THE GOLDEN FLOOD
By Edwin Lefevre
Illustrated By W. R. Leigh
New York
McClure, Phillips & Co.
1905
TO
DANIEL GRAY REID
PART ONE: THE FLOOD
The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest
“Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for
publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced
perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be
oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the
underwriters.
“What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though
hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the
wrong place, shivered.
“This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to
make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.”
The president looked at the card. He read on it:
_MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL_
“Who sent him to us?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,”
answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the
matter.
The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.
“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt
it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he
spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a
subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:
“I will see him.”
He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him,
lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a
presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was
a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his
head majestically, and turned--an animated fragment of a glacier--until
his eyes rested on the stranger’s.
“Good-morning, sir,” he said politely.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man,
conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders,
clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes.
His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors.
Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared
whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on
a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president.
Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness,
blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar
to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.
“You are Mr.----” The president looked at the stranger’s card as though
he had left it unread until he had finished far more important business.
It really was unnecessary; but it had become a habit, which he lost only
when speaking to his equals or his superiors in wealth.
“Grinnell,” prompted the stranger, very calmly. He was so unimpressed by
the president that the president was impressed by him.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Williams tells me you wish to become one of our
depositors?”
“Yes, sir. I have here,” taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book,
“an Assay Office check on the Sub-Treasury. It is for a trifle over a
hundred thousand dollars.”
Even the greatest bank in Wall Street must have a kindly feeling toward
depositors of a hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Dawson permitted himself
to smile graciously.
“I am sure we shall be glad to have your account, Mr. Grinnell,” he
said. “You are in business in----” The slight arching of his eyebrows,
rather than the inflection of his voice, made his words a delicate
interrogation. He was a small, slender man, greyhaired and
grey-moustached, with an air of polite aloofness from trivialities. His
manners were what you might expect of a man whose grandfather had been
Minister to France, and had never forgotten it; nor had his children.
His self-possession was so great that it was not noticeable.
“I am not in any business, Mr. Dawson, unless,” said the young man
with a smile that deprived his voice of any semblance of pertness or of
premeditated discourtesy, “it is the business of depositing $103,648.67
with the Metropolitan National Bank. My friend, Professor Willetts, of
Columbia, gave me a letter of introduction. Here it is. I may say,
Mr. Dawson, that I haven’t the slightest intention of disturbing this
account, as far as I know now, for an indefinite period.” The president
read the letter. It was from the professor of metallurgy at Columbia,
who was an old acquaintance of Dawson’s. It merely said that George K.
Grinnell was one of his old students, a graduate of the School of
Mines, who had asked him to suggest a safe bank of deposit. This the
Metropolitan certainly was. He had asked his young friend to attach his
own signature at the bottom, since Grinnell had no other bank accounts,
and no other way of having his signature verified. Mr. Grinnell had said
he wished his money to be absolutely safe, and Professor Willetts took
great pleasure in sending him to Mr. Dawson.
Mr. Dawson bowed his head--an acquiescence meant to be encouraging.
To the young man the necessity for such encouragement was not clear.
Possibly it showed in his eyes, for Mr. Dawson said very politely, in
an almost courtly way he had at times to show some people that an
aristocrat could do business aristocratically:
“It is not usual for us to accept accounts from strangers. We do not
really know.” very gently, “that you are the man to whom this letter was
given, nor that your signature is that of Mr. George K. Grinnell.”
The young man laughed pleasantly. “I see your position, Mr. Dawson, but,
really, I am not important enough to be impersonated by anybody. As for
my being George K. Grinnell, I’ve laboured under that impression for
twenty-nine years. I’ll have Professor Willetts in person introduce me,
if you wish. I have some letters----” He made a motion toward his breast
pocket, but Mr. Dawson held up a hand in polite dissent; he was above
suspicions. “And as for my signature, if you will send a clerk with me
to the Assay Office, next door they will doubtless verify it to your
satisfaction; I can just as easily bring legal tender notes, I suppose.
In any case, as I have no intention of touching this money for some time
to come, I suppose the bank will be safe from----”
“Oh,” interrupted Dawson, with a sort of subdued cordiality, “as I told
you before, while we do not usually take accounts from people of whom we
know nothing in a business way, we will make an exception in your case.”
That the young man might not think the bank’s eagerness for deposits
made its officers unbusinesslike, the president added, with a
politely explanatory smile: “Professor Willetts’s letter is sufficient
introduction. As you say you are not in business--”
He paused and looked at the young man for confirmation.
“No, sir; I happen to have this money, and I desire a safe place to
keep it in. I may bring a little more. It depends upon certain family
matters. But that is for the future to decide. In the meantime, I should
like to leave this money here, untouched.”
“Very well, sir.” The president pushed a button on his desk.
A bright-looking, neatly dressed office-boy appeared, his face
exaggeratedly attentive.
“Ask Mr. Williams to come in, please.” The office-boy turned on his
heels as by a military command, and hastened away. It was the bank’s
training; the president’s admirers said it showed his genius for
organization down to the smallest detail. Presently the assistant
cashier entered.
“Mr. Williams, Mr. Grinnell will be one of our most valued depositors.
