The Deaves Affair

"Better think it over!" he said. "Twenty dollars a week! It's a splendid salary!"

"Nothing doing," said Evan, grinning. In a way he liked the old scoundrel.

Deaves affected to lose his temper. "Oh, you're too big for your shoes!" he cried. "Your demands are preposterous!"

Evan continued calmly to make his way towards the front door.

Just before they reached it the old man made one last appeal. "Twenty dollars!" he said plaintively.

A door at the back of the hall opened and an old-young man came out; that is to say he was young in years, but he seemed to bear the weight of an empire on his shoulders, and looked very, very sorry for himself. He was dressed as if he had to be a pall-bearer that day, but that was his ordinary attire. He looked sharply from the old man to Evan.

"Who is this, Papa?" he demanded with the air of a school-master catching a boy red-handed.

The old man cringed. "This – this is a young man."

"So I see."

"Well, I – I didn't exactly ask him his name."

"Evan Weir," spoke up the young man for himself.

"He came home with me," said Deaves. "There was a little trouble."

The younger Deaves was horrified. "Another disgraceful street scene!" he cried. Addressing Evan he said: "Please tell me exactly what happened." He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "But not here. Come up to my library."

He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!" Between the two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.

He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.

"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.

The old man pished and pshawed. "I offered him a steady job," he said, "to go round with me. But his notions are too grand."

"Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement," his son said pompously. "How much do you want?" he asked of Evan.

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's ridiculous!" young Deaves said loftily. "I'll give you twenty-five."

The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the son was not so naïve as the father. Evan kept up his end with firmness and good-humour. After all there was some fun in contending with such passionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more anxious to get hold of him than the father. They finally compromised on forty dollars a week, provided Evan's references were satisfactory. Simeon Deaves was scandalised.

"It's too much! too much!" he repeated. "It will turn his head completely!"

CHAPTER III

SNOOPING

Young Deaves (his father addressed him as George) passed out through a small door on the left presumably to telephone to Evan's references. His father followed him, still protesting tearfully that the salary he purposed paying Evan would ruin them both. Evan was left standing in the middle of the room. Before he had time to take a further survey of his surroundings the door from the hall was softly opened, and a smug, pale young man in a sober suit sidled into the room, a servant. Evan learned later that "Second man" was his official title. "Spy" was writ large on him. The house seemed to be swarming with them. This fellow had undoubtedly been listening at the door.

"Good God! who would be rich!" thought Evan.

The servant with a sly, meaning look in Evan's direction went to a console at the left of the room, and affected to busy himself in arranging the objects upon it. In reality his long ears were stretched for sounds coming through the little door. Having satisfied himself that the Deaves' were good for several minutes in there, he came towards Evan with an ingratiating leer.

"Nice day," he said.

Evan's impulse was to call the fellow down, but he reflected that if he was to become an inmate of the house, it would be just as well for his own protection to learn what this snooping and eavesdropping signified.

"Fine," he said non-committally.

"Are you going to be one of us?"

"I don't know yet."

"It's a rummy joint."

"So I gather," said Evan dryly.

"Have you seen the Missus yet?"

"No."

The lackey cast up his eyes and whistled softly. "Oh boy! You've got something to see!"

This was Evan's first experience of the below-stairs point of view. It was a revelation.

"Were you planted here?" the servant asked with a mysterious air.

"What do you mean?" asked Evan.

The other quickly turned it off. "Oh nothing." He glanced towards the little door. "When you work for a bunch like this you don't feel like you owed them anything. It's every man for himself."

"I suppose so," said Evan.

"But there's a square bunch down-stairs. Come down to the butler's room when you can and get acquainted."

"Thanks."

"Take it from me you won't find it such a bad house if you stand in with the crowd down-stairs. There's money to be made on the side if you're smart enough."

"How?" asked Evan.

The second man winked at him knowingly. "Let's you and I get better acquainted before we get confidential."

"Sure," said Evan. "I see you're a wise guy."

