The distant drum : by Dudley Sturrock

Part I Chapter I

A N oasis of vivid colour and teeming life set in the dull flatness of the Long Island country. The humid atmosphere shimmering and dancing with intense heat. Monotonous stretches of rough grass, broken here and there by clumps of trees and grey roads, filled with line upon line of automobiles. Solid banks of r dust converging upon the staring newness of wooden grand-stands, dotted with the conspicuous colours of the English and American national flags. And automobiles everywhere — surging, struggling to reach the stands and discharge their passengers.

Meadowbrook on the day of the first International Polo match had drawn the pleasurehungry smart set of America’s capitals to itself. 1

Half an hour before the start of the game, the prevailing impression, typical of American society gatherings, was that of a colossal family party. New York shook hands with Chicago, Boston chatted with Philadelphia. Among the restless throng little groups formed and dissolved continually, talking gaily and irresponsibly in competition with the music of the band and the eternal hooting of automobiles, and slowly moving over the green turf shifted toward the enclosures. The whiteness of the unpainted stands began to be picked out here and there with irregular splashes of colour, and the seats rapidly filled. In a far corner of the ground, by the stables, little sharp-faced grooms were walking strings of ponies up and down.

As the moments passed, the club enclosure became the centre of interest. Well-known clubmen stood about in groups and lounged against the railings eagerly discussing the coming game. A fashionable New York actor strolled about arm in arm with a cheery-looking, red-faced cotton broker. In the balcony of the club-house a famous English aviator flirted mechanically with a pretty girl from Philadelphia. The latest French dancer, with the glamour of her royal lover’s attentions fresh upon her, drove up with a reputed French Baron and entered her box, causing a stir of interest in the immediate neighbourhood.

The ringing of the bell for the first chukka served to bring the game of polo to a start without too abruptly interfering with the various other games of le monde ou Von s’amuse . One couple in the grand-stand, however, were evidently discussing some very serious matter, to judge from their earnest expressions and low, intense tones. The incongruity of choosing such a time and place for what seemed to be almost a matter of life and death, attracted the wandering glance of a spectator who was carelessly leaning against the gate between the enclosure and the boxes.

“Say, Thorne, there’s a man who could open your eyes about things if he wanted to.”

The speaker’s companion was an Englishman. The cut of his clothes and his lazy interest in the stream of arrivals made it palpable enough that he was a newcomer. As a matter of fact, Bernard Thorne had only sampled his first cocktails and clam broth that morning. Although in other respects just an ordinary-looking, big, bronzed young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, his face was particularly noticeable by reason of the sheer virility of its lines.

“My dear Ralph, if you persist in this process of eye-opening, I shan’t be able to go out without blinkers,” replied Thorne flippantly. “Where is this wonderful pal of yours?”

Ralph Delamotte nodded towards the tiers of boxes. “You see that man three rows up in the near corner?”

Thorne glanced up. He saw a big, coarselooking man dressed in a Derby hat and a closely buttoned overcoat, the only one to be seen on that grilling afternoon.

“That’s Johnny Flinn. He’s nominally a real-estate man; actually, what is more important, he’s a political boss.”

“Is that what you call a senator?”

“No, hardly. Senators are the official machinery. Flinn’s one of the unseen heads of the factory that designs and turns out the machinery for the power-house of the State. Incidentally, he often pulls it back for alterations and repairs. He’s a big man, is John Flinn.”

“He looks it,” Thorne replied tersely. “If his machinery is as rusty as his clothes — ”

“Pardon me.” A woman’s clear, decided voice behind them interrupted him. They turned abruptly, standing aside from the gate.

A pair of cool, deep, grey eyes under a daringly exquisite black hat caught and held Thorne’s quick glance — held his eyes for perhaps a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.

“Good afternoon, Ralph.”

She passed on as Delamotte raised his hat and held the gate open. Thorne stared rudely after her. He saw her, leading a daintily dressed little girl, move towards her box with a slow sinuous grace of movement, carrying her little head imperiously. A slender figure, dressed in perfect white, dignified but with a hint of voluptuousness in its outline.