We must show him that we appreciate his confidence in us. Kindly attend
to the necessary details.” Mr. Dawson paused. Perhaps his hesitancy
was meant as an invitation to Mr. George Kitchell Grinnell to vouchsafe
further information of a personal nature. But Mr. Grinnell said, with a
smile: “Many thanks, Mr. Dawson,” and Mr. Dawson smiled back, politely.
As the men turned to go, he took up the underwriting plan and forgot
all about the incident. It was a Thursday. It might as well have been a
Monday or a Tuesday; but it was not.
Mr. Williams called up Professor Willetts on the telephone, who said he
had given a letter of introduction to George K. Grinnell. He described
Grinnell’s appearance, and added that Grinnell had been one of his
students, and was quite well up on metallurgy, but was not, so far as
the professor knew, engaged in active business. He thought Grinnell had
some private means. The Assay Office people had identified Grinnell and
his signature. It was not much information, but it was enough.
On the following Thursday, after the close of the business day, Mr.
Dawson, reading over some routine memoranda submitted by the cashier,
found his gaze arrested by a line that told of the deposit of $151,008
by “George K. Grinnell.” He sent for the cashier.
“What about this $151,000 deposit by George K. Grinnell?” he asked.
“He deposited an Assay Office check, the same as he did last week.”
The president frowned. He was puzzled.
“If he should happen to make any further deposits of this character,
tell the receiving teller to say I should like to see him, please.”
“Very well, sir.”
The president turned to his desk again, and promptly forgot the
incident--forgot it for exactly one week. On the following Thursday,
shortly before noon, Williams, the assistant cashier--a short, stout
man, with an oleaginous smile--approached his feared chief.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dawson,”--the assistant cashier’s habitual attitude
before the president was one uninterrupted apology for existing at
all--“Mr. Grinnell is here.”
“Grinnell? Grinnell?” mused the president, frowning.
“He has just deposited $250,000--an Assay Office check, the same as last
Thursday. You said if he should----”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mr. Dawson sharply. “Tell him to be kind enough
to come in.” He muttered to himself: “That makes half a million in
gold in a fortnight. H’m!” When Mr. Dawson h’mmed to himself it meant
business--usually, woe to the vanquished!
He rose to greet the h’m-compelling depositor.
“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell?” He smiled with a cordiality that was more
than mere affability and extended his hand. The president’s grasp was
firm. Wall Street said that his soul had been in cold storage some
thirty thousand centuries before it came down to earth to animate
the body of Richard Dawson. But Mr. Dawson, just as there are men who
endeavour to seem honest by habitually looking you straight in the eyes,
believed that strong pressure must indicate genuine friendliness in a
hand clasp.
Mr. Grinnell smiled. There was not the faintest trace of hostility in
the young man’s smile; but it was not a fatuous smile, nevertheless.
“The cashier said you----”
“Yes; I told him to ask you to be good enough to see me. I hope I am not
inconveniencing you?”
“Not at all. But I fancy you are very busy.”
The president smiled in self-defence.
“Mr. Grinnell,” he said, with a sort of quizzical joviality, “you have
been a source of some--I’ll own up”--with the amused smile of men when
they confess to an essentially feminine sin--“curiosity. I tell you
frankly that I’d very much like to know more about you--what you are
doing, what you have done, what you intend to do. In the past fifteen
days you have deposited with us a half-million in gold.” He again
smiled; this time interrogatively.
“Mr. Dawson,” the young man answered, very seriously, though not in the
slightest degree rebukingly, “really I can add nothing to what I told
you when I first had the pleasure of seeing you. As I said then, I have
not the slightest intention of disturbing the account, not to the extent
of one cent, so far as I can see now. Indeed, you may safely assume that
this money will remain untouched for an indefinite period. I’d rather
keep the money here than in a safe-deposit vault. Still,” with a smile
for the first time, “if you think I’d better transfer my account to the
Eastern National, or the Marshall National, to save you further----”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Grinnell!” in a tone that conveyed to a nicety his
shock at being misunderstood, “I merely wished to learn more about you
from a natural business curiosity. We certainly are satisfied if you
are.”
“Well,” Grinnell said, smiling again, “I am twenty-nine years old,
single, an orphan, a graduate of the School of Mines. I live with my
sister at 193 West 38th Street, and I believe in a republican form of
government under a Democratic administration.”
“My dear Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, with a look of regret to
hide his annoyance, “pray do not imagine for an instant that I had any
desire to pry into your personal affairs. You know, we like to take an
interest in our depositors, just as we wish our depositors to take
an interest in us. Your bank president should be your business father
confessor. The time may come when we may be of use to you. I shall be
glad to give you my best advice, should you ever care for it. And, Mr.
Grinnell,” with a smile, paternal to the last eighth, “I am a month
or two older than you. I have had some experience in many lines of
business,” excepting that of Mr. George K. Grinnell, who did not accept
the subtle invitation to confide. Then, with a final smile, putting his
hand on the young man’s shoulder: “As for your account, Mr. Grinnell,
may it continue to grow! We can stand it if you can.”
“I am glad to hear that; very glad indeed, I may take you at your word.
