Black Cat Weekly #12

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER IMiss Peterson opened the door of her cabin cautiously, and glanced along the alleyway to the smoke room. And saw Mr. Fernandez looking at her. He rose.

With a sigh, she came out, closing the door behind her. She was well able to cope with Mr. Fernandez, but the weather was singularly oppressive and she felt tired; she would have preferred to avoid him. But it was too late now and she went along the alleyway, tall, broad-shouldered, and long-limbed, very handsome in her black evening dress, with her blond hair in thick braids around her head.

“Dear lady!” said Mr. Fernandez. “I haven’t seen you since lunch time.”

“I was resting,” said Miss Peterson. “I don’t like this weather.”

“The glass is very low,” said Mr. Fernandez.

“I thought so,” she said. “You can feel it.”

He drew back a chair for her, and she sat down at the table.

“It’s all right on a ship,” he said. “But on shore… When I think of my new hotel!”

They were both silent for a moment. They had both felt this breathless quiet before; they had seen this slow, sullen sea before; they knew the fury that was gathering somewhere.

“What’s yours, Miss Peterson?”

“Gin tonic, thanks,” she said.

“Make it two, Henry,” said Mr. Fernandez, and brought out his gold cigarette case.

He was, after his fashion, a handsome man; a big fellow, dark, clean-shaven, with black wavy hair that bushed out a little behind the ears. He was soberly dressed in a white mess jacket and black trousers, but nothing could disguise or subdue his prodigious exuberance.

“Well, little lady?” he asked.

“I’m five feet ten…” said Miss Peterson.

He was not to be deflected.

“Been thinking over my proposition?” he asked earnestly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fernandez…”

“You don’t know your own heart,” he said, briefly.

Miss Peterson turned her sad sea-gray eyes toward the open doorway on to the afterdeck.

“You love me,” Mr. Fernandez said. “Admit it.”

Salesmanship, she thought. When that man in Puerto Rico wanted me to sell refrigerators, that was the line he advised. Be positive, he said. Never negative. Tell people that they want an icebox. Be crisp. That was another thing he used to say. He told me I’d be an outstanding success at selling if I’d only give it a trial. But I wouldn’t.

The ship had begun to pitch a little; as the stern dipped she saw the leaden water that seemed not to move. The sky was leaden too, no breeze. Why do I do some things, and not do other things? she asked herself. I certainly don’t act according to reason. I look reasonable; and nobody can see through me. Do we ever understand one another?

She thought about that, lost in one of her Norse reveries; one of those melancholy moods that came over her occasionally, particularly in hurricane weather.

“Well?” said Mr. Fernandez, with a fond laugh. “You’re a serious little lady, aren’t you?”

“I seem to be,” said Miss Peterson, stifling a sigh. She sipped the gin tonic.

“If you can’t make up your mind, I’ll make it up for you,” he said. “You’re going to leave the ship at Riquezas and you’re going to stay at another hotel while we put up the banns, and then we’re going to be married. Then you’re coming to live in my new hotel. A beautiful hotel, modern, beautiful. You’ll have your own car. You’ll have everything. Like a little queen. When the season’s over, I’ll take you up to New York and I’ll buy you the finest outfit of clothes—”

“Let’s come to an understanding, Mr. Fernandez,” she said, suddenly businesslike. “I can’t marry you, ever. There’s no chance of my changing my mind, ever.”

“La donna è mobile…” he sang in a very good baritone.

“I don’t know about that,” said Miss Peterson. “But please take this as final. I like you, and I appreciate your offer. But I’m going on to Havana. I’ve got a job waiting for me there.”

“You like me…” said Mr. Fernandez, seizing on that. “Liking and respect—what’s a better basis for a marriage?”

“I don’t want to get married,” said Miss Peterson.

“That’s because you don’t understand,” he said. “You’re unawakened. You—”

She had heard Mr. Fernandez on that subject before, and she did not relish it.

“No,” she said, in her slow voice. And nobody could possibly think that she meant yes.

Mr. Fernandez moved his glass so that the ice clinked in it.

