Cobra

by Martin Brown; Russell Holman

CHAPTER XVI

Rodrigo flung himself into his berth on the midnight train to Philadelphia with no idea of sleep. One resolve kept pounding in his head. He would tell John Dorning everything when he saw him, and then he would clear out. He heard people shuffling in the aisle outside of his curtained resting place. They were addressing the porter and each other in that hoarse penetrating whisper that passengers affect on sleeping cars with the mistaken idea that it does not disturb the sleepers. He became conscious of the train getting under way with clanging bell and dashing about of human feet on the cement platform. For half the journey across the flats of New Jersey he was awake. Then, emotionally and physically exhausted, he fell into a doze.

Crisp, sunshiny weather greeted him as he stepped out into Broad Street, Philadelphia, some hours later. It had the effect of clearing his brain. The world was rolling along cheerfully, unconcerned, after all. Ferris and the other members of the library committee were already in session with John when Rodrigo appeared at Ferris's office.

John had the opportunity for only a word or two with his partner privately before the conference went into session. "Did you go to dinner and the concert with Elise?" Dorning asked eagerly. When Rodrigo shook his head in the negative, John frowned a little and went on dolefully, "Gad, how I miss her. Whatever the consequence, I'm not going to leave her again. I'll bring her along, no matter how bored she gets."

It seemed to Rodrigo in that instant that it would be nothing short of murder to shatter this man's dream. He simply couldn't do it, at least not for the present.

Nor was he any nearer to his confession that evening as John sat opposite him in the dining car on the way back to New York. John was elated. They had closed the contract successfully and he was going back to Elise. He chided Rodrigo several times with being so preoccupied. They parted at Grand Central Station, John having two minutes in which to catch the Greenwich-bound train.

Mary Drake was putting flowers in a vase on his desk when Rodrigo arrived at his office the next morning. She frequently did this, but considering the circumstances surrounding their last conversation, he was a little surprised to find her there. Nevertheless he greeted her gravely and stood standing until she would have finished her task and departed. But he became gradually aware that she was using the flowers as a subterfuge, that she did not intend to leave until she had spoken to him.

Mary said, with the air of a person who has been thinking something over for some time and is having some difficulty in expressing exactly what she means, "Rodrigo—there is something I should like to say." And, though he offered her no encouragement, she continued. "I have come to the conclusion that I was not as wise the last time I spoke to you as I thought I was. I have been thinking it over ever since. I was unjust to you. I belittled my feelings toward you. And I said there was a reason why we could never marry, and I didn't do you the justice to tell you what it was."

"I don't think telling me now will help either of us," he replied, striving to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Things have changed for me since then. I over-estimated myself. I told you I was a better man—than I am. To-day I see clearly that I was a fool."

She asked, suddenly apprehensive, "Something—that has taken away your love for me?"

His reply was bitter. "No, my faith in myself. Night before last, I weakened so that I don't deserve anybody's love, least of all, yours."

She recovered, smiled and came nearer to him, bravely intending to comfort him. "You are too hard on yourself, Rodrigo. You are angry and bitter. And that is my fault, I know."

"No, you have nothing to do with it," he said almost brutally. "I am going away from here too, as soon as I can. I shall stay away, forever."

He was surprised at the response in her face. She seemed glad, relieved. She hastened to explain. "Oh, Rodrigo, don't you see that that clears things up for us, for you and me? That eliminates the barrier that stood between us? I did not have the heart to tell you I could never say I loved you as long as you remained with Dorning and Son, as long as you and John were so closely associated. And I did not dare suggest breaking off your friendship."

"John?" he asked, mystified. "What has John got to do with you and me?"

"Not John, but——"

"Elise?"

