CHAPTER IX - LABLACHE'S "COUP"
Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back office. He preferred a basket chair—he knew its value. He had tried other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive—there is nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay was reduced to a minimum.
His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire shining through the mica sides of the firebox.
A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.
At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window. The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black—he could see nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.
Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the quicks of his finger-nails.
Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender ponderously rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form of Pedro Mancha. There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had again secured the door. Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and mask-like face to the newcomer. He did not suggest that his visitor should sit down. He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.
"Well?—been drinking."
The latter part of his remark was an assertion. He knew the Mexican well. The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race, and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it. The man was not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.
"Guess you've hit it right thar," he retorted indifferently.