A BLUFF CALLED
Furniss, the oldest reporter on _The Dispatch_, in point of service, was
the one man with whom Good would have liked to part company. But he was
so distinctly capable, and there was such an utter absence of tangible
reason for his dismissal that he remained in his place, a constant,
though impalpable, source of irritation.
He was the only member of the staff whose distrust of Good's motives
remained fixed and unconcealed. It was perhaps not wholly his fault.
Temperamentally saturnine, years of service covering "police" had sapped
his faith in human nature. To him there was no such thing as altruism.
At best it was but a cloak to some subtle form of personal exploitation.
Just what Good's "game" was, he did not know. But that he had no
confidence in his superior was perfectly evident.
Good did everything he could to disarm this hostility, but the only
result was to confirm Furniss in the belief that an effort was being
made to blind him. Finally Good gave up the task, although he never
ceased to regret his subordinate's unconquerable attitude. He was so
completely without suspicion himself that distrust of himself in others
was peculiarly painful.
He and Bassett were in conference one afternoon when Furniss came in.
"I've got a tip," he said directly to Bassett, pointedly ignoring Good.
"Maybe a story."
"Shoot," said Bassett, moving his cigar to the other side of his mouth,
which was his method of indicating interest.
"The railroads have brought their scrap on the constitutionality of the
liability law up to the appellate court. Hennessy of the B. & F. got
drunk down state the other night and shot off his face about what was
going to happen. He said more than he meant to."
"Well." The cigar went back to its former corner. That signified as near
excitement as Bassett ever got.
"According to him they've gotten one of the court, and they're going to
get another--up here."
"Yes." Bassett's cigar was only half its former length and disappearing
rapidly.
"Hennessy's in town to-day. So's Harper of the M. T., Lloyd, of the
Western, and several others."
"Go on." Bassett had begun on a fresh cigar.
"They're all hanging out at the Wellesley--room 416. If anything stirs,
it ought to be there."
"Yes."
"I sized up the place this morning when nobody was there. Also I hired
the next room to it. There's a doorway that commands the whole room. It
struck me that if we could put a camera covering 416, by way of that
doorway, and have another fellow watching through a hole in the wall,
the minute they start anything, we'd yank open the door and touch off
the flash. I guess we'd have something, what?"
"You're not without brains, Furniss," said Bassett unemotionally.
"Thanks," said Furniss in a similar tone. Neither tone expressed the
feelings of its owner.
Bassett never wasted time in praise or blame--until after the matter was
concluded. Then he excelled in either capacity. But the present moment
called for action, not words.
"You and Good with Sato for the pictures ought to cover it," he said
crisply. A curious expression twisted Furniss' lips. It was not a smile.
It might rather be called a premonition of one.
"If they pull off anything it'll be to-night," he said, as Bassett
turned back from his insistent telephone. "Both Hennessy and Lloyd I
happen to know are going South to-morrow."
"I'll save the first column for you," said Bassett with as near a
chuckle as he ever permitted himself.
"It'll break early, if at all," said Furniss. Then he turned insolently
to Good. "Pardon me," he said not at all pleasantly, "may I have a word
with Bassett, _Mister_ Good?"
There was nothing for it, but for Good to leave. But his face paled and
his teeth clicked. As the door closed behind him, Bassett swung around
in his chair.
"That was a hell of a thing to do," he snapped. "If he doesn't tie a can
to you, I'll do it myself. Who the devil do you think you are, anyway?"
Furniss only laughed. "Better ask that four-flusher who _he_ is. His
game's going up in smoke to-night, or I miss my guess. I'll show him
up--you watch."
Bassett took the cigar out of his mouth and laid it on the desk.
"What's the answer?"
Furniss' eyes narrowed. "Who's the only judge of the appellate court in
this town?"
Bassett hummed softly. "The hell you say!"
"Exactly. Now you can figure it out. What do you think the virtuous Good
will do when he finds out? Want a double-leaded three column head, won't
he,--with pictures?" Furniss sneered and rolled a cigarette. Bassett
looked out of the window and whistled thoughtfully.
