A VIPER BITES AT A FILE
I
There was unwonted stir in the Montreal head offices of the Regal Bank of
Canada. Rarely in the metropolitan headquarters of the Dominion’s
greatest financial institution, where the comings and goings of important
personages are almost hourly occurrences, did the entrance of a visitor
draw more than a hurried glance from the workers behind the polished
mahogany and lacquered brass. The man who had just come through the
great double doors was no ordinary type.
He seemed like a being detached from his fellows; like them but not of
them, indifferent, masterful. Tall and of superb build, his
close-fitting dark clothes and light fedora accentuated the pallor of his
coldly-chiselled aquiline features and the blackness of his extraordinary
eyes. His every item of dress—his tie with the tiny, scintillating white
diamond pin, his white cuffs just peeping from the sleeves, his shoes—had
a distinctive correctness. But his carriage was of the easy, confident
grace of one more used to the wide spaces of the North than the
over-heated drawing-rooms of the East. He evidently scorned a
walking-stick, for in his long, capable-looking hands he carried only his
gloves and a black travelling-bag.
Young women clerks glanced up from their tasks to stare pensively at the
stranger. Young men bit enviously at their nether lips as they mentally
conceded the physical perfection of the visitor. There were whispered
_asides_. It seemed he was not altogether unknown among the older
members of the staff.
The newcomer went direct to the quarters of the bank’s president. In the
outer office the president’s secretary rose deferentially and opened the
door to the inner sanctum. “Sir David will see you at once, Mr. Smith,”
he announced.
A lean grey man with alert grey eyes and a drooping grey moustache arose
and proffered his hand across the glass-topped desk. “We received your
wire and were expecting you, Mr. Smith.”
“I was glad to find you were not out of town, Sir David,” returned the
other, “for the matter I wish to see you about is rather pressing and
important.”
“When you favour us with one of your rare personal calls it usually is
so,” smilingly reminded the banker.
“This time, nevertheless,” insisted Acey Smith, “it may prove more than
an ordinary surprise for you.”
And an hour and a half later when Sir David Edwards-Jones, president of
the Regal Bank of Canada, had gone over the papers and documents in the
black grip with Acey Smith and their business interview was ended, the
perplexity that sat upon his usually imperturbable features was proof of
the other’s prediction.
“Your wishes shall be carried out to the letter, Mr. Smith,” he promised.
“The legality of the transaction cannot be questioned. Your financial
stewardship of the affairs of the other party has been scrupulously above
any criticism and we nor any other concerned have any option but to be
guided by your commands.
“I confess,” he added with a puzzled smile, “that the methods of your
company have always baffled me; this time, however, I cannot for the life
of me see what is behind the North Star’s strategy.”
“This time,” enlightened Acey Smith as he bade Sir David good-bye, “there
is no strategy behind the North Star’s methods.”
Acey Smith had barely left the president’s office when a stout,
florid-faced man who had been waiting outside was ushered in.
“By the way, Sir David,” he asked closing the door, “who is that
extraordinary looking chap who just left this office?”
“Who is he?” echoed Sir David Edwards-Jones rather abstractedly. “He’s a
lumberman from the Northwest. But, Dennison, he is also one of the most
remarkable, most inscrutable men in the whole Dominion of Canada.”
Which statement, vague as it was, contained as much information as can
usually be drawn from great bankers relative to their customers.
II
On the afternoon of the memorable Monday, October 16, one week previous
to the date at which the Kam City Pulp and Paper Mills was under
agreement with the government to be in full operation manufacturing
newsprint from the pulpwood boomed at Nannabijou Limits or lose their
cutting rights on the North Shore, Norman T. Gildersleeve, president of
the International Investment Corporation, parent of the Kam City Company,
was pacing the docks at the limits and cursing the haste that had brought
him out to such a monotonous place a day before it was necessary.
The tugs which he had wired for from Duluth would not now likely reach
the limits until the following day, and, with all the indications of
rough weather that were apparent, they might be later still. As a matter
of fact—and Gildersleeve was quite cognizant of that fact-the United
States tugs dare not touch a pole in the booms without the North Star’s
permission until such time as Ontario government authority intervened in
the strike and approved of the use of the foreign tugs as an emergency.
