The representative of the Dallas _Post_ had anticipated some difficulty
in interviewing the elusive Calvin Gray--whoever he might be--but luck
appeared to be with him, for shortly after his arrival at the hotel the
object of his quest appeared. Mr. Gray was annoyed at being discovered;
he was, in fact, loath to acknowledge his identity. Having just
returned from an important conference with some of the leading
financiers of the city, his mind was burdened with affairs of weight,
and then, too, the mayor was expecting him--luncheon probably--hence he
was in no mood to be interviewed. Usually Mr. Gray's secretary saw
interviewers. However, now that his identity was known, he had not the
heart to be discourteous to a fellow journalist. Yes! He had once owned
a newspaper--in Alaska. Incidentally, it was the farthest-north
publication in the world.
Alaska! The reporter pricked up his ears. He managed to elicit the fact
that Mr. Gray had operated mines and built railroads there; that he had
been forced into the newspaper game merely to protect his interests
from the depredations of a gang of political grafters, and that it had
been a sensational fight while it lasted. This item was duly jotted
down in the reportorial memory.
Alaska was a hard country, quite so, but nothing like Mexico during the
revolution. Mexican sugar and mahogany, it transpired, had occupied Mr.
Gray's attention for a time, as had Argentine cattle, Yucatan
hennequin, and an engineering enterprise in Bolivia, not to mention
other investments closer to home.
Once the speaker had become reconciled to the distasteful necessity of
talking about himself, he suggested an adjournment to his rooms, where
he would perhaps suffer less embarrassment by reason of his unavoidable
use of the personal pronoun.
Gray noted the effect upon his visitor of the Governor's suite and soon
had the young man at ease, with a Corona between his teeth. Then
followed a full three-quarters of an hour, during which the visitor
discoursed in his very best style and his caller sat spellbound, making
occasional hieroglyphic hen tracks upon his note paper and
congratulating himself upon his good luck in striking a man like this
in one of his rare, talkative moods. Gray had set himself deliberately
to the task of selling himself to this gentleman of the press, and,
having succeeded, he was enough of a salesman to avoid the fatal error
of overselling.
Alone at last, a sardonic grin crept over his features. So far, so
good. Now for the rest of those bankers and the mayor. Gray was working
rapidly, but he knew no other way of working, and speed was essential.
It seemed to him not unlikely that delay of the slightest might force
him to turn in desperation to a length of lead pipe and a mask, for--a
man must live. As yet he had no very definite plans, he had merely
undertaken to establish himself in a position to profit by the first
opportunity, whatever it might be. And opportunity of some sort would
surely come. It always did. What is more, it had an agreeable way of
turning up just when he was most in need of it.
Gray called at several other banks that morning. He strode in swiftly,
introduced himself with quick incisiveness, and tarried only long
enough to fix himself indelibly in the minds of those he had come to
see, then he left. There are right and wrong ways of closing a deal or
of ending an interview, and Gray flattered himself that he possessed
"terminal facilities." He was very busy, always a bit pressed for time,
always a moment late; his theory of constant forward motion never
permitted an awkward pause in conversation. On the street, his long
legs covered the ground at something less than a run, his eyes were
keenly alert, his face set in purposeful lines. Pedestrians turned to
look after him.
At the mayor's office he was denied admission to the chief executive,
but insisted so peremptorily as to gain his end. Once inside, he
conveyed his compliments with such a graceful flourish that his
intrusion assumed the importance of a ceremony and the People's Choice
was flattered. He inferred that this Calvin Gray made a practice of
presenting his formal respects to the dignitaries of all the large
cities he visited and deemed it a favor to them. No doubt it was, if he
so considered it, for he appeared to be fully aware of his own
importance. After all, it was an agreeable practice. Since no man in
public life can risk offending people of importance, His Honor unbent.
Gray turned a current jest upon Texas politics into a neat compliment
to the city's executive; they laughed; formality vanished; personal
magnetism made itself felt. The call ended by the two men lunching
together at the City Club, as Gray had assumed it would, and he took
pains that the bankers upon whom he had called earlier in the morning
should see him in company with the mayor.
He returned to his hotel that afternoon pretty well satisfied with his
efforts and hopeful that some of the seed he had sown broadcast would
be ripe for the reaping ere-long. But he received an electric shock as
he approached the desk, for the bell captain addressed him, saying:
"Mr. Haviland wishes to see you at once, in his office."
"Indeed? Anything important?"
