But then nobody had ever denied that Finnegan could write.
III
Months passed before I went again to New York, and then, so far as the offices of my agent and my publisher were concerned, I descended upon a quieter, more stable world. There was at last time to talk about my own conscientious if uninspired literary pursuits, to visit Mr. Cannon in the country and to kill summer evenings with George Jaggers where the vertical New York starlight falls like lingering lightning into restaurant gardens. Finnegan might have been at the North Pole—and as a matter of fact he was. He had quite a group with him, including three Bryn Mawr anthropologists, and it sounded as if he might collect a lot of material there. They were going to stay several months, and if the thing had somehow the ring of a promising little house party about it, that was probably due to my jealous, cynical disposition.
“We’re all just delighted,” said Cannon. “It’s a God-send for him. He was fed up and he needed just this—this—”
“Ice and snow,” I supplied.
“Yes, ice and snow. The last thing he said was characteristic of him. Whatever he writes is going to be pure white—it’s going to have a blinding glare about it.”
“I can imagine it will. But tell me—who’s financing it? Last time I was here I gathered the man was insolvent.”
“Oh, he was really very decent about that. He owed me some money and I believe he owed George Jaggers a little too—” He “believed,” the old hypocrite. He knew damn well—“so before he left he made most of his life insurance over to us. That’s in case he doesn’t come back—those trips are dangerous of course.”
“I should think so,” I said—“especially with three anthropologists.”
“So Jaggers and I are absolutely covered in case anything happens—it’s as simple as that.”
“Did the life-insurance company finance the trip?”
He fidgeted perceptibly.
“Oh, no. In fact when they learned the reason for the assignments they were a little upset. George Jaggers and I felt that when he had a specific plan like this with a specific book at the end of it, we were justified in backing him a little further.”
“I don’t see it,” I said flatly.
“You don’t?” The old harassed look came back into his eyes. “Well, I’ll admit we hesitated. In principle I know it’s wrong. I used to advance authors small sums from time to time, but lately I’ve made a rule against it—and kept it. It’s only been waived once in the last two years and that was for a woman who was having a bad struggle—Margaret Trahill, do you know her? She was an old girl of Finnegan’s, by the way.”
“Remember I don’t even know Finnegan.”
“That’s right. You must meet him when he comes back—if he does come back. You’d like him—he’s utterly charming.”
Again I departed from New York, to imaginative North Poles of my own, while the year rolled through summer and fall. When the first snap of November was in the air, I thought of the Finnegan expedition with a sort of shiver and any envy of the man departed. He was probably earning any loot, literary or anthropological, he might bring back. Then, when I hadn’t been back in New York three days, I read in the paper that he and some other members of his party had walked off into a snowstorm when the food supply gave out, and the Arctic had claimed another sacrifice.
I was sorry for him, but practical enough to be glad that Cannon and Jaggers were well protected. Of course, with Finnegan scarcely cold—if such a simile is not too harrowing—they did not talk about it but I gathered that the insurance companies had waived habeas corpus or whatever it is in their lingo, and it seemed quite sure that they would collect.
His son, a fine looking young fellow, came into George Jaggers’ office while I was there and from him I could guess at Finnegan’s charm—a shy frankness together with an impression of a very quiet brave battle going on inside of him that he couldn’t quite bring himself to talk about—but that showed as heat lightning in his work.
“The boy writes well too,” said George after he had gone. “He’s brought in some remarkable poems. He’s not ready to step into his father’s shoes, but there’s a definite promise.”
“Can I see one of his things?”
“Certainly—here’s one he left just as he went out.”
George took a paper from his desk, opened it and cleared his throat. Then he squinted and bent over a little in his chair.
“Dear Mr. Jaggers,” he began, “I didn’t like to ask you this in person—” Jaggers stopped, his eyes reading ahead rapidly.
“How much does he want?” I inquired.
He sighed.
“He gave me the impression that this was some of his work,” he said in a pained voice.
“But it is,” I consoled him. “Of course he isn’t quite ready to step into his father’s shoes.”
I was sorry afterwards to have said this, for after all Finnegan had paid his debts, and it was nice to be alive now that better times were back and books were no longer rated as unnecessary luxuries. Many authors I knew who had skimped along during the depression were now making long-deferred trips or paying off mortgages or turning out the more finished kind of work that can only be done with a certain leisure and security. I had just got a thousand dollars advance for a venture in Hollywood and was going to fly out with all the verve of the old days when there was chicken feed in every pot. Going in to say good-by to Cannon and collect the money, it was nice to find he too was profiting—wanted me to go along and see a motor boat he was buying.
But some last-minute stuff came up to delay him and I grew impatient and decided to skip it. Getting no response to a knock on the door of his sanctum, I opened it anyhow.
The inner office seemed in some confusion. Mr. Cannon was on several telephones at once and dictating something about an insurance company to a stenographer. One secretary was getting hurriedly into her hat and coat as upon an errand and another was counting bills from her purse.
“It’ll be only a minute,” said Cannon, “it’s just a little office riot—you never saw us like this.”
“Is it Finnegan’s insurance?” I couldn’t help asking. “Isn’t it any good?”
“His insurance—oh, perfectly all right, perfectly. This is just a matter of trying to raise a few hundred in a hurry. The banks are closed and we’re all contributing.”
“I’ve got that money you just gave me,” I said. “I don’t need all of it to get to the coast.” I peeled off a couple of hundred. “Will this be enough?”
“That’ll be fine—it just saves us. Never mind, Miss Carlsen. Mrs. Mapes, you needn’t go now.”
“I think I’ll be running along,” I said.
“Just wait two minutes,” he urged. “I’ve only got to take care of this wire. It’s really splendid news. Bucks you up.”
It was a cablegram from Oslo, Norway—before I began to read I was full of a premonition.
AM MIRACULOUSLY SAFE HERE BUT DETAINED BY AUTHORITIES PLEASE WIRE PASSAGE MONEY FOR FOUR PEOPLE AND TWO HUNDRED EXTRA I AM BRINGING BACK PLENTY GREETINGS FROM THE DEAD.
FINNEGAN
“Yes, that’s splendid,” I agreed. “He’ll have a story to tell now.”
“Won’t he though,” said Cannon. “Miss Carlsen, will you wire the parents of those girls—and you’d better inform Mr. Jaggers.”
As we walked along the street a few minutes later, I saw that Mr. Cannon, as if stunned by the wonder of this news, had fallen into a brown study, and I did not disturb him, for after all I did not know Finnegan and could not whole-heartedly share his joy. His mood of silence continued until we arrived at the door of the motor boat show. Just under the sign he stopped and stared upward, as if aware for the first time where we were going.
“Oh, my,” he said, stepping back. “There’s no use going in here now. I thought we were going to get a drink.”
We did. Mr. Cannon was still a little vague, a little under the spell of the vast surprise—he fumbled so long for the money to pay his round that I insisted it was on me.
I think he was in a daze during that whole time because, though he is a man of the most punctilious accuracy, the two hundred I handed him in his office has never shown to my credit in the statements he has sent me. I imagine, though, that some day I will surely get it because some day Finnegan will click again and I know that people will clamor to read what he writes. Recently I’ve taken it upon myself to investigate some of the stories about him and I’ve found that they’re mostly as false as the half-empty pool. That pool was full to the brim.
So far there’s only been a short story about the polar expedition, a love story. Perhaps it wasn’t as big a subject as he expected. But the movies are interested in him—if they can get a good long look at him first and I have every reason to think that he will come through. He’d better.