But Gildersleeve considered himself a master of the gambler’s game of
bluff. He had taken every means of stimulating quick government action
by means of what he called “hot grounders” over the wires to the premier
and members of his cabinet in Toronto. The presence of the fleet of
American tugs, ready to pitch into the work of transporting the poles, he
calculated, would take the heart out of the North Star Company. If it
didn’t—well, he’d have those tugs in readiness and he’d sue the North
Star for the expense of bringing them over.
Whatever his reflections on the matter may have been on that windy
afternoon, his pacing suddenly came to an abrupt stop as he caught, out
of the corner of an eye, a dark object rising and falling in the seas to
the west. He peered fixedly as it topped the next wave. Sure enough, it
was a tug—but it was not coming from the direction of Duluth.
Others came running down to the docks from divers directions to gaze upon
it with excited comment and conjecture. There had not been a tug at the
dock in days; not since the strike had been called.
The great craft lifted valiantly against the flailing seas until its
plume, its stack and the dark hulk of its high forward freeboard were
plainly discernible. It whistled with what seemed a jubilant note before
it rounded into the gap of the bay.
Gildersleeve started in pure amazement. On its smokestack and in the
centre of the sinister little blue-black flag at its bow were the
fiery-red, five-pointed stars that designated the North Star fleet.
“The strike is over!”
It went up a yell from the rabble on the docks. It was answered with a
shout from the men crowded on the bow of the tug. Lumberjacks came
pouring down from the camp and the woods everywhere. There was the
electric tension in the air that obtains when man-packs sense that magic
monster known as News.
The crowd yelled and the tug’s siren screamed.
“Hurr-r-rah for the Big Boss—he settled it!”
“Hurr-r-rah for A-c-e-y Smith!”
And with the slogan went up a shout that shook the woods. Bucksaw men,
axe men and river men danced ridiculous capers on the landing, jostling
against each other and firing their woollen caps high in air. It was an
ovation such as the demagogue, Slack, would have pawned his soul for—a
tribute from pent up spirits who, in their hearts of hearts, had
steadfastly believed when the worst came to the worst the Big Boss would
range himself on the side of his men. So much for what they call
personal magnetism.
The excitement died down somewhat when it was discovered that the master
of the Nannabijou camps was not on board. Had he been, his first
utterance no doubt would have been to pass the honours for settling the
strike to Hon. J. J. Slack, M.P., president of the North Star.
In the crowd leaving the tug’s gang-plank Gildersleeve glimpsed the
short, corpulent figure of Artemus Duff, president of the Kam City Pulp
and Paper Mills, hurrying toward him. Duff looked a bit mussed up from
the trip over, but his round, fat face was beaming.
III
Duff came forward and grasped the extended hand of Gildersleeve.
“Thought I’d run over and be first to break the good news to you,
Norman,” he puffed. “The North Star gang had to come to their oats.”
“So I see,” observed Gildersleeve. “Did you get any of the inside
particulars, Duff?”
“No, not a great deal. Slack made the announcement to the tugmen that
the company would meet their demands if they would immediately return to
their boats, and followed up with a windy speech about his own efforts in
their behalf. Guess he received his orders from the big fellows that own
him body and soul.”
“They saw at last that their cake was dough,” commented Gildersleeve
quietly. “They could not have held out much longer with their obvious
trickery, for to-morrow would have seen a fiat issued from the
attorney-general’s department enjoining the North Star to make immediate
settlement of the strike and delivery of the poles. Oh, by the way,
Duff, did you think to wire Duluth cancelling the order for those tugs?”
“Winch looked after that,” informed the other.
“Good. I only hope the wire arrived before the fleet set out. Gad,
Duff, this was a master stroke of ours,” he spoke up emphatically. “I’ve
nailed the North Star’s hide on the door inside out. It’s the beginning
of the end for that iniquitous gang of commercial cut-throats. Few
people realise that the culmination of this strike and the subsequent
delivery of those poles in the bay yonder writes the final chapter in
dark history that goes back to the beginning of things on this North
Shore. Once our mills at Kam City are in full operation, with sufficient
poles piled in the yards to keep them running six months, we will have
completed our covenant with the government. Then watch me crush the
North Star and all its brazen subsidiaries!”