"This is just an ordinary newspaper," said Furniss with significance, as
he went out. Bassett did not turn around. He remained silent and
motionless for a long time. The pile of papers on his desk grew higher
and higher, but he paid no heed. The telephone rang and rang unanswered.
He still sat staring into vacancy, the slow movement of his jaws as they
chewed the cigar, the only sign of life.
One of the office boys expressed it perhaps as well as it could be
expressed.
"Gee," he whispered to his companions, "the Old Man's awful tired." Then
the buzzer rang, and the boy who answered it concluded that it was a
short-lived weariness, or that he had been sadly misinformed.
In the meantime Good had gone to his own office. He was puzzled by the
curious behaviour of Furniss and vaguely apprehensive. The atmosphere
was tense: it bade fair to be a stormy night. He was not given to
credence in signs and portents, but the sullen muttering of the thunder
and the frequent flashes of lightning in the darkening sky filled him
with inexplicable dread. He lit his pipe and tried to tell himself that
it was merely a case of nerves, aggravated by the weather. But the
attempt was a failure. Then the door opened and Roger Wynrod entered,
his face such a picture of health and contentment that even the hardiest
devils could tarry no longer in the room.
"I've been hunting you all day," he cried. "I've got news."
"A beat?"
"Hardly," he laughed. "All the papers have it. That ought to give you a
clue. Can't you guess?"
"Not possibly."
"Well--she'll have me."
"Obviously you're imparting news of great moment," said Good severely.
"I've seldom seen you look more completely idiotic. But I don't get
you."
"Why, you wooden-head--Molly Wolcott--me--we're engaged!"
"Oh--I thought you had _news_. That's as stale as last year's election."
Good laughed as he bantered, but the light shining in his eyes showed
the tenderness of his feeling for the younger man.
"You're a lucky kid."
"Rather. But I earned it. She's had me over the hurdles more than once.
I never had a swelled head with Molly in the neighbourhood. She always
swore I'd never do."
"What made her change?"
"No idea. Woman's way, I guess."
Good put his hand on Roger's shoulder, and his voice softened.
"Poppycock," he said slowly. "She never changed. She was only
waiting--"
"What for?"
"For you to grow up. You've been growing fast of late, my boy. The way
you've taken hold here--it's been splendid. It's tickled your sister
beyond words. And I guess--it's tickled someone else, eh?"
"I guess you're about right," he said seriously. "I never was much of a
fellow. But I never realised what a useless ass I was until I tried
being useful. I came in here more on a lark than anything else. I never
dreamed what a mess I could make of things. I thought I was pretty much
of a man. I was going to look the ship over and then take up quarters on
the bridge. I was going to give you and sis orders in no time. But it
didn't take long to wake up. Why, I'm not even a decently capable boy. I
tell you, Good, this thing has taught me--lots. It's been mighty
hard--harder than you have any idea of. I've wanted to lie down and quit
lots of times. Why, I--"
"Why didn't you?" asked Good quietly.
"Well--there was Molly. I knew it was good-bye Roger if I did. If
there's one thing she hates, it's a yellow streak. Why, she--"
"That wasn't the only reason, was it?" Good's eyes were very bright and
keen. For a moment Roger looked puzzled. Then he hung his head and
smiled.
"No--it wasn't. I--oh, hang it--I don't want to seem a conceited
ass--but--well--I'm not much for the yellow myself. I've never been a
quitter in useless things--and--and--well, I just couldn't quit on this
job. I just had to go through with it. Don't you understand?"
"Yes--I understand." Good smiled, very tenderly.
"There's one thing more. I...." Roger hesitated, and reddened slightly.
"I don't know just how to put it into words, but I want to tell you that
I feel I owe Molly and oh--everything--to you. I--oh, hang it--I--I...."
He stammered and was silent, but he gripped Good's hand again and held
it fast.
The older man's eyes winked with suspicious rapidity, and he swallowed
several times before he spoke. When he did there was a little tremble in
his voice.
