Get a Load of This

     George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”

     “It's not common talk yet, but I'm afraid it will be very soon.”

     “You think I'm a heel, don't you?” he said. “You think I'm marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you're wrong. I'm trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn't go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man's dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn't care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: 'We'll give the little guy a chance,' and then the wells went dry—”

     I went over and sat by his side. “What's Myra going to do about this?”

     “She wants her pound of flesh. She'll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.

     “Well, go on. If—what?”

     “There's a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don't just have to beat the other guy, you've got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”

     “Why are you drinking again?” I asked.

     “Because I'm so scared that I've got to drink. I hate this house and everyone in it; I hate the sound of her voice and her laugh. If I don't drink I shall crack up.”

     “I'm sorry about this, George,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

     He made a little grimace. “Yes, you can. I'm afraid it isn't a pleasant job. You see, I don't trust Myra. I want to get it down on paper. I want you to witness it and see that, in the event of an accident, she carries out her bargain.”

     “Don't talk like that. There mustn't be an accident. Besides, the whole thing falls down if you don't win the race.”

     He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact she would be more thrilled if I was killed. You see, it would give her a lot more fun being a widow of a racing-ace, and she is quite prepared to pay for that.”

     What could I say? The whole business was, from the very start, fantastic, but now it was rapidly developing into a nightmare.

     He was quite right about the week being grim. Myra seemed to find me amusing, and took special pains in keeping me away from George. We did not get one day's fishing during the whole week. In fact, I took refuge in my room as much as possible with the excuse that I was polishing the last chapter of my book.

     The topic of conversation was entirely about the coming race. George was seldom sober, and joined in with the crowd as if he had nothing on his mind. Myra and he were never alone together, and the rest of the party seemed to find nothing odd in this. Myra came in for an enormous amount of admiration as George's wife, and I could see how she revelled in being the centre of attraction.

     During the week I had the opportunity of studying her, and I came to the conclusion that she was an exceedingly dangerous woman. Sometimes, I would catch her watching George, and I could see a smouldering suppressed hatred in her eyes which made me extremely uneasy.

     On the Sunday before the race, George asked me to come into the library. “I've got a draft drawn up. I want you to look it over, and then witness her signature.”

     We went into the library. Myra was sitting in an easy chair. She smiled at me as I came in. “So George has let you into our little secret,” she said. There was a tigerish look in her eyes as she spoke. “What do you think of him? Do you think it is awfully nice to marry a girl for her money?”

     “Surely, Mrs. Hemingway,” I said quietly, “it is not so one-sided as that. I believe you have struck a bargain as well.”

     She laughed. “Why, of course, and I always get the best of a bargain. I'm not so stupid as you think.”

     George said abruptly: “Shall we get this over, and join the others?”

     She shrugged. “Poor little George. He is so anxious to save his silly investors.”

     George gave me a sheet of paper. It contained very few words:

     I promise to pay the sum of one million dollars to my husband if he wins the Morgan Golden Road Trophy. In the event of an accident resulting in his death during the race, I will pay that sum to Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis. My cheque to be given immediately the race has been won.

     I looked at her. “Have you seen this?” I asked her.

     She laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “I drew it up myself. Are you satisfied? Here, give it to me. I will sign it.”

     I re-read it and, finding no fault with it, I passed it over to her and she signed it. I witnessed her signature and handed the paper to George.

     He shook his head. “You keep it,” he said, “it will be safer with you.”