibly atone for a presumption like there never has been in all–”

“Please step into the drawing room, Mr. Puma, if you have something of importance to say.”

He followed her on tiptoe, flashing his magnificent eyes about the place, still wearing over his evening dress the seal overcoat with its gardenia, which was already making him famous on Broadway.

Palla seated herself, wondering a little at the perfumed splendour of her landlord. He sat on the extreme edge of an arm chair, his glossy hat on his knee.

“Miss Dumont,” he said, laying one white-gloved paw across his shirt-front, “you shall behold in me a desolate man!”

“I’m sorry.” She looked at him in utter perplexity.

“What shall you say to me?” he cried. “What just reproaches shall you address to me, Miss Dumont!”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Puma,” she said, inclined to laugh, “–until you tell me what is your errand.”

“Miss Dumont, I am most unhappy and embarrass. Because you have pay me in advance for that which I am unable to offer you.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Alas! You have pay to me by cheque for six months more rent of my hall.”

“Yes.”

“I have given to you a lease for six months more, and with it an option for a year of renewal.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Dumont, behold me desolate.”

“But why?”

“Because I am force by circumstance over which I have no control to cancel this lease and option, and ask you most respectfully to be so kind as to secure other quarters for your club.”

“But we can’t do that!” exclaimed Palla in dismay.

“I am so very sorry–”

“We can’t do it,” added Palla with decision. “It’s utterly impossible, Mr. Puma. All our meetings are arranged for months in advance; all the details are completed. We could not disarrange the programme adopted. From all over the United States people are invited to come on certain fixed dates. All arrangements have been made; you have my cheque and I have your signed lease. No, we are obliged to hold you to your contract, and I’m very sorry if it inconveniences you.”

Puma’s brilliant eyes became tenderly apprehensive.

“Miss Dumont,” he said in a hushed and confidential voice, “believe me when I venture to say to you that your club should leave for reasons most grave, most serious.”

“What reasons?”

“The others–the Red Flag Club. Who knows what such crazy people might do in anger? They are very angry already. They complain that your club has interfere with them–”

“That is exactly why we’re there, Mr. Puma–to interfere with them, neutralise their propaganda, try to draw the same people who listen to their violent tirades. That is why we’re there, and why we refuse to leave. Ours is a crusade of education. We chose that hall because we desired to make the fight in the very camp of the enemy. And I must tell you plainly that we shall not give up our lease, and that we shall hold you to it.”

The dark blood flooded his heavy features:

“I do not desire to take it to the courts,” he said. “I am willing to offer compensation.”

“We couldn’t accept. Don’t you understand, Mr. Puma? We simply must have that particular hall for the Combat Club.”

Puma remained perfectly silent for a few moments. There was still, on his thick lips, the suave smile which had been stamped there since his appearance in her house.

But in this man’s mind and heart there was growing a sort of dull and ferocious fear–fear of elements already gathering and combining to menace his increasing prosperity.

Sullenly he was aware that this hard-won prosperity was threatened. Always its conditions had been unstable at best, but now the atmospheric pressure was slowly growing, and his sky of promise was not as clear.

Some way, somehow, he must manage to evict these women. Twice Sondheim had warned him. And that evening Sondheim had sent him an ultimatum by Kastner.

And Puma was perfectly aware that Karl Kastner knew enough about him to utterly ruin him in the great Republic which was now giving him a fortune and which had never discovered that his own treacherous mission here was the accomplishment of her ruin.

Puma stood up, heavily, cradling his glossy hat. But his urbane smile became brilliant again and he made Palla an extravagant bow.

“It shall be arrange,” he said cheerfully. “I consult my partner–your friend, Mr. Skidder! Yes! So shall we arrive at entente.”

His large womanish eyes swept the room. Suddenly they were arrested by a photograph of Shotwell Junior–in a silver frame–the only ornament, as yet, in the little drawing room.

And instantly, within Angelo Puma, the venomous instinct was aroused to do injury where it might be done safely and without suspicion of intent.

“Ah,” he exclaimed gaily, “my friend, Mr. Shotwell! It is from him, Miss Dumont, you have purchase this so beautiful residence!”

He bent to salute with a fanciful inclination the photograph of the man who had spoken so contemptuously of him the evening previous.