"Wise!" said the other. "Solomon wasn't one two three with me."

"What do they call you?"

"Alfred. I'll make you acquainted with the bunch down-stairs. The women – " He suddenly broke off, and stiffened into the blank-faced, deferential servant.

Young Deaves and old Deaves returned through the little door.

"If you please, sir," said Alfred quickly, "Mr. Hilton sent me to ask what wines you would have for dinner."

"I'm busy!" snapped George Deaves. "Tell Hilton when I want wine I'll let him know."

"Yes, sir, very good, sir." The rubber-shod one wafted out of the room, shutting the door behind him as softly as a flower closes. George Deaves looked sharply to see that it was closed, then looked as sharply at Evan.

"Was he talking to you?" he demanded.

Evan quickly decided that the only safe hand to play in this strange house was a lone hand; he would take no one into his confidence. "Nothing in particular," he said.

"Why don't you fire him, George?" asked his father.

The younger man shrugged wearily. "What's the use? The next one would be no better." He turned his attention to Evan. "Your references were satisfactory," he said. "You may consider yourself engaged. Thirty-five dollars was the sum we agreed on, I believe."

"No, sir, forty dollars," said Evan firmly.

"Ah, my mistake. It's a great deal of money. I hope you'll be worth it. You will be at my father's call whenever he wants you."

"I will come at nine o'clock every morning and stay until five. Sundays are my own of course."

George Deaves turned to his father. "On your part, if I pay out all this money, you must promise me that you will not go out except with this young man."

The old man gave an ungracious assent.

"I will report at nine to-morrow," Evan said.

"But I want to go out now," the old man said like a child.

"You've had quite enough outing for to-day, Papa," George Deaves said severely.

Simeon Deaves said to Evan spitefully like a balked child: "Well, your wages won't begin until to-morrow, then. To-day doesn't count."

As Evan had his hand on the door he became aware that George Deaves was making signals to him to remain. He lingered, wondering what was in the wind now. George said to his father:

"Lunch is ready. You'd better go down."

Forgetting all about Evan, the old man hastened out of the room with an expectant air.

When he had gone George Deaves hemmed and hawed, gazed at the ceiling, made scratches on his desk pad and beat all around the bush. The gist of it as finally extracted by Evan was something as follows:

"I am not paying you all this money as a simple attendant for papa. I could get two at the price. The fact is papa has an unfortunate faculty for getting involved in street disputes. On account of his prominence a certain publicity is attached to it. Very distressing to the family. I shall expect you to keep him out of such troubles. You will have to be firm. He is very obstinate. But I authorise you to take any measures, any measures to save him from his own folly."

Evan was tempted to ask: "Even to cracking him on the bean?" But instead he said demurely: "I quite understand."

Evan made his way home down the Avenue ruminating upon what had happened. "In the words of Alfred it's a rummy joint," he said to himself. "Father and son are a pair of birds. What do I care? I'm not going to let them get under my skin. I'll give them their money's worth for a month or so, then bid them ta-ta and hike to the blessed country on my savings. Meanwhile the affair has its humorous side. Mystery, too. Like a play."

If Evan had not recollected when he got to Thirtieth street that he needed certain small articles of apparel to make himself presentable in his new job, he would probably not have discovered that he was being followed. But as he retraced his steps to the shops his attention was caught by a man's back, a narrow back clad in grey. The owner of the back was looking in a shop window. It was the little youth that Evan had seen before that morning. The inference was that he had stopped merely to give Evan time to pass him.

"By God! another snooper!" thought Evan. "This one dogged our foot-steps all the way up-town from the fruit-stand. Well, I'll give him a little run for his money."

Entering one of the big stores Evan made his purchases. He then hastened up one aisle and down another. It could have been no easy task to follow him through the crowded store, but his little grey shadow never lost the scent. In their gyrations Evan had an opportunity to get a good look at his tracker. He was not like Alfred; he had a decent look, or rather he looked neither decent nor mean, but simply watchful. An impenetrable mask was drawn over his face, out of which his eyes looked quietly, giving nothing away. In years he was no more than a lad.