Quite the smartest woman he had ever seen, Thorne decided, and he rather prided himself upon his taste.

“Why, Delamotte, who’s that?”

“Oh, that’s Mrs. Sebastin,” replied Delamotte. “Lovely woman, isn’t she?” glancing at him curiously. “Let’s go up and see Flinn,” he went on. “He seems to have finished his business.” He led the way to where Flinn and his friend were sitting. The introductions were made.

“Well, Mr. Flinn, Mr. Thorne wants you lo tell him all about American politics.”

Flinn grunted. “Don’t know the first darned thing about them. Not in my line. I’m a real-estate man,” he replied in an utterly expressionless voice, but his eye twinkled.

There was no intentional rudeness in his manner. It was simply characteristic of the man. His whole appearance was expressionless and commonplace. The shabbiness of his clothes was accentuated by his one apparent vanity — a large pearl tie-pin. His heavy body was fat to the point of coarseness, and his face was flabby and insignificant — insignificant until one caught the expression in his remarkable eyes; little, restless, beady eyes that held the whole secret of his power.

Finding him in an unusually sociable frame of mind, they remained chatting and watching the game. The third chukka was well advanced, and there was keen excitement in the stands as the visiting team began to press hard for the first time, keeping the game well down in the American end. But in spite of Thorne’s interest in this temporary advantage of his own countrymen, he found his attention continually wandering in the direction of Mrs. Sebastin. He could only catch a glimpse of the large black hat, and of a perfectly gloved arm resting languidly on the edge of her box. During one interval, however, it seemed to him that he caught her looking rather pointedly in their direction. But the excitement was increasing with each chukka , as the scores remained very nearly level, and Thorne had very soon forgotten that such a woman as Mrs. Sebastin existed.

It was certainly the fastest game in the history of polo, but although the English team made desperate efforts to bring off a win, in spite of their obvious disadvantage in the matter of ponies, they had been beaten by a score of four and a half goals to three when the bell rang at the conclusion of the play. Then behind the stands the parked automobiles began their frantic chorus, as the engines here and there were started with a roar and throttled down into a steady throbbing, until the whole ground seemed to quiver with the impatience of twenty thousand horse power held under leash. As the crowd streamed out, the scene became one of hopeless confusion, and Thorne had become thoroughly resigned to a twenty-mile tramp back to New York before Delamotte found his car. They moved off into the procession that was struggling towards the main road. Reaching the Jericho turnpike, they were able to make a smarter pace.

As they approached a cross-road, a big Renault limousine overtook them, and slowing down to take the corner ran level for a moment before turning off to the right. The few seconds that they were alongside gave Thorne ample time to recognise the woman who had had such a curious effect upon him at Meadowbrook.

“Jove!” exclaimed Thorne. “Am I likely to meet that beautiful lady in New York?”

“No,” said Delamotte shortly. “That is” — he went on by way of explanation — “you see, she really very seldom comes into town, so I’m told,”’

Chapter II

A WEEK later Ralph Delamotte sat at - breakfast in his apartment at the Gardenia, reading a letter propped up against the coffee-pot. The more he studied the bold, upright, regular handwriting the more aggrieved he became. It read as follows:

“My Dear Ralph

“As I have to be in town to-morrow morning, don’t you think it would be nice if you were to give me some lunch at Delmonico’s? Say at i o’clock. With your usual cleverness you will immediately think that I want to inveigle you into some deep-laid plot. Well, you’re wrong this time. I haven’t yet made up my mind what I want you for. It may be to help me to buy a picture or even — more difficult still — to choose a hat! At any rate, I will just remind you to get a table next the window; you know my little fads!

