Beloved Scoundrel Read Free Page B

inside.”
     
    Fanny said, “He may not consider it dignified to have a sign.”
     
    “Still people have to be able to find him,” her handsome husband worried.
     
    He led the way inside and they found themselves standing at a counter behind which were a number of printing presses, and ink-stained operators working at them or running about with proofs in their hands. There was no sign of an office of any sort.
     
    She whispered, “He must be upstairs.”
     
    “I don’t see any stairs,” David said, looking troubled.
     
    At this moment a chubby, elderly man wearing a shade over his brow and chewing tobacco vigorously so that tiny dribbles steamed out of the corner of his lips, advanced to the counter to study them with grim interest.
     
    His nose was flat, as if it had been broken in some fight, and his eyes were small and mean. He asked, “What do you want?”
     
    David, tophat in hand, said politely, “We’re looking for Mr. Desmond Dempsey.”
     
    The flat-nosed man gave him a look of utter disgust and then spat into a battered brass bowl a distance from him, finding his mark with amazing accuracy. He told David, “So am I looking for him!”
     
    David continued to be polite though he was now also looking worried. He asked, “Is this not his office?”
     
    The man behind the counter grinned nastily. “I used to let him use a desk in here and he had mail sent here. But I wouldn’t say he had an office.”
     
    Fanny could keep quiet no longer. She asked the man, “Are you telling us that his Desmond Dempsey doesn’t have any office?”
     
    “Not that I know of, ma’am,” the flat-nosed man drawled. “What do you folks want of him?”
     
    Now upset, David said, “We are actors from England. We have come here at his request to form a theatre company under his banner.”
     
    The man behind the counter stopped chewing and stared at them incredulously. “You mean to say you people came all the way from England to work for Dempsey?”
     
    “Yes,” Fanny said. “We’re very anxious to find him.”
     
    “So are a lot of other people,” the flat-nosed man said significantly.
     
    “What are you hinting at?” David said somewhat angrily. “I do not like your manner and I want to know the truth about all this.”
     
    The flat-nosed one grinned. “Getting real upset, ain’t you? Well, you got reason to be. Your friend Desmond Dempsey is a bankrupt! He left town owing everyone, including me!”
     
    “Bankrupt!” Fanny gasped, seeing their dream about to become a nightmare.
     
    “Yep,” the man said, chewing happily. “I gave him credit on his printing for “The American Fireman” and he paid me back part for that. Then he decided to do “The Road To Ruin” and that was ruin for everybody. No one came to see it and he went broke!”
     
    “Bankrupt and vanished!” David said with consternation. “What about our contract?”
     
    “Not worth the paper it’s written on,” the man behind the counter said. “Dempsey won’t dare come back here for a year or two. Not until he thinks all this is forgotten.”
     
    Fanny felt physically ill. She told the man, “We came all the way across the Atlantic on his word.”
     
    “More’s the pity,” the man said. “But that’s how it is. Maybe you’d like to form a company to take out. “The Road to Ruin.” If you want to, I can supply you with plenty of posters at less than half-price.”
     
    “Thanks,” David said grimly. “I don’t think we are ready to set up for ourselves.”
     
    “Mr. Cornish had his own company back in London.” Fanny said. “But over here it is rather different.”
     
    “Well, don’t count on Dempsey,” was the printer’s final word. Then he left them to give his attention to his printers and the noisy presses. David was pale. He took her arm. “Let us get out of here,” he said tautly.
     
    On the street they stood staring at each other and not knowing what move to make next. He said,