This was a Wednesday evening, and again the dining room was practically full except for a table near the kitchen door. Jason sighed at the silent piano. The musician had wept when he had been told that he would play but two nights “for a while,” and had mentioned his five children. Jason had put a five-dollar gold piece into the man’s hand and then had run off to escape gratitude.
Mr. Mulligan’s office was very cramped and dark—for it had no window—and smelled of dust, old paper, and ancient plaster. It was equipped with Mr. Mulligan’s rolltop desk, reminiscent of Sister Agatha’s with its crowded pigeonholes and general clutter, a set of filing cabinets always half-open, and a table which caught the overflow from the desk, and another small table at one side where Mr. Mulligan’s “typewriter” sat six days a week, writing Mr. Mulligan’s business letters, desperately trying to reduce the daily devastations of the files, and answering his telephone. It was also her duty to keep the office clean, to wash the globes of the gaslit chandelier hanging from the mildewed ceiling, and to carry messages to various places in the hotel when the matter was urgent. She had done her best on the faded Brussels rug in a turkey-red shade, and this was the real cause of the dusty atmosphere.
The “typewriter” was Molly Nolan, and Pat called her “the smartest girl I ever knew. Does everything right.” He had had a male clerk previously, a pimpled youth who had a habit of falling asleep several times a day, and another habit of slinking out to the kitchen to snatch food at odd moments, though he was obese, and, as Mr. Mulligan said, “damned stupid.” Mr. Mulligan equated fatness with stupidity, but no one had courage or malice enough to indicate that he himself was hardly a skeleton, except, of course, his daughter, Patricia.
Lionel fully expected to see Patricia there when he entered the office, but to his profound relief there was only Molly, busily clacking away at her two-tiered typewriter, and a stranger, a man, about thirty years old. He was sitting near Patrick, who was swinging on his swivel chair, and he did not seem to resent the stiff old chair in which he sat, though he was obviously a young man of substance. He turned his head as the two young men entered, and regarded them with sharp interest.
“Boys,” said Patrick, his rosy face happy and pleased, “meet my favorite nevvy, Daniel Dugan, from Philadelphia. Danny, this big black Irisher is Jason Garrity, and the one whose hair looks like a burning bush is that rascal Lionel Nolan. Couldn’t get along without them.” His voice was rich and heavy with brogue, and there was a bottle of whiskey on his heaped desk and it was evident that he had been sampling the liquor in unusual quantities.
Daniel Dugan rose and shook hands with the two young men. “Uncle Pat’s been telling me a lot about you over the past two days. Glad to make your acquaintances.” He stood, smiling at them, tall and broad-shouldered and as at ease as only an urban man of some competence and considerable education and poise could be. Though his movements were measured, he gave the impression of agility and great strength and innate self-control. His expensive boots shone like black glass. He wore a loose jacket of fine gray flannel, but apparently there was something unrestrained in his nature, for his trousers were of a violent and very large green-white-and-maroon plaid. His linen was immaculate and heavily starched, and his red tie bore a tie pin in which was set a flamboyantly big diamond, which winked in the gaslight. His watch chain had many trinkets, including a Phi Beta Kappa key. His cufflinks were also set with diamonds and there was a diamond ring on his big left hand.
He had a blunt rectangular face, and the flesh was firm and slightly browned, as if he had spent much time in the sun. This implied that he was an athlete, an impression enhanced by his disciplined movements. He had prominent eyes the color of shining brown marble, and they were penetrating and restless under thick arched brows. His nose was very Irish, strong, short, and a little wide, with flaring nostrils. His mouth was unusually pink for a man’s and very sensual, and he had magnificent white teeth, which he was displaying now to Jason and Lionel. His wavy brown hair was thick and glossy.
Jason thought, as his hand still tingled from the other’s emphatic clasp, that here was a man who was not as friendly and as amiable as he appeared, and that under certain circumstances he could be ruthless and daunting and without compromise. He was a man to be feared. I don’t like him, Jason thought. I wouldn’t want to get in his way.
But Lionel was more impressed. He, too, had come to the same conclusion as Jason; however, he felt only admiration and respect for Daniel Dugan. He was more than worth pleasing.
