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Graeve, Oscar (ed.) / Delineator
Vol. 119, No. 1 (July, 1931)

[Continued articles and works],   pp. 46-71 PDF (15.7 MB)

Page 65

JULY, 1931
Continued from page 62
She was a little sorry that she hadn't an-
swered Jack Clinton's letter. He and his old
sailor were somewhere on the Mediter-
ranean, the wind soughing in the sail. She
thought it would be a nice crimson sail with
little patches in it.
Perhaps Jack Clinton was going back to
Tangier where he once lived in the room
above a caf6 from which the odor of musk
rose continuously. That was really living.
She, Nanette, would never have a chance
to live in a room over a caf6 from which
strange intoxicating odors came up.  Not
if her mother and Richard Krempel could
prevent it.
The Carnival tune beat at the ears of
Nanette as she came up into the modern
town. It was surely connected with the com-
ing of Richard. That tum-tum was a little
frightening. It~told of the approach of some-
thing ponderous, something that would sit on
one's shoulders and crush them with its
weight. She was a little depressed when she
reached the hotel.
Mrs. Mannington Trask was much an-
noyed when she heard of the lunch in the
Old Town. Germs, dirty forks, cooking
utensils! Odors from the street.
"Paganini lived in that street," said
"Paganini?" cried Mrs. Trask. "What
has that got to do with it?"
"Well, he must have eaten somewhere
round about," said the girl. After a pause
during which Mrs. Trask stared in amaze-
ment at her daughter, the latter added:
"Jack Clinton told me that he lived for
months above a caf6 in Tangier and ate all
his meals at open stalls along the street. And
he looked awfully healthy, didn't he?"
Mrs. Mannington Trask was speechless.
She was afraid of what might happen in the
few days that intervened between that mo-
ment and the arrival of Richard Krempel.
THE Leviathin kept her head. Richard
wired from Cherbourg. He had descended
upon the soil of France. He was moving on
At Nice workers in a shed were putting the
finishing touches on the huge figure of lath
and plaster, the sprawling monarch who
would be dragged through the street and
finally burned to signify the end of pleasure.
Tum-tum, tum-tee-lum, tum-lum.
Nanette found it difficult to see the tiny
white houses on the blue plain that stretched
away to Africa. The landing of Richard had
frightened the little goblin things that the
girl had glimpsed at
odd moments. They
knew well that the
great Mr. Krempel
wouldn't like houses
in the chinks of
which lived little
green  lizards with
jeweled heads. Jack
Clinton would like
Semper, looking
very proud, brought
a copy of the Paris
edition of the New
York Herald-Tribune
to Nanette on the
day following the arrival of Richard. Semper
had marked a paragraph. It ran:
"From the Leviathan landed Mr. Richard
Krempel, the well-known capitalist. Mr.
Krempel informed the waiting reporters
at the Gare St. Lazare that he had come
to Paris for a banker's parley. After he
had addressed the assembled financiers
he would leave for the Riviera. It was
his intention to cruise for a short time in
Mediterranean waters."
Not a word about his forthcoming mar-
riage! Nanette handed the paper to her
mother without comment.
Mrs. Trask read the paragraph and looked
inquiringly at Semper. Unlike her daughter
she was unable to control her astonishment.
Semper stammered out excuses for his
master. Mr. Krempel detested reporters.
And, furthermore, Mr. Krempel thought that
careful investors believed that Dan Cupid
had no place in the mysterious sanctums
where gold was made. He, Semper, didn't
hold this belief, but he knew that the thrifty
bond buyer held it.
Nanette listened to the fellow spluttering
out excuses to appease the cold questioning
stare of Mrs. Trask. The girl thought it
comical. At last she could stand it no longer.
Laughing loudly she rushed from the room.
In her own bedroom she flung herself on
the couch. It was so ridiculous. Semper
trying to explain to Mrs. Trask why Richard
Krempel had not spoken of his marriage to
the reporters.
She wondered if other men would have told
the reporters. The young chauffeur had a
desire to tell. And Jack Clinton. He would
have told. Of course he would never be in a
position to charter the Deerhound. He would
probably have an old boat with a crimson sail;
little patches where the wind had poked fingers
through the canvas. But he would have told
reporters that he was to be married. No
doubt about that.
The Carnival music rose louder. The
Blue Train was rushing Richard Krempel
down through the Midi. Tum-tum, tum-tee-
tum, tum-tum.
Semper started for the gare. A special au-
tomobile to convey Richard. A special porter
to look after his luggage. Semper drooling.
His god was near.
RICHARD KREMPEL didn't hurry when
he saw Nanette. He came toward her
quietly as if possessed of a belief that every-
thing he wished for would wait till his strong
hands touched it.
"Hello, Nanette," he said. "How are
you? Looking awfully well."
Nanette inquired about his trip. Mrs.
Trask gushed.
Nanette was speaking when Semper ap-
peared with a handful of cablegrams. Rich-
ard Krempel interrupted the girl in the
middle of a sentence.
"Excuse me for a moment," he said.
He frowned as he read one cable after the
other. Nanette was forgotten. He started
dictating to Semper. The god of gold had
called him. The girl moved to the window
and looked out toward Africa. It was a
great day for the small green lizards that
lived in the chinks of the tiny white houses.
How they would glitter in the sunshine!
Richard was back at her side. He apolo-
gized. "Those things had to be attended to,
dear. What was it you were saying when
Semper interrupted?"
Nanette didn't remember. She didn't try
to remember. Rich-
ard was not upset.
From his pocket he
took several sheets
of typed paper. It
was the itinerary of
the cruise. He in-
formed her that he
had it drawn up by
the head of a tourist
agency in New York.
Ten copies had been
made of it. Two for
his Wall Street office,
three for the brokers
who executed his
commissions, one
each for Nanette, Semper, the captain of the
Deerhound, the chief steward, and himself.
"There is yours, dear," he said, handing her
a sheet. "We cannot deviate from it by as
much as a hairbreadth."
Nanette was alarmed. She had not been
consulted regarding a single stopping place.
She glanced fearfully at the sheet-heading:
"Cruise of the Yacht Deerhound, chartered
by Mr. Richard Krempel of New York from
the Earl of Baltingel."
Little entries leapt at her. Entries that
hurt her. The itinerary was a machine gun
that fired bullets into her heart. Hot, hard
bullets. She read: "Tuesday, iith, reach
Genoa 8 A.M. Lunch Hotel Miramare, MAIL,
leave 4 P.M." Tick, tack, tick. Suggested an
army on the march. Clicking heels. Keep-
ing up with the advance . . . Her eye
pounced on another line. "Venice, 26th.
Arrive 3 P.M. Dine, sleep, Hotel Royal
Danieli, MAIL, leave 27th noon." . . . Bul-
let after bullet struck her. No delay. No
shifting from schedule. The word mail in
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