"We Anglo-Saxons," he began. Then his voice broke, and he added in a
hurried whisper, "We can't talk--such fools...."
But as they held each other's hands and looked into each other's eyes,
both knew that the other understood.
Then Furniss and the Japanese photographer came in, and the tension
snapped. Roger, who shared Good's dislike for the reporter, having even
in private characterised him as a "buzzard," quickly withdrew, and Good
was left to complete the details of the evening's work.
Furniss plunged into the business at hand, without preliminaries.
"There are two doors between our room and 416. I'll keep watch through
the keyhole of one, and when I see anything and give the word, you pull
open the other and Sato snaps the flash--"
"But," interposed Good, "suppose something happens--and happens in
another part of the room. The camera will have to be far enough away to
give clearance for the door, and then it won't cover much--"
"Perhaps you'd like to have them stage the show outdoors and let us film
it for the movies," said Furniss sarcastically. The photographer laughed
furtively but Good affected not to hear him.
The reporter seemed to regret his insolence a little. "It's only a
hundred to one shot, of course," he explained more amicably. "Nothing
may happen. It may happen where we can't get it. We can only hope for
the best. But there's a table in the centre, and the light's in the
centre, and if anything happens that's the most likely place for it. If
we get it, we get it, and if we don't, we don't, that's all."
"I see," said Good, admiring, in spite of himself, the undeniable
ability of the man, however displeasing his personality.
"One thing more," continued Furniss. "The minute they hear the flash
they'll break for it. Most of 'em will run for the hall, because they're
cowards and fools. But Hennessy's neither one nor the other, and he'll
make straight for us. He's a big guy and ready for rough work.
Furthermore he's keen. He'll see our game right off. Now while Sato and
I make a getaway, it'll be up to you to stop Hennessy. I say you,
because you're bigger than I am. Can you use your hands--fight?"
"I have."
"I thought so. Well, I'd suggest your pasting him if you can, before he
pastes you, and then beating it, too."
"How will you leave the hotel?"
"Glad you asked that. When you leave, don't go for the elevators, but
take the stairs. On the third floor you'll find the freight elevator
waiting for you. Now, is there anything else?"
The photographer had a few questions to ask, and Good studied Furniss
while he answered them. The little reporter was like an animal on the
trail of its prey. His thin nostrils contracted and expanded as he
talked, and there was a lithe, nervous tenseness about every feature of
his face. Good thought with half a shudder that he would not care to
have Furniss on his trail. And yet, even as the thought struck him, he
was conscious of the little man's eyes upon him, boring him through, as
if that were precisely what he was about. He tried to rid himself of the
absurd notion, but it persisted. One of the characteristics of Furniss
was his complete impersonality. He might, almost unaided, devote months
of single-handed, implacable effort, as in the famous Varney case, to
tracking down and placing a whole company of men in the penitentiary;
but never with the slightest hint of vindictiveness. He sought out
corruption and punished its authors always for the solitary reason that
thereby he made news. He was like the bloodhound, which pursues its
quarry as long as it has breath in its body--only to overwhelm it with
caresses.
But now, Good fancied, the impersonal note was gone. It seemed to him,
why, he could not say, that Furniss had a purpose other than to unearth
news. There seemed more mastiff than bloodhound in him, more lust for
blood than love of the chase. Again and again he told himself how silly
it was, but he could not rid himself of the suggestion that _he_ was the
goal at which the reporter aimed.
By eight o'clock the three had begun their vigil. At intervals Furniss
fixed his eye to the keyhole, turning to stare, with what Good thought
a very slightly concealed malevolence, at himself. The air was
surcharged with expectancy.
[Illustration: The air was surcharged with expectancy]
Good smoked his pipe and wondered what it all meant. The photographer
lit one cigarette on the end of another, but otherwise appeared as
indifferent as a graven image. Increasingly Furniss kept his eye to the
keyhole. Suddenly a jerk of his arm brought the others to attention.
Good emptied his pipe and took up his position by the other door. The
photographer crushed out his cigarette on his heel and examined, for the
hundredth time, the mechanism of his flash pistol.
