CHAPTER II

A MAN OF MEANS

BY BARRY REESE

Atlanta, Georgia - June 1936

"This heat is simply unbearable." Max Davies swept his fan back and forth in quick little motions, doing little to generate a cooling wind on his sweat-covered face. He wore a white suit, one that was quickly growing stained by sweat and dust, and an expensive hat that served to keep the sun from his eyes. He was a handsome man, with a slight olive complexion and dark green eyes. He was trim, with a swimmer's athletic build, and seemed exceptionally poised and collected, though the hot Georgia summer was testing his famous resolve.

Sitting next to him on the porch of the grand house that Max had recently purchased was his personal banker and close friend, Samuel Kincaid. Samuel was a large-framed man with a belly that was slowly crossing the line from pudginess to fat. "You're the one who moved down here, Max. It's not too late to sell this property and move back to Boston, you know." He cast an appraising eye over the land, watching as the numerous farmhands tilled the soil and took care of the livestock. The house had once been part of the largest plantation in Georgia, but much of it had been sold off after the Civil War. Now it consisted of a lovely house that whispered of the antebellum days and enough land to make Max Davies a prominent member of the local community but nothing more. "It's like going back in time. Up north it seems like the War Between the States was forever and a day ago. Down here... Hell, you'd almost think it never ended. The Negroes are still treated like slaves, aren't they?"

"Hmm," Max said in careful thought. He raised a glass of iced tea to his lips and sipped it slowly. "There's still many who don't think of them as equal to whites, that's true enough. But it's better than it was...and the ones who live here with me are paid just as handsomely as any white worker."

Sam glanced at his own glass of tea, which sat untouched on a small table situated between his chair and Max's. "Why the hell do they ruin a perfectly good batch of tea by putting ice in it?"

"Because it's hotter than the devil's backside down here?" Max offered. Both men laughed at the ribald comment but their serious natures returned in seconds. "Why are you really here, Sam? You could have telephoned if all you really wanted to do was check on my health and state of mind."

Sam leaned forward in his seat, a large sweat stain becoming visible on the back of his own shirt. His jacket had long since been discarded and his sleeves rolled up soon after, but it had done little to stem the effects of the heat. "Commissioner Croft says you've been cleared of all suspicion. There's no reason for you not to come back." Sam took a deep breath before adding "There hasn't even been one trace of the Rook in the last six months. He's gone. Kaput."

Max twirled the dwindling pieces of ice in his glass of tea. "And what happens if I return... and the Rook starts up his vigilante activities again? The cloud of suspicion would be much worse this time. No, Sam, I think I'll stay here. A fresh start."

Sam hesitated. "Croft also told me that there'd been a murder down here, took place a couple of weeks ago. You know anything about it?"

"Are you an amateur detective now, Sam? A modern Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm being serious. What if that nutcase followed you here?"

Max sighed, setting his glass down on the table. He rose, somehow managing to look good even covered in sweat and grime. Sam envied him and always had. Max was the sort of man who could enter a room and steal the heart of your best, most faithful girl, without even trying. Not that Max would have encouraged such things. In all the time Sam had known him, he'd never seen Max take a fancy to any woman. "Sam... I'm not afraid of this Rook fellow. He kills some men who have escaped the law through duplicity and graft. He leaves behind a business card with the image of a bird upon it." Max shrugged. "He's never struck out at anyone like me. I made my money legitimately."

"The last three men he killed were at that gala you threw on New Year's Eve, Max! He was in your penthouse, for God's sake! And when you went skiing, he was there to knock off Boss Zucko, who just happened to be staying at the same resort. Is it any wonder Croft thought you might actually be the guy? If I didn't know you myself, I might have wondered...."

Max turned and smiled. "Maybe Croft was right. They say you never truly know what lurks in the hearts of another man. For all you know, I might dress up in black, skulk about in the shadows and kill criminals. All in my spare time, of course."

Sam snorted, leaning back. "Right. I'd say the Rook is a man of passion and anger. You're neither. You're a businessman at heart, my friend. You look at the final balance and make your differences based on the ledger sheet."

"Perhaps the Rook does, as well. He tallies up the positives and negatives in a man's life and decides whether or not his continued presence adds or subtracts from the good of society."

"So what are you saying, then? That you are the Rook?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying, Sam." Max pushed his hands in his pockets and laughed. "I'm just being difficult."

"Ah. The same as usual, then? You're more hardheaded than my wife."

"How long are you staying?" Max asked, not allowing the playful insults to degenerate any further.

"I'm leaving in the morning. You think I'm going to condemn myself to any more time in this heat than necessary? I came because I was worried about you... and I want you come home."

"I'm touched. I really am. But this is my home now. Go back and monitor my investments for me and maybe I'll be up for a bit of skiing when winter comes."

Sam rose, dusting himself off. "That man who was shot a few weeks back," Sam whispered, keeping his voice low, lest a servant might overhear. "Croft says he heard there was a card left behind. The Rook's signature. Now, I don't believe you're a killer, but it might mean that this guy has a thing for you. An obsession. Could be he's followed you down South."

"I'll be careful, Sam. You have my word."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Lucifer's Cage stories & The Rook © Barry Reese. HTML © Tim Hartin.

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