Get a Load of This

     “Early next month. I have two more races, and then I'm going to Key West for my honeymoon. That's really what I want to speak to you about. I want you to come along for some fishing.”

     I stared at him. “My dear fellow. Not on your honeymoon. Why, damn it—”

     He laughed. “For God's sake don't be so old-fashioned. Of course you can. Myra likes plenty of company. Quite a lot of the crowd will be there.”

     I shook my head. “No, I'm sorry, George, it's quite impossible. I've got my work to think about, and I'm just finishing a novel. No, I'm sorry.”

     When I said that, I realized that there was a lot more behind this peculiar wedding than George had told me. He suddenly seemed to lose control of himself, and I thought he was going to break down. He seized my arm in a grip that made me wince. “Don't let me down,” he said, “I've been relying on you. I don't think I could stand it if you weren't there.”

     I said, rather sharply, “What the devil is this business?”

     He shook his head. “Don't ask me. You'll know in time. Don't say you won't come. You must come.”

     I finally gave him my promise. Almost immediately he braced up and seemed anxious to get away. “I'm sorry about all this,” he said, signalling to the waiter, “but I am frightfully nervy after a race. A good night's sleep will put me right, I expect. I can't say how glad I am that you're coming. It'll be like old times, won't it?”

     He drove me back to my apartment, but refused to come in. “I'll write and give you the details as soon as I get everything fixed up. Myra will be tickled when she hears you are an author. She gets a big kick out of that sort of thing.”

     I looked at him sharply because I was almost certain that there had been a sneer in his voice, but I could detect nothing from his expression. We shook hands and parted. I went up to my apartment in a very thoughtful mood. It had been an evening full of strange and uncomfortable incidents.

     The following day I obtained a clue to the whole thing. It came about in the course of a casual conversation with Drayton, my senior director. He and I had just finished an excellent lunch, and I was on the point of leaving to buy a harness for the fishing trip with George.

     Drayton asked me where I was going to fish. I told him how I had met George, and I could see an immediate interest at the mention of his name.

     “Hemingway? He's the fellow in oil, isn't he?”

     “I really don't know. I have never asked. This Hemingway is the motor-racing fellow.”

     “Yes. I didn't know you knew him. Between you and me, I'm afraid he's going to run into a packet of trouble before long.”

     Sensing that I was on the very clue that might explain all this business I sat down again. “What sort of trouble?”

     Drayton lowered his voice. “I understand that the particular oil-fields he's invested in have dried up without warning. His firm are facing one of the biggest crashes in the history of Wall Street. No one knows about it yet. Engineers are out there making a report. It has never happened before. Everyone thought oil had been struck in a big way. It lasted until all the necessary machinery was set up and then—finish. It is incredible.”

     I stared at him. “He's getting married next month,” I said. “Poor devil. I suppose he's aware what has happened?”

     Drayton coughed. “His future wife is Myra Luckton. She is an heiress in her own right to over six million dollars. I should imagine the marriage comes at a very opportune moment.”

     Well, there it was. The cat was out of the bag, and I didn't have to wonder any more. I knew. It was now perfectly obvious that George was marrying this girl in order to save his financial position, and he fell very considerably in my estimation. I didn't say anything to Drayton, but went out to make my purchases. Now that I had seen the beginning of this thing I was determined to see the finish.

     Time passed fairly quickly, as I was working hard to finish the book before going to Key West. I noticed that George had been in another race. This time the newspapers carried two-inch type about his sensational escape from death. It appears that he rounded a corner with the utmost recklessness, and got into a skid while travelling well over a hundred miles an hour. The car overturned several times, throwing him clear. He escaped unhurt, but the car was utterly destroyed by fire.

     Reading the description made me think of the day I saw him race, and I tossed the paper away with a grimace of disgust. I could see the look of terror in his face and wondered doubtfully how his nerves were reacting to this last escape.

     A week after this I received a note from George asking me down to Key West on the following Saturday. He said in his letter that he would not ask me to the wedding as he knew I should be bored with the hundreds of people who were turning up.