"Very important, sir. I've been waiting for you to come in." There was
something ominous about this unexpected summons, or perhaps about the
manner of its delivery. At any rate, suspicion leaped into Gray's mind.
So! Haviland was wise! Quick work that. Evidently he had investigated,
through those mysterious sources of information available to great
hotels. Or perhaps some one had seen and recognized him. Well, that was
the way his luck had run, lately--every break against him.
Now--Gray's shoulders lifted in a shrug of resignation--there was
nothing to do except wave aside the blindfold and face the firing squad
like an officer and a gentleman. But it was a pity that the crash had
come so soon; fortune might have given him at least a short interval of
grace. Haviland was probably in a cold rage at the discovery of the
fraud, and Gray could only hope that he wouldn't get noisy over it, for
scenes were always annoying and sometimes they ran to unfortunate
lengths.
There was a curious brightness to the imposter's eyes, a reckless,
mocking smile upon his lips, when he stepped into the manager's office
and stood beside the desk. He declined Haviland's invitation to be
seated--it seemed more fitting that a man should take sentence on his
feet.
"Have you seen the Post?" the manager inquired.
"No."
Haviland handed him a copy of the leading afternoon paper, and Gray's
eyes flashed to the headline of an article reading:
CALVIN GRAY, HERO OF SENSATIONAL EXPLOITS, IN DALLAS ADVENTURES READ
LIKE PAGE OF ROMANCE FAMOUS FINANCIER ADMITS LARGE OIL INTERESTS BEHIND
HIM
From the opening paragraph Gray judged that he had impressed the
reporter even more deeply than he had supposed, but he took no
satisfaction there from, for Haviland was saying:
"I've read the whole story, but I want you to tell me something more
about yourself."
"What do you wish to know?"
"Were you in France?"
Over the visitor's face there came a subtle change. Whereas, upon
entering, he had worn an expression of careless defiance, now he
appeared to harden in every fiber and to go on guard.
"I have been many times in France."
"I mean during the war. Did you serve?"
There was a pause. "I did." Gray's eyes remained fixed upon his
interrogator, but they had begun to smolder.
"Then you're Colonel Gray. Colonel Calvin Gray."
"Quite so." The speaker's voice was harsh, and it came with an effort.
"But you didn't read _that_ in the _Post_. Come! What's the idea? Out
with it."
The interview had taken an unexpectedly disagreeable turn. Gray had
anticipated an unpleasant moment or two, but this--well, it was indeed
the crash. Calamity had overtaken him from the very quarter he had
least expected and most dreaded, and his mind raced off at a tangent; a
dozen unwelcome queries presented themselves.
"Strange what circles we move in," Haviland was saying. "Do you know
who owns the controlling interest in this hotel? Surely you must know
or can guess. Think a moment. It's somebody you met over there and have
reason to remember."
A sound escaped, from the throat of Colonel Gray--not a cry, but rather
a gasp of amazement, or of rage.
"Aha!" Haviland grinned in triumph. "I thought--"
His guest leaned forward over the desk, with face twitching. Passion
had driven the blood from it, and his whole expression was one of such
hatred, such fury, the metamorphosis was so startling, that the hotel
man stiffened in his chair and stared upward in sudden amazement.
"_Nelson!_" Gray ejaculated. "Nelson! By God! So! He's _here_!"
During the moment that Haviland sat petrified, Gray turned his head
slowly, his blazing eyes searched the office as if expecting to
discover a presence concealed somewhere; they returned to the hotel
man's face, and he inquired:
"Well, where is he?"
Haviland stirred. "I don't know what you're talking about. Who's
Nelson?" After a second he exclaimed: "Good Lord! I thought I had a
pleasant surprise for you, and I was gracefully leading up to it,
but--I must have jazzed it all up. I was going to tell you that the
hotel and everything in it is yours."
"Eh?"
"Why, the Ajax is one of the Dietz chain! Herman Dietz of Cincinnati
owns it. He left for the North not an hour ago. At the last minute he
heard you were here--read this story in the paper--and had bellboys
scouring the place for you. You must know why he wanted to see you, and
what he said when he found that he'd have to leave before you came in."
Colonel Gray uttered another exclamation, this time an expletive of
deep relief. He fought with himself a moment, then murmured an apology.
"Sorry. You gave me a start-decidedly. Herman Dietz, eh? Well, well!
You made me think for a moment that I was a guest in the house of some
other--friend."
"_Friend?_"
"Exactly!" Gray was himself again now. He ran a loosening finger
between his collar and throat. "Quite a start, I'll admit, but--some of
my friends are great practical jokers. They have a way of jumping out
at me and crying 'Boo!' when I least expect it."