"Not a very dangerous customer, anyway," thought Evan.

Issuing from the store Evan jumped on a moving bus bound up-town. He took a seat on top; the youth got in below. At Forty-Second street Evan changed to a cross-town car; his pursuer rode on the platform. At Third avenue he changed again – but without shaking the other. Half an hour later making his way through Waverly place towards Washington Square, he was well aware that the grey figure was still behind him, though pride forbade him turning his head to see.

Reaching the Square, Evan dropped on a bench and waited to see what would happen. The slender figure passed him, eyes calmly bent ahead, and sat down on a bench fifty feet farther on. Evan rose again, and retracing his steps, walked down the east side of the Square, and entering from the Fourth street corner, sat down again. Once more the youth passed him and sat down beyond. There were but few people around; it was hardly possible that he thought his movements had not been perceived by the man he was following. "As a sleuth you're an amateur," thought Evan. "You don't care whether I'm on to you or not. But I must say you have your nerve with you. I'm considerably bigger than you."

He got up and approached the other. The stripling looked straight ahead, affecting to be unconscious of his coming. Evan came to a stand before him and said abruptly:

"What's the idea, kid?"

The youth looked up startled, then quickly drew the mask over his face. "I don't understand you," he said.

"Come off," said Evan mockingly. "Do you think I'm a blind man not to notice the particular interest you are taking in my doings? What's the idea?"

The boy's eyes held to Evan's steadily; they were the eyes of a fanatic rather than a crook. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"You've been trailing me for the last two hours."

"You're mistaken. I never saw you before."

Evan laughed in exasperation. "That's childish! Do you mean to say you didn't pick me up in Troy street two hours ago, after that row with the fruit vendor?"

"I don't know where Troy street is," was the answer.

Evan changed his tactics. Dropping into the seat beside the boy he said: "Look here, I'm a regular fellow. Loosen up, kid. Give me the dope. What's it all about?"

The other was silent.

"God knows why anybody should take after me," Evan went on. "I haven't committed any crime that I know of. And I don't own a thing in the world anybody could covet. Who hired you to trail me?"

"Nobody," said the boy. "You're mistaken."

Evan began to get hot under the collar. He got up.

"By God – !" he began, clenching his fist. Then he stopped, because his anger rang false to him. In fact he couldn't work up a genuine anger against the strange-eyed boy who neither cringed before him nor defied him but simply looked.

"It would be a shame to hit you," he went on, "you're too little. But I warn you to keep away from me hereafter. The next time I stumble over you I won't be so gentle, see? You keep out of my way, that's all."

He strode off across the Square in the direction of his own place. He felt exasperated and helpless. He was clearly the injured party, yet he had come off second best in an encounter with a mere child. To make matters worse he was perfectly sure that the youth was still trotting after him like a little dog that refuses to be sent home. He would not look around to see. As he passed in the door of 45A he did look around, and there sure enough was his little sleuth across the street. Evan slammed the door and went up-stairs swearing.

The next time he had occasion to leave the house, the youth had gone. He saw him no more – that day. "Perhaps his game was to learn where I lived," thought Evan.

CHAPTER IV

THE NEW LODGER

Evan's pal Charley Straiker occupied the adjoining room on the top floor of 45A and the two pooled their household arrangements. It was Evan's week to cook the dinners, consequently when dinner was eaten his was the privilege of occupying the easy chair with the stuffing coming out and cock his feet on the cold stove while Evan washed up.

During the afternoon Evan had painted and delivered a label that had been ordered of him, and had cleaned up generally as if in preparation for a journey. But he had not yet said a word to Charley of the events of the morning. As a matter of fact Evan had a prudent tongue, which Charley most decidedly had not, and it had occurred to Evan that he had better find out where he was at, before entrusting the tale to his garrulous partner.