For a little while they stood tense and watchful, but when nothing
happened, they relaxed a trifle. The photographer lit another cigarette.
Good sat down, but at a glare from the reporter, stood up again. The
muffled sound of voices came to them from the other room, occasionally
rising in pitch, as if in argument, though no words could be
distinguished.
They remained thus for what seemed an eternity. Once Good looked at his
watch. It was half past nine. The voices still rose and fell on the
other side of the door. Once Sato yawned, and changed his flash pistol
from one hand to the other. Suddenly Furniss turned from the keyhole,
his eyes ablaze, and his lips silently formed the warning. Good, his
heart thumping uncontrollably, the sense of something terrible
impending, more acute than ever, put his hand on the doorknob. The
photographer fingered his shutter release....
Good never afterward could tell exactly how it all happened. He never
could see in his mind's eye the signal from Furniss. Yet he must have
seen it, else the door would never have been opened.
All he knew at the moment, and all he could ever remember, was a sudden
blinding flash of light, with a dull roar, and he was staring past a
roomful of men straight into the eyes of--Judge Wolcott. They were wide
with recognition and helpless terror.
Then he was conscious of a rush of scurrying feet, and a large man
pushing over a chair in front--making for him.
It flashed over him that this was Hennessy, acting as if the whole thing
had been planned and rehearsed. He laughed unconsciously, as if in a
dream. It _had_ been rehearsed. As the big man reached the threshold,
his eyes flaming, his nostrils dilated, his jaw open, like some mad
bull, Good's arm straightened mechanically. The blazing eyes and red
nostrils vanished, and his knuckles hurt him vaguely. Then the lights
went out in the other room, and he made for the door. He felt sick to
his stomach when he reached the street, and something seemed to press on
his temples till he wanted to scream.
But the horrible feeling of dread had vanished. He knew now what he had
feared. And he understood the light in Furniss' eyes. For a moment he
stood on the street-corner, swaying like a drunken man, before his
shoulders straightened and his jaw set, and he made for a taxi.
The office was filled with suppressed excitement when he reached it.
Bassett was chewing one of his interminable cigars, but the gleam in his
eyes betokened the fires in his soul. Bassett wanted very much to get on
the table and howl, but had anyone even so much as suspected that he was
not ice, he would never have recovered from the humiliation.
"Great stuff," he said with exaggerated passiveness. "First galleys will
be up soon. Furniss had most of the story written before he pulled the
thing off. Great lad, Furniss."
But Good, his face grey, the skin, like old parchment, drawn tight to
bursting over his high cheek bones, said never a word. He sank into a
chair, staring straight before him.
"But the picture's the thing," went on Bassett, in a tone he might have
employed in discussing a press-drive. "It ought to set this town by the
ears. Wolcott's a big fish to land. Church pillar and all that. Wonder
what made him fall. Never had anything on him before. Shouldn't wonder
if he shot himself," he added, quite indifferently.
Presently a boy brought in the first batch of proofs. Bassett leaped to
his desk and buried himself in them. As his pencil moved, fragmentary
sentences slipped from his mouth. "Great stuff!"--"Holy Eliza, what a
shock to the silk-stockings!"--"St. Viateur's'll need a new
vestryman."--"Furniss--you're a bear!"--
Good rose and read listlessly over his shoulder. Then he fell to pacing
slowly back and forth.
"Plate developed?" he asked finally, in a forced, dead tone.
"Bully--bully--" muttered Bassett. "What? The plate--oh--guess so. Why?"
"I want it."
Bassett turned to his telephone. In a few moments a boy arrived with the
negative in his hand. The editor reached for it, but Good anticipated
him. He took the plate and stood staring at it stupidly.
In the meantime Furniss had entered.
"It's all in," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Not bad--eh?"
"Best ever," said Bassett shortly. "You're some kid, Furniss." The
reporter smiled happily. He wanted no more. Then he turned to Good, and
studied him narrowly. But the tall man, his eyes still fixed on the
plate, and his face drawn as if in physical pain, took no notice of him.
