ROUT AT EVERY POINT
Great dangers, which in the physical world turn the coward at bay into
the most dangerous of antagonists, often in the realm of the mind excite
a similar phenomenon. Bofinger, before the shock of the revelation,
remained but a moment confused and staring. The situation flashed over
him,--he divined the conspiracy. Calling hurriedly to the policeman to
have his wife sent home, he cleared the sidewalk with a bound and
started on the trail of a car, hat in hand, his coat-tails lashing the
frosty air. But half-way, meeting a hansom meandering towards him
through the storm, he turned with a cry of joy and bounded into it,
almost jolting the sleepy driver from his seat.
"Fargus's Broadway Oyster House!" he shouted. "Ten dollars an
hour--drive like the devil!"
The hansom shaved the corner, hung a moment on one wheel and rocked up
the street. In Bofinger there were two movements, a physical collapse,
as he sank back inertly into the corner, and an acute nervous excitation
of the mental faculties which, soaring above the surrender of the body,
absorbed in a few minutes, with the compressed energy of so many hours,
every detail of his perilous situation. His reflections, jumbled and
rapid as a kaleidoscope, ran thus:
"Two thirds gone at a blow, two thirds of a million lost forever by his
turning up! How in the devil did he manage it? The third, the third, the
dower right! What will become of that? Can it be saved? What is the law?
Does the second marriage forfeit the dower of the first, if the husband
turns up? If so we are ruined. There's not a doubt in the world that
there was a plot. Fargus planned it all out. What am I going to do? I
must get hold of him--yes--or he'll disappear again. If he goes
anywhere he'll go to one of his Oyster Houses to be recognized again. He
must have discovered everything seven years ago, but how--not from me.
From Sheila? She talked perhaps in her sleep, or he found her accounts
and guessed the rest. If he got a clew he could have put a detective on
it and everything would have come out. But what gave him his clew? Not
me. Sheila? But she had no reason to ruin herself."
At this point he took his head in his hands and said desperately:
"I'm wasting time. What does it matter how it happened. That's not the
point. Two thirds gone and only the dower right left--if it is left; why
should it be left? The law is probably the other way. What am I going to
do?"
All at once he sat up.
"I have it. Bring an action of conspiracy against Fargus with intent to
defraud his wife of her dower rights. Hell, am I losing my wits! Of
course. Desertion and conspiracy to defraud. Plain as day! But the devil
of it is I must get hold of him. Oh, what a fool I was to let him slip
away again! Anyhow I can get an injunction on the property this
afternoon, at once. But first for Fargus!"
At the restaurant he found everything in bewilderment. An hour before,
Fargus had entered, and after having been recognized by his old
employees had departed.
"Oh, the scoundrel!" he cried, rushing out, "he has established his
identity and has gotten off."
As he fled from the restaurant his shoulder was suddenly clutched and
turning in alarm he beheld the greedy features of Sammamon, who, running
out of the court-house at his heels, had caught the address flung to the
cabman. The money-lender, panting and distracted, cried to him all out
of breath:
"Where you going, Mr. Bofinker? What you going to do? What about my
money?"
"Sammamon, you idiot," Bofinger cried with an oath, "don't stop me!
I've got to have every moment. You fool, I'm not running away! If you
don't believe it, get in there and go with me."
And half lifting him he pounced into the hansom, crying:
"To Fargus's Chop House, Broadway near Fortieth."
"You pay?" Sammamon cried menacingly as the hansom swung into its
reckless course. The rapacious fingers instinctively closed over
Bofinger's sleeve as he added aggressively: "How you pay now?"
"Sammamon, I've a mind to run you out of business!" Bofinger cried
furiously. "Take your hand off me and let me alone! Can't you see I've
got enough to think over."
"You pay?" the money-lender persisted doggedly.
"Damn you, of course I'll pay you!" Bofinger cried. "See here, we lose
two thirds by that devil's turning up, but there's always the dower
right which belongs to my wife,--a third, if you know enough law to
know that. A third is a third of a million, and that's safe in real
estate, where he can't convert it. You've got nothing to worry over."