“Maybe you haven’t known me long enough; only five days,” he said. “Everybody’s not like me. I make up my mind like that!” He snapped his fingers. “But that’s my nature. You may be different. It may take you a long time to know…” His black eyes rested upon her face. “But once you do love—or hate—God!”

Well, if that’s what you like to think, Miss Peterson said to herself. At the moment, the only emotion she felt was an overwhelming boredom.

“Another drink, little lady?”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’d like it.”

“Henry!” he called. “Encore!” He turned back to Miss Peterson. “You’re low-spirited,” he said. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“The weather,” she said.

He did not care for that.

“You’re not happy,” he said. “Tell me—what is this job in Havana?”

“It’s in a shop,” she said. “They want someone who can speak English, and Spanish, and German.”

“I know how good your Spanish is,” he said. “But German, too?”

“Yes,” she said.

“A good job?” he asked.

“Good enough,” she said.

“I wonder…” he said. “I wonder what’s happened to make you go wandering around the world like this?”

“I wonder, myself,” she said, with candor.

“I wonder,” he said leaning across the table and lowering his voice, “what’s happened to make you turn against love?”

You’d be surprised, thought Miss Peterson. It’s people like you. Men you meet in planes and ships and hotels and trains, talking about love. She said nothing out loud, and he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his drink.

“Lady,” he said, “I’m going to make a different proposition. We’ll forget about marriage for the time.”

“I’m going to Havana,” said Miss Peterson.

“Come to Riquezas,” he said. “Whatever they were going to pay you in Havana, I’ll double it.”

She looked up.

“Come to my new hotel as hostess,” he said. “You can name your own salary. You’ll have a nice room and bath, all to yourself. Fine meals. Plenty of time for swimming, riding, tennis. It’s a position of dignity,” he added.

This position seemed to Miss Peterson very much more attractive than the one in Havana. Especially at double the salary. But she saw grave drawbacks.

“I’m afraid—” she began.

“Yes,” he interrupted. “You’re afraid I’d bother you—try to make love. Well, look here…” He paused. “We’ll get to Riquezas tomorrow, on the twentieth of September. I give you my word I won’t say another word about marriage or love, until the twentieth of November.”

Miss Peterson had heard a good deal of talk about Mr. Fernandez since she had come on board at Trinidad. He was a big man in Riquezas; he had a hotel, a club, he owned the sole fleet of launches, he had an interest in the biggest department store, he was in half a dozen other things. He had his enemies; some people spoke of him with fury. They called him bullying, grasping, vulgar, even ruthless. She thought it not impossible that he might have some of these defects; but she thought he would keep this bargain.

“But you’d be thinking all the time that I was going to change my mind,” she said.

“Certainly,” he said, seriously. “I’m pretty sure you will, too. But if you don’t—all right. I can take it.”

“I don’t think it would be fair to you,” said Miss Peterson.

“My dear lady,” said Mr. Fernandez. “Even apart from my personal feelings, it would be a big advantage for me to have you in the hotel. It is hard for me to find the right person for that job.”

She liked that better. She understood very well his Latin fashion of combining love and business.

“I don’t want an American,” he went on. “Some of the die-hard Britishers don’t like them. I don’t want an English girl, because they don’t understand American tourists—the backbone of my business. You’re neither English nor American. I don’t know what you are, and I’m not asking. Simply you’d be a Godsend in that job.”

She liked him even more for this. She was wont for the most part to call herself English; she sometimes advertised for a post as ‘an English gentlewoman.’ Her passport was Uruguayan; but her birthplace was Minnesota. A strange rebellion of her mother’s had taken her away from home in her childhood. Still in her twenties, she had traveled far and seen much. But she did not forget the farm where she was born, the wide rich fields in summer, the winter snows. It suited her to wander over the world, but her roots were back there; she had been nourished by reality, and however fantastic her experiences were, she herself was realistic, sober, a little aloof. Not romantic.

“So that if you take the job,” said Mr. Fernandez, “you’ll be under no obligation to me. On the contrary, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

“Then—thank you,” she said. “I’ll come, Mr. Fernandez. On two months’ trial.”

“Bueno!” he said with a sudden flashing smile.