Gildersleeve paused in his pacing, proffered Duff a cigar and lit one
himself. He struck a Napoleonic attitude as he swept his arm from south
to north. “All this North Shore and its great potential wealth will soon
again be under my absolute domination,” he predicted. “With this limits
and the mills we will soon reduce the North Star’s power and prestige to
a point where they will be glad to surrender their lake fleet and
equipment for their price as junk. Their costly mill without machinery
will help to sink them and sink them fast. Nothing now can prevent our
complete victory.”
Duff rolled his unlighted cigar to the other side of his mouth and
chuckled effusively. “They let their men go out on strike just a few
days too soon to catch us unawares,” he commented sagely.
“Their strike was a joke,” sneered the president of the International
Investment Corporation. “There isn’t a doubt now that they precipitated
it with a view to keeping every tug tied up until after our contract time
for having the mills running. The rest of their plot was obvious: Once
the government had nullified our coming rights on these limits the North
Star would come into re-possession of them automatically. Then, with no
raw product to draw from, we would have been forced to sell our mill
equipment to them at their own price and our mill building would remain a
vast white elephant. We slipped a big one over on them when I put
through the deal that took away the machinery they had on order. That’s
why they were so keen on getting us into a corner where we’d have to let
them have that same machinery for a song. The North Star’s middle name
is Revenge—and now they are going to get their bellyful of it.”
“And this strike was the trump card they kept hidden up their sleeve all
summer,” amended Duff.
“Sure it was. But it was a mighty crude piece of work, and I wouldn’t be
surprised if your oily friend, J. J. Slack, loses his high-salaried job
over the head of it.” Gildersleeve smiled grimly at the prospect. “You
see, the North Star evidently figured on a long-drawn arbitration that
would keep the strike hanging fire until the time was up for delivery of
the poles. They were depending on Slack’s prestige in politics being
powerful enough to prevent the provincial authorities from forcing the
issue. It was all a dismal failure, and I’d give much to see the
Honourable Slack’s face one week from to-day when the Kam City Pulp and
Paper Mills has its official opening with members of the provincial
cabinet present as our official guests.”
A perplexed shadow crossed Duff’s face. “Come to think of it, Slack
didn’t seem much upset about it this afternoon,” he suggested dubiously.
“In fact, he really acted as though the North Star had gained a victory
instead of us.”
“Slack’s shallow brain doesn’t fully comprehend what it all means,”
waived Gildersleeve. “All he sees is the peanut politics—the prestige
the settlement of the strike will give him with the labour vote. It is
A. C. Smith, superintendent of these camps, and the only member of the
North Star executive in personal touch with the outfit who finance the
company, who will give him an uncomfortable hour over the clumsy failure
that’s been made of this piece of trickery. Smith’s the slippery eel of
this concern I intend to land in the net once we’ve turned the North Star
inside out. Once we’ve got the upper hand on the North Shore we will
wield the political whip with a commission of inquiry that will expose
the North Star and force them to a show-down.”
“Be careful,” cautioned Duff looking furtively behind him along the dock.
“One can’t tell around here—”
“Shucks, man, there’s nothing to fear now; I’ve trimmed the claws of the
North Star and they’re powerless even if they did know the hand we’re
about to play.” Gildersleeve lowered his voice: “Right now I’ve got a
man ferreting out their secret layout up in the hills over there. But
I’ll tell you about that after we go up to our shack. Come let’s go over
and drop in on Inspector Little.”
Reference to the settlement of the strike, to the surprise of
Gildersleeve and Duff, brought no elation into the face of the police
inspector. He merely continued to drum lightly on the little table with
a bit of amethyst rock he was using as a paper weight. When he spoke his
brows were puckered and he kept his eyes centred on the table. “I’m not
at all satisfied with things,” he complained. “We are out here to do our
duty as we find it, but”—and he looked straight up into the eyes of
Gildersleeve when he said it—“but I’ve a bit of a hunch that one or the
other of the two companies interested in the operations on these limits
is not playing square with us.”
Gildersleeve started. “Just what do you mean, Inspector?” he demanded.