"What you doing now?" Sammamon said, but half convinced.
"Trying to get hold of Fargus, of course," Bofinger said irritably,
"before he can get away, to delay matters."
The hansom jerked to a stop, Bofinger rushed into the restaurant while
Sammamon mounted guard at the door, heedless of the rush of snow. The
lawyer quickly returned, having received another setback. Fargus had
appeared and departed. With a last hope Bofinger drove to the Westside
establishment, relapsing moodily into silence. The grim, persistent
figure of the money-lender began to affect him with a foreboding of
disaster. At the Oyster Parlors, the same story. Then Bofinger,
abandoning any hope of surprising Fargus, returned to the hansom and
cried savagely:
"To the Union Bank! Sammamon, where can I put you down?"
"No, no," Sammamon replied with a wily shake of his head. "I go too."
"Sammamon, I'll pitch you out!" the lawyer cried, exasperated.
"You pay? Where you get the money?" the money-lender said defiantly.
"Look here, will you get out!"
"I go too," Sammamon repeated.
Bofinger in a rage, stopped the cab, took the money-lender by the collar
and deposited him roughly in the street, a move which later he was to
regret. Then changing his mind he drove to the court where he had a
warrant issued for Fargus's arrest as well as an injunction on the Union
Bank on any sums standing in the name of Max Fargus. Returning to his
office he hurriedly put himself in communication with his particular
allies in the detective force, imploring them to ransack the city for a
trace of Fargus.
Armed with his injunction he went next to the Union Bank, where he had
himself announced to Gilday, the president, whom he knew.
Lawrence Gilday was a small, dapper, smiling man, fastidious in his
dress, with a general air of bon viveur, which deceived at first. The
gamblers and politicians esteemed him greatly for his probity and
confided in him without reserve. Thanks to this peculiar personality the
Union Bank had built itself up a number of blind accounts, personal and
political. To a few who were initiated, Gilday was recognized as the
safe intermediary between the upper world of finance and fashion and the
leaders of the under regions in the numerous secret occasions where
these extremes desire to meet with mutual profit. Gilday, who never
surrendered his position of quiet superiority, received Bofinger with
quick circumstantial affability and said without rising:
"Well, Bofinger, what can I do for you to-day?"
"Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said, sitting down awkwardly and secretly
admiring, despite all his agitation, the neat red tie which he could not
have worn without its crying out to the street, "I've got an injunction
here that I've got to serve on you immediately."
"Is it a personal matter?" Gilday said, frowning.
"No, no," Bofinger said hastily, "it's simply an injunction on the
account of one of your depositors, pending the result of an action at
law."
Gilday, divining that there was more in reserve, extended his hand,
wondering under what scheme of blackmail the lawyer was now engaged.
"Well, what account is it?"
"The account of Max Fargus," Bofinger replied, "and you'll oblige me if
you will notify your cashier at once."
"Have we such an account?" Gilday asked with a doubtful look, which
Bofinger thought the perfection of acting. "Max Fargus? The Max Fargus I
knew has been dead some time."
"Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said smiling, "I know everything. Besides there
is no longer any need of concealment, as Max Fargus has chosen to show
himself to-day."
"Max Fargus--the restaurant proprietor?" cried Gilday. "The man who was
murdered in Mexico?"
Bofinger, with a shrug of his shoulders, said:
"I wouldn't ask you to break professional secrecy, Mr. Gilday, but I
tell you everything has come out and concealment is no longer possible."
Gilday, who had rung, handed a slip of paper to the clerk, saying:
"Is there any such account? Mr. Bofinger," he continued, "I can assure
you there is some mistake. Mr. Fargus I knew very well. We have heard
nothing from him for many years."
"One question," said Bofinger: "Don't Fargus's restaurants bank with
you?"
"There is no reason why I should not answer that," the banker replied
carefully. "Certainly they do."
At this moment the messenger returned, saying:
"The account of Max Fargus, sir, expired seven years and two months
ago."
