# Spider Boy/Chapter 11

Bail, it seemed, was not permitted because the nature of Ambrose's offence was unknown. To be sure a reply to the sheriff's telegraphic query reached Santa Fe in due time, but it simply read: Hold stop parties arrive tomorrow.
Jack Story had been animated by a fury of indignation. He had cursed volubly while his temperature dangerously shot up two degrees. It had been necessary, indeed, for Ambrose to quiet him, for Ambrose felt curiously calm and resigned. He had now arrived at a state of mind in which he was almost prepared to accept blindly any future horror the great Southwest held in store for him. However he turned, whatever he did, apparently made no difference to these strange occidental gods who inexplicably had marked him as a human sacrifice to their splendour.
He permitted Jack to stay by him till late at night, more for Jack's sake than his own, but at last insisted that he should go home. The sheriff for his part had made Ambrose as comfortable as possible, preparing a small room for him with a proper bed, a little aside from the caged area prescribed for more nondescript ​prisoners. These, however, succeeded in making their presence felt through the very walls. Bars and partitions apparently did not cut off social intercourse in a Mexican jail. The prisoners, for the most part Mexicans, incarcerated for petty indiscretions of lust and larceny, shouted blatant oaths in Spanish or sang ditties to the plangent plucking of the guitar which sounded mellifluous to an ear ignorant of the language, but which Ambrose nevertheless suspected to be highly obscene. There were señoras and señoritas too who howled and screamed without abatement.
This went on till upwards of one o'clock. At that hour Ambrose made a futile attempt to sleep. He did doze occasionally, but he had long since discovered that the resignation and calm which he had felt earlier in the evening had either been factitious or temporary. His jangled nerves refused to permit him to enjoy a satisfactory repose, and he was beginning to believe that his resources had been taxed to their utmost.
Since, about two weeks earlier, he had stepped aboard the Twentieth Century his life had gone awry. The first time in his career that he had made a definite and consciously initiative movement he had embroiled himself in serious difficulties. Now he was rapidly floating down a swiftly moving stream, too ​weary to try to swim. It was more, perhaps, as if he had descended to a fiery hell where he had been compelled by the authorities to stand constantly on his head. He was tired of making an effort to combat these demons. Had Wilhelmina Ford, Marna Frost, or even Imperia Starling entered his cell that night and offered him his liberty in exchange for a comformation with her desire—he had no very clear idea in any instance of what this actually would be—it is likely he would have yielded. This thought was immediately followed by the pendent belief that on the whole he was safer in jail. Had not the terror of his unknown misdemeanour haunted him, he might have been quite content to languish there where, after all, he was protected from further attacks from alien sources.
The events of the past few days had, until now, driven the memory of Wilhelmina Ford quite out of his head. He had even forgotten to tell that part of his story to Jack. Considering her now, he wondered what had become of her, wondered whether she had been successful in her plan of escape. At least, he mused, she had one advantage in his eyes over the other creatures: she had not attempted to remodel him. For her silence and her absence he was glad to award her a halo, to thank her for playing this nega​tive rôle in this western drama in which he seemed to be cast for the tortured hero.
According to tradition this was all wrong. It was, he easily recalled, the heroine who should be tortured in stories of the West. It was the heroine for whose virtue the heavy villain with the black mustachios hankered. It was the heroine who was attacked on lonely roads and locked in isolated ranch-houses. The hero's job was to save her at odd moments, for which nobility of action he was suitably rewarded with her heart and hand. In this, his story, he was indubitably playing the part ordinarily allotted to the heroine. If, indeed, his story contained a heroine at all, he was quite unable to identify her. The women in his story seemed jointly cast for the rôle traditionally performed so lustily by the villain with the black mustachios. There seemed to be no one trying to save the hero. Assuredly, he was unequal to the task of saving himself . . . unless, when he got out of jail—if he ever did get out of jail; it was difficult to foresee what would happen to him in this particular since he couldn't imagine what he had done to send him there at all—he might go back to New York. Even this eventuality did not seem plausible in prospect. The West, represented by its females, seemed to send out tentacles to grasp ​him wherever he went. He had in no wise improved his situation by fleeing from Hollywood. On the whole, it was distinctly possible that he was worse off now than he had been under the roof-tree of Imperia Starling.
