Stevens called up Georgia's room in the morning to ask how she had
slept and she reported, "Well--that is, pretty well," which wasn't
true, for she had tossed wretchedly through the night. By careful
brushing and buying a shirtwaist she managed to measurably freshen her
appearance, though she reached the office with tired eyes and hectic
splotches beneath her eyes. Al was there before her waiting with white
face.
"Georgia," he began miserably, "I've been hunting the town for you.
Where have you been?"
"Alone."
"You've frightened us half to death. Mother's sick over it."
"You can have Jim in the house, or me, but not both of us."
She would give him no more satisfaction, and he was turning away angry
at her obstinacy, when Mason came up to greet her.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
Al quickly divined that here was the man. It was written in the way he
looked at her, and in Georgia's sudden sidelong glance at Al to see if
he saw.
"I'd like a word with you," said the brother to the lover, tapping him
on the shoulder with studied rudeness, "now."
Stevens didn't understand the situation, but he was properly resentful,
and lowered at the stranger. In these subtle days of commerce,
finger-tips on collar bones may convey all that was once meant by a
glove in the face.
"My brother, Mr. Stevens," she explained. They did not shake hands.
Mason was not quite sure from the young fellow's expression just what
might happen, but he was sure it had better not happen right there.
"Let's get out of the office--and you can have as many words as you
want," said he. Georgia arose to go with them.
"No, don't you come," said Stevens.
"I think perhaps it would be better."
"But it wouldn't. You stay here," the man answered with great
positiveness. She sank obediently in the chair, to the disgusted
amazement of her brother, and let them go alone.
"Were you out with her last night?"
"Yes."
The lad sunk his hand to his coat pocket, his wild young brain aflame
with violence and romance and vengeance and the memory of Moxey's
sweetheart's uncle who had slain the despoiler of his home. Stevens
was near death and he knew it, but he never batted an eye as Al
reported later to Moxey.
"I knew it damned well. She said she was alone." His hand tightened
on the automatic, pressing down the safety lock, and he pointed the
gun, so that he could shoot through his pocket and kill.
"She was, after eleven. I left her then."
"Prove it. You've got to," insultingly.
"Go look at the hotel register, for the name of Miss Georgia Talbot."
Al grunted. Here was a concrete fact--subject to verification, yes or
no. "All right," he vouchsafed curtly, "if it turns out that way--but
one more thing--keep away from her after this altogether--understand."
Al shot out his jaw and swung around his pocket with the barrel
pointing straight at Stevens' middle. He looked just then a good deal
like a young tough delivering a serious threat, which he was.
Stevens shoved his derby hat back and laughed. "If you think you can
run me around with the pop-gun, guess again. I'm going to marry
Georgia and you're coming to the wedding," he stepped right up to the
gun and tapped Al sharply on the shoulder, "understand."
It was perhaps a chancy thing to do, for the lad had worked himself
into a state of self-righteous anger, and his vanity was savagely
exulted by the sensation of putting it over on a full-grown man to his
face. But Stevens had acted instinctively as he frequently did in
stressful moment and his instinct played him true this time.
"She ain't allowed to marry again, so you keep off the grass," he
answered loudly, but his voice broke and shot up an octave as he took
his hand from his pocket to clench his fist and shake it in the other's
face.
Whereat Stevens knew he had him and answered quietly in his most
matter-of-fact business tones, "That's for her to say--and she's said
it." He smiled. "You know she's free, white, and twenty-one."
Al, not sure just what his next step ought to be, walked away, probably
to consult with Moxey, muttering as he went, "Well, remember I warned
you."
Stevens returned to the office and explained the incident briefly to
Georgia, "Oh, the kid was excited at first, but I reassured him."
While they were talking the old man rang her buzzer and asked her to
have Mr. Stevens come in.
A dark, beaked, heavy-browed, much-dressed gentleman was in the old
man's office, introduced to Mason as Mr. Silverman.
Mr. Silverman deserves a paragraph or two. He was said to be a Polish,
a Russian or a Spanish Jew, but nobody knew for sure or dared ask him,
for he didn't like it. At sixteen or thereabouts, he came to the
company as an office boy, and in two months was indispensable. At
thirty-seven, owing partly to the conscientious performance of his
duties and more to his earnestness in pulling feet from the rungs above
him, and stamping fingers from the rungs below, he was elected to a
position especially created for him, to-wit, Executive Secretary to the
President of The Eastern Life Insurance Company of New York, which gave
him everything to say about the running of it except the very last word.
Perhaps once a quarter he was reversed, and always on some extremely
important matter involving the investment of funds. This galled him
beyond measure, but he kept it to himself.