Being young, I am, of course, very wise, Mr. Dawson. But I have hopes
of getting over it. When my account becomes really respectable, I,
doubtless, shall be more than glad to avail myself of your advice. I
shall value it highly.”
“It is yours at any time, Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, shaking
hands. He did not show any surprise at the intimation of greater
deposits in the future. It was as well that he did not. On Thursday of
the following week, Mr. George K. Grinnell deposited an Assay Office
check for $500,000 lacking a few cents. It made a million of gold
bullion which the young man had sold to the United States Assay Office,
and of which he had deposited the proceeds in the Metropolitan National
Bank. The president did not forget the incident when the cashier sent in
a memorandum, but promptly summoned the official.
“Mr. Grinnell has become quite a depositor, I see,” he said.
“Every Thursday he comes with an Assay Office--”
“Yes, I know. It seems to be a habit with, him. If he should come in
next Thursday, or at any time, let me know at once. Don’t ask him to
come into my office, but let me know he is here, at once. Has he drawn
any checks on us?”
“No, sir; not one.”
“If he does, let me see it.”
“It is--er--rather curious,” ventured the cashier.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Dawson curtly. The cashier left him without
another word.
The advent of the strange depositor was curiously awaited by the tellers
to whom the cashier had spoken. The cashier himself offered to bet his
assistant that Grinnell would not deposit more than $500,000. The fat
assistant decided to lose a five-dollar hat to his superior, and then to
ask that same superior for an increase in salary. He bet that Grinnell
would deposit a million.
“You see,” he said, with a look of intense astuteness, that his device
of intentionally losing the bet might not be too obvious, “he deposited
first a hundred thousand, then a hundred and fifty; then two-fifty; then
he doubled and deposited five hundred thousand. I think he will double
again and deposit a million.”
“Millions don’t grow on bushes. I’ll take the bet,” remarked the cashier
stingingly. His subordinate covered a chuckle of success by a woeful
smile of self-depreciation. But his exultation over the increase in
salary to follow the artistic loss of a five-dollar hat did not endure
long. Grover, one of the receiving tellers, on Thursday hastily sent him
word that Mr. Grinnell had deposited $1,000,000, and was being delayed
at the teller’s window on a pretext of attending to some clerical
detail. The assistant cashier straightway walked into the president’s
room.
“Mr. Grinnell is outside, sir. He has just deposited one million.”
“Very well, Mr. Williams.”
The president walked out of his private office, through the corridor,
into the main office of the bank. On one side there was a long, marble
counter, surmounted by a bronze railing, having windows barred like
those of a jail, behind which were imprisoned the tellers and the
clerks; on the other, the plain walls, with the long panels of polished
marble, and the high, little upright desks over the steam radiators at
which the customers made out the deposit slips or signed checks. It
was not unlike a church, this temple of Mammon, known in Wall Street
as “Fort Dawson.” It had a look of austerity that impressed people.
The clink of gold was aristocratically inaudible; the clerks habitually
spoke in whispers, and outsiders felt this and lowered their voices
instinctively. A bank which tolerated boisterous humour would not
have been quite safe enough. This one repelled levity, and attracted
deposits; it had nearly $150,000,000 of other people’s money. Great was
Dawson and his golden fort!
The president walked, hatless, through the corridor as though he were
going to another department and met, quite accidentally, Mr. George K.
Grinnell, who happened to be there.
“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell? I’m glad to see you,” he said cordially.
There was no pretence about his cordiality; the man had on deposit two
millions. But it was not this particular man’s deposit which caused the
busy clerks to make mistakes in adding their rows of figures; they were
accustomed to the fluctuating, semi-fictitious millions of the great
stock-gamblers. It was that Mr. Dawson should be so cordial to any man.
“I am very well, thanks,” said the young man. “So are you, I can see.”
“You have good eyes. Well, what have you done now?” asked the president
playfully.
“Deposited a little more.” It was said calmly, not with theatrical
nonchalance.
“How much?” The president, naturally, was asking for information he
could not be expected to have.
“A million this time.”
The president put his hand chummily on his customer’s shoulder. “Young
man,” he said, in mock seriousness, “when will this nefarious work
cease?”
“I’ll stop when you tell me you’d rather I went to some other bank,”
answered Grinnell, smiling.
The president shook his head as if in despair.
“You are incorrigible. Well, come early and often. Drop in on me
whenever you feel like it; glad to see you at any time.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dawson,” he nodded, smilingly, but Mr. Dawson felt
non-committally. Mr. Dawson thereupon became serious-He could not help
it, try as he might. He drew the self-possessed young man aside.
“My dear Mr. Grinnell, it is a great deal of money to have idle and,
naturally, it is impossible for me to think it businesslike. If you
contemplate employing it in the near future, of course, it alters
matters. But, if we are to allow you interest on it, why--”
“Mr. Dawson, pardon me for interrupting you. As I said to you before,
I have not the slightest intention of disturbing this account for some
time to come. I am not bothering about investments. They can wait. And
I am willing to waive the interest. This may be unbusinesslike, but I am
engaged in--ah--other matters, of greater importance.”
“Yes?” with an inviting inflection.
“Yes; I am in love.”