“Yours most sincerely,

“Yvonne Sebastin ”

1 1

Now, Ralph Delamotte had sometimes to admit humorously to himself that he was a man to be pitied. In his principal capacity, that of a physician, his large private income enabled him to practise as much or as little as he might feel inclined, and in this respect he had nothing to complain of. But in his other capacity — the more arduous one, he was wont to complain — that of counsellor and confidant of many men and more women in a city where there is probably more intrigue to the square mile of society than in any other on the globe, he often felt his position an irksome one. An entirely unwilling victim in most cases, he considered that he had been elected to this latter position under false pretences. He wished heartily that people would take their troubles to other quarters; but appearances had always been against him. Many foolish — and sometimes frail — women, taking stock of his strong, clean-shaven, rather ascetic-looking face and kindly, blue eyes, his well-modelled head with its crisp, closely-trimmed hair slightly grey at the temples, had marked him down as a fitting victim for their occasional outbursts of conscience, and — more frequently — as a refuge when in need of more material help.

In this unwelcome manner, he had become the storehouse of more secret history than probably any other man in New York society. He knew himself to be, of course, merely a man blessed with an infinite capacity for enjoying life in his own way. He was, in fact, selfish, he persuaded himself; but his great grievance was that it was impossible for him to get his friends to believe it. And so, at times, it happened that when they wanted advice or money — or both — he was the unlucky man to be singled out.

And this particular sunny morning was apparently one of those times. Delamotte was by no means deceived by this effusion of Yvonne Sebastin’s. What, he reflected, could Yvonne possibly want him for this time? As far as advice was concerned, her usual method, according to his experience of her, which extended over some years, was the simple and eminently satisfactory one — to herself, at any rate — of first asking his opinion on a certain course of action, and then telling him it didn’t matter what he said, as she had already firmly made up her mind about it. The essential difference, he remembered, between her and others of her sex whom he knew, was that when her mind was made up she stuck to her guns with considerable determination and desperate ingenuity until the particular venture was carried through to her own entire satisfaction — a satisfaction not always shared by others who might happen to be involved. As for money, Yvonne was very well provided for in that direction, so it couldn’t be that.

After all, he asked himself, what did it matter? He would enjoy the goods that the culinary gods of Delmonico’s might provide, and in any case some of these little escapades, to which she so earnestly devoted herself now and again, tickled his keen sense of humour as being such a contrast to the attitude of the grande dame which she normally affected. At this point in his meditations, Thorne was announced.

He strode in, whistling softly.

“Hullo, Bunny! Have some breakfast?”

“No thanks, old boy.” Thorne settled himself deliberately in a deep armchair and crossed his legs. “No, the old nine-o’clock porridge and bacon sees me through all right till lunch. But I’m in a devil of a mess this morning, Ralph.”

Delamotte chuckled. “You haven’t wasted much time. Who is she?”

Bunny Thorne smiled darkly at a Greuze on the wall. “Oh, you’ve seen her. She’s very fascinating, of course — to me, at any rate; it’s largely a matter of taste — She’s very fast, and looks it; wants a lot of attention, too. But she’s got lovely lines — lovely, Ralph.”

“I don’t recognise the description. Wherever did you find her?”

“Oh, in Paris, about a year ago,” Thorne replied airily. “Brought her over here with me.”

Ralph looked amazed.

“As a matter of fact I’ve been trying to get her through the customs all the morning,” Bunny explained. “Lord! I’ve been the best part of twenty-four hours over it,” he went on, his facetiousness giving way to indignation, “and I don’t seem to be any nearer with the darned business than when I started. Poor old Mercedes! She’s been standing in the shed for a week

The Distant Drum ijj

now, dying for a few pints of petrol. IVe been arguing since nine o’clock this morning with an imitation yatchsman about her.”

“Oh, that’s the trouble. Well, I daresay I can put you right.”

“By the way,” Thorne went on with apparent irrelevance, “do I look like a guy?”

Ralph looked amusedly at the good-humoured face and careless figure in easy grey tweeds. “Oh, you’ve come up against that!” He laughed and explained the meaning of the word “guy” as used by harmless customs appraisers and other Americans addicted to slang. Thorne’s face took on a look of hopeless resignation. Then he swore softly. “At any rate, I’m going to get on their track again.” He rose briskly and reached for the cigar box. “I want the old car and I’m going to get it.”

“Look here, Bunny.” Delamotte looked at his watch. “I know a useful shipping man who’ll get it through in no time. I’m booked for lunch at one o’clock, but we’ll go down together this afternoon if that’ll suit you.”

