“What’s up Bonita? You look like a cat whose mouse has been taken away.”
Bonita gave the man a cool look, then entered the cottage. The man followed her in and closed the door.
“Aren’t you taking a chance?” he asked. “I let Eric in a little while ago.”
“I know and I don’t give a damn,” Bonita retorted. “I don’t give a damn about anything. I’m about ready to call it quits. The old man played me a last, dirty trick.”
Joe Cornish, who was nominally the estate manager, looked inquiringly at Bonita. “He’s only got a matter of days, hasn’t he? And then comes the cake.”
“That’s the dirty trick. There won’t be any cake. He just told us. He’s mortgaged everything there is. The sheriff’s only holding off until he croaks.” Bonita’s face twisted angrily. “Can you beat it? I marry that panty-waist, Eric, because he’s got a millionaire father who already has one foot in the grave and the other on a fresh banana peel. And what happens? The old man’s hocked everything he owns and ever owned and there won’t be a dime when he kicks the gong. So I’ve wasted the best four years of my life.”
Joe Cornish’s dark brown eyes glittered. “They haven’t been exactly wasted have they, Bonita?” He slipped a muscular arm about her waist, and drawing her close, kissed her on her scarlet mouth. He released her after a moment and said, “Besides, there’ll be a few dollars you can glom onto.”
“Joe,” said Bonita, looking sullenly at the swarthy estate manager, “sometimes I think I could kill you.”
He laughed. “I’ll bet you could, at that.”
Angrily, she moved to the door. As she opened it, she saw Eric Quisenberry coming down the drive.
He had seen her, so she stood her ground. When he came up, he said, “Am I interrupting something?”
“You’re not,” she retorted. Then as he continued toward the gate, “You want me to come along and break the news to her? Or don’t you think I know about the angelic Ellen?”
He did not answer. When he reached the gate, he went through without looking back.
He walked stiffly down the hill through the village of Hillcrest to the modest apartment house where Ellen Rusk lived. She was at home and greeted him with her usual calm reserve.
“Hello, Eric.”
Ellen Rusk was forty-five, but her skin was as smooth as it had been twenty years ago. It did not have the tautness of Bonita Quisenberry’s.
Eric took a quick turn about the living room, then faced Ellen Rusk and said, bitterly, “I’m through. Dad is cutting me off without a cent. He’s mortgaged and borrowed on everything he ever owned. Even the company. I’d always thought he’d leave me that, at least. But he isn’t. After six months I’ll be up on the beach. It’s pretty late to start all over.”
A frown creased Ellen Rusk’s forehead. She said, quietly, “Things will work out somehow, Eric.”
“How? I’ve never had a chance. He treated me like a child — or an imbecile — and now he throws it up to me.” He laughed shortly. “Well, it’ll solve one problem, anyway. Bonita.”
Ellen said, quickly, “No, Eric, you shouldn’t—”
“I shouldn’t. But she will. She married me for my money and then found I didn’t have any. Now, she won’t stick it out a day… You were the one I should have married, Ellen.”
Ellen Rusk’s head came up. She smiled, a half-sad smile. “It’s rather late for that, Eric.”
“I know,” he groaned. “I should have broken with him twenty-five years ago. Perhaps things would have been different. But Ellen, is it too late?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “There’s Diana… and Tom…”
The mention of his son’s name caused Eric to wince. “Father’s the fondest of Tom of anyone. And Tom… stole the Talking Clock that he’s always guarded like the crown jewels.”
Ellen inhaled sharply. “Eric, you don’t know that Tom did that—”
“Oh, but I do. The clock disappeared when Tom went off. Up to now, Dad never said anything about it. But he admitted today that Tom stole the clock… and Tom probably sold it for a fraction of what it’s worth and squandered the money.”
“You’ve never heard from Tom?”
He shook his head. “Not even a postcard. I… I’ve been thinking of him. Hasn’t Diana heard from him?”
“No. She’s been worried, too. I do believe they were— Shh! that’s Diana now.”
It was. She came into the apartment. Carrying her latch key. She was a tall slender girl of about twenty. A lean, dark-complexioned man in his early thirties was with her. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Eric Quisenberry, but the surprise changed to an expression of satisfaction.
“Hello, Mr. Quisenberry. I’ve been looking all over for you. Hoped I’d—”
Eric regarded the man with considerable distaste. “I only left the office two hours ago—”
“It’s Tom!” cut in Diana Rusk. “He’s in trouble.”
“Perhaps I’d better explain,” Wilbur Tamarack said. “They telephoned the office right after you left. Rather than relay the message by phone, I thought I’d run out to Hillcrest. You see, the call was a long-distance one. It came from some sheriff somewhere in Minnesota. They’re holding Tom.”
“Why?”
Tamarack winced. “I’m afraid it’s—”
“Burglary!” cried Diana. “But that’s ridiculous. Tom wouldn’t do anything like that. I know. We’ve got to help him.”
Eric Quisenberry looked from Diana Rusk to her mother. “How can we help him, if he’s in Minnesota? How’d he get away out there in the first place?”
“What difference does it make how he got there?” Diana exclaimed. “We’ve got to help him, no matter where he is. We… I mean, I’m going out to where he is.”
Eric Quisenberry blinked. “You, Diana? Why would you want to go all the way out there? That’s my job, Diana… I guess.”
When Eric returned to Twelve O’Clock House, Bonita was waiting for him on the veranda. “Did Wilbur Tamarack find you?” she asked, then answered the question herself. “Yes, I can see from your face. So your son’s in jail? For burglary. What do you think of him, now?”
Eric clenched his hands, hanging at his sides. “The same as I always did. He’s my son. I forgot that for a while, when you worked on me. I’m going to him.”
“Now?” cried Bonita. “With your father going to die any minute?”
Eric gave her a contemptuous glance and entered the house. He went straight to his father’s room. The old man was still in his wheel chair and for an instant before he raised his head, Eric got a glimpse of the real Simon Quisenberry, a frightened old man who had lived too much and now felt the thread slipping through his fingers.
Then Simon saw him and bristled. “What do you want? Think I’m going to change my mind?”
“It’s Tom, Father,” said Eric Quisenberry. “I’ve just received word. He’s in trouble.”
The fierce old eyes glared. “What sort of trouble? Where is he?”
“In Minnesota, a town called Brooklands. They’ve arrested him. It’s pretty serious. Burglary.”
“Burglary!” snorted the old man. “That’s nonsense. Tom wouldn’t commit burglary. He wouldn’t steal from strangers.” Simon’s face twisted. “What are you waiting here for? Why aren’t you on your way to him?”
Eric’s forehead creased. “But you, Father?…”
“What about me? I’m all right. I know I’m going to shove off, but I’ve made my peace — the way I see it — and there’s nothing else to do. But you’ve got to get Tom out of his jam. Now, get going to him, or by God, I’ll have you thrown out of this house — tonight!”
Charter Three
The old one about making a loud noise outside the door on Christmas Eve and then coming in and telling the small boy that Santa Claus has just been shot, had been retired in Johnny Fletcher’s youth, but now Johnny Fletcher knew how that small boy had felt.