Both laughed. Then the discomfited president said jovially: “I don’t
blame you, then. Love before business, by all means.” And with a final
warm hand-shake, he passed on. But he resented what he considered the
jocular evasion of the young man.
On the following Thursday, Mr. George K. Grinnell deposited two and a
half millions--an Assay Office check in payment of gold bars weighing
120,543 ounces three pennyweights.
The president was disturbed. It was one thing to mystify the Street, and
quite another to be himself mystified. He did not love such mysteries.
They might be dangerous if left unsolved. He sent for the bank’s chief
detective, a man of much experience and ingenuity; really a confidential
agent.
“Costello, on Thursday there will probably come to deposit some money
with us a young man by the name of George K. Grinnell. He lives uptown
somewhere. Ask Mr. Williams for his address. Learn all you can about
him. Stay here all day Thursday. I’ll come out and talk to him. Report
at once whatever you may learn.”
“Yes, sir. For the preliminary work I’ll put John Croll on the case.
Then I’ll take it up myself. Have you any reason to suspect anything
wrong, sir?”
“I have no reason to suspect anything. I wish to know who and what he
is, what he does, and, especially, you must watch the Assay Office. He
deposits large amounts of gold there. I want to know where that gold
comes from. Find out all you can from the Assay Office people. See the
truckman. Probably it comes from some mine. He brought me a letter from
Professor Willetts, of the Columbia School of Mines. Say nothing to any
one of this.”
“Very well, sir.”
Thursday came. A stock operator, famous for his keen reading of
conditions, which came from his possession of a marvellous imagination
combined with logical reasoning power, walked into the bank, and was
impressed by the vaguely uneasy something in the air. He at once called
on his friend, and occasional accomplice, Dawson. The president assured
him that he had no news; wherefore, the imaginative plunger reasoned:
“If it were good news he’d let me know, because it would help him to
have me know it. The news, whatever it is, must be bad,” and left
the bank hurriedly. A few minutes later the stock-market became very
weak--the suspicious gambler was selling stocks to be on the safe
side. But the president paid no attention to the whirring ticker in the
corner. He was waiting for the arrival of Mr. George K. Grinnell. At one
o’clock the president was angry. At two o’clock the clerks began to call
the bets off; they had a pool on the amount Grinnell would deposit. At
half after two Mr. Grinnell walked in, wrote out his deposit slip very
deliberately, and presented it, with a check and his passbook, at the
receiving-teller’s window.
“You are late to-day, Mr. Grinnell,” incautiously said the teller.
“Oh, you expected me?”
Grover was made uncomfortable. “You see, Mr. Grinnell, you’ve been
coming here on Thursdays so regularly that we’ve--” He stopped abruptly
as he looked at the slip, and the Assay Office check for five millions
of dollars. He credited the amount on the pass-book very slowly.
Mr. Dawson came out of his private office. One of the clerks, who had
been stationed at the door, had notified him of Mr. Grinnell’s arrival.
“How do you do?” said the president cheerfully. “You are a little late
to-day.”
“So the teller was just saying.”
The president was annoyed, exceedingly, that Grinnell should have
learned that his arrival had been expected; but he explained smilingly:
“Well, you have been so punctual on Thursdays that, I fancy, we’ve
grown rather into the habit of looking for you. What have you done to us
to-day?”
“Five!” There was a curious suggestion of defiance in the young man’s
tone.
“Five millions?” incredulously.
“Yes.” Grinnell looked at Mr. Dawson calmly.
“Well, Mr. Grinnell--” The president paused.
“Well, Mr. Dawson?” returned the young man.
“Really, really,” said Dawson, more excited than any of the clerks
remembered ever to have seen him, “this is most extraordinary.
It’s--most extraordinary! Won’t you please come into my office a
moment?”
“With pleasure, Mr. Dawson.”
They faced each other by the president’s desk. Dawson did not know how
to begin. Perceiving that the silence was becoming embarrassing, he
said: “Kindly be seated, Mr. Grinnell,” and himself sat down. In
some curious way, no sooner was he in his chair than he felt calm,
self-possessed. It was his throne. There, seated, he heard the speeches
of men as from a height. Mostly he had heard suppliants for his mercy or
for his favour. It had given him, through the sense of mastery, a great
confidence in himself. It returned to him as he leaned back in the
chair.
“Let us speak with perfect frankness. You have now on deposit in this
bank--”
“I’ll tell you exactly,” said Grinnell, consulting his pass-book.
He added the figures with the tip of a lead-pencil. “Exactly
$9,537,805.69.”
He looked at the president. Mr. Dawson bowed his head, as though
thanking him for the information. There was a pause. Then the president
went on, slowly: “That is a great deal of money, Mr. Grinnell, to have
deposited in less than two months. It is more ready cash, with one, or
possibly two exceptions, than any individual has on deposit in any one
bank in the United States.”
“Indeed?” There was genuine astonishment in the young man’s voice.
Dawson felt it unmistakably.
“Yes.”
“But there are so many very rich men.”
“Yes; but their riches are not in the shape of hard cash at the bank.
The interest on that sum at the current rate is more than a thousand
dollars a day. It is what makes your case so remarkable--a young man,
unknown in the business world, the possessor of a vast fortune in gold.
It is bound to excite extraordinary interest.”