Evan drew at his pipe and gloomed at the wall. Now that the mild excitement induced by the morning's events was over, a heaviness had returned to his spirit. Meanwhile Charley ran on like a brook.

Charley was a lean and sprawling youth with lank blonde hair, a long nose, and an incorrigible smile that spread to the furthest confines of his face. To quote himself, he was a bum artist and a squarehead. He took people at their own valuation and was consequently a universal favourite.

"Carmen rented her back parlour this afternoon," he was saying – Carmen being their own moniker for their landlady Miss Carmelita Sisson. "To a female. What do you know about it? Carmen hates 'em round the house. Too nosey, she says. But the room's been vacant since spring, and roomers in summertime are as scarce as snowballs. So she succumbed.

"Haven't seen her yet – I mean the new roomer, but my hope and my prayer is that she's a looker. I think she is because Carmen sniffed. Does our Carmen love the beautiful of her sex? She does – not! She's a singing-teacher, Madame Squallerina, Carmen called her, with the rare wit for which she is famed. Already moved in with her piano and all. I heard her moving round, but the door was closed. I'm afraid she's not going to be sociable. Hell! the parlor floor always looks down on the attic! That's a joke in case you don't know it; parlor floor looking down on the attic!

"Wish I could think of a good excuse to knock on her door. It 'ud be a stunt, wouldn't it, to raise an alarm of fire in this old tinder-box. Say, if there's ever a fire I bags the new roomer to save – that is until I get a look at her. If it's over a hundred and fifty, I'll give the job to you, Strong-arm."

This failed to draw a smile from Evan.

"Say, you're as lively as the dressing-room of a defeated team. Wot th' hell's the matter? Come on out and see a movie. I'll blow."

"I'm off pictures," said Evan. "Go on yourself. Maybe you'll meet Squallerina on the stairs. Take her."

"You've said it," said Charley. "I'm off."

The gas made the room hot, and Evan turned it out. The instant he did so, he became aware of the moonlight outside, and he went and rested his elbows on the sill in his customary attitude.

The moon herself was behind the house, but the Square beneath his window was mantled in a tender bloom of light. As every painter knows, moonlight is most beautiful when the moon herself is out of the picture. By moonlight the dejected old trees of the Square were shapes of perfect beauty, the grass was overlaid with a delicate scarf of light; the very figures on the benches were as strangely still as if the moon had laid a spell on them.

But all this beauty only had the effect of putting an edge on Evan's dissatisfaction. The gnawing inside him was a hundred times worse by moonlight. "What's the matter with me?" he thought querulously. "I wished for something to happen. Well, something did happen, but there's no fun in it. There's no fun in anything any more. Moonlight makes me hate myself. Oh, damn moonlight anyhow! It turns a man inside out!"

He flung away from the window and planted himself in his chair with his back to it.

Presently he became aware of a sound new in that house. His door stood open for ventilation and it came floating up the old stairs. He was aware of a vague pleasure before he localised the sound. It was music; a piano – but not the usual rooming-house instrument; a piano in tune, softly played. It drew him to the door and to the banisters outside, a poignant, haunting melody rippling in a minor treble, a melody that queerly sharpened the knife that stabbed him, yet drew him on irresistibly.

He stole down the dark stairs, guiding himself with a hand on the rail, his eyes as abstracted as a sleep walker's. The sounds were issuing from the back parlour of course. The door was partly open – so she was not as unsociable as Charley had feared, or perhaps it was only that it was hot. The room was dark inside. Evan leaned against the banisters with bent head, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of breaking the lovely spell.

The music came to an end and his spirit dropped back to earth. He lingered, silently praying for it to resume and give him wings again. Instead, the door was suddenly opened wider and he saw the tenant of the room on the threshold. All he could see of her was that she was a little woman with a lot of hair. The moonlight shimmering through the edges of her hair made a halo around her head. Moonlight made two square patches on the floor of the room.

It was too late for him to escape. "I – I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I couldn't help listening."

"Oh!" she said. "Who are you?"

"Evan Weir. I live up-stairs."

