LABLACHE'S "COUP"
Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back
office. He preferred a basket chair--he knew its value. He had tried
other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support
his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive--there is
nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated
strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay
was reduced to a minimum.
His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding
stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire
shining through the mica sides of the firebox.
A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness
which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the
desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the
noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he
turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper
dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of
impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and
he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.
At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he
slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His
slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window.
The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the
glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black--he could see
nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left
the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He
appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.
Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into
it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that
he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the
quicks of his finger-nails.
Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender ponderously
rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form
of Pedro Mancha. There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had
again secured the door. Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and
mask-like face to the newcomer. He did not suggest that his visitor
should sit down. He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.
"Well?--been drinking."
The latter part of his remark was an assertion. He knew the Mexican
well. The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race,
and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it. The man was
not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.
"Guess you've hit it right thar," he retorted indifferently.
It was noticeable that this man had adopted the high-pitched, keen tone
and pronounced accent of the typical "South-Westerner." In truth he was
a border Mexican; a type of man closely allied to the "greaser." He was
a perfect scoundrel, who had doubtless departed from his native land for
the benefit of that fair but swarming hornet's nest.
"It's a pity when you have business on hand you can't leave that 'stuff'
alone."
Lablache made no effort to conceal his contempt. He even allowed his
mask-like face to emphasize his words.
"You're almighty pertickler, mister. You ask for dirty work to be done,
an' when that dirty work's done, gorl-darn-it you croak like a
flannel-mouthed temperance lecturer. Guess I came hyar to talk straight
biz. Jest leave the temperance track, an' hit the main trail."
Pedro's face was not pretty to look upon. The ring of white round the
pupils of his eyes gave an impression of insanity or animal ferocity.
The latter was his chief characteristic. His face was thin and scored
with scars, mainly long and narrow. These, in a measure, testified to
his past. His mouth, half hidden beneath a straggling mustache, was his
worst feature. One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined
inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of
decay.
The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment. Lablache could in no
way terrorize this desperado. Like all his kind this man was ready to
sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such
services was sufficiently exorbitant. He was equally ready to play his
employer up should any one else offer a higher price. But Lablache, when
dealing with such men, took no chances. He rarely employed this sort of
man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it
was policy to be liberal. Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently
the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement,
whilst people wondered where he got his money from. Somehow they never
thought of Lablache being the source of this man's means; the
money-lender was not fond of parting.
"You are right, I am particular. When I pay for work to be done I don't
want gassing over a bar. I know what you are when the whisky is in you."
Lablache stood with his great back to the fire watching his man from
beneath his heavy lids. Bad as he was himself the presence of this man
filled him with loathing. Possibly deep down, somewhere in that organ he
was pleased to consider his heart, he had a faint glimmer of respect for
an honest man. The Mexican laughed harshly.
"Guess all you know of me, mister, wouldn't make a pile o' literature.
But say, what's the game to-night?"
Lablache was gnawing his fingers.
"How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply.
"You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short--he wouldn't play for
long."
"I'm aware of that. How much?"
Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate
what he should be paid for his work.
"See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to
pay me?"
The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied
he saw a good deal over this night's work.
"You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was
quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather
than otherwise. He knew he held all the cards in his hands--he generally
did in dealing with men of this stamp. "To you, the amounts he lost are
not worth the paper they are written on. You could never realize them.
He couldn't meet 'em."
Lablache leisurely took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box. He coughed
and sneezed voluminously. His indifferent coolness, his air of
patronage, aggravated the Mexican while it alarmed him. The deal he
anticipated began to assume lesser proportions.
"Which means, I take it, you've a notion you'd like the feel of those
same papers."
Mancha had come to drive a bargain. He was aware that the I.O.U.'s he
held would take some time to realize on, in the proper quarter, but, at
the same time, he was quite aware of the fact that Bunning-Ford would
ultimately meet them.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders with apparent indifference--he meant to
have them.
"What do you want for the debts? I am prepared to buy--at a reasonable
figure."
The Mexican propped himself comfortably upon the corner of the desk.
"Say, guess we're talkin' biz, now. His 'lordship' is due to ante up the
trifle of seven thousand dollars--"
The fellow was rummaging in an inside pocket for the slips of paper. His
eyes never left his companion's face. The amount startled Lablache, but
he did not move a muscle.
"You did your work well, Pedro," he said, allowing himself, for the
first time in this conversation, to recognize that the Mexican had a
name. He warmed towards a man who was capable of doing another down for
such a sum in such a short space of time. "I'll treat you well. Two
thousand spot cash, and you hand over the I.O.U.'s. What say? Is it a
go?"
"Be damned to you. Two thousand for a certain seven? Not me. Say, what
d'ye do with the skin when you eat a bananny? Sole your boots with it?
Gee-whiz! You do fling your bills around."