“Then I am glad,” said Grinnell, almost apologetically, “that I did not
deposit more.”
“What?” He was startled out of his bank presidentness, and stared at the
young man with quite human amazement.
“Yes, sir. I was thinking that I would bring in ten millions next
Thursday.”
[Illustration: 0053]
“Good Heavens!”
“You see,” explained the young man, very earnestly, “I thought that
since this was the bank with the greatest deposits, after I had, as
it were, accustomed you to this sort of business, it would be less
noticeable than if I went elsewhere.”
Mr. Dawson rose.
“This cannot go on. I must know where this gold comes from!” He glared
at the young man menacingly. His face had grown pale. Grinnell rose
deliberately. He looked at the president so seriously as to produce the
impression of a frown, though there was none on his face.
“Mr. Dawson,” he said, in a voice that betrayed displeasure, “as I told
you before, I have no intention of disturbing this account. As far as I
can see, it will remain here indefinitely. I do not ask you to allow me
interest. Should I change my mind, I will give you ample notice. If you
wish me to relieve you of this burden, which you appear to regard as
excessive, I beg that you will say so, and I shall go elsewhere. I bring
this money here because I feel it will be safe. My private affairs, I am
sure, can be of no interest to any one. You have but to say the word and
we part--the best of friends.”
The president drew in a deep breath.
“I beg a thousand pardons,” he said with an attempt, not
over-successful, at contrition. “You may forgive me, but I never shall
forgive myself. But are you sure, Mr. Grin-nell, that you can tell me
nothing of your--er--fortune? Remember, I have no desire to pry into
your private affairs.” He had a way of being polite, as though his very
thoughts were punctilious. Wall Street distrusted his self-possession.
People who have others completely in their power, and are
self-possessed, are too dangerous for comfort.
“Well, Mr. Dawson, the fortune happens to be one of them,” said the
young man.
“So, you see, I can only regret that I cannot answer you.”
“I will not press you, Mr. Grinnell. Ah! of course, I would hold in the
strictest confidence anything you might see fit to tell me.” He smiled.
His smile, often, was that of a diplomat at a reception. His attitudes,
the absence of nervous gestures, the poise of his head, all bespoke
self-control. But he could not always control his eyes. When he was
not sure of his expression he half closed his eyelids, and spoke very
gently.
Grinnell shook his head. The president, at a loss for words, held out
his hand.
“You’ve forgiven me?” said Grinnell smiling, as in relief.
“Mr. Grinnell,” with a mournful shake of the head, “that is unkind of
you.”
“Oh, but I mean it! Good-afternoon, Mr. Dawson.”
The president escorted the young man to the door.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Grinnell. By the way, are we to expect you again
soon?”
“Next week, if I live,” and with a final smile that gave his serious
face the indeterminately youthful look of people who have a keen sense
of humour, Mr. Grinnell left the Metropolitan National Bank, faithfully
“shadowed” by Mr. John Croll, formerly one of Pinkerton’s “star” men and
general sleuth.
Croll reported daily to his chief, Edward Costello, who in turn
submitted a written report to Mr. Dawson. The young man had gone
straight to his house, 193 West 38th Street, a four-story-and-basement
brown-stone front, purchased by George K. Grinnell on March 8, 1899,
from Mary C. Bryan, widow of Mitchell J. Bryan. He had staid indoors all
day. In the evening went out for a walk, accompanied by a fox terrier,
and returned at ten o’clock. On the following morning at 8:30,
accompanied by the same dog, took a long walk in Central Park; returned
at ten. Did not leave the house until five o’clock, when he went to the
office of Dr. Coster, the well-known eye-specialist. Returned to his
house and took the customary walk in the evening. He lived with his
sister, very quietly, according to the domestics of the neighbouring
houses. They paid no social calls and received none while under
observation. The household supplies were purchased from shops in the
vicinity, and paid for always in gold. On Monday, at 10 a. m., two heavy
trucks owned by William Watson drove to the house and took each a load
of bullion bars, painted black to disguise their nature, and weighing
about two hundred and fifty pounds each, which the men brought out
through the basement entrance, and carried to the Assay Office.
Mr. Grinnell drove in a public hansom behind them, accompanied by a
powerfully built man-servant, who lived in Mr. Grinnell’s house. A
second trip was made. The daily movements of Mr. and Miss Grinnell, of
the two women servants and the body-guard then were given in detail.
They revealed absolutely nothing. On Thursdays, it had been learned, Mr.
Grinnell went to the Assay Office, shortly after midday, and received a
check for the gold bullion deposited on the previous Monday. The clerks
there had been requested by Mr. Grinnell not to give any information,
but Mr. Grinnell’s name--an undecipherable signature--appeared several
times on the register of certificates for the payment of bullion
deposits. By crediting him with various amounts instead of one lump sum,
no comment was excited, nor had the interest of the newspaper reporters
been aroused. But they said at the Assay Office it could not go on
unnoticed very much longer, unless Mr. Grinnell took bars instead of
checks for his gold. They thought it an unusual case; but the employees
of the Federal Government are not supposed to have any imagination
during business hours. It is against the rules.