Both young men were still wondering why they had been called from their duties to meet this paragon of importance and wealth. The typewriter clacked away like a score of castanets. Molly gave all her attention to it, her riot of red curls tied back with a huge blue ribbon. Her tall slender body rested, with her brother’s alertness, on her chair; her waist was firm yet delicate, and encircled by a broad gleaming belt of patent leather with a brass buckle. She wore a neat if coarse shirtwaist of unblemished white cotton, with pearl buttons and a loose black tie, and her brown skirt had no wrinkles in it. She had beautiful feet and hands, which Daniel Dugan had observed with appreciation when meeting her. This appreciation had increased at the sight of her scrubbed face with its bright freckles, its impudent snub nose, its pretty, resolute mouth and small white teeth, and, above all, her unusual eyes, the color of fresh honey, large and honest and direct. Here, he had thought, was a young lady of breeding and wit and bravery, one whom the world would never conquer. Daniel liked brave men and women. He had no patience for the weak, the uncertain, the tentative. He saw that Molly looked at life clearly and openly and would never be deceived. She also had the strength of integrity and disillusioned innocence. Compared with Molly, his cousin Patricia was colorless and without the vitality this girl possessed in unusual quantity. There was a verve emanating from her, an intrepid verve which would meet evil head-on and probably rout it.
“Sit down, sit down, buckos!” exclaimed Patrick, his hearty voice somewhat blurred. “Bring up the chairs! This nevvy of mine,” and he jerked his thick thumb at Daniel, “is named for me, his middle name, Patrick. His dad did that, and a grand man he was, Mike Dugan, may his soul rest in peace. My brother-in-law. Married to my sister, and I never knew why, a measly colleen with a whining voice, and airs. My God, her airs! Worse than her sister, that Episcopalian. Not that I’ve got anything against Episcopalians,” Patrick continued, waving his hand largely in a gesture of tolerance. “But that sister made a joke of her new religion, that she did.” He beamed at Daniel with moist affection. “If this lad weren’t my nevvy, and Patricia’s cousin, I’d arrange a marriage, then.”
Daniel laughed. He had a deep loud laugh, but it was not offensive. It often inspired trust in others.
“Almost got disbarred in Philly,” Patrick went on, as if this had been something to be proud of in some fashion. “Too sharp for those Philadelphia lawyers you hear about. Sharp as a needle, Danny. Knew more law and how to get around it than a barrel of lawyers, there in Philly. Got to know most of the judges, too. A politician, like all us Irishers. That’s what got him in trouble.”
“Uncle Pat …” said Daniel, and his wide smile was not too pleasant. But he winked at the silent young men seated near him. “My uncle can exaggerate at times.”
“I do, eh?” Patrick bellowed, and reached out and slapped his nephew vehemently on the shoulder. “Who diddled the chief of police, eh, with a nice fat bribe!” He beamed at Jason and Lionel. “Couldn’t prove it, though. Danny’s got too many friends. Danny’s a criminal lawyer, knows all the tricks. That’s what vexed the lads in Philly. Well, then, and it’s a happy man I am! Danny’s going to handle all my affairs, legal and”—Patrick chuckled juicily—“and illegal. For a long time, perhaps, until things cool down in Philly and he can run for Congress. Need him in this business, what with the new hotel and all. I’ve got ideas. I’m not going to stop with this Inn-Tavern and the Ipswich House, though God knows when it’ll be rea
dy, with this Panic. Can’t get credit for love nor money. Country’s in bad shape, and that it is. Well, then. Danny will be here for a long time.”