At the last annual election, he would have presented himself as a
candidate for president, or at least for first vice-president with
power to act, but after sizing up the way the proxies were running for
the new directorate, he knew that crowd would never stand for him, so
he squelched his own boom for the time being, and waited. The title
was re-conferred for the fifteenth time upon a charming but delicate
plutocrat of the fourth generation of New Yorkers, who was compelled to
spend his term health-hunting in European spas, where Mr. Silverman
took delight in sending him for decision a copious stream of
unimportant but vexatiously technical questions, which much disturbed
the invalid's serenity, for he had entered the company at the top, and
didn't know detail. Mr. Silverman himself settled the more important
matters, inasmuch as there wasn't time to send to Europe and wait for
an answer. Whenever he reached for a stronger hold, he had an
incontrovertible excuse, and he got to know Mr. Morgan personally.
He was stocky, with ample room for his digestion, and like most
fighting men, he had a good thick neck that carried plenty of blood to
his head. His unpleasantest trait was his shame of race, and his most
agreeable one an understanding love of music. His only exercise was
strong black cigars, and everyone on the company's payroll dreaded his
seemingly preternatural knowledge of what was going on.
"Mr. Stevens," said he, "sit down. I have heard of you." Then to
allow that pregnant remark to sink in he turned to Georgia. "Take
this, please: 'Mr. W. F. Plaisted, General Agent in charge S. W.
Division, Eastern Life Insurance Company, Kansas City, Mo. Dear Sir:
Please furnish the bearer, Mr. Mason Stevens, with whatever information
he desires. He is my personal representative. With kind regards,
Yours truly, Executive Secretary to the President.'
"That is all." He nodded to Georgia, and she departed. The old man
pussy-footed after her, leaving the other two together in his private
office.
"You are to take the nine o'clock train to-night for Kansas City to
prepare a report for me on why we aren't getting more business in the
town and our competitors less. Here are some letters from New York to
certain banks there which will admit you to their confidence. Find out
all you can about Plaisted and his office before you go to him. Send
me a night letter to my hotel every night as to your progress. Use
this code." He took a typewritten sheet of synonyms from his pocket.
"Should you cross the trail of another investigator for the Eastern,
you are not to reveal yourself to him. This point you are to bear in
mind." He paused for an answer.
"Yes, sir," said Stevens.
"Your expense money will be liberal; and mind, no talk--not even a hint
to your best girl. I suppose, of course, there is one." Mason smiled,
but did not answer. "I am told you are not married."
"No, sir."
"Perhaps it is just as well. Women are to live with, not to travel
with, and you're still traveling." Mr. Silverman lit a fifty-center,
and then, being a natural-born commander, topped off his instructions
with hopes of loot. "Good luck, young man. You're shaking hands with
your future on this trip."
Mason came from the interview consecrated to the task of getting the
goods on Plaisted. Going after him was like going after ivory in
Africa. Landing a prospect was as tame relatively as plugging ducks on
the Illinois River. For Plaisted had been a big man in the company in
his day, though getting a little old now. With solid connections
through Missouri, Kansas and the Southwest, if he fell, he'd fall with
a smash.
Mason rather fancied that in company politics he could see as far
through a grindstone as his neighbor, if it had a hole in it. He knew
that there was a hidden but bitter fight for control of the business
between the old New York society crowd who had inherited it, and the
younger abler men, under the leadership of Silverman, who had grown up
from the ranks. He knew that his own boss, the old man, lined up with
Silverman, but that Plaisted had delivered the south-western proxies in
a solid block, for the New York ticket. He therefore inferred that
Silverman didn't feel strong enough to remove Plaisted without a pretty
plausible reason and that he was being sent to Kansas City to find the
reason; and failing that, to make one, which, as it turned out, was
precisely what he did.
He set out on his mission with as little compunction as a soldier who
had received orders to shoot to kill. For, as he told himself, surely
Plaisted had also pulled down men in his time. Life is a battle.
Therefore is it not well to be with the conqueror and share in the cut?
If he could now make good with Silverman, and, more especially,
convince him that he was a live one who would keep on making good, the
Jew would certainly recognize him in the reorganization. He had
visions of tooling along the macadam in his Panno Six to a vined house
in the suburbs, hidden by tall trees, where, in a trailing gown,
Georgia would walk through her flowers to meet him, with a small hand
clinging to each of hers.
Plaisted had now become, to all intents and purposes, his competitor;
and going after your competitors is the life of trade. As for Mrs.
Plaisted--if there was one--who was she against Georgia?