El Diablo Part 41

Silva.n.u.s Rock was nervous and ill-tempered. Consuming his third cup of strong black coffee, he rose from the breakfast table and walked to the French windows and glared out at the curling waves as they flung themselves upon the beach.

His devoted spouse gazed after him with a sigh. "Something is preying on father's mind," she whispered to De Lancy, the only son and heir to the Rock fortune. "He didn't sleep a wink last night."

De Lancy scowled. "That doesn't give him any license to take it out on me," he growled, as he pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette. "When I tried to interest him in that new racing car, he landed on me all in a heap and----"

His words were interrupted by the entrance of the maid.

"Some one to see Mr. Rock," she announced.

Rock whirled and hurried toward her. Then he caught a glimpse of the roughly garbed man who was standing by the desk in his den. Peters had arrived at last. The anxious lines deepened on Silva.n.u.s Rock's forehead and he made haste to join his visitor.

Mrs. Rock pursed her lips as she noticed the stranger. "I can not understand why your father persists in having such disreputable-looking men visit him in his home," she confided to her son.

De Lancy sluffed the cigarette ashes into his coffee cup, before replying. "Well, whoever the 'low-brow' is, here's hoping he'll put the old man in a better humor."

In his wish De Lancy was not disappointed. For a short time the visitor remained closeted with Rock in the capitalist's den. Then Rock escorted his guest to the door and De Lancy noticed that the old man had opened up some of his best cigars. It was a good sign.

Silva.n.u.s Rock entered the sun-room, all smiles.

"I believe I'll try some of those waffles, mother, if they are still handy," he exclaimed. "My headache's pa.s.sed off and I'm feeling quite myself again." He beamed on his son. "And now, De Lancy, you were telling me about that new car. It seems to me like a pretty stiff price but I guess you might as well go ahead and order it."

When the bank president reached his office some time later after a visit to the Golden Rule Fish Cannery, he greeted his employees with effusive good-humor. Leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed by any one except Mr. Peters, he pa.s.sed into his private office, dropped heavily into a chair and began to figure. His pudgy fingers trembled about the pen as he scratched on the pad before him. Then he tore the paper containing his calculations into little bits, tossed them into the waste-basket and smiled benignly. His latest business venture had succeeded far beyond his fondest expectations.

A tap came on his door and Mr. Peters again made his appearance.

Rock surveyed him anxiously. "No mistake I hope, Peters, in the good news," he quavered. "Everything's all right I trust."

Peters nodded and drew up a chair close to Rock's side. "This one's about the fishing-boats," he said in a low voice. "They got into a sc.r.a.p with the American boats off Northwest Harbor. Bandrist says that Gregory's fleet won out. Mascola's lay in at the harbor. The _Florence_ burned up and a lot of his other boats are pretty well shot. He couldn't stop the other fellows at all and they loaded up."

Rock frowned at the news.

"Well, well," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "That is bad. Though not of course as bad as it might be. No answer to that one, Peters."

A few moments later when the financier was again alone in his office, the cashier entered. "The credit man from the Canners' Supply Company is here," he announced. "He's asking for information about the Legonia Fish Cannery. Thought I'd better refer him to you."

Rock's thick lips closed grimly. "Show him in," he ordered, and bit savagely at his cigar.

Mr. Booker made his appearance at once. "We have a little account with the Legonia Fish Cannery," he began. "As it is some time past due we were beginning to get a little anxious. A word from you will put us straight."

"What's the amount of your claim?"

"Twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars."

The hopeful expression which had leaped to Rock's face gave place to one of gloom. Then he asked:

"What is the nature of your claim?"

"Machinery and the labor of installing," supplied Booker.

A gleam of hope entered Rock's beady eyes. "Between you and me, Mr.

Booker," he said. "The Legonia Fish Cannery is pretty much involved at the present time. Their organization is one which might cause you some difficulty in securing the amount of your claim. If you care to a.s.sign it to me for collection I think I can handle the matter satisfactorily."

Booker did not notice the suppressed eagerness of the bank president's tone. He was new at the job, replacing the regular credit man who was away on his vacation. Perhaps it would be well to accept Mr. Rock's offer.

"What fee would you charge for your services?" he inquired warily.

Rock spread out his fat hands with a depreciatory gesture.

"Just between friends, Mr. Booker," he said warmly. "Your firm is too well-known by me to make even a nominal charge for so trifling a favor.

Whatever I am able to do for you in this regard, is yours for the asking." Seeing that the credit man was wavering, Rock continued: "I am so sure that I can adjust the claim satisfactorily that if you desire I will give you my own personal check for the amount right away. Then you can forget the entire matter. Mr. Gregory is a personal friend of mine and though, as I say, his affairs are somewhat involved, I know that he will attend to the matter at once if approached in the right way."

Booker hesitated.

"I'd better call on Mr. Gregory first," he said.

"That will be a hard matter," Rock interrupted. "Unless you care to go to the expense of making a trip to Diablo Island. Mr. Gregory left yesterday for a protracted stay in the deep-sea fishing grounds."

Booker considered. His firm was very desirous of having him return with the cash which was sore needed at the present time. Collecting the claim would be quite a feather in his cap. Rock's statements concerning the Fish Cannery, he noticed, were somewhat contradictory. But that was up to Rock. An account like this, the chances were, would not be worth much anyway. He could explain the whole matter to Dunham when he got back.

"All right, Mr. Rock," he said at length. "If you want to buy the claim outright, you can have it. I won't a.s.sign."

Rock reached for his check-book. A few moments later saw the deal closed. When Booker had left, Rock turned to the telephone. When he was in communication with the local judge, he said:

"I'd like to see you as soon as possible, Tom.--Yes, it's important.--All right. I'll be right down."

Somewhat in advance of Silva.n.u.s Rock's breakfast hour, Mr. Dupont entered the White Front Restaurant at Port Angeles and made his way toward his accustomed table in the sunlit alcove. His favorite waitress pulled out his chair and handed him his morning paper with a smile.

"I have a special for you this morning," she announced, "which will make your mouth water."

Mr. Dupont smacked his lips with boyish enthusiasm. "What is it?" he inquired.

"Corn-fed mackerel from the new Service Market which opened yesterday."

Mr. Dupont raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and the girl explained:

"A lot of service men have started a fish stall in a corner of the old California Market around the block from here. They just put in a few yesterday but from the way they sold out, I'd say they'd need the whole building before long. Our manager got around just in time to pick up the last of yesterday's catch. I saved one of them for you."

While the girl attended to his order, the resident manager of Winfield & Camby turned his attention to his paper. When the waitress returned with the crisply browned fish, she was obliged to speak twice before she was able to gain Mr. Dupont's attention.

Hovering about his chair, she watched her patron nibble at the carefully-prepared delicacy with his eyes fixed intently upon his newspaper. The dimples disappeared quickly from the girl's face as she noted that the mackerel were growing cold. Then she turned from the table with a sigh. Men did not care what they ate as long as they had their paper.

Mr. Dupont finished his perusal of the news and shoved back his chair, leaving the special scarcely tasted.

"That was fine," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Wish I had time to finish it. But I have a number of things to 'tend to before going to the office. By the way, where did you say that new market was located?"

He rose as he spoke and as the waitress again gave him the location of the building he sought, he pressed a substantial tip into her hand and hurried to the street. At the entrance to the California Market, he mingled with the throng and elbowed his way through the crowd which packed a corner of the big building. Then he adjusted his nose-gla.s.ses and peered over their heads.