“Right. But I’d no idea I’d have to bother you so much when you promised me last year that you’d see me through if I came over.”

“Rubbish! I’ll call for you at the Blitz at three o’clock. What are you doing to-night? How about The Perfect Lady at the Times Square Theatre? You haven’t taken much notice of our pretty American girls so far since you’ve been over.” Ralph looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “I bet they' 11 fix you all right.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a lady’s man, Ralph,” he said lightly. “I must admit, though, I’ve never seen so many smart women as I have here. By the way, I saw that Mrs. Sebastin dining with some people at the Blitz last night. I wish you’d tell me something about her.”

“Well, there’s nothing much to tell. She’s a very charming, beautiful woman, as you can see. She divorced her husband a year ago — which is nothing unusual — and for the rest she just lives the ordinary life of a smart New York woman. But come along, let’s go to the club and have a cocktail. There’s just time before lunch.”

Delamotte collected his hat and stick and they went out into Fifth Avenue. Thorne, like every other stranger to New York, had from the first been struck by the glamour of the wonderful highway, by its vista of splendid buildings, breaking off into the distant green of Central Park, by its testimony to the power of wealth — store and mansion towering side by side, giant monuments to the pioneer brains of a new country. At noon-time on this summer day the scene gave him the impression of tireless life and energy. The whole street was in the possession of an army of au-tomobiles, manoeuvring intricately up and down, now and again drawing up into a solid phalanx at the sharp command of a traffic policeman’s whistle. Bunny was deeply impressed with it all as he strolled along. Suddenly the insistent, imperative clang of a fire-bell broke in upon the busy hum of the street. The statuesque figure of a mounted policeman became alert and businesslike as he instantly cleared a narrow lane through the traffic. A large red touring car bearing the plate FIRE DEPARTMENT in front, came tearing through on its mad, swaying course, the driver huddled over the wheel as if he were steering a Grand Prix racing machine.

“That’s about the third I’ve seen to-day already,” he observed. “New York strikes a stranger as being one vast conflagration.”

They turned into the club and spent an idle half-hour drinking cocktails, until it was time for Delamotte to meet Yvonne Sebastin.

He found her waiting for him in the hall of Delmonico’s, dressed with the smart simplicity that characterises the American woman in the morning. She went up to him eagerly.

“Why, Ralph, this is charming of you. I’m starving. I motored up at nine o’clock this morning. You’ve no idea what an early bird I am these days.”

“You seem all the better for it, Yvonne.” Delamotte was looking at her with a critical smile. “You were a bit pale when I saw you last at Meadowbrook. But come along.” He found his table and they took their seats. The famous room was nearly full, and throughout the meal Yvonne Sebastin was in her most animated mood, chatting, laughing, at one moment mercilessly criticising the cut of a costume, in the next breath giving Delamotte some graphic little sketch of her life in the country.

“But why don’t you come down and see me, Ralph?” she asked at length. “I haven’t seen you for over a week.”

“Well, my dear lady, you haven’t asked me. I should never dare to intrude without a summons from you.”

“Don’t be absurd! Surely you know me well enough not to require a formal invitation. You’re a bad man, Ralph.”

“Besides,” continued Delamotte, “all this week I’ve been acting as guide, philosopher and friend to an Englishman that I met last year in London. There are so very many pitfalls in New York for a good-looking stranger, eh, Yvonne?” Delamotte laughed.

“I suppose there are, Ralph,” she replied innocently, gazing out of the window. “Why — why — it’s — raining.” There was a slight pause. Suddenly she turned and looked Delamotte coolly and deliberately in the face. “Why not run down to-morrow and bring your Englishman with you?”

Delamotte snapped his cigarette case and his face grew suddenly stern. He gave her a long, searching glance, then dropping his eyes he lit his cigarette. She watched him intently. He carefully and methodically extinguished the match and dropped it in the tray. Then slowly raising his head, he smiled into her eyes. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Yvonne. He’s leaving New York to-morrow.”

As Delamotte spoke, a look of intense irritation flashed across her face. The next instant she was speaking unconcernedly.

