DUSKIN Read online

  And what of the two men who were supposed to be building that structure? What could possibly be their object? It put an entirely new angle on the matter to find that they were the actual owners of the building. She had not had time last night after discovering their identity to think about it. She had been too weary when the evening was over, and the morning had been full of other things. There was something strange about it all which she felt she must ferret out. How could they be the owners of that building and yet be working a con on it? It did not seem reasonable that it was all explainable on the grounds that they wanted to make the Fawcett people lose their big forfeit. Of course, that would be a way to get their building at little cost, but what would they have when they were done? And would men really descend to a thing like that? And then plan to cheat themselves on the ceiling? It was most perplexing and she was satisfied that there was some key to it all that she did not yet understand. She must work it out slowly. She must not make a false move, nor show her hand on any account. Perhaps if she could get rid of this Duskin quietly and put another man in his place things would go through all right, and yet—where was she to get the other man? She had asked a few cautious questions of Frederick Fawcett, and he had said that there were comparatively few men well equipped and trustworthy who were available at present for new jobs. Of course there were new, untried ones, but one didn’t dare put a new man on a big job, and if they were going to broaden out along the lines suggested at the banquet last night, they would need to be looking around for good men and training them in readiness for when the need arose.

  She had not hinted that she might be in immediate need of one, but she had taken the precaution to jot down the name of the one man whom Fawcett mentioned as being the only one he knew at the present time who could be got in a hurry, and he was going up to Maine fishing. Ah! It might be that Maine would have yet to yield up another vacationer before many days!

  She went on reading the letters, searching for the one she remembered. The first one that had come under her observation had complained about the rivets not coming, and the other about the paint being stolen. They had impressed her at the time as being items too trivial for a grown man to whine about. Now as she read the letter over again it did not seem quite so unbusinesslike as she had thought. The sentences were crisp and to the point.

  The rivets we ordered from Cross and Keyes have not arrived. In consequence the work was held up a day or two. We were further delayed by the fact that a quantity of paint, which had been locked in the office, was stolen overnight, and no more of the right quality could be procured short of Chicago. I have put a double watch on the building now and hope to prevent further trouble, but these little holdups have been most unforeseen and unaccountable. We put the matter of the paint into the hands of the police who are trying to trace it, but Cross and Keyes have been unable as yet to get any clue to the lost rivets, which they say they shipped immediately as agreed. Sometimes I feel that there is an enemy at work.

  Of course, that might be a mere amateurish way of making excuses to cover his own delinquencies. A young man who would go up to Chicago for a while—day and night and perhaps two days—at this critical stage of the building game was likely too flighty to realize how inadequate he was to the situation.

  Whatever became of those rivets anyway? There seemed to have been no further mention of them in the correspondence. Was he still sitting around waiting for the rivets to arrive? No wonder Mr. Fawcett was almost in a nervous breakdown over the situation. Why hadn’t he fired that namby-pamby young man long ago? He ought to be writing fairy tales rather than business letters. It needed a man who could do things on a job like this. Well, she would see that things began to happen as soon as she got there anyway.

  She looked impatiently out at the landscape. What a pity that she had to waste her time on this stupid stuff instead of having leisure to enjoy the new country through which she was passing. It was too bad. But she must get this case in hand. If only Mr. Fawcett would hurry up and get well and come and take the whole thing out of her hands! If only the speech and the last night’s success could have been the end of her mission, how pleasant it all would have been. Yet, she shrank from even those before she experienced them. Well, she would do the best she could; that was all that could be expected of her. Yet she knew in her heart that her whole interest was for the Fawcett Construction Company and she meant to see it win. She wanted to see those two contemptible crooks beaten—yes and the third young crook who had fallen apparently from the pillar where his friends seemed to think he belonged. She was out to win, and win she would if human effort could make that possible.

  And then she wondered why that phrase sounded familiar just now, and was annoyed when she remembered it had been in one of Duskin’s credentials.

  When Carol finally reached her destination the first people she saw as she stepped to the platform were Schlessinger and Blintz sitting in a great handsome car watching the stream of descending passengers. Quickly she dodged behind a tall man until she was safely inside the waiting room. Then she crossed to a door at the end and took a taxi. She told the driver she wanted to go to the best hotel, and she sat back out of sight and was whirled away down a noisy street and into traffic. Something told her those two men had been looking for her. Perhaps they were going to try to develop a relationship. They might even approach her with their double dealings. Her soul revolted at the thought. She remembered faintly the stories of her childhood. Was it the Little Red Hen that had such a time getting away from the fox? He put her in a big bag and carried her home to put in the pot of boiling water, only the Little Red Hen snipped a hole in the bag and rolled a big stone in her place and flew away. Well, she would bide her time till she was ready to snip a hole in any bag that they might try to put her in, and then she would run away and leave a big stone to splash them to disaster when they dropped it into the seething cauldron of their own plots.