So, perturbed and nerve-shattered, he tossed and turned in his narrow bed, throwing the covers this way and that, arranging and re-arranging his pillow, twisting his toes, stretching, lying now on one side and now on the other, and counting sheep jumping over a fence until the woolly quadrupeds began to bear the aspect of a series of Imperia Starlings after him in frantic pursuit. At last the belated dawn eased some of his fears and excessive fatigue mercifully made it possible for him to sleep for an hour.
At eight o'clock the sheriff himself came into the room with Ambrose's breakfast on a tray, a rasher of bacon and eggs, and a pot of strong coffee.
Made by my own cook, Ed Randolph explained, and I wouldn't allow no one else to bring it to you. Any friend of Jack Story's a friend o' mine till he's hanged.
Ambrose started at the last word. He was bending over a washbowl with his face in the cooling water. As he looked up the cracked mirror informed him that his eyes were bloodshot.
​What are you in for anyway? the sheriff inquired, as he set down the breakfast tray.
I don't know. I've done nothing.
They all says that, but Jack swears you're innocent, and what Jack says goes with me. Maybe you run over somebody in a car?
I haven't been driving a car.
Well, the laws of California is peculiar. . . . The sheriff scratched his ear and lighted his pipe. . . . You maya done somethin' without knowin' it.
I haven't done anything, Ambrose repeated doggedly, as he sat down to pour out his coffee, unless riding on a milkwagon is against the law.
Ridin' on a milkwagon! The sheriff guffawed. That wouldn't be a crime anywhere else, but maybe in California . . .
Or breaking down vines climbing out of a second-storey window.
Did you climb in first?
I was living there.
Did you take somethin' out with you?
Not even my own bags.
Well, maybe you're crazy, the sheriff suggested, peacefully puffing at his pipe. I shouldn't wonder if that's it. Ridin' on milkwagons and leavin' houses by ​second-storey windows without takin' your bags along looks pretty peculiar.
They locked me in, Ambrose explained, his mouth full of ham.
Locked you in! Now what made 'em do that?
Because I wouldn't do what they wanted me to do.
What did they want you to do? The sheriff was walking slowly up and down the room.
Write a moving picture story.
Well, I can't make head or tail of it, sighed the sheriff, but if you're tellin' the truth why you've got somethin' on 'em. They couldn't hold you here a minute, unless you're crazy.
How soon will I know? Ambrose demanded eagerly.
They're comin' for you today . . . Here's Jack.
A keeper, indeed, had opened the door to permit Jack's entrance. His eyes were blazing, but the puffs underneath them and his unshaven cheeks testified to a sleepless night and a swift toilet. In fact it did not appear that he had undressed at all.
How are you, Ambrose? he inquired anxiously.
I guess I'm all right, Jack, the playwright replied. You look pretty bad.
I feel rotten. Ed, he asked the sheriff, when's this ​funny business going to end? They've got to let Ambrose go. They haven't got a damn thing on him.
Looks to me, the sheriff responded meditatively, if he's tellin' the truth, he's got somethin' on them.
He's telling the truth all right, Jack declared bitterly. When are they coming?
I was just explainin' to your friend they wired they'd be here today.
Well, they'd better be. I'll telephone Washington if they don't come. I won't have this man in jail another night.
Not that I don't like it here, Ambrose inserted apologetically. You've treated me fine.
Don't you speak of it, the sheriff remarked light-heartedly. If you're a friend of Jack's you get the best there is till you hang. I promise you that.
The sheriff made his departure. For the rest of the morning Jack stayed by his friend and they talked of many things. Indeed, for Ambrose, it was the quietest and most delightful morning he had put in since leaving New York.
A little after noon the party from California arrived and was immediately ushered into Ambrose's room by the sheriff.
Jack's right, the sheriff announced. You're free.
​Ambrose rose to face Imperia Starling, Herbert Ringrose, and a Los Angeles policeman.
Now, I'd like to know what all this is about! shouted Jack.
It was Ringrose who replied. Don't get excited, he said. Let's talk this over together quietly.
And who the devil are you? Jack cried.