"And will you give me your word of honor," Bofinger said with a smile,
"that Max Fargus has no account here under any other name? But that, of
course, Mr. Gilday, I realize I have no right to ask. However--"
"One moment," Gilday interrupted, "it's true that I should not
ordinarily answer such a question; but in the present case, I assure you
that we have no dealings directly or indirectly with Mr. Max Fargus."
Bofinger shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly, as a man who does not
hold a falsehood against another, and replied:
"And may I ask how you reconciled that with your statement that the
restaurant account is still with you?"
"But what has that to do with Max Fargus?" Gilday asked with a trace of
impatience. "The Max Fargus Restaurant Company is an independent firm."
"Since when?" Bofinger said, smiling at what seemed to him the
successive blunders of the banker.
"Since seven years ago. I remember the transaction perfectly," Gilday
replied. "A month before his departure Mr. Fargus sold outright his
various restaurants, stipulating only that the name should be retained
for eight years. Mr. MacGruder, a client of mine, bought the property,
being only too glad to retain the name which has always been a guarantee
with the public. For that reason the deal was a secret one."
"Mr. Gilday," Bofinger said sharply, thinking that the banker had abused
his good nature long enough. "Do you forget the simple fact that no man
can transfer his property without his wife's consent? To clear matters
up, let me tell you now that I represent the widow of Max Fargus, and
that she is my wife."
"Thank you, I am aware of such elemental law. I now repeat to you that
Max Fargus sold out seven years ago--with the consent of his wife."
"Mr. Gilday, that is impossible!" Bofinger said, losing patience.
"Mr. Bofinger, I assure you, you are laboring under a misunderstanding.
Mrs. Fargus, in my presence, gave her written consent willingly and, I
may add, eagerly."
Bofinger looked at him, saw he spoke the truth and collapsed. Gilday
sprang forward to ring, then, changing his mind, went quickly to the
table and seizing a glass of water dashed it in his face. Bofinger, who
had had a spell of vertigo, staggered to his feet with such an ashen
face that Gilday even was moved to cry:
"In God's name, what is the matter?"
"I'm wiped out!" Bofinger exclaimed, and raising his fists he cried,
"Oh, that devil!" Then controlling himself with an effort he asked, "Mr.
Gilday, in the name of pity, tell me if you know to what bank Fargus
transferred his money."
"Mr. MacGruder paid him with a check," Gilday said after a moment's
reflection. "And on the following day Mr. Fargus drew out his entire
account."
"Was he paid with a check?"
"In cash."
Bofinger, who thus lost his last hope of tracing the movements of
Fargus, started to leave the room without quite realizing what he did or
said, when Gilday retained him.
"But how is it possible," he said with a glance replete with curiosity,
"that you knew nothing about this? Surely you are a partner of Hyman
Groll?"
Bofinger shook his head.
"No--no, not for a long while."
"Ah," Gilday ejaculated, at once mystified and enlightened. Then he
added, "Do you lose much?"
"Everything!" Bofinger answered, and disappeared.
Everything for him meant no longer the dreamed-of millions, nor the
half, nor the dower right; but, so swiftly had the perspective narrowed,
every cent he had in the world. He had entered the bank, thanks to his
plan of suing for conspiracy, certain of retaining at least $300,000,
sum substantial and not to be despised. He staggered out with everything
swept away into certain bankruptcy, thinking only of one thing, to reach
his bank and withdraw the two thousand and odd dollars he had deposited
the day before.
Still another shock was reserved for him. At the wicket the paying
teller refused to honor his draft, saying:
"Sorry, Mr. Bofinger, but I've been served with an order restraining me
from paying anything over to you."
"In whose name?" he cried aghast, and at a loss to divine the direction
of the blow.
"Leopold Sammamon."
He withdrew the check saying nothing, accepting the reverse dully, too
bewildered not to imagine the finger of retribution, and yielding all
at once to that superstitious dread which attacks the scoffer amid the
blasts of disaster. At this moment he feared and believed in God.