 | After Death — What |  |
3. Part III
A year after Ogilvie's death, Irene and Tod were confronted with a fact, appalling and inevitable.
Ogilvie had died penniless. Even his insurance policy had lapsed, for an obvious reason — he hadn't paid the premiums. All that they knew immediately upon his demise; and now they were confronted with a worse condition. They had exhausted the few thousand dollars generously given to them by the Interstate Company; they were well in debt, and their credit was about exhausted.
Over Tod Ogilvie hung the cloud — perpetual, with no silver lining — of responsibility for his father's death; upon him was the keen and bitter disappointment of his lopped-off university career. These things despoiled him of his former cheeriness, and rendered him desperate.
"Hang it all, Rene!" he complained to his sister. "I'm efficient in my line. I know it — you know it — everybody else knows it. There's not a man in New York that knows cars better than I do. Even Faurot asks my opinion on anything that's new; and yet I can't get a look in anywhere. What's an offer of a commission when everybody's selling cars? If I've picked up two hundred in six months, I've been doing well. What am I going to do?"
Tod was indefatigable in his search — he was restless — he wanted to be employed; and at the same time he wanted
It was Rookers, one of the latter, who sent for Tod one day.
"Mr. Ogilvie," he said, "I want you, as a judge, to take a squint at this made-over Reno. You know a car — take a look at this!"
Tod looked the Reno over.
"What did you say this is?" he queried.
"A Reno, of course."
"No, no," returned Tod. "You said it was a made-over car, didn't you?"
"Sure I did," returned Rookers.
Tod snorted.
"Nothing of the kind, Mr. Rookers! That's a new car. Nothing made over about that — perhaps it's had a coat of paint."
Rookers smiled.
"I was waiting for you to say it was a new car," he returned, rubbing his hands together. "I wanted your opinion, and you've given it. Well, let me tell you that that is a made-over car. It's not new — it's old. Your opinion clinches my idea that we've done the trick. We've taken an old car and made it over so that even you believe it's new. So far so good! "
He sidled up to Tod.
"Mr. Ogilvie, the car's a bargain. Do you want to buy it? You can make money on it, believe me."
Buy?" echoed Tod. "I couldn't buy a tin lizzie. I'm flat broke!"
Rookers tapped him on the shoulder.
Mr. Ogilvie," he went on, "will you — will you sell it, then — for me?"
Ogilvie shook his head.
What is there in selling a made-over Reno" he queried.
Rookers held up his hand.
"There is something in selling this particular Reno," he returned. "We have fooled you. You believed the car to be new. It is not new. Dealers will buy this car. You do not have to lie to them; you do not have to represent it as a new car. All that you need do is to go to Boston — "
"Boston?" echoed Tod. "Why Boston?"
"Because," said Rookers, "in Boston there is a market. You take this car to Boston. You offer it for sale — to dealers, if you please. I can give you half a dozen names. You offer this nine-thousand-dollar Reno for twenty-five hundred dollars. Try it on!"
"And if I sell it?" queried Tod doubtfully.
Rookers pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off two or three.
"Expenses, anyway," he said; "and when you come back, we shall see. If you sell, you will have the money, and you can deduct a liberal commission. Try it on!"
Tod tried it on. He took the car to Boston, peddled it among certain dealers, and sold it that same day for twenty-seven hundred.
He came back to Rookers.
"You win!" he exclaimed. "What about seven hundred off that for my little commish?"
"Seven hundred is all right," said Rookers.
Tod took out seven hundred and handed over two thousand dollars in bills. From this latter sum Rookers peeled off three hundred and handed it to Tod.
"Yours," he said. "Don't rob yourself."
Tod stared at him.
A thousand dollars," he exclaimed, "for selling a twenty-seven-hundred-dollar car! Where do you come in?"
"I come in," returned Rookers, "by getting a good salesman who knows his business. Suppose we try again!"
Easy money!" echoed Tod. "Suppose we try again!"
He went home to the apartment where he lived with his sister. Necessity had kept them together.