On Thursday Mr. Grinnell sent in his card to Mr. Dawson before calling
on the receiving teller. He was admitted at once.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson. I have brought you--” he took two bits of
paper from his pocket-book, fingered them uncertainly, and finally
returned one to his pocket. He went on: “Ten millions.”
“Is that all to-day?” The president not only was not nonplussed, but
actually smiled.
He was a great man. Even his enemies acknowledged it.
“That’s all. You see, I’ve been depositing a little every week in the
Eastern National Bank. But I’ve decided to increase it to a million a
week, and I wanted to ask you if the Dry Goods National also is to be
trusted.”
“Great Heavens, man! When are you going to stop? Where is the mine?
Can’t I buy stock in it?” The president spoke jocularly. He had, on
hearing the young man’s words, determined to solve the mystery if it
took fifty thousand dollars. It had ceased to be merely a mystery. It
had become a menace. This made him calm.
“I don’t own a share of mining stock. Do you think mines are good
investments?” But the young man asked this altogether too innocently.
“_Your_ mine would be.” The president gazed fixedly at the spectacled
eyes. Grin-nell hesitated.
“I’ll deposit this, then,” he said. “Good-morning.”
But Mr. Dawson, thinking of disturbing possibilities, did not answer.
The young man with his deposits of nineteen and one-half millions--and
more to come--troubled the president. With that much cash, Grinnell
already was a potential disturber of finance. With much more he could be
infinitely worse--to the public and to the great moneyed interests. He
could call suddenly upon the bank for his entire account, some day when
money was tight, and stock pools needed it as a man’s lungs need air, as
a man’s heart needs blood; and the stock-market would be convulsed, and
guiltless millionaires suffer. Or, he could mistakenly lend it at such
low rates of interest as would “break” the money-market, and help fools
or gamblers, but grievously reduce the bank’s profits. Or, he could so
misuse it as to foil some stock-market plan of Mr. Dawson’s, or of his
associates. There was no limit to the possibilities of mischief from an
unknown but even greater supply. Money is a commodity, governed, like
all other commodities, by certain conditions. Fancy a man who suddenly
announces--and proves it conclusively--that he has an unknown number of
millions of bushels of excellent wheat; imagine the effect not only on
unfortunate bull gamblers on the Board of Trade, but also on thousands
of hard-working farmers. But the young man’s case was far worse. It
was not alone his possession of much money; it was his having the gold
itself! Money is only money, but gold is more: it is the measure of
value. To disturb that was to disturb finance, commerce, and industry.
The working-world would cease to labour, cease to breathe. In what would
a millionaire’s affluence or a labourer’s poverty be measured; in what
would men buy and sell, pay and be paid, if the young man’s supply of
gold should be so great as to disturb the value-measure of civilized
people? No world-disaster in all history could compare with this!
Dawson’s mind, keen, imaginative, was made feverishly active by the
stimulus of fear. Clearly, there was but one thing to do--important,
urgent, vital!--to learn all about the young man, and the source and
extent of his gold; to make him an ally; to share in that wealth; and,
in the meantime, to reduce to a negligible minimum the possibilities
for mischief against the bank which that young man and that wealth had
created.
The last check for ten millions would not go through the Clearing House
but, in order to arouse no suspicions as to the unusually heavy Treasury
operations with the New York banks, Mr. Dawson would send the check to
the Sub-Treasury and get gold certificates. The amount would be put
in as a special deposit. It would not appear in the regular bank
statistics, and would be locked up in the vaults, which would keep, for
publication, the reserve down and money rates up--a favourite practice
of this king manipulator of the money-market--as well as strengthen
the bank against Mr. Grinnell, should the young man suddenly decide
to withdraw several millions at once. He attended to this and other
business details and then sent for Costello.
“I must have the full history of Mr. Grinnell. Don’t come to me without
it. It is of the utmost importance. Go to work at once. I’ll see
Professor Willetts myself. Drop everything else. Spare no expense and
use any means. Understand? Report at once anything you may discover,
however trivial.”
Costello was impressed. He had worked, in his life, on cases involving
enormous sums, ingenious swindles, thefts and defalcations which had
never appeared in the newspapers, the unprintable side of vast financial
deals. But never before had he been dazed, as now, by the suppressed
excitement of the man, steel-nerved and ice-hearted, who presided over
the destinies of the greatest bank of America, of a power so vast that
it was scarcely second to that of the Government of the United States.
The bank’s detective staff, the existence of which was unsuspected by
the world at large, was marvellously well organized. Mr. Costello’s
reports were lengthy. Summarized, they told the president something like
this:
George K. Grinnell was under the strictest surveillance, his daily
movements being given in detail in the reports of John Croll and William
F. Kearney; but they afforded not the slightest clue to the young man’s
business. His daily walks in Central Park with his fox terrier--once
with his sister--helped the investigation no more than the fact that he
spent most of his time indoors. The furniture of the first floor of the
house was described at great length by Mr. Kearney who, in the guise
of a book agent, memorized it (Report D). Mr. Grinnell had three
servants--one man and two maids. Every delivery wagon, and every person
that had called at 193 West 38th Street had been shadowed--they were
all tradespeople. One wagon was from Wilkins & Cross, the dealers in
chemical and laboratory supplies. The driver, John C. Plummer, who was
interviewed by Kearney and then by Costello, vouchsafed the information
that Mr. Grinnell had a chemical laboratory, and for years had purchased
supplies from the firm. Lately the supplies had consisted chiefly of
crucibles, charcoal, coke, bone-ash, litharge, adds and other articles
used by assayers and refiners. Plummer was promised $250 for a complete
transcript of Mr. Grinnell’s purchases from Wilkins & Cross from
the first, which he agreed to obtain, and was now at work on. The
biographical data, obtained from divers sources, most ingeniously,
showed that George Kitchell Grinnell was born in Middletown, New
York, on January 1, 1873. His father was Frederick Hobart Grinnell, a
druggist, who died in 1898. His mother died in 1889. He had one sister,
two and one-half years younger; name Ada. The father left property
valued at about $40,000, chiefly real estate in Middletown, New York.