There was silence in the room, broken only by the rustle as Bassett
mulled over the proofs.
Then there was a crash. The negative lay on the desk ... in fragments.
"Good God!" Furniss' hand was poised in mid-air, as if he had been
turned to stone. Bassett's eyes were staring like a madman's.
Good leaned over and picking up the proofs on the desk, fell to tearing
them slowly to bits. At each tear a spasm of pain crossed Furniss' face.
But he remained transfixed.
"I guess--we won't--run this," said Good dully, as if speaking to
himself.
The words brought Bassett to life. Like an avalanche, prayers, threats,
entreaties, oaths, poured from his lips. He stormed up and down the
office, his fists clenched, his clothes awry, his hair tousled. Suddenly
he subsided, and in a tone like a girl's, and with a manner which one
might use with insanity, he made his entreaties. Then, as suddenly, he
burst into frenzy again.
Good, staring straight before him, still tearing the proofs into shreds,
made no sign.
Furniss was silent too. He stared at Good unwinking, as lifeless as if
carved from ivory, but with such a look of horror in his face as even
Bassett, well-nigh mad with surprise and disappointment, never
afterwards forgot. Then, without warning, the look of horror faded. He
laughed--bitterly, but easily.
"You see, Bassett--I told you--it's just an ordinary newspaper." He
laughed again. The sound sent a shiver down Good's spine. He seemed to
hear it echoing and re-echoing in his ears as Furniss went out, the door
slamming behind him.
When he had gone, Good turned and faced Bassett, who ceased alike to
storm and to plead. The editor was sitting in his chair, chewing his
cigar, already regretting that he had so far lost control of himself.
"You don't understand, do you?" asked Good with ineffable sadness in his
voice.
"Yes," said Bassett, half bitterly, half sadly, "I understand."
The tall man smiled--if the pitiful, hopeless expression that came into
his face could be called a smile, and put his hand on the other's
shoulder.
"No," he said softly, "you don't."
As he went quietly out, from what seemed like a death-chamber, and felt
Bassett's hard eyes following him, he knew that in truth something very
precious had died that night.
In his own office he sat with his head in his hands.
"I'm not a machine--I'm only a man," he repeated over and over again,
until he heard the refrain without speaking. "If I could only make them
understand." His voice was helpless. He knew that he only half
understood himself.
How long he sat thus puzzling the mystery of his own nature, he never
knew. But presently he became aware that he was not alone. The room was
in only partial darkness, a street lamp filling it with a sickly glow.
He raised his eyes, and for a second time that night, met those of Judge
Wolcott. But they were different. The sharp terror had given place to
heavy pain.
"Hello," said Good, as if this was quite what he had expected.
"Mr. Good, I...." The Judge's voice was a pitiful travesty of its former
masterful assurance. Never before had the Judge been obliged so to
humble himself. "I don't know what I can say--only--I--I...."
"You want mercy," said Good brutally. He marvelled at the phrase. That
was not what he had meant to say. It seemed to come from lips quite
beyond his control.
"Not for myself." The old man's tone was inexpressibly sad, yet not
without a certain dignity. "There are my daughters. I--I--would spare
them."
"Belated, eh--a bit, don't you think?" Again Good was amazed at his
cruelty. He seemed to be in the grasp of devils.
The Judge hung his head. "I don't know what to say," he sighed brokenly.
"I only hoped--"
"That you could come snivelling to me and beg off, for the sake of your
daughters, eh? Well--look here, my friend. You've given us the greatest
scoop of the year." Good's tone was as hard as adamant, though there
were tears in his heart. "To save your daughters from disgrace, you'd
have us give up the thing we live for."
"I know--I know--but is it so much?"
"It's everything. But let that pass. Here's a thing that counts. Has it
occurred to you what would happen to _me_ if I listened to you?"
"To you?"
"Yes. If I kill this story, my work here ends. By the standards of those
about me I'd be a traitor. I've preached truth without fear or
favour--you understand--without fear or favour. I've fought pull with
everything I've got. And now you'd have me ... man, it's a test--can't
you see--it's a test!" Good's voice changed suddenly. From the court,
passing sentence, he had become the condemned, pleading for clemency.