"Rene," he exclaimed, " I made a thou to-day! Here's your half. Catch hold!
Irene Ogilvie shook her head. Her face was flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright.
"I don't want your money, Tod," she answered a bit disdainfully. "I've made more than that to-day myself!"
She produced a check.
"You did?" he cried. "From whom?"
"From Mrs. Orleans, the multimillionairess," laughed Irene gaily.
Tod pondered a moment over this intelligence. Then he shook his head.
"She's Blandy's friend," he said at length. "I don't like it. I don't like her and I don't like Blandy. I don't like your having anything to do with them!"
Irene's eyes glittered.
"Go on, Tod," she returned coldly. "They don't like you; and they do like me. You are living your own life — let me live mine!"
"If father — " began Tod; but she cut him short.
"Father," she returned in even tones, "would have been here to-day but for an accident that happened to him."
She stopped. She had gone far enough. Tod flushed, strode to the window and looked out.
"Here comes Blandy now," he exclaimed angrily. "I'm going to beat it!" He looked her full in the face. "You'll keep the maid in while Blandy's here," he blurted out, "in case — "
The girl drew herself up.
"You don't seem to realize," she returned, "that I'm an Ogilvie!"
And so am I," said Tod, looking at his roll of bills. "And yet I'm selling for the muckers. Easy money!" he repeated. "We're both getting it — just now; but how long is it going to last?"
As he went out, he brushed against Blandy, and gave him a surly greeting. Blandy laughed as he confronted Irene.
"Br-r-r-r! " he shivered. "I struck an iceberg in the hall."
Irene held out a welcoming hand.
"Let me warm you up a bit," she said.
"I've got tea with rum and red sugar, and everything you like."
Blandy followed her with his glance, wondering, wondering when the time would come — if it would ever come — when he could set foot over that mysterious and invisible line which Irene Ogilvie had drawn about herself. He was infatuated with her, mad about her, and she knew it; yet he had never dared to tell her so. Blandy was not a marrying man. Moreover, he was married; and Irene knew it. Her knowledge of that fact held him well in check.
But she liked him. Out of all that crowd of interesting idlers and celebrities she had picked Blandy, and he had picked her.
But she held him at arm's length — and quite successfully.
The rest of her crowd she took to her arms quite impersonally. She made frank love to the men she didn't care about; she held the women with her frank, innocent, good-natured friendliness. They liked her and stuck to her for the reason that she was the most interesting woman among them, just as Blandy was the most attractive of the men. Penniless as she was, Irene was able to hold her place.
"I've got to," she told herself. "It's the only thing in life. And I've got to gamble." She found herself repeating her brother's phrase. "Easy money! Why not — why not?"
"Suppose," said Blandy in his free and easy way, "we go to Claremont and have dinner?"
"The one best bet!" assented Irene.
While they rolled northward, Blandy touched her on the arm.
"I want to show you the very best thing about this car," he said.
He leaned forward. Attached to the upholstered partition were pockets, kits, flasks, cigar-holders.
"This," said Blandy, feeling for a little button hidden somewhere underneath the cushioned furnishing, "is something nobody knows anything about. "There's 'not a car in the world but mine that has it. Look!"
A little secret pocket slid into view, from which Blandy drew a piece of thick cardboard.
"The only car in the world that has it," he repeated. "The picture of a queen!"
He showed it to her. It was her own photograph. She snatched at it eagerly and angrily, but in a trice he had returned it to the pocket, and it disappeared.
"I'm entitled to it," he said, looking her full in the face. "It's safer there than anywhere else. Nobody knows about it but myself, and now you. And there it's going to stay, without your consent or with it, as you please!"
That night three cars were stolen from the Claremont garage the while their owners wined and dined within. One of them was a new and up-to-date Torrenza — a big blue machine worth eighty-five hundred dollars. It belonged to Blandy. He sent out an alarm as soon as he discovered the theft. New York was scoured, but the car completely disappeared.
| After Death — What | |