So far as friends of the family knew, it was all the property owned by
George Kitchell Grinnell and his sister. The rents were collected and
remitted to New York by Frederick Kitchell Carpenter, attorney-at-law, a
first cousin of Grinnell. By Middle-town people, George K. Grinnell
was believed to be an analytical chemist in New York, with a fairly
lucrative practice. Grinnell entered the School of Mines, Columbia
University, 1891; was graduated in 1895 with the degree of Bachelor
of Metallurgy. According to his professors he was a good, but not
exceptional student. But had improved with age, one of them said, and
was very well up on radium--perhaps better than any one else in America
excepting the professor himself. Was popular among his fellow-students,
according to some of his classmates; was president of his class in his
junior year; was an editor of the Columbia Spectator two years. After
leaving college, spent a year in Middletown, in his father’s pharmacy.
In October, 1896, came to New York City. Was employed as assayer in the
laboratory of Bangs & Wilson, 35 John Street. Left there the following
year to return to Middletown, his father being ill. Was considered a
competent and careful assayer and analytical chemist. A fellow employee
and he were interested in an electrical furnace. But no patent had ever
been taken out in either of their names. Remained in Middletown until
after his father’s death. In 1898 came back to New York. Lived at Mrs.
Scott’s boarding-house, 169 West 48th Street. Purchased the house, 193
West 38th Street, in March, 1899, from Mary C. Bryan. His sister came
from Middletown in the fall of 1899. They had lived there quietly
ever since. On Monday two trucks--the same he had employed for some
weeks--came twice and took bars of gold bullion to the Assay Office. He
had deposited to date gold valued at $36,807,988. He had accounts,
also, at the Agricultural National and Eastern National Banks, but there
nothing was known of his business. His deposits at all these banks had
been in the shape of Assay Office checks, and also in Assay Office bars,
which made the bank people think he was a mining man.
Professor Willetts could not tell Dawson much. He knew Grinnell as he
had known hundreds of other students. He had never heard that Grinnell
was wealthy, certainly not wealthy enough to be a worthless student.
He remembered having recommended Grinnell to Bangs & Wilson as a
good as-sayer. The young man’s graduating thesis had been on
electro-metallurgy. He was a pleasant enough chap. The president, on
hearing Willetts’s words, felt it wise to say nothing of Grinnell’s
enormous gold supply. The less people talked about it the better it
might be for the bank, if things did not go right afterward.
On Thursday, shortly after midday, Mr. Grinnell sent in his card to the
president. Mr. Dawson greeted him at the door. “Come in, Mr. Grinnell.”
“How do you do, Mr. Dawson?”
“I am worried, Mr. Grinnell. Very much worried.” The president looked
it. He always made it a practice of looking the way he said he felt.
This time he did not have to act.
“Indeed? I’m very sorry to hear it,” answered Grinnell--with a very good
simulation of concern, the president thought.
“You will be sorrier to hear, Mr. Grinnell, that you are the cause of my
worry.”
“I?” The astonishment was not so great as a sort of uneasiness, which
did not escape the older man.
“Yes, Mr. Grinnell, you. Have you deposited any more--”
“Oh! I can withdraw it, if you don’t care to have it.”
“How much?”
“The same as last week.” Grinnell said it diffidently, uncomfortably, as
if he felt guilty of taking undue advantage of the president’s kindness.
“Ten millions?” Mr. Dawson gasped slightly.
“Ye-es, sir,” doubtfully. He evidently would have denied it if he could.
The president took a cigar and contemplated it a long time. A boy
entered with a card. The president said sharply: “I can’t see any one.”
He threw the unlit cigar on the desk.
The office-boy hesitated; then, with a pale face, said, “It’s Mr.
Graves.”
“I’m not in, hang it!” shouted Mr. Dawson, whose voice, habitually, was
so carefully modulated. “Go away!”
He arose and walked up and down the room. From time to time he snapped
his fingers with a sharp sound. Grinnell looked on uncomfortably. At
length Mr. Dawson ceased his walk, picked up his cigar, inserted it,
very deliberately, into an amber cigar-holder, and lighted it. He faced
the young man and said with composure: “That makes thirty millions of
gold in two months.”
“Twenty-nine and a half,” corrected Grinnell, as if in self-defence.
“In round numbers, thirty millions. You have, also, on deposit in other
banks, some six or seven more.”