“I mean that underhand work has been going on here since the day we
arrived and that it could not continue as it has without the cognizance
and backing of some one in authority.”
“It was at our instigation the police were brought out here,” insisted
Gildersleeve. “It’s scarcely likely we would ask you to guard the
property we are interested in and then set about deliberately
double-crossing you.”
“No.” Colourlessly. “But you were not the first to ask for police
protection. A day before your request went in President Slack, of the
North Star Company, wired to Ottawa for Mounted Police protection at the
limits in case the strike materialised. Both companies seemed intensely
anxious to have our assistance; that’s why subsequent events rather
puzzle me.”
“What subsequent events in particular do you refer to, Inspector?”
“Well, to begin with there was the abduction of that young lady living on
Amethyst Island, the arrest of the fake camp preacher, Nathan Stubbs, and
the latter’s jumping his bail and disappearance. Now, some one with
plenty of funds was interested enough to forfeit one thousand dollars in
order to get Stubbs out of the clutches of the law. Mind you, I’m not
saying it was either of the companies, but it was some party vitally
interested in what is going on out here, and one or the other of the
companies must know who.”
Duff shuffled and coughed and took a fresh tooth-hold on his mangled dead
cigar. Gildersleeve’s face remained a complete mask. “I’m sure we
haven’t the slightest idea,” he observed with guileless indifference.
“_Some one_ undoubtedly has,” emphasised the inspector. “Furthermore,
Stubbs must be quite confident of his backing, else he wouldn’t have the
nerve to return to the limits in broad daylight.”
Gildersleeve almost jumped to his feet at that. “Stubbs back here,” he
cried. “Impossible!”
“He was seen less than an hour ago back in the hills by some of our men
out looking for the missing girl.”
Gildersleeve gave the inspector a glance that questioned his sanity. It
was Duff who spoke first. “Did they get him?” he breathed.
“No, he disappeared in the bush as silently and completely as a timber
wolf.” The inspector bent his eyes searchingly on Gildersleeve. “He was
playing the _other rôle_ this time.”
“The other rôle?” The puzzled look on Gildersleeve’s face looked almost
genuine to the police officer.
“Yes, that of Ogima Bush, the Medicine Man—the same disguise he wore the
morning he and his gang abducted Miss Stone.”
“That’s all wrong—all pure piffle!” exploded Gildersleeve.
“Why do you say that?” Quietly.
“Because—because, damn it, man, that camp preacher could never have
played the role of the Medicine Man.”
“They are one and the same man.”
“They are not, I tell you!”
The police inspector leaned forward, his eyes fixing those of the
financier like steely points of light. “If you can furnish proof of that
statement, Mr. Gildersleeve,” he said at last, “it would be very useful
information for the police.”
Gildersleeve tightened up in a hurry. “Oh, I have nothing in the way of
proof,” he laughed easily. “It was merely a conviction.”
“There’s a vast difference,” coldly observed Inspector Little. “A vast
difference, Mr. Gildersleeve. Nevertheless, your assertion provides the
germ of a new theory.”
He did not add as the pulp mill men were leaving his tent that that same
new theory presented a worse tangle than the old one.
“Stubbs the camp preacher had two enamelled patches covered with talc
powder under his eyes; Ogima Bush the Medicine Man has two red gashes
under his and this man Gildersleeve has two tiny white scars in the same
places.” Those observations kept recurring stubbornly in the inspector’s
mind. “I wonder,” he mused, “if this part of the North Shore isn’t
really under a hoo-doo as the Indians say it is—or, am _I_ getting old
and losing my grip?”
IV
Gildersleeve cautiously refrained from uttering what was on his mind as
he and Duff wended their way up to their quarters in one of the smaller
log shacks the former had rented during his stay on the limits.
At the door, Gildersleeve paused to scan the lake and the sky. “Gad, it
looks as though we are in for some bad weather, Duff,” he observed
ominously.
“You kin bank on that, Mister,” offered a grizzled lumberjack who stopped
in passing. “Win’s been a-blowin’ outen one spot all day—an’ when the
win’ don’t follow the sun round on of Lake Supe’ you kin look out fer
high-jinks in the weather line afore monin’.”