The Speedway
Max Lepende, for all Jubilee Hurst’s estimate of him, was a
creature of unusual mentality. His ability was quite beyond
question; his morals were something of a less buoyant nature; while
his poses were wholly Latin in their extravagance, and contrived to
set up an impenetrable armour against those who sought to discover
the real man underneath.
The Speedway was the reality of his own dream. Its inspiration
was a product of memories and experiences of early life in a land
of beauty and an atmosphere of bygone glories. And as such it
was a sufficient anachronism in its present setting to grip the
imagination of the crude minds which made up the clientele he hoped
to pillage in the outland territory he had chosen for his hunting
ground.
He boasted the refinements of his designing, and was mercilessly
jealous of the Speedway’s fame. The attitude of other minds was
less benevolent towards it. The citizens of Beacon Glory were prone
at all times to downrightness, and, consequently, they set no halo
about the place. But they delighted in the licence it afforded them
for indulgence in pleasant surroundings.
The fronting colonnade of five gaudily decorated pillars meant
nothing to the citizens of Beacon Glory. Yet they sometimes
marvelled at the costliness and the extent of the white paint that
looked so drab in the sunlight. Some never even paused to consider
the rich carpetings they trod underfoot in the gaming rooms, or
the wonderful block-flooring over which their heavy boots glided
in the great dance hall. But there were few enough who failed to
appreciate the raised private boxes which lined the walls of the
latter, furnished as they were with drinking tables, and deeply
upholstered chairs and divans, and hung with curtains to be drawn
at will. Then there was the glitter of innumerable mirrors, and the
broad staircase with its carved balustrades leading to the rooms
above, where every game from “crap dice” to “baccarat” could be
indulged in.
The general run of the men and women of Beacon Glory demanded a
good time. And the Speedway, under Max’s consummate guidance and
absolute control, provided for their every need in this direction.
Oh, yes, Max saw to that. For underneath his patient, smiling
veneer, and his pose of polished respectability, he possessed a
hard, unyielding, astute commercial soul, greedy for the last cent
of profit he could extract from his customers.
Hardened trail men, no less than educated men from the cities
of culture in the outer world, yielded to the seductions of the
Speedway. So did the women, who regarded it as a part of their
daily lives. The charm of subdued lights in the gaming rooms; the
dazzle and glitter at the gilded bars, and in the dance hall; the
subtle, rather sickly perfume of the place, the value of which Max
so perfectly understood; these things all contributed to make it a
veritable temple for the spiritual debasement of its devotees.
On the night of its birthday the Speedway was swept and garnished
to the last degree. Fashion and custom were no less strong in
Beacon than in the more enlightened dwelling-places of humanity.
Every visitor to the place would be clad for the occasion. No
woman would dare to appear for the festival without some sort of a
new gown. And as for the men, knee-boots would be taboo, and heavy
working shoes were under the ban. Every man who was accustomed to
resort there would be raiding the shoe store the day before, and,
failing evening suits as part of their wardrobes, certainly only
the best they possessed could be tolerated.
It was truly a splendid function and possessed all the outward
display with which humanity loves to hide up the wealth of moral
blemish to which it is unfortunately and unfailingly heir. The
place was super-heated and the air was heavy-laden, and Max, as he
welcomed his customers and guests, radiated smile, and perfume, and
punctilio without discrimination.
Jubilee Hurst, observing him after enduring his own portion of the
formalities at the foot of the great staircase in the central hall,
realised to the full the delicious mockery of it all. He whispered
his comment to Ivor McLagan, who stood beside him, clad in the
well-cut evening suit that was anathema to his downright soul.
“You know, Mac, there’s a heap to Max of the feline species. He’s
a mitt on him that ’ud shame velvet, and a tongue to match, and
I feel plumb sick in the pit of the stomach, and like handling a
newly hooked eel, when I get near enough to listen to his fancy
dope, and feel the tips of his polished fingers in my hand. Get a
line on him bowing around to folks whose bank roll he’s made his
life’s study. See his Dago antics. You’d guess he loves us all to
death, while all the time he’s out for plunder like any ‘hold-up’
that ever flagged a western express. And we’re all grinning back at
him to schedule. And we’re all saying a piece we’ve sort of learnt
by heart from years of repetition. Can you beat it? No. I’ll eat
his darn feed an’ likely get full up to the back teeth with the
liquor he’s going to hand out. But to me it’s simply the change
out of the dollars he’s collected out of my wad over a long period
of darn foolishness. It isn’t a thing else, unless it’s to say I’m
just one of the mutts of life mired at the wrong end of things, an’
can’t afford to act diff’rent.”