"Um-m! I see. Mr. Dietz told me that he was under lifelong obligation
to a certain Colonel Calvin Gray. Something to do with passports--"
"I once rendered him a slight favor."
"He doesn't regard the favor as 'slight.' He was about to be imprisoned
for the duration of the war and you managed to get him back home."
"Merely a matter of official routine. I felt sure he was a loyal
American citizen."
"Exactly. But he makes more of the incident than you do, and he gave me
my instructions. So--what can I do for you on his behalf? You have only
to ask."
Gray pondered the unexpected offer. He was still a bit shaken, for a
moment ago he had been more deeply stirred even than Haviland
suspected, and the emotional reaction had left him weak. After all the
hollow pretense of this day a genuine proffer of aid was welcome, and
the temptation to accept was strong. Herman Dietz was indeed indebted
to him, and he believed the old German-American would do anything, lend
him any amount of money, for instance, that he might ask for. Gray
wondered why he had not thought of Dietz before he came to Texas; it
would have made things much easier. But the offer had come too late, it
seemed to him; at this moment he could see no means of profiting by it
without wrecking the flimsy house of cards he had that very day erected
and exposing himself to ridicule, to obloquy as a rank four-flusher.
The scarcely dry headlines of that afternoon paper ran before his
eyes--"_Famous Financier Admits Large Oil Interests Behind Him_."
Probably there were other things in the body of the article that would
not harmonize with an appeal to Haviland for funds, nor sound well to
Mr. Dietz, once he learned the truth. The more Gray pondered the
matter, the more regretfully he realized that he had overplayed his
hand, as it were.
Here was a situation indeed! To be occupying the most expensive suite
in the hotel of a man who wished to lend him money, to be unable to pay
one day's rent therefore, and yet to be stopped from accepting aid.
There was a grim irony about it, for a fact. Then, too, the seed he had
sown in banking circles, and his luncheon with the mayor! Haviland had
a sense of humor; it would make a story too good to keep--the new oil
operator, the magnificent and mysterious New York financier, a
"deadhead" at the Ajax. Oh, murder!
"Well, name your poison! Isn't there something, anything we can do for
you?" Haviland repeated.
"There is, decidedly." Gray smiled his warm appreciation of the tender.
"If it is not too great a drain upon the Dietz millions, you may keep a
supply of cut flowers in my room. I'm passionately fond of roses, and I
should like to have my vases filled every morning."
"You shall dwell in a perfumed bridal bower."
Gray paused at the door to light one of those sixty-cent cigars and
between puffs observed: "Please assure Mr. Dietz that--his obligation
is squared and that I am--deeply touched. I shall revel in the scent of
those flowers."
That evening, when Calvin Gray, formally and faultlessly attired,
strolled into the Ajax dining room he was conscious of attracting no
little attention. For one thing, few of the other guests were in
evening dress, and also that article in the _Post_, which he had read
with a curiously detached amusement, had been of a nature to excite
general notice. The interview had jarred upon him in only one
respect--_viz_., in describing him as a "typical soldier of fortune."
No doubt the reporter had intended that phrase in the kindest spirit;
nevertheless, it implied a certain recklessness and instability of
character that did not completely harmonize with Gray's inchoate,
undeveloped banking projects. Bankers are wary of anything that sounds
adventurous--or they pretend to be. As a matter of fact, Gray had
learned enough that very day about Texas bankers to convince him that
most of them were good, game gamblers, and that a large part of the
dividends paid by most of the local institutions of finance were
derived from oil profits. However, the newspaper story, as a whole, was
such as to give him the publicity he desired, and he was well content
with it.
Its first results were prompt in coming. Even while the head waiter was
seating him, another diner arose and approached him with a smile. Gray
recognized the fellow instantly--one of that vast army of casuals that
march through every active man's life and disappear down the avenues of
forgetfulness.
After customary greetings had been exchanged, the newcomer, Coverly by
name, explained that he had read the _Post_ article not five minutes
before, and was delighted to learn how well the world had used Gray. He
was dining alone; with alacrity he accepted an invitation to join his
old friend, and straightway he launched himself upon the current of
reminiscence. In answer to Gray's inquiry, he confessed modestly enough:
"Oh, I'm not in your class, old man. I'm no 'modern Gil Blas,' as the
paper calls you. No Wall Street money barons are eating out of my hand,
and I have no international interests 'reaching from the Yukon to the
Plate,' but--I stand all right in little old Dallas. I'm the V. P. of
our biggest jewelry house, and business is great." After their order
had been given, he recited in greater detail the nature of his success.