Molly had been listening intently. The clacking slowed on the typewriter. She pretended to be absorbed, at last, in a file on her table. She had seen her brother’s pallor when he entered the room, had seen the fright in his eyes, and had wondered with a quick spasm of dread in her heart. She had never seen him apprehensive before. What had he expected in this room? An accuser? But of what? She knew her brother very well; he would never be guilty of small, or even big, pilfering. But she knew he was exigent and often reckless, in spite of his natural caution. A cold uneasiness came to her in this small, stifling room. Then she looked at the silent Jason, and her heart was full of pain. She had hoped, when taking this position for five dollars a week, that he would come to notice her and eventually like and admire her. This had not happened. When he came across her, he would look at her remotely if courteously, but he never stopped for a word, and rarely smiled at her. It was as if she did not exist for him, and Molly, with grief and despair, guessed that she, indeed, had no impact on him at all. Lionel, with brotherly malice, had hinted that Jason was “mad about” Patricia Mulligan, who, in Molly’s opinion, was a dreary girl of no character and certainly not pretty, and who possessed a voice like tin struck by a pencil. She was also, Molly would tell herself bitterly, stupid if sly. But Molly, unlike others, had noticed that Patricia sometimes had a piercing gleam in her agate eyes, a calculation.
“Well,” said Patrick with jovial impatience, “aren’t you buckos going to say something about all this?”
Jason colored with embarrassment. He had been studying Daniel very closely, and his dislike for the older man had increased. “What is there to say, Mr. Mulligan? I’m just your assistant, and Lionel here manages the kitchen and the dining room. Are you asking us for our opinion about this … this new arrangement?”
Patrick scratched his neck. “Well, then. I just wanted Danny to meet you. You’re important boys here, and are going to be more important—if that damned hotel ever gets built.” He looked at Lionel. “Anything to say?”
Lionel smiled. His admiration for Daniel had become intense. He bowed his head quickly. “We are glad you will be here, Mr. Dugan. Of course we know that, with the new hotel, and expansion, Mr. Mulligan will need all the assistance he can get, an experienced lawyer and”—he looked inquiringly at Daniel—“business administrator?”
“Yes,” said Daniel. He had not underestimated this young man with the swift comprehension and ingratiating manner. This one would bear watching. But he was more interested in the quiet. Jason, and curious. He had sensed the tight malaise in Jason; he had seen bitterness in that strong mouth; he had more than guessed at a maturity beyond Jason’s actual age. Life would never hurt such as Lionel. Not so with Jason Garrity.
Patrick puffed at a very huge and rancid cigar. Daniel produced a silver case of cigarettes and lit one. Jason’s embarrassment grew. He said, “I must get back, Mr. Mulligan. We were taking inventory of the linens and inspecting the rooms. We’re expecting the summer people.”
“All right, then, all right, you young buckos can go. Just wanted Danny here to meet you, seeing we’ll all be working together.” He smiled happily at his nephew. “Rumors got around about the new hotel, and now we’ve got a few summer people from the big cities coming in for a week or two at a time. Sharpies, they look like. But gentlemen. Walk around up the mountain. They bring their wives, or doxies, too.”
Mr. Mulligan did not often watch his language when Molly was present. He knew that the girl was no innocent, that she had a mind like a man’s. So he was very fond of her, very open with her, and felt paternal toward her. A nice girl, and no fool. A real lady, one with whom a man could be honest and not watch every word he said. She had brought much order to his slovenly office, and her bookkeeping was perfect. He would give her an extra dollar a week beginning Saturday, though the wages of a “typewriter” in Belleville averaged much less than that. She had been working for him for two months, and he appreciated and relied on her. Sometimes he would pat her shoulder, but it was a fatherly pat and she never resented it. Lionel bowed deeply to Daniel, and Jason nodded briefly, and the two young men left the room.
Patrick poured another drink for himself and his nephew. “What do you think of them, then, eh?”
Daniel glanced at the absorbed Molly, whom he had noticed had not turned a page in the folder for several minutes. He inclined his head toward her, and Pat said, “Molly, love, would you leave us alone for a few minutes?”
Molly rose at once, and without a glance, left the room. “Lionel’s her brother,” Patrick said. “How’d you know it?”
“The resemblance, of course, Uncle Pat. And the way they looked at each other. Now, that Lionel. He was frightened when he came in here. The interesting question is, why? I don’t trust him. He’s not one who’d ever get his hand in the till. Too careful of himself for petty business. You could even trust him around the safe. He’ll serve you well—as long as it serves his own interest. He would never diddle you. Not that his conscience would bother him. It’s just that he’s after bigger things than petty larceny, or even big larceny. But he’s a trickster, for all that. He’s got a criminal’s soul, but he would never be involved in anything questionable. It would all be nice and legal.”