She hesitated, then, "Yes. If I admitted to you that I loved you, I would always have had her to fight. And I couldn't. She spoke to me about you day before yesterday, and I saw that she would do anything to prevent us loving each other. I did not believe what she said about you. But it showed me to what lengths she would go, and I was afraid. Fighting her would mean the end of your friendship with John, of your connection with Dorning and Son. Oh, I realize the grip she has upon John. If it came to a choice between you and her, you know which he would keep. And I was not sure what your feeling for me might turn to if I were the cause of a break between you and John. Mrs. Dorning is clever, fascinating, and, I am afraid, quite relentless. I know her feelings toward you and how hard she has tried to——"

He cut in savagely, "Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that Elise and I——"

"No. Not you," she interrupted quietly. "I have overheard you talking to her on the telephone several times. I know how you have sought to avoid her. I can speak frankly about her to you, I think. You will know that I am not moved by jealousy or a desire to gossip or anything petty. But she has called John's office several times from the Van Clair Hotel, for instance, on occasions when she knew he was not here and was to meet her somewhere later. She has given me messages over the 'phone for him, and each time I heard voices laughing and shouting near her. One evening when I passed the Van Clair on the way to the subway, she got out of a taxi with a strange man and went in. That place had a bad reputation, you know. It is just as well for New York that it has burned down."

He stared at her, startled, and, striving to make the question casual. "There was a fire at the Van Clair? When?"

"Why, night before last, just after midnight. It was in all the papers. It burned to the ground."

Dismay gripped him, and he turned away quickly so that she could not see his face. At once Mary read that it had something to do with her, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder, her face flushed and smiling.

She said softly, "Perhaps it was that fire, the feeling it brought that we never know what will happen, never realize how short a time we may have to rectify a mistake, that showed me how wrong I was day before yesterday. I love you, Rodrigo. I will be your wife—if you still want me."

He turned a stricken face to her. He was held in a sudden fear and foreboding. He had hardly heard what she had said. And he had no time to answer her, for the door of his office was flung violently open and John Dorning, excited, disheveled, burst upon them.

"Rodrigo!" he cried from the door. Then, coming forward, "Thank God. I found you here."

He looked so badly that Mary asked in alarm, "You're ill, John. Can I do anything for you?"

"Thank you, Mary—no," he answered, and gathering from his tone that he wished to be alone with his friend, she left quietly.

He almost ran up to Rodrigo. "Elise was not there when I got home, Rodrigo! She left no word of any kind. I've called up everybody. I can't find her."

Rodrigo sagged against the desk, as if struck a blow. He repeated dully, "Can't find—Elise?"

"No. Rodrigo, do you know where she is—do you? I'm worried to death. Anything might happen to her in this town. Accidents—anything."

By this time, with a great effort, Rodrigo had recovered a semblance of control over himself. He spoke soothingly. "Oh, that's nonsense, John. Have you called her friends?"

"Everybody. I've been to the police. I've traced all the ambulance calls. I've found out about fatal fires, and there haven't been any, except one in some hotel. I've driven and telephoned all over town. People must think I'm crazy. I 'phoned Warren down at his place, and he's helping me search too." He ran his hands nervously through his damp, blond hair. He cried, "And I will go crazy, Rodrigo, if I don't get on track of her soon." He seized his friend's lapel and fixed wild eyes upon him. "You don't think she could have run away from me, left me without a word, do you? No, of course not. Not that. We loved each other too much." He fell to pacing the floor rapidly.

"There's probably some very obvious explanation of her absence," Rodrigo strove to soothe him, and himself. "There usually is. Have you called Mrs. Palmer?"

John turned abruptly, his whole expression changing to one of intense relief. "I'm an idiot!" he cried. "I never thought of her. My car's outside. I'll drive up there at once. Mrs. Palmer is ill, as a matter of fact. Perhaps she's taken a turn for the worse and Elise was called there suddenly. I'll run right up." He snatched up his hat and was gone.

