The Crimson Tide: A Novel

A maid came and turned up the lamps, and went away again.

Palla said in a low voice: “Are you–afraid?”

“No.”

They both remained silent until she rose to go. Palla, walking with her to the head of the stairs, holding one of her hands imprisoned, said with an effort: “I am frightened, dear… I can’t help it… You will be certain, first, won’t you?–”

“It is as certain as death,” said Ilse in a low, still voice.

Palla shivered; she passed one arm around her; and they stood so for a while. Then Ilse’s arm tightened, and the old gaiety glinted in her sea-blue eyes:

“Is your house in order too, Palla?” she asked. “Turn around, little enigma! There; I can look into those brown eyes now. And I see nothing in them to answer me my question.”

“Do you mean Jim?”

“I do.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“For how long?”

“Weeks. I don’t know how long it has been–”

“Have you quarrelled?”

“Yes. We seem to. This is quite the most serious one yet.”

“You are not in love with him.”

“Oh, Ilse, I don’t know. He simply can’t understand me. I feel so bruised and tired after a controversy with him. He seems to be so merciless to my opinions–so violent–”

“You poor child… After all, Palla, freedom also means the liberty to change one’s mind… If you should care to change yours–”

“I can’t change my inmost convictions.”

“Those–no.”

“I have not changed them. I almost wish I could. But I’ve got to be honest… And he can’t understand me.”

Ilse smiled and kissed her: “That is scarcely to be wondered at, as you don’t seem to know your own mind. Perhaps when you do he, also, may understand you. Good-bye! I must run–”

Palla watched her to the foot of the stairs; the door closed; the engine of a taxi began to hum.

Her telephone was ringing when she returned to the living room, and the quick leap of her heart averted her of the hope revived.

But it was a strange voice on the wire,–a man’s voice, clear, sinister, tainted with a German accent:

“Iss this Miss Dumont? Yess? Then this I haff to say to you: You shall find yourself in serious trouble if you do not move your foolish club of vimmen out of the vicinity of which you know. We giff you one more chance. So shall you take it or you shall take some consequences! Goot-night!”

The instrument clicked in her ear as the unknown threatener hung up, leaving her seated there, astonished, hurt, bewildered.

The man who “hung up on her” stepped out of a saloon on Eighth Avenue and joined two other men on the corner.

The man was Karl Kastner; the other two were Sondheim and Bromberg.

“Get her?” growled the latter, as all three started east.

“Yess. And now we shall see what we shall see. We start the finish now already. All foolishness shall be ended. Now we fix Puma.”

They continued on across the street, clumping along with their overcoat collars turned up, for it had turned bitter cold and the wind was rising.

“You don’t think it’s a plant?” inquired Sondheim, for the third time.

Bromberg blew his red nose on a dirty red handkerchief.

“We’ll plant Puma if he tries any of that,” he said thickly.

Kastner added that he feared investigation more than they did because he had more at stake.

“Dot guy he iss rich like a millionaire,” he added. “Ve make him pay some dammach, too.”

“How’s he going to fire that bunch of women if they got a lease?” demanded Bromberg.

“Who the hell cares how he does it?” grunted Sondheim.

“Sure,” added Kastner; “let him dig up. You buy anybody if you haff sufficient coin. Effery time! Yess. Also! Let him dig down into his pants once. So shall he pay them, these vimmen, to go avay und shut up mit their mischief what they make for us already!”

Sondheim was still muttering about “plants” in the depths of his soiled overcoat-collar, when they arrived at the hall and presented themselves at the door of Puma’s outer office.

A girl took their message. After a while she returned and piloted them out, and up a wide flight of stairs to a door marked, “No admittance.” Here she knocked, and Puma’s voice bade them enter.

Angelo Puma was standing by a desk when they trooped in, keeping their hats on. The room was ventilated and illumined in the daytime only by a very dirty transom giving on a shaft. Otherwise, there were no windows, no outlet to any outer light and air.

Two gas jets caged in wire–obsolete stage dressing-room effects–lighted the room and glimmered on Puma’s polished top-hat and the gold knob of his walking-stick.

As for Puma himself, he glanced up stealthily from the scenario he was reading as he stood by the big desk, but dropped his eyes again, and, opening a drawer, laid away the typed manuscript. Then he pulled out the revolving desk chair and sat down.

“Well?” he inquired, lighting a cigar.

There was an ominous silence among the three men for another moment. Then Puma looked up, puffing his cigar, and Sondheim stepped forward from the group and shook his finger in his face.

“What yah got planted around here for us? Hey?” he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “Come on now, Puma! What yeh think yeh got on us?” And to Kastner and Bromberg: “Go ahead, boys, look for a dictaphone and them kind of things. And if this wop hollers I’ll do him.”

A ruddy light flickered in Puma’s eyes, but the cool smile lay smoothly on his lips, and he did not even turn his head to watch them as they passed along the walls, sounding, peering, prying, and jerking open the door of the cupboard–the only furniture there except the desk and the chair on which Puma sat.

“What the hell’s the matter with yeh?” snarled Sondheim, suddenly stooping to catch Puma’s eye, which had wandered as though bored by the proceedings.

“Nothing,” said Puma, coolly; “what’s the matter with you, Max?”