They went down to the dining-saloon then. Mr. Fernandez sat at the Captain’s table because of his importance in Riquezas; Miss Peterson sat at the Purser’s table, because the Purser knew her and enjoyed her company. The other people who sat at the table had not yet come down; Mr. Wavill sat there alone.

“I’ll be leaving you tomorrow,” said Miss Peterson. “I’m getting off at Riquezas.”

“Well…” said Mr. Wavill. “You know what you’re doing.”

No, I don’t, thought Miss Peterson. Nobody ever does. For her Norse mood still lingered; the oppression in the atmosphere lay heavy upon her.

“I won’t talk business now,” she said, “but tomorrow morning I’ll come formally to your office, and ask about a refund for the rest of my passage.”

“Suppose we have a bottle of Sauterne?” said Mr. Wavill. “As long as this is au revoir…”

“Thanks!” said Miss Peterson. “That would be—”

“Damn!” he murmured. “Here comes Mrs. Fish.”

He rose politely, and Miss Peterson looked up with a smile as their table companion approached. She was a tall, slight woman, all in black, even to her stockings, with a long-nosed, chinless face like a melancholy goose, and black hair in a somewhat untidy knot at the nape of her neck. She was amiable enough in her fashion; but she was depressing, so fatigued and silent.

“You’ll take a glass of wine with us, Mrs. Fish?” asked the Purser.

“Oh, no thank you,” she answered, “I think it gives me neuralgia.”

The wine came, and the steward filled their glasses.

“Well…” said Mr. Wavill, raising his glass and looking at Miss Peterson with a faintly sardonic smile; “I hope you’ll like—Riquezas.”

“If I don’t, I’ll go somewhere else,” said Miss Peterson.

They drank the wine and were silent in a friendly fashion. The electric fans whirred softly, stirring the heavy air; as the ship pitched, the gray water seemed to slide up toward the ports, very slow, very menacing. From the Captain’s table came Mr. Fernandez’s voice, loud, resonant; an attractive voice.

“One doesn’t feel much like eating in this weather,” said Mr. Wavill.

“No,” Mrs. Fish agreed.

“Let’s give up,” said Miss Peterson; and they all rose. Mrs. Fish went to her cabin, and Miss Peterson and Wavill sat on deck for a time in the stifling dark; then he went to his office, and she sat alone. She remembered a hurricane in Martinique when she had been in charge of two children… She sighed and remembered an earthquake in Chile. Life is very strange, she reflected.

“Well…” said Mr. Fernandez’s voice from the dark. Her chair was on the forward deck; he sat down in one beside her, he offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself, and smoked for a time in silence.

“There’s one thing I’ll have to explain,” he said. “A complication.”

A woman I suppose, thought Miss Peterson. If it’s too much of a complication, I’m not going to bother with it.

“I took on a girl as hostess,” he said. “But she won’t do.” He was silent for a time. “I was a fool.”

“Do you mean she’s there now?” asked Miss Peterson.

“Yes,” he said, “but she’s not hostess any more.”

“No? What is she then?”

“Different odd jobs,” said he.

“An English girl?”

“American,” he said.

There was a long silence this time.

“When I first met this Cecily,” he said, “I thought she’d be a fine hostess. She’s very musical and so on. But it didn’t work at all. She doesn’t get on with people. She was unpopular. It was a business arrangement pure and simple, and I couldn’t afford to keep it up. I had a talk with her. I offered to pay her fare home.” He began to speak in Spanish. “Inutil. We had nothing but arguments, protestations. She begged to be allowed to stay in the hotel, if it must be even in the kitchen. I was sorry for her.”

“And she’s still there?” asked Miss Peterson in English.

“Sí. Yes. I gave in. I let her stay. She has charge now of the ladies’ powder room.”

“I don’t like that much,” said Miss Peterson.

“Neither do I,” he said. “It was a weakness on my part and now I’ll insist on her going. It’s nothing serious, but I thought you’d better know.”

“I don’t like it,” she repeated.