  Carol got hastily through the preliminaries at the hotel. She had a haunting fear of seeing two men—one tall, one short and stout—arriving on the scene. They seemed to be peering at her from behind the desk, the upholstery, the heavy hangings of the great parlors.

  She wrote her name quickly in small characters, C. W. Berkley Morningside. That would mean nothing to them, she hoped, even if they should examine the registry. She had not much hope of staying incognito for long, but perhaps she might get an opportunity to look over the situation before she had to face the old fox and begin the race.

  She went straight to her room and erased the stains of travel, arranged for her trunk to be sent for, then picked up her Bible to snatch at another verse, feeling that somehow it might bring luck as it had the night before. But the first words her eyes fell upon were “Be not wise in thine own eyes.” It was like a dash of cold water on her growing pride. She shut the book hastily with a frown and went out to survey the land.

  She knew from the papers she had brought where the building was located. She procured a map of the city and started out on foot. She wanted to get acquainted with the lay of the town before anyone knew she was there. She felt that unless she knew directions they could take great advantage of her.

  When she turned onto Maple Street from the roar and bustle of Main Street, she saw at once two buildings in process of construction, one a network of metal girders, the other standing solidly with walls of sturdy masonry. Her eyes turned at once toward the skeleton of steel. That of course would be hers. And the work had progressed no further than that! Her heart began to sink. Even her meager knowledge of construction told her that never in the world could she hope to rescue an operation from a preliminary state like that and get it finished and ready for occupancy in six weeks. Even six months would be inadequate to finish it from this mere outline. What could Mr. Fawcett have been thinking of that he did not find out sooner how the work had progressed? Surely someone was criminally at fault. And likely it was that man Duskin. Her heart sank for her employer. She saw that now unless a
miracle happened, the company was doomed. What should she do? Telegraph for one of the men from the office? There wasn’t one who would know what to do in an emergency like this. Mr. Edgar Fawcett was the only one who could act with power. Something radical would have to be done, and done quickly. She didn’t know what it would be. Should she send for Frederick Fawcett? Was this tragedy that was hanging imminent over their heads, even while they were cheerfully planning for greater things and chattering about expansion?

  As she put these questions to herself she drew nearer and stood looking up at the big open work of the frame. It was half past three and workmen were still crawling like human spiders over the threadlike girders, tapping away on the rivets till the reverberations were like a great orchestra getting in tune.

  What use to make a show of hurry like this when the time was almost up? They could not possibly finish now; why try at all? The forfeit was so great that disaster would be the only result.

  Desolately, as if she herself were stricken, idly as if it did not matter what she did or where she went, she crossed the street.

  Chapter 6

  Carol stood within the shadow of the sketchy structure and looked up. The riveters were making a show of being hard at work. The rhythmic sound stuttered on and on, echoing melodiously, and the men seemed to be wasting no time. There was one tiny figure away up watching them, doing nothing himself but smoking a cigarette. That would likely be Duskin, if he was even there at all. He must have just got back, had perhaps come on the same train she did. He was dressed too well to be standing up there in that dirt watching other men slave. He should have pulled off his coat and offered a hand. But then he likely didn’t know how. He was paid for watching the others. She curled her lip disdainfully.

  It was a dizzying business looking up so high, and the sun shining straight in her eyes. Dust was sifting down, too. She stopped looking up and glanced around.

  There was a wooden shed over the sidewalk, and pedestrians had to step out in the street to get around it. There was an opening near where she stood, and Carol, in spite of a large No ADMITTANCE sign, stepped within. If she had to get at this business she might as well begin at once. Working hours would be over in a little while, and then she would have to wait for a new day. She must take the first step. Then she would go and call Chicago on the telephone and get in touch with the other man—what was his name, Delaplaine? Edgar Delaplaine. She would tell him he must come down on the night train and be ready to take charge in the morning.

  With that she came face-to-face with a burly laborer who carried a big load of rivets on his shoulders. He was on his way to the crude stairway that led up airily above her head.

  “Nobody allowed in here, miss,” said the laborer gruffly. “Better git out fore de boss sees you. He call de perlice onto de las’ one cum inside. Can’t you all read? Didn’t you all see de sign ‘no ‘d’mittance’?”

  “I am looking for Mr. Duskin,” said Carol, drawing herself up haughtily now. “I represent the New York office.”

  “Can’t hep who you all rep’esents,” persisted the man, edging her along toward the opening. “Ain’t no ‘d’mittance in here. Boss said so!”

  “But I wish to see the boss,” said Carol desperately.

  “Boss gone to Chicago. Havta wait til t’morra, mebbe next day. Boss won’t see nobody in here anyhow. Havta go to that office door down on Ellum Street. Try him day after t’morra, lady, but you gotta git outta here now.”