The Mexican laughed derisively as he jammed the papers back into his
pocket. But he knew that he would have to sell at the other's price.
Lablache moved heavily towards his desk. Selecting a book he opened it
at a certain page.
"You can keep them if you like. But you may as well understand your
position. What's Bunning-Ford worth? What's his ranch worth?"
The other suggested a figure much below the real value.
"It's worth more than that. Fifty thousand if it's worth a cent,"
Lablache said expansively. "I don't want to do you, my friend, but as
you said we're talking business now. Here is his account with me, you
see," pointing to the entries. "I hold thirty-five thousand on first
mortgage and twenty thousand on bill of sale. In all fifty-five
thousand, and his interest twelve months in arrears. Now, you refuse to
part with those papers at my price, and I'll sell him up. You will then
get not one cent of your money."
The money-lender permitted himself to smile a grim, cold smile. He had
been careful to make no mention of Bunning-Ford's further assets. He had
quite forgotten to speak of a certain band of cattle which he knew his
intended victim to possess. It was a well-known thing that Lablache knew
more of the financial affairs of the people of the settlement than any
one else; doubtless the Mexican thought only of "Lord" Bill's ranch.
Mancha shifted his position uneasily. But there was a cunning look on
his face as he retorted swiftly,--
"You're a'mighty hasty to lay your hands on his reckoning. How's it that
you're ready to part two thou' for 'em?"
There was a moment's silence as the two men eyed each other. It seemed
as if each were endeavoring to fathom the other's thoughts. Then the
money-lender spoke, and his voice conveyed a concentration of hate that
bit upon the air with an incisiveness which startled his companion.
"Because I intend to crush him as I would a rattlesnake. Because I wish
to ruin him so that he will be left in my debt. So that I can hound him
from this place by holding that debt over his head. It is worth two
thousand to me to possess that power. Now, will you part?"
This explanation appealed to the worst side of the Mexican's nature.
This hatred was after his own heart. Lablache was aware that such would
be the case. That is why he made it. He was accustomed to play upon the
feelings of people with whom he dealt--as well as their pocket. Pedro
Mancha grinned complacently. He thought he understood his employer.
"Hand over the bills. Guess I'll part. The price is slim, but it's not a
bad deal."
Lablache oozed over to the safe. He opened it, keeping one heavy eye
upon his companion. He took no chances--he trusted no one, especially
Pedro Mancha. Presently he returned with a roll of notes. It contained
the exact amount. The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the
green-backed bills. His lips moistened beneath his mustache--his eyes
looked wilder than ever. Lablache understood his customer thoroughly. A
loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket. It is probable that the
brown-faced desperado knew this.
At last the money-lender held out the money. He held out both hands, one
to give and the other to receive. Pedro passed him the I.O.U.'s and took
the bills. One swift glance assured Lablache that the coveted papers
were all there. Then he pointed to the door.
"Our transaction is over. Go!"
He had had enough of his companion. He had no hesitation in thus
peremptorily dismissing him.
"You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be
civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine."
"I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes
gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them
impelled him towards the door. He moved backwards, keeping his face
turned towards the money-lender. At this moment Lablache was at his
best. His was a dominating personality. There was no cowardice in his
nature--at least no physical cowardice. Doubtless, had it come to a
struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey
to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a
struggle. He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a
would-be assailant might have. Will and unflinching courage are splendid
assets. And, amongst others, this man possessed both.
Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and
passed out. Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping
heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened. He was
well under cover. The door was open. He was behind it. He knew better
than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him
from without. Then he kicked the door to. Making a complete circuit of
the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where
he swiftly locked and bolted it. Then he drew an iron shutter across the
light panelling and secured it.
"Good," he muttered, as, sucking in a heavy breath, he returned to the
stove and turned his back to it. "It's as well to understand Mexican
nature."
Then he lounged into his basket chair and rubbed his fleshy hands
reflectively. There was a triumphant look upon his repulsive features.
"Quite right, friend Pedro, it's not a bad deal," he said to himself,
blinking at the red light of the fire. "Not half bad. Seven thousand
dollars for two thousand dollars, and every cent of it realizable." He
shook with inward mirth. "The Hon. William Bunning-Ford will now have to
disgorge every stick of his estate. Good, good!"
Then he relapsed into deep thought. Presently he roused himself from his
reverie and prepared for bed.
"But I'll give him a chance. Yes, I'll give him a chance," he muttered,
as, after undergoing the simple operation of removing his coat, he
stretched himself upon his bed and drew the blankets about him. "If
he'll consent to renounce any claim, fancied or otherwise, he may have
to Joaquina Allandale's regard I'll refrain from selling him up. Yes,
Verner Lablache will forego his money--for a time."
The great bed shook as the monumental money-lender suppressed a chuckle.
Then he turned over, and his stertorous inhalations soon suggested that
the great man slept.
Shylock, the Jew, determined on having his pound of flesh. But a woman
outwitted him.