The old man drew himself up. "I see. I did not--wholly understand. It
is--inevitable."
There was indescribable pathos in the resignation with which he spoke.
"It is inevitable," he repeated softly. Then he turned to go.
"Why don't you see Wynrod?" asked Good with sudden harshness.
The other man laughed mirthlessly. "He is the one person from whom I'd
keep--this," he said shortly. "He--he--cares for me--now...."
Good's voice changed again, and grew soft. "Judge," he asked quietly,
almost indifferently, "what caused it all?"
The old man's fine white head fell on his chest, and Good felt glad, for
him, in his bitter shame, that it was dark.
"I had rather not speak of that," he said wearily. "What is done is
done." He rose to go. Good waited until his hand was on the doorknob.
"Wait," he whispered chokingly. His voice was lifeless. "I was joking,
you know. It's all right. It's all right," he repeated, as if the words
were forced from him. "The story's dead."
"I don't understand...."
"The story's killed, I tell you. You can read to-morrow's _Dispatch_
without a tremble."
"You mean...?" The old man was clutching at his collar as if it hurt
him. "You mean...?"
"For the third time--the story's dead."
"Did Roger--?"
"He knows nothing about it."
"Then you--it _was_ you?"
"Yes--it was I." The Judge never forgot the unutterable hopelessness of
Good's tone as those four words crept slowly from him.
"How can I ever...." The old man made for Good, his hand outstretched.
But the latter recoiled.
"I'd rather you wouldn't. You owe me--nothing."
The Judge hesitated, not knowing what to do or say. Good was the first
to speak, a subtle note in his voice, not easy to analyse.
"That liability law," he said abruptly. "It's constitutional?"
"I--er--think so."
"You're certain of it?" Good's voice had suddenly become like steel, and
the old man seemed to grow visibly smaller before the keen eyes
penetrating to the innermost recesses of his soul.
"Yes--I--I'm quite sure of it."
"Your mind is fully made up, of course." The meaning behind the words
was unmistakable. The Judge took his cue at once.
"Absolutely."
"Good night," said Good.
"But I--" The Judge hesitated.
"Good night," repeated the tall man with a finality which brooked no
question.
The old man stood embarrassedly looking at him for a moment. Then he
went out, softly closing the door behind him.
Good sat staring after him, a crooked little smile twisting his lips,
his body looking oddly shrunken and weak.
And there he sat unmoving, until he heard the rumble of the trucks in
the street below and knew that the first edition was on its way to the
world. Then he went out.
From his office he went down to the sub-basement, where the presses
ground spruce forests into newspapers. For a little while he stood
watching the great machines with the virgin white rolling smoothly
through them like threads in a loom. He had never lost his fascination
for this alchemy of power, and now, at his darkest hour, the wonder of
it filled him as never before, and the roaring song seemed the sweetest
sound he had ever heard.
He was buried in his dream and the man in overalls who approached him
seemed but a corporeal manifestation of an idea. When he spoke it was
not to a man, but to a wizard who bore the keys of truth. His soul
whispered to the soul of the machines. His words stumbled far behind.
"What a marvel! What power! What magic! What possibilities unthought
of ... oh, the press...."
But it was only a pressman, rather more than usually tired, who
answered.
"Yes, she's a pretty good old girl. But say, you oughta see the new
tubular duplex they're gettin' out! It's got this skinned a mile. Why
say...."
Good's revery faded. Reality obtruded. This poor Prometheus, dabbling
boastfully with the fire of the gods--ah, well ... who that read _The
Dispatch_ on the morrow, with his toast and coffee, would know the
magic, the wonder, the poetry in his hands? Would it be ought but a
newspaper to a single one? Blind world!
"What drives the presses?" he asked dreamily.
"Well, this one has a G. E. polyphase, monitor control, with ..." began
the pressman. But the words fell on empty air. The other man had gone.