"Oh!" she said again, but with a different inflection.

By her voice Evan knew she was young and adorable. It was a low-pitched voice for so little a woman, low and thrilling; a mezzo-soprano. His spirit went to meet that voice.

For a moment or two they stood silently facing each other in the dark. Evan was not conscious of any embarrassment; he was too deeply moved. His conscious self was in abeyance. Moonlight, music and woman had bewitched him. He was in the grip of forces that played on him like an instrument. But someone had to speak in the end. It was Evan.

"What was that you were playing?" he asked simply.

"The moonlight sonata," she answered.

"Of course! That's why it sounded so exactly right. Won't you play again – please?"

She could not but have been aware how genuinely moved he was, but however it may have pleased her, womanlike, she sought to pull down the conversation to a safer plane.

"Oh, I can't!" she said. "I have unpacking to do. I was coming out to get a match to light the gas. I can't find any."

"I'll light the gas for you," he said eagerly. She stood aside to let him enter. The simple act thrilled him anew; she was not afraid of him; her spirit greeted his. When she turned around he could see her face etherealised in the moonlight, a lovely pale oval with two dark pools. There was a subtle perfume in the room that made him a little dizzy. In the act of striking a match he paused.

"Oh, it's a shame!" he said involuntarily.

"What is?" she asked.

"To light the gas on such a night."

She laughed. It was a delicious little sound. It seemed to bid him be at home there. "One must!" she said. "What would the landlady say?"

But the tone of the denial encouraged him to insist. "A little more music," he begged. "I never heard anything so lovely."

She went to the piano bench obediently. "Sit down if you can find a place," she said over her shoulder.

Instead he came and leaned his elbows on the edge of the piano case. Once more her fingers rippled over the keys, and another delicate minor air ravished his soul. She did not seem to strike the keys, but to draw out the sounds with the magical waving of her pale hands. She kept her head down, and he could not see into her face. Nor could he be sure of the colour of her hair, but only that it was shining.

In the middle of the piece the flying fingers began to falter. No doubt the intense gaze he was bending on the top of her head confused her. At any rate she broke off abruptly and jumped up.

A cry broke from Evan: "Oh, please go on!"

"I cannot! I cannot!" she said. "Light the gas." As he still hesitated she stamped her foot with delightful imperiousness. "You must light the gas!"

With a sigh he struck the match. The gas flared up with a plop. Their curious eyes flew to each other's faces. Evan saw – well, he was not disappointed. His instinct had rightly told him in the dark that she was adorable. Not regularly beautiful; the most charming women are not. There were fascinating contradictions. The bright hair was gloriously red: the eyes too large for her face and brown, extraordinary eyes revealing a strong soul. They were capable both of melting and of flashing, but especially of flashing; the soul was imperious. As for the rest of her, the dear straight little nose was non-committal, the mouth fresh and childlike, with a slight, appealing droop in the corners. In short, Nature the great experimentalist had in this case endowed a most sweet and kissable little body with the soul of a warrior.

Evan could not have argued this all out, but his inner self perceived it. His feelings as he gazed at her were mixed. The dear little thing! the enchanting playmate; his arms fairly ached to gather her in. At the same time the deeper sight was whispering to him that this was no playmate for a man's idleness, but a soul as strong as his own – or stronger, to whom he must yield all or nothing, and he was afraid.

As for her, she simply looked at him inscrutably. He could not tell if she were pleased with what she saw.

Finally self-consciousness returned to both with a rush. They blushed and turned from each other.

"You must go now," the girl said gently.

He understood from her tone that she did not greatly desire him to go, but that it was up to him to find a reason for staying.

"Let me help you get your things in order," he said eagerly. "You can't shove trunks and furniture around."

She hesitated, thinking perhaps of the censorious landlady.

Evan made haste to follow up his advantage. "This trunk. Where will you have it put?"

She gave in to him with the ghost of a shrug. "It has nothing in it that I shall want," she said. "Shove it as far back in the closet as it will go."