Hardly had the door closed when Rodrigo bounded to the clothes-tree and took the unread morning paper from his overcoat pocket. He sank into his chair and spread the sheet eagerly on the desk in front of him. There, in screaming black headlines, it leaped out at him:

VAN CLAIR FIRE VICTIM IS
STILL UNIDENTIFIED
————
Body of Woman Guest Thought to Have
Perished in Hotel Tragedy Has
Not Been Found
————

Up to an early hour this morning, the woman occupying the room on the ninth floor of the ill-fated Hotel Van Clair, which burned to the ground shortly after midnight Wednesday, remained unidentified, and no trace of her charred body had been found in the still smoking ruins. The hotel register, the only direct means of identification, has evidently burned and—

With a sudden cry of anguish, he crushed the paper violently between his hands, as if to destroy the devastating news it brought him. The sheet fell to the floor as he stretched his arms out in a gesture of hopelessness.

After a while he became aware of a hand upon his shoulder, and Mary's voice was saying gently, "I heard John leave, so I came back. What is wrong!"

He felt himself crumpling. He leaned against her, raising his fear-stricken eyes to her. "Elise! She's gone. John has been looking for her. He's half crazy. But he'll never find her. I know." And, as her face remained questioning, "The paper says a woman has been burned. The woman was Elise—and I—I sent her there. She came back here that night and—well, she fascinated me. I forgot everything. I was to meet her later at the Van Clair. She left me to meet me there later. Then John telephoned long distance, about the business, and I came to my senses. I didn't go to the hotel. She must have stayed there. The fire broke out half an hour after she left me. So you see, Mary—I sent her there—I killed Elise! And I can never tell John—never!"

Growing horror gathered in her eyes. She whispered, "It is—horrible."

"I sent John away on a fool's errand. I had to have time to think."

She said tensely, "But you say she came back to you, here? It was her idea, your going to the hotel? I know—the fascination of her, Rodrigo. And she went there alone—"

"What difference does that make?" he said wildly. "What good that I came to my senses? I sent her there. And now John! Counting on me to see him through—me!"

"You must tell John," she said firmly.

"I can't!"

"It would be kinder than to let him live not knowing, always wondering and hoping. It's cowardly not to tell him."

"Tell him—that, because of me, his wife, his wife, whom he adored, is dead?"

"Not because of you—in spite of you."

Rodrigo answered her, calmer, now reasoning. "You don't realize how he loved her, set her up as a saint upon an altar. I could not tell him the truth. It would blacken her forever before the whole world. I think he would prefer suffering any torture rather than that."

"That is a compromise, Rodrigo, and, therefore, wrong."

He said excitedly: "Call it what you please—I can't tell him!"

"Not even if I promise to help you with all the love I am capable of? Don't you see, Rodrigo?—I feel guilty with you. If I had not been so blind before, this might not have happened." She held out her hands, pleading with him, "Oh, Rodrigo, I love you. I did not realize how much until now. I can forgive everything in you—but cowardice. I will stand by you—but please, please tell John and ask him to forgive you. You can't see him through with that guilt always before you. It's impossible."

But he reiterated stubbornly. "No, I cannot tell him. I cannot kill him too. I would rather kill myself."

She asked quietly, "Not even if it means my love for you? Will you kill that too?"

He replied slowly, "There's nothing—could make me tell him." His voice was unsteady, hie eyes blinded with tears as he turned away from her, her whole body drooping.

The telephone shrilled like a crack of doom, and he fumblingly lifted the receiver as she waited.

"She hasn't been here, Rodrigo!" came John's anguished voice. "What am I to do? I don't know——"

"Don't lose your nerve, old man," Rodrigo replied, and his tones were weak, almost unrecognizable.

"I'm at my wits' end. I've questioned her aunt, the servants here, everybody."

"Come on back down here then, old man," urged Rodrigo. "We'll workout a plan. Don't worry. I'll be here waiting. Come right down."

He hung up the receiver, staring ahead of him, seeming unconscious that Mary was still there. When he became aware of her, he said as steadily as his trembling body allowed, "We'll all be upset terribly—for a while. Please—you will carry on temporarily, try to keep the place going, help us, won't you?"

She answered, "Yes, I will carry on. Don't worry about business. It will be all right." And her eyes too were full of tears.