  “For pity’s sake!” exclaimed Carol. “Hasn’t he come back yet? That’s the limit! How long has he been gone?”

  A big, red-haired Irishman appeared on the scene.

  “Hey, what’s holdin’ you up, Sam? Bony up there’s sore’s a pup ‘cause you don’t bring them rivets.”

  He leveled hard eyes on the shrinking girl who tried to draw her slipping cloak of dignity around her.

  “I represent the New York office. I wish to see Mr. Duskin,” she said haughtily, although she was ready to cry with impatience.

  “Who? Duskin? We ain’t got no such— Wait! You want Duskin? You’re on the wrong job. We ain’t got no New York office.”

  He led the reluctant Carol outside the board shelter and pointed to the end of a large, gray stone building towering solidly up to heaven. She looked and blinked at the bright sunlight and tried to count the stories. Then because the red-haired Irishman had planted himself firmly behind her and across the opening of the board shelter where she had just been, and she could not feel it would be of any use to try to get back there just now, she started up the street. The man was wrong of course. But at least she might be able to find someone in the other building to direct her, or someone who would send word to Duskin or whoever he had left in charge while he played around in Chicago.

  But when she came opposite the great stone structure she was suddenly confronted by a large sign across its front bearing in black letters the startling words:

  FAWCETT CONSTRUCTION COMPANY

  She paused in amazement, almost coupled with annoyance. She had been wrong, all wrong, right at the start! The red-haired man had been right! And she had intruded where she had no right! A sudden desire came over her to sit down on the stone steps and rest her weary, overstrained body and laugh aloud. But she reflected that that would be no way in which to meet the erring Duskin in case he should chance to take it into his head to return to his job. She must pull herself together and do something sensible. She felt as if all the men in both buildings were watching her and making fun of her.

  She walked slowly up the street until she came to a drugstore. She went in and ordered an orange soda. She felt very foolish and humbled. How silly of her not to have looked for a sign or asked someone before she went into that place. She must learn to be less impulsive. She was no businesswoman yet, even if she had made a speech that pleased a few rich businessmen.

  The words of the Bible verse she had just read kept coming back to her like a taunt, a warning, and brought a mortified color to her cheeks. “Be not wise in thine own eyes.” Never again would she say Proverbs was impersonal.

  More soberly now, she went back to the big, gray stone building and went up the steps.

  The door stood open and a man was mixing paint in the back end of the long hall. There was a pleasant smell of new plaster in the air, and there was heavy building paper fastened securely over the floors covering the tiles beneath. She knew they were tiles by the way they felt as she stepped over the paper and because the paper was torn away in one corner disclosing the tessellated floor of clear black-and-white marble.

  She walked the length of the hall, taking in everything—the lofty, well-proportioned rooms, the staircase also done in paper, the smooth walls seemingly all ready for their decoration, the electric wires hanging through holes in the ceiling and walls at frequent intervals. Why, the place seemed almost finished! This could not be the building. She must have made a mistake again.

  She picked her way past the open elevator shafts, between kegs of nails and cans of paint, and spoke to the man who continued to mix paint as if his life depended on it.

  “Is this the Fawcett Construction Company operation?” she asked, clearing her throat of a sudden huskiness. Her voice echoed weirdly and was flung back to her in volumes from the height of unseen corridors.

  “Yep,” said the man without pausing in his mixing but lifting a mildly approving eye to her trim little figure.

  “Well, can you tell me when they expect Mr. Duskin back?”

  “‘Uskin ‘ack!” echoed her voice from seemingly miles away like an angry witch that inhabited the air above her.

  “Back?” said the man lifting his head now and giving her an appraising eye. “He got back las’ night. Been workin’ most all night by hisself to ketch up. Never did see sech a man. Come back in his sleep ef he couldn’t get here no other way!” The man continued to mix rhythmically.

  Carol surveyed him coldly. She was not sure he wasn’t trying to joke about it. She
was no longer in a laughing mood. This was serious business. She must send some sort of a telegram to the hospital to Fawcett tonight, something the doctor would consider encouraging, and here it was almost quitting time.

  “Where—could I see him?” she asked hesitantly. “When?”

  “Right now!” responded the man with alacrity. “He’s up on the ‘leventh. Wait! I’ll have ye hauled up!”

  He gave five more distinct stirs to his paint before he lifted the stick with which he stirred it, scraped it off neatly on the edge of the can, and rose from his stooping posture.

  Carol looked around wildly, wondering what the process of being hauled up would entail.

  The man went to the edge of the elevator shaft and looked up.

  “Hoooo! Bill! Send down that shutter! Passenger wantsta come up!”

  A voice came fluttering down from above like a piece of paper that whirled around at every draft.