McLagan smiled.
“Don’t worry a thing, boy,” he said easily. “It’s just the game of
things we’ve all of us got to play more or less as we beat it along
the trail to the crematorium. I’d certainly say Max don’t need
showing a thing. I want to laff.”
But for all the bitterness of spirit the Italian’s antics might
have inspired in those who saw through the mockery of it all,
the whole comedy looked to be playing out as the master-mind had
designed. It was ordained that the gathering at the Speedway, on
this one night in the year, should be a vivid landmark impressed
upon the minds of the city’s people, from the banquet to the
invited guests, to the ball, and the great gamble that would
later take place at the tables. There would be impressive decorum
for just as long as decorum could be maintained. And after that,
circumstances and the proprietor’s tact, and, failing that, his
powers of other persuasion, would deal with every contingency that
arose. There would be nothing allowed to occur on that occasion
calculated to besmirch the record of the place. That was Max’s
purpose. A purpose from which he had no intention of departing.
* * * * *
The banquet was over and the company had dispersed in such
directions as individual inclination prompted. Max had thrown his
annual shower of verbal bouquets, and had drunk in the responsive
adulation and laudatory expressions which custom demanded from
his guests. The courses had been disposed of by healthy appetites
which refused to be disguised, and an excellent brand of champagne
had flowed in no niggard measure to lubricate faculties that were
easily enough set in motion for full appreciation of the night’s
riot. The ballroom was already thronged with dancers of every grade
of ability, and the lure of the tables had claimed their devotees.
While not a few were sufficiently attracted by the magnetic glitter
of the bars where the white-clad bartenders were under orders to
dispense of their best mixtures without charge.
Ivor McLagan and some of his friends had passed over the
attractions of everything else for the shaded lights of the poker
hall. It was a spacious apartment with panelled walls of dark green
to match the colour of the baize-covered tables. It was carpeted
thickly with oriental reds and blues, and such woodwork as there
was was gleaming white. The tables were spaced evenly round the
walls, with one only somewhat larger than the rest, occupying the
centre of the room. The place was entered from a landing just
beyond a wide, decorated archway hung with curtains, and this, in
turn, gave on to the head of the great staircase.
It was a room with which little enough fault could be found. For,
apart from the charm of its shaded rose lighting, it was governed
by a number of unwritten laws so that its company could pursue its
devotions without let or hindrance, or any disturbing element. The
chip bureau was presided over by a seemingly voiceless autocrat,
while velvet-footed waiters ministered to the thirst of everybody
in the efficient manner of well-drilled club servants. It was all
admirably calculated to yield the best possible profit out of a
mixed company which consisted of men and women of substance and
undeniable beauty, down to the rough-clad trail men who sold their
“dust” for chips, and a gambling fraternity of every shade of
colour and almost every race.
Outwardly it was a sheer delight for those who were sufficiently
young and reckless. It was a place to grip the imagination.
Inwardly, or underneath its surface of pleasant seeming, there was
perhaps a different aspect. There was not one of the immaculate
waiters who was not a trained athlete in his ability to deal with
the toughest human violence, and each man was fully armed with an
automatic pistol or some other lethal weapon. Then the voiceless
president at the chip bureau was a dead shot, and had under his
fingers a system of switches which could summon any aid he needed
and close every exit of the establishment, at an instant’s notice.
McLagan had made no attempt to cut into any of the games that had
already started. For the moment he and the rotund Dr. Finch and
Jubilee Hurst were onlookers. Jubilee was sitting on an unoccupied
table, while the two others were smoking Max’s cigars, watching the
game in progress at the next table.
The doctor and Jubilee seemed more deeply interested than was the
oil man. A poker game was irresistible to Jubilee at all times. Doc
Finch had partaken of a sufficiently good dinner to find interest
in anything, provided it was witnessed from a comfortable chair.
But McLagan’s attention undisguisedly wandered to the curtained
entrance every time the hangings were drawn aside to admit a
newcomer.
He was a keen poker player, but only as a pastime. And he rarely
drifted into any of the really big games that were played at the
Speedway. Just now he had no desire at all to participate in any of
them. He was by no means a part of the Speedway’s human freight.
But for months, now, he had never failed to spend his evenings in
its scented atmosphere when business demanded his presence in the
city.
Jubilee shook his carefully oiled head in response to McLagan’s
challenge.