Who are you? Ringrose demanded in turn.
You'll find out soon enough, Jack replied.
The California policeman grinned. Imperia sank into a chair and appeared to be ready to weep.
Addressing Ambrose, Ringrose adopted a more conciliatory tone. Imperia's done something very foolish, very foolish indeed, he was saying, but it was meant for your good and so I hope you'll forgive her. Imperia's impulsive and we all have to forgive her sometimes.
Imperia was weeping softly. It was perhaps characteristic of her that she could still inquire of Ambrose: How could you do it?
How could you do it? Jack demanded of her savagely. Then, turning to Ringrose. What in hell has she done?
Ambrose felt grateful that he had at last found a sympathetic and forceful mouthpiece.
Imperia was determined that Mr. Deacon should ​furnish her with a script, Ringrose began to explain.
Yes, yes, I know all that, Jack interrupted impatiently.
If you will allow me to tell the story . . . Ringrose, it was evident, was making a fairly successful effort to control his temper.
Oh, go ahead! Jack said.
She had made an appointment for him to meet Schwarzstein, one of the head executives of Invincible. His time is valuable . . .
A hell of a lot we care about his time! Jack sputtered.
Ringrose glared at him, but continued: The night before this appointment Mr. Deacon climbs out of a window and disappears.
What in hell right had she to lock him up? Jack demanded. I guess he's a free agent.
This looks pretty bad, feller. The sheriff addressed Ringrose who seemed to be in charge of the case.
Imperia was moaning softly into her handkerchief.
It does look bad, sheriff, Ringrose admitted. It looks damn bad. I told you Imperia had been foolish. When she discovered that he had disappeared she lodged a complaint with the police, even said ​some things were missing. They weren't, of course. She'd heard Mr. Deacon speak of going to Santa Fe and she made 'em wire here. All she wanted was to get him back. Schwarzstein will give you that contract all right. . . . He had turned to Ambrose. . . . Any kind of contract you want.
Well, unless I'm a dago with three legs somebody's going to pay for this! cried Jack.
Ambrose's mind did not dwell on retribution. Am I free? he inquired.
You bet you're free, the sheriff assured him.
But you'll come back with us, pleaded Ringrose. I've got the contract here ready for you to sign. Name your own terms.
Somebody's got to pay for this, Jack persisted. I think Miss Starling'll have to stand a big suit for damages.
Suppose you let Mr. Deacon tend to his own business, Ringrose snapped testily.
Suppose you take your own advice, Jack retorted.
I'm going back to New York, Ambrose avowed. I won't stay here another hour.
Oh, please, Mr. Deacon . . . the star was speaking at last . . . please come back to us. Please forgive us. I only did it to your good. I am sure what you and me can do together in the pictures. ​Please, please forgive me and come back to us. I am so temperamental. I am sorry.
Imperia turned on her charm and playfully regarded the playwright with her most enchanting smile.
I am going back to New York, Ambrose repeated doggedly, adding emphatically, on the next train.
You're going . . . ? Quite unexpectedly, Jack interrupted himself and began to smile. . . . Ambrose, he inquired, have you still got that paper you showed me in your pocket?
The playwright fumbled in his coat and drew out the Griesheimer contract.
Good! cried Jack, as he handed his friend a fountain pen. Now you sign that or I'll have you arrested myself.
He spoke with so much force that Ambrose, tired of argument, tired of adventure, tired of everything, automatically opened the contract and signed his name on the proper line.
Taking the paper, Jack turned to the sheriff.
Now Ed, he ordered, you sign your name where it says witnessed by.
The sheriff obeyed and Jack made the document legal by adding his own signature.
Waving the contract in the faces of the now ​thoroughly puzzled conspirators, Jack cried: We don't know yet what we'll do about a suit. That depends on lots of things. In the meantime I want you flatheads to know that my friend is engaged to write exclusively for L.L.B.
My God, Deacon, has it come to this, after all we've done for you? Ringrose cried.
The look of horror froze to hate on the exceedingly lovely countenance of Invincible's famous star, and with a spontaneity that did not appear to be too studied, she dropped to the floor in a swoon.
Bean soup and Santa Claus! was Jack Story's comment.