Carla's Revenge. Sydney J. Bounds
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Matthew Bowman was rich by then; his lands brought him millions from white cotton. He bought a large house on Mount Vernon with the intention of giving his daughter, Carla, the finest education money could buy. He wanted her to mix with high society, to learn to conduct herself like a lady of high birth.
But Carla had wild blood in her. At seventeen, she rebelled, walked out of finishing school, and got mixed up with a fast-living set of city parasites. She gambled away a small fortune, drank more than she could hold. She was in and out of police courts on charges of dangerous driving, assaulting policemen, and generally misbehaving to the public nuisance.
She lived in nightclubs and gambling dens until her father took to his bed with heart disease. The doctor said it had been brought on by worrying over Carla. That stopped her cold. Her father was the only person Carla had any feeling for—she reformed, for a time. Then broke out again.
Matthew Bowman, confined to his bed, knew nothing of his daughter’s current activities. If he had, he’d have died of shock. Carla was determined he should never learn of her association with King Logan.
She had been just nineteen when she met King. Tired of society life, Carla had gone slumming in the Battery, looking for life in the raw. She’d been attracted to King, thrilled when she learned he was a gangster with several killings behind him. This, she thought, was the real thing. Life in all its rawness, exciting, dangerous.
She had become King’s current flame and joined the gang, collecting protection money, learning to use a gun, to hate the law, to live adventurously. King thrilled her, too. She wasn’t in love with him—she’d never loved any man—but she liked it when he took her in his arms. It roused her blood, made her conscious of her beauty, her hold over him. King Logan was tough, a giant of a man, well-muscled, and it gave Clara a sense of power to know that she could control him whenever she wanted.
The car moved swiftly along the broad avenue, carrying her towards Mount Vernon and her father’s home. She visited him once a week, telling lies to account for her absence. Old Matthew Bowman would never learn from her how his daughter was living.
She drove a high-powered, low-slung Chevy, not the armoured Lincoln King kept for the gang’s use. It climbed the hill towards the rambling old house where her father lay dying. The doctor said he would last a good many years yet—if he didn’t have any sudden shocks.
She stopped the Chevy outside the steps leading up to the house, jumped out, and went inside. She was wearing a plain skirt of dark brown that hung below her knees, a white silk blouse that showed off her full figure, and a tweed jacket.
She snapped a greeting to the butler and went upstairs. Old Matthew Bowman was sitting up in bed, his face a wrinkled parchment the colour of faded straw. His eyes were faded too, and grey wisps of hair sprouted from his nearly bald head. His forehead was high and broad, all there was left to denote the proud manner in which he had once carried his lean frame. His gnarled hands shook as he held his daughter.
“Hi, Pop,” Clara said brightly, kissing him with genuine affection. “How’re you feeling today?”
“I’d feel a lot better if you were living here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Matthew Bowman grumbled.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Pop,” Carla said quickly. “I haven’t made newspaper headlines since I turned over a new leaf.”
“I guess that’s right,” her father sighed. “A lively young girl like you doesn’t want to be tied down. I don’t mind you gadding about—so long as you keep out of trouble.”
Carla fussed around, making him comfortable. She had lunch in his room and talked about the good time she was having with a purely fictitious society family. It was a good story and brought a twinkle to Old Matthew’s dim eyes.
Around four o’clock, Carla kissed him goodbye.
“Promised to meet someone this evening,” she said. “See you next week, Pop.”
She went downstairs, out to the Chev, and drove back to Brooklyn and King Logan. If King was gunning for Shapirro’s mob, she didn’t want to miss any of the fun. And her father need never know.…
After Carla had left him, Matthew Bowman sat up. His gnarled hand pressed a bell-push and a man came into the room. The man wasn’t handsome and his clothes were greasy. He licked his lips all the time. His face was shiny, his manner sly, and his eyes never focused long in one place.
“Well,” demanded Matthew Bowman, “did you see her, Piggot?”
Piggot nodded.
“Nice-looking girl,” he said, and waited.
Bowman looked steadily at Piggot.
“Carla isn’t to know I’ve set you to watch her,” he said in a strained voice. “She’s got hot blood in her veins, and she’d flare up right away if she ever learnt that her father had put a private detective on her heels. But I must know what she’s up to.”
He brooded a while before continuing:
“Carla’s been too quiet lately. It isn’t like her at all—I’m afraid she may have got herself into serious trouble and doesn’t want to worry me with it. I want you to watch her, see where she goes, who she meets. Don’t take any action yourself—report back to me. I’ll decide what to do.”
Matthew Bowman smiled a little.
“Carla’s growing up. She’s a pretty girl—and I don’t want her making a bad match. But she mustn’t know I’m having her watched—you understand that? Carla’s got the real Bowman temper—she’d flare up like a Fourth of July rocket. You’re a detective—though you don’t look like one! It’s up to you to tail her without being found out. That’s all.”
Piggot licked his lips.
“I’ll keep on her tail, Mr. Bowman—that’s an old job for me. I’ll find out what you want and report straight back.”
Old Matthew Bowman lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He didn’t say any more, so Piggot walked out of the room. He went down the stairs and out of the house.
A cinch, this job, he thought; just keep an eye on some dizzy dame. His face wore a greasy smile as he got in his car and drove after Carla, along the main highway to New York.
Maybe, if he played his cards right, there would be more money to be made out of Carla than her father. If she had a secret and wanted it kept quiet…well, Piggot wasn’t the man to turn down an offer. If it was big enough. He licked his lips as he thought about that.
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