“Now, I thought you were cleverer than that, Ralph. For a moment you nearly made me angry, though. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter.” She rose from the table. “Shall we go?”

Without a word he escorted her outside.

Pausing for a moment with one foot on the step of her car, she turned to him with a smile. “Anyhow, you’ 11 come and see me soon, won’t you? Au revoir!”

“Au revoir, pretty lady. Run away back to the country and keep the roses in your cheeks,” Delamotte replied lightly, closing the door upon her.

He stood and watched the big limousine till it disappeared round the corner, then turned and walked briskly towards the Blitz.

Chapter III

CtTJOSS” FLINN stumped laboriously up -U the dirty stone stairs of the Manhattan Magnet building, pushed his way through a door marked EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT and planted himself squarely behind the low railing of an untidy room, littered with papers and filled with desks at which shirtsleeved reporters were clicking out copy on their typewriters. A city editor glanced up casually. Seeing Flinn he rose and came across to him with the nearest approach to excitement in his manner that a city editor is capable of showing.

“Morning, Mr. Flinn. What’s doing?”

“I want to see Mr. Davenport,” replied Flinn stolidly.

The city editor stopped a boy who was scurrying past.

“Go and tell Mr. Davenport Mr. Flinn wants to see him. Quick, now!” Turning to the

Boss he went on, “If there’s anything on, Mr. Flinn, put me wise. We’re going to press soon.”

The boy came running back. “Come this way, please.”

Two or three reporters looked up at Flinn as he followed the boy across the room to Davenport’s office and went inside. They turned their heads anxiously to the city editor’s desk, but, getting a shake of the head from him, returned to their copy.

The private office of the president presented a striking contrast to the untidy hustle of the rest of the building. Simply but comfortably furnished with a few leather armchairs, a solidlooking writing table with several neatly arranged piles of correspondence, and a few sporting prints on the walls, it gave little indication of the variety of interests of its single occupant.

Davenport looked up from the table where he was reading a letter spread in front of him.

“Hullo, John, glad to see you. Sit down. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Flinn sat down, stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and waited.

The particular letter Davenport was reading was not of great importance, but he required a little time to prepare himself for the battle of wits which he knew was inevitable, and at which he felt himself rather at a disadvantage. Davenport was not a particularly clever man. Whatever success he had obtained had rather been due to sheer hard work, combined with a large amount of ambition which was conveniently untrammelled by moral scruples. He had become the owner of the Manhattan Magnet when it was in a comatose condition for want of any decided policy, and by instituting various campaigns of what he called social and political reform — but for which his enemies had the much shorter and more expressive term of blackmail — he had succeeded in painting the Magnet as yellow as the worst of its competitors. His present campaign was directed against Flinn and his party. In this he had been remarkably successful, and with conscientious thoroughness and the lavish employment of the unscrupulous methods of this section of the newspaper world, he had managed to bring home several crushing blows upon Flinn’s carefully-laid schemes. At this particular time these attacks had reached the limit of open virulence, and it was therefore with a slight sinking of the heart that Davenport speculated on the reason for Flinn’s visit.

He carefully marked the letter with a blue pencil, placed it with the others at his side, and drawing his chair back from the table turned to Flinn.

“Well, Johnny, we don’t often see you around here these days,” he said, with a slight touch of nervousness.

He was a slightly bald, smartly-dressed man of a pronounced down-town type. A dissipatedlooking mouth, barely concealed by a grey moustache, and an unnaturally high colour gave him the appearance of being a heavy drinker. He looked at Flinn uncertainly.

“No,” Flinn said shortly, “and I shouldn’t be here now, only your dirty rag has got me going this time, you damned grafter.”

Davenport’s courage returned. From long experience of Flinn’s moods, this unusual display of feeling indicated to him that the Boss felt himself to be in a weak position, and if his only weapon was to be bluster of this description, there was nothing to fear..

“Grafter!” He laughed. “That’s good from Johnny Flinn! If you’re going to talk like that, I’ll have one of my boys in and make a column of it. It’ll make good stuff.”