“Dear lady,” he said, “look at it this way. You’d already agreed to come. I needn’t have told you a word about this. If it is obviously what you think it is, would I have told you? Would I have asked you to come? No! It’s nothing serious. Awkward; that’s all. Cecily will leave the island by the next boat; take my word for it.”

This time Miss Peterson did not believe Mr. Fernandez. Not wholly. She did not believe that he had kept on his former hostess out of sheer kindness or because he did not like scenes. Also if it had been a matter of no importance, he would not have mentioned it.

“I don’t like scenes, myself,” she remarked.

“There won’t be any scenes,” he said. “Dear lady, I’m not a fool. Remember too that I have a reputation in that island. I shouldn’t be likely to prejudice my business for a girl, eh?” There’s something in that, she thought. I don’t think he’d risk his reputation for anyone or anything.

“A slight awkwardness, that’s all,” he said. “But the girl will leave by the next boat, and we’ll forget it. Have you told the Purser you’re landing tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said. He rose.

“We may arrive early,” he said. “You’d better turn in, and get some rest.”

“Presently,” she said.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips; kept it there a little too long.

“Good night!” she said, very clearly.

He left her there and she sat relaxed in her chair, her long legs stretched out, her ankles crossed. She was an expert packer and she could get ready in half an hour. She did not want to go to her cabin. It was better here, in this airless night.

“I didn’t know you were going to Riquezas,” said Mrs. Fish’s flat, subdued voice from the dark.

“Oh, yes…” said Miss Peterson. She looked about her, but she could not make out the black figure in the shadows.

“I am too, you know,” said Mrs. Fish.

“That’s nice,” said Miss Peterson with courtesy.

“I’m going to the Hotel Fernandez,” said Mrs. Fish. “Are you?”

“I’ve got a job there,” Miss Peterson answered. “Hostess.”

“Oh. What does a hostess do?” Mrs. Fish asked.

“I’ll try and make things pleasant for people,” said Miss Peterson. She didn’t really know what her duties would be, but she thought it would be unfair to Mr. Fernandez to admit this ignorance.

“I’m so glad you’re going to be there,” said Mrs. Fish. “I hear you’re a trained nurse.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not,” said Miss Peterson. She did not want Mrs. Fish, or any other guest of the hotel to know that she was a licensed masseuse. She had learned by experience that when people found that out, they were disposed to make extraordinary demands on her; to cure headaches, to take care of babies, to prescribe for hangovers. But Mrs. Fish had somehow found out something.

“Well, it’s practically the same thing,” said Mrs. Fish. As others had said. “I’m glad to think you’ll be there. Such a strong personality.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Peterson, stifling a sigh.

There was a soft rustle, and a strong gust of perfume, lily-of-the-valley. Mrs. Fish was close to her now.

“Won’t you sit down?” Miss Peterson asked, feeling that this was her duty toward a prospective guest of the hotel.

“Thank you!” said Mrs. Fish, and did sit down in the chair that Mr. Fernandez had vacated.

“You see,” she said, “my husband was killed last year.”

“How dreadful!” said Miss Peterson in her mild, slow voice.

“It’s a nerve-strain,” said Mrs. Fish. “Some day, when I’m not so tired, I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Oh, certainly!” said Miss Peterson. But it seemed to her that her new job required a little more of her. “There’s nothing like travel, to take your mind off a thing like that,” she added. “I should think a nice long stay in a place like Riquezas would help you a lot.”

“Well, this isn’t a pleasure trip,” said Mrs. Fish. “I’m going to Riquezas for a reason.” She paused again. “We must talk about it later on. But I’m so tired just now. I think I’ll close my eyes and try to get a little sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” Miss Peterson said. She too, had had the idea of sleeping here, but the lily-of-the-valley perfume was so strong…“I’ll have to go to my cabin,” she said. “Some last minute things… Good night, Mrs. Fish.”

“Good night,” said Mrs. Fish. Her fatigued voice seemed to trail after Miss Peterson as she moved away. “You see,” she said, without emphasis, “my husband was murdered.” Miss Peterson stopped, stood still for a moment. Then, with more haste than was usual with her, she went on her way. I don’t want to hear any more about that, she thought. Not now. Not in this weather.