Patrick scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Well, I had an idea about that when he was just a spalpeen. I gather you don’t like him?”
“Of course I don’t. But that won’t interfere with my appreciation of his cleverness and his real value to you. He’s got imagination. He’s a runner. The other chap is inclined to plod, under ordinary conditions. No, I don’t like your Lionel. I’ll be watching all the time. A very complicated character, and complicated characters interest me. Criminals are fascinating. They’ve got gusto, the big ones, and Lionel’s a big one.”
Patrick grinned. He said, without malice, “You recognized a kindred spirit, then?”
Daniel smiled: “A big criminal is quite a study. All our important and powerful entrepreneurs are like Lionel Nolan. And gentlemen, all, though even the president fears them. It’s the little criminals I resent and hate, the little mice and rats, with no brains, no courage, no derring-do, no intellect. They’re hardly human. Yes, your Lionel will go far and be very valuable to you. As long as you are valuable to him.”
“Hum,” said Patrick. He blew out a huge cloud of noxious smoke. “And what of Jason Garrity?”
Daniel reflected. “I like that young man. I admire him. There is a rock of rectitude and honor. He’s not clever and volatile like Lionel. But his mind is far superior. He’s not self-serving; you could trust him with your life. He’s the kind great saints are made of, and generals, but never politicians. Ambitious, yes. But always with honor. It’ll take him longer to get where he wants to go than it will take Lionel. But he’ll be a fixture. The other’s a dancer, a prancer. Jason never even danced in his soul.” Daniel paused. “There’s something there I encountered only once before, and I still remember it, though I was only about eighteen at the time. It was when my dad and I took the long tour of Europe, during my holidays from Groton. I met an old priest in a tiny village in Italy. The poor people thought he was a saint. He was, too.” Daniel’s expressive face changed, became almost somber. Then he shrugged. “Saintliness can be hard to endure for more than a minute or two. Your Jason’s no saint. There’s violence in him, hidden and held, but there. There’s bitterness in him, too. And he’s very perceptive. But … he can be deceived, especially if he loves someone.
“He’ll be your right-hand man, Uncle Pat. You can stake your life on that. You can rest easy with Jason Garrity. Meanness is beyond him. It is impossible for him to betray anyone. A good man, and when I say that, it is an accolade.
“I like him. But he doesn’t like me. The other does. We’ll see.”
“He’s got a brother who’s studying for
the priesthood.” Patrick laughed. “Now, there is one of your real rogues. Jack Garrity. Looks like a monk hoping everyone else is going to burn in hellfire. Gives me chills when I see him. His grandda told me about him. He detests the lad, and no wonder. Yet he was never in trouble, that Jack, and all the nuns loved him and predicted great things for him. Jase doesn’t love him much, and I think Jack hates him.”
Patrick sank into momentary thought. Then he said, “I’m going to have Jason marry Patricia. I love him like a son.”
“Oh?” said Daniel, sitting up with interest. “Are they engaged?”
Patrick frowned. “Now, then. Patricia is a very strict little girl, and loves her dada. Told me she doesn’t want to marry and leave me. I keep mentioning Jason, and she turns up her nose. But she’ll marry him, and that I am going to make sure of. He is just what she needs. I have only to say the word.”
Daniel doubted that. He knew his cousin very well. Like all her kind, she could be very obstinate, and her father adored her. It would take a mighty effort to get her to marry Jason Garrity, a very mighty effort. He said, “I’ve noticed she is blooming, Uncle Pat. Really maturing. She’s got a kind of glow she never had before. It makes her pretty, and Patricia is no beauty, you know, even if you think so. Aunt Moira introduced her to many young men of family and money in Philadelphia, and gave parties for her. But the young men weren’t interested. Now, I’m not trying to insult you. I’m just giving you facts. Patricia’s no siren. She hasn’t any charm. Let’s be honest. She’s got style, which she was taught, and she’ll make a very shrewd wife for someone, and knows her pennies. A pragmatic girl”—even if she has no spirit or real character, Daniel added to himself, and no real virtues. She’s not like that Molly girl, sad to say. He had never met anyone like Molly Nolan before, at least not any woman. He smiled faintly to himself.