“Aw, cut it out,” said Flinn disgustedly. “See here, Davenport, when are you going to stop this knocking? Are you going to wait till I have to make you? I’m getting sick of this. Here’s Doherty coming to me this morning and turning it up after what you said yesterday about him and those cement contracts.”

“My dear Flinn, you don’t understand the position.” Davenport was speaking seriously enough. “You ought to know that when I took over the Magnet I determined from the start that it must be run entirely independent of party considerations and business interests. I have endeavoured to expose glaring abuses of all kinds, irrespective of individuals. One after another of these has been shown up and now it’s your turn. If, in the course of following what

I as a newspaper man conceive to be a public duty, your pet schemes get knocked, it’s up to you to change your policy. The truth, Flinn, is—”

“Oh, nix on that stuff!” Flinn broke in impatiently. “What’s Villiers paying you?”

“Have it your own way, Johnnie. I’ll talk to you in your own language, then. I’ll tell you right now he’s paying me a damned sight more than you could put up. Besides, for my own reasons in this case I’m not to be bought. You can take that as final. If you’ve come here to-day for that, you’ve wasted your time.”

“Say, here, Mr. Davenport, you can’t get away with it like that. You know Johnny Flinn by this time. I’ve got something up against you that’s going to make you change your mind.”

Davenport laughed amusedly. “Don’t rake up that old Brooklyn graft again. You know you can’t give me away without getting yourself in wrong. You ought to be too clever to think you can make me change my policy like that.”

Flinn got slowly to his feet, watching Davenport closely. “Say, Davenport, you’re right. I am too clever for that. I’ve got something cornin’ for you, and it’ll be too late to change your policy. You’ll just have about time to change your clothes, if you’re lucky, and beat it out of the country.”

“.What do you mean, Flinn?” Davenport’s manner betrayed slight nervousness.

Flinn went on deliberately. “What about the New Era Mines?”

Davenport shifted uneasily. He spoke with an obvious effort. “The New Era Mines? Why, what’s that got to do with me?”

“I guess it’s got a lot to do with you, Mr. Davenport, from what I hear. Those mines are a plant, and you’re working it. I know it. Now what have you got to say?”

Davenport looked ghastly white. His mask of indifference had been completely torn away by Flinn’s sudden onslaught. Making a supreme effort to regain his control, he sprang to his feet. “You go right ahead and prove it first — if you can,” he cried. “Then we’ll talk business.”

“I can prove it ail right. But say, my boy, you don’t quite understand the situation this time. I’ll talk to you in your language, you mutt. This is an abuse that I feel it my duty to my own interests to put down, and this is your last chance to do a deal before my conscience gets the better of me.” Flinn was unusually sarcastic for him. “Now, what’s your answer?”

Davenport was still clinging to a faint hope that Flinn was bluffing. “Let’s have your proof first,” he replied.

“Well, how about Ford of the Financial Clarion? I’ve got him. How about Witman, that you sent to Mexico to report, and called back again? I’ve got him.” Flinn was carefully watching the effect of this on Davenport.

“Go on, any more?”

“I think that’s about enough for a start,” said Flinn, keeping up his appearance of assurance, “and I’ve got a line on one or two more.”

As he heard these names, Davenport rapidly regained his normal self-assertiveness. He breathed freely again, realising that Flinn had been raising him on a pair of twos all the time.

Offering a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t thrown in, Davenport laughed quite genially.

“Come again, Johnny, another day, when I’m not so busy, and bring a few more names with you. You know as well as I do those won’t help you.” Davenport reached for the telephone. “Well, Flinn, I’m afraid I must get on with it. Sorry to turn you out, but you will come in again, won’t you?”

Flinn shook his head meaningly. “No, I shan’t be back. I’ve given you your chance to-day. One more name will be enough for me, and then it’s yours for the open country.”

Davenport went with him to the door. With his hand on the knob he paused and turned to Flinn, with a mocking smile. “I say, Johnny, don’t let any of those boys of mine outside get hold of you. You’re in a very communicative mood to-day. They might get a story out of you. How would half a column headed ‘John Flinn Denounces Graft’ suit you?”