“No, I’m not cutting in yet,” he said. Then he added with a grin,
indicating the table in front of them, “Guess I couldn’t make a
one-night hotel bill out of a bunch like that. See that guy open a
fi’ dollar jack pot, an’ throw in at the first bet? They’re a close
bunch, without the nerve to buck four aces right. I’ll wait for the
Saint.”
McLagan’s quick eyes shot a sharp look into a grinning face.
“She plays a great game,” he observed quietly.
“Game? It’s a gift.” Jubilee chuckled. “If she’d take me as
partner,” he went on with meaning, “we’d clean up half the world.”
McLagan removed his cigar and dropped its ash into the fixed tray
provided on the table on which Jubilee was sitting.
“Have you put it to her?” he asked smilingly.
The other shook his head.
“Not on your life, Mac,” he said seriously. “I’m sure like every
other guy around the way I feel but I’ve a sight too big a respect
for a good woman to want to tie her up to the kind of life I live.
Maybe sometime I’ll make the pile I mostly dream about, and I’ll
be able to quit the game I’ve always run. Well, when that time
comes, and I’ve learnt Sunday School ways, I’ll be feeling and
acting pious. Maybe it ’ud be different then. Say, Doc’s doping off
his feed.”
“You’re wrong, boy.” The Doctor bestirred himself. “But likely
enough I was dreaming. I thought I heard you talking of
acting--pious. I----”
He broke off. The curtains had been abruptly drawn aside from the
great archway. Two of the waiters were holding them back. Suddenly
there was a curious hissing sound somewhere up in the shadows about
the domed ceiling. The next moment a fierce light flashed out,
filling the archway with the white-circle of its beam. It was a
“spot lime,” and it fell on the tall, slim figure of a beautifully
gowned girl as she appeared from the landing beyond. It was Max’s
greeting, on the night of celebration, to the beautiful Saint of
his beloved Speedway.
Just for an instant Claire Carver stood dazzled by the glare of the
unexpected light. Every eye in the room was turned in her direction
to discover the meaning of the terrific blaze. And in that moment
Ivor McLagan feasted himself upon the vision he had been awaiting.
The girl was clad in an expensive sort of semi-evening gown of
soft, black material, aglitter with the shining surfaces of
a myriad of black beads. At her waist was a large, sprawling
artificial flower that matched the ruddy tone of her vivid hair.
She was without gloves, and her rounded arms of alabaster whiteness
were bare to the shoulder, and her gown below the knees revealed
sheeny silk stockings which terminated in high-arched insteps and
exquisite shoes. But her glory was the hat adorned with flowing
Paradise plumes, and the wealth of her hair framing a face whose
beauty set the pulses of the gazing man hammering.
Never in his life had McLagan seen Claire a creature so exquisite.
And there flashed through his mind a memory of the girl of the
headland, tortured by the threat of Bad Booker’s usurious terms.
The change, the complete transformation, was amazing. There had
been change before. He had seen it and delighted in it. But there
had been nothing like this. This was the girl’s party gown. He
understood that. She was----
“God o’ my fathers!”
Jubilee breathed his astonished admiration into McLagan’s ears, and
was promptly silenced by a look.
Somewhat embarrassed Claire came down the room with heightened
colour, and eyes that smiled almost shyly. It was the same sweet
face which McLagan had always known. Only it lacked something of
that natural freshness which the wind and the sun of the coast had
bestowed upon it in her days on Lively Creek. The downy bloom of
those days had been replaced by a suggestion of powder. Even her
pretty lips seemed to have gained added ripeness from the careful
touch of cosmetic. But the wide blue eyes, the even brows, and the
rounded, perfectly moulded cheeks were the same, and, to the man’s
thinking, even more beautiful.
But some of the delight McLagan felt as the girl came quickly
towards him passed at once as he beheld the figure of Max close
behind her. Many a night he had looked on at the centre table where
Claire always played, and had even found amusement in observing
the crowd of men of all conditions who never failed to gather like
moths about a candle flame. He had watched them in their frantic
efforts to win her ready smile, and it had filled him only with
added pleasure in her beauty and simple charm.
But the sight of Max at that moment, with his sleek, dark head,
and his carefully cut close beard, his immaculate clothes, and his
good-looking foreign face, inspired a feeling he had never before
experienced. He remembered the method of this girl’s entrance.
The elaborate staginess of it. And he realised that Max had not
designed an entrance for the most popular gambler in Beacon Glory.
No. It was for the woman herself. And Max was rich and powerful,
and without scruple. And, furthermore, with immense resources for
achieving any purpose upon which he set his mind.
Anger rose behind the man’s keen eyes, and their usual easy humour
was changed to a glitter that had nothing mild or yielding in it.