“I--I think,” said Grinnell dubiously, “that it is less than seven. Let
me see,” eagerly, as if anxious to show that he was not so black as Mr.
Dawson would paint him. “It’s--it’s--”
The president waited.
“It _is_ about seven,” confessed Grinnell regretfully..
“Mr. Grinnell, I don’t know whether you are familiar with finance.” The
president spoke quietly, twirling his cigar-holder, and looking at the
ashes critically.
“Not very,” hastily apologized the young man.
“You will pardon me for telling you that through ignorance of the
responsibilities of your position you can inflict serious injury to
the entire business community--injury, Mr. Grinnell, which, reduced to
dollars and cents, might be many times thirty millions.”
“I think,” said Grinnell, a trifle dubiously, “that I can see ways in
which vast sums of money would do harm if wrongly used.”
“_Unwisely_ used, Mr. Grinnell. And now, in view of this, I should be
grateful to you from the bottom of my heart, if you could enlighten me
as to how this gold came into your possession.” He looked at the young
man anxiously.
“Mr. Dawson,” Grinnell answered, with a determined earnestness, “that is
something I must refuse to discuss. I am sorry.”
“Not so sorry as I. But I’d be even more grateful if I could know how
much more gold if any, you have, not on deposit with any bank.”
“At this moment?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t tell, exactly.”
“Approximately?”
“Really, I don’t know, Mr. Dawson. I may as well tell you frankly that
this subject--”
“Is of great importance to me, sir, as the president of this bank.”
“By withdrawing the account, then, I--”
“You would not help the situation which you have created, Mr. Grinnell.
Have you much more gold?”
The young man looked straight into the president’s eyes. He said: “If it
will relieve your mind, I can assure you that I have not much more.”
“Everything is relative. What do you consider much?”
“What do you?”
“Say, twenty or thirty millions more.”
“Oh, no! I haven’t thirty millions more.”
“Have you twenty?” persisted the president.
“Twenty?” The young man thought a moment. “No, I haven’t.”
“Ten?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Dawson,” the young man said, as if
jumping at a decision, “I’ll deposit fifteen millions more in this bank
and then I’ll stop. It will give me forty-five millions, and I’ll never
bother you again; unless,” he added, almost pleadingly, “you let me.”
The president stared electrically.
“You mean,” he said sharply, “that you can get more?”
“You asked me how much more I had at present and I told you.”
“I beg your pardon; you didn’t tell me exactly. I should have asked how
much more in all you expect to have.”
“Mr. Dawson,” ignoring the president’s last words, “it seems to me that
if I scatter the deposits among other banks in the city, I can’t do much
harm. In fact,” he added, brightly, as if at a new idea, “I could open
accounts with banks in Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, and
other cities, where they would not be noticeable. And even in Europe.
You could transfer some of the funds I have here to the big cities
there, and then I could deposit an equal amount here, so that my account
with you would never be above forty-five or fifty millions, and--”
“My God, man! Don’t you know that--” Dawson checked himself abruptly.
He went on very quietly. “Am I to understand that your supply is not
exhausted?”
“I won’t deposit any more of it here,” said Grinnell conciliatingly.
“How much more is there in the mine?”
“There is no mine,” answered Grinnell. The president felt he spoke the
truth.
“Do you make it, then?”
Grinnell laughed. “That would be funny, if you thought I made it.” The
condition of the president’s nerves was responsible for the wild thought
that lodged in his mind.
“You are a chemist, a metallurgist? And you have studied the phenomena
of radium?”
“Yes.” Grinnell looked surprised, but not exactly guilty, the president
admitted to himself.
“Have you discovered a method for changing other metals into gold, or
for extracting it out of sea-water?”
Grinnell laughed again. “I am glad,” he said, “that you are not worried
now.”
“Oh, but I am!”
“Mr. Dawson,” said the young man, once more serious, “I am not such a
very rich man as rich men go to-day. You, yourself, if what I read in
the newspapers is true, have more than I.”
“I wish I did.”
“So do I. You probably would know how to deposit your money properly. At
any rate, I can name a dozen men who have over fifty millions, and--”
“I doubt it.”
“And half a dozen who own over a hundred. The Waldorf family certainly
do. Mr. Angus Campbell, of Pittsburg, is said to have three hundred.
Your friend, Mr. William Mellen, of the International Distributing
Syndicate, is supposed to have five hundred at least. Why should a
fortune of even a billion dollars raise a rumpus these days? It was
inconceivable a few years ago, but it does not seem out of the way now.
I realize perfectly how the sudden increase in the gold supply of this
country could produce an inflation that might, in the end, prove highly
detrimental to general business. As I understand it, certain financial
laws cannot be disturbed with impunity, however praiseworthy the
financial law-breaker’s motives may be. But a billion dollars would not
make such an awful lot, especially if it should be turned into
circulation gradually.”
“It would mean an increase per capita of forty per cent. It would be
terrific,” said the president earnestly. “Your argument is utterly
unsound unless by ‘gradually’ you mean fifty years.”
“I certainly don’t mean any such thing. Supposing new and enormously
rich goldfields were discovered, would that upset the financial
equilibrium of the world?”
“It is conceivable that it could easily do so.”