Gray was interested. "Texas is booming," he said, at the conclusion of
the story. "I'm told the new oil towns are something like our old
mining camps."
"Except that they are more so. The same excitement, the same quick
fortunes, only quicker and larger. Believe me, it's fine for the
jewelry business. Look here." Coverly drew from his pocket a letter
written in a painfully cramped hand upon cheap note paper, and this he
spread out for his companion to read. "There's an example in point."
The letter, which bore the Ranger postmark, ran as follows:
DERE SIR--Your store has bin rekomend to me for dimons and I
want some for my wife and dauter. Send me prises on rings of
large sises.
Yours truley GUS BRISKOW.
"Um-m! Who is Mr. Briskow?"
Coverly shrugged. "Probably some nester who never saw a hundred dollars
all in one place until recently. When they strike oil, they buy
diamonds, nice large yellow ones, as a rule; then as the money
continues to flow in, they pay off the mortgage and buy a bank--or an
interest in one."
"In Heaven's name, introduce me to the opulent Gus Briskow."
"I wish I might. But I don't expect to make his acquaintance. The head
of our firm is away and I haven't a man I'd dare trust to send out into
the field. Usually I handle these inquiries myself when the victim
can't tear himself away from contemplating the miraculous flow of
liquid gold long enough to come here. I take an assortment of gems with
me and beard the _nouveau riche_ right on his derrick floor. Why, I've
carried as much as a hundred thousand dollars' worth of merchandise on
some of my trips." Coverly sighed regretfully. "Tough luck! Too bad
you're not a good jewelry salesman?"
"I am," Gray declared. "I can sell anything. As for diamonds--I've
bought enough in my time to know their value."
Coverly laughed in ready agreement with this statement. "Gad! I'm sore
at missing this sale."
"You needn't miss it. I'll go."
"Don't kid an unfortunate--"
"I'm not joking. If it's worth while, pack up your saffron
solitaires--all that you dare trust me with--and I'll be your
gentlemanly representative."
"Worth while? Good Lord! I'd probably get a ten-thousand-dollar order!"
"Very well. It's settled." Gray's decision had been quickly made.
Opportunity had knocked--he was not one to deny her admission, no
matter how queer her garb. A hundred thousand dollars' worth of gems!
The very figures intrigued him and--diamonds are readily negotiable.
There would be a natural risk attached to the handling of so large an
amount. A thousand things might happen to a treasure chest of that
size. Gray began to believe that his luck had changed.
"Where does Mr. Briskow live?" he inquired.
"Out beyond Ranger, somewhere. But--"
"I'm going to visit that field, anyhow. This will give me an excuse."
"Nonsense!" The jeweler did not like to have fun poked at him. For some
time he refused to take the offer seriously, and even when his host
insisted that he would enjoy the lark, he expostulated: "Why, the idea
is ridiculous! You--Calvin Gray, the financier, peddling jewelry? Ha!
Outside of the fact that you wouldn't, couldn't do it, it's not the
safest thing in the world to carry a small fortune in stones through
the oil fields."
"Of course you insure it against theft?"
"That's the point. We can't. Have you ever heard of 'high-jackers'?
That's the Texas term for hold-up men, robbers. Well, the country is
full of them."
"Excellent! There no longer is any question about my going," Gray
announced, firmly. "I am bored; I am stale; a thrill, of whatever sort,
would stir my blood. Animated by purely selfish motives, I now insist
upon a serious consideration of my offer. First, you say I 'wouldn't,
couldn't'; I assure you that I would, could--and _shall_, provided I
can qualify as a salesman."
Coverly admitted without much argument that anybody could probably
effect a sale in this instance, if the diamonds were plainly marked
with their prices; it would be a mere question of displaying the goods.
That was not the point. Gray was a rich, a busy man--the idea was
fantastic.
"Why, you're offering to do this as an accommodation to an old friend,
and your time is probably worth more than our whole profit on the sale
would amount to."
"My time is worth nothing. If you hesitate to intrust this king's
ransom to me, I'll go personally responsible for its value. That's
fair, isn't it?"
"Don't be silly. How could I pay you if you did go?"
"Um-m!" This idea, it seemed, had not occurred to Mr. Gray. It was
plain that money meant nothing to him.
"You see? We couldn't permit--"
"I have it. We'll divorce friendship and sentiment entirely from the
discussion and reduce it to a strictly business basis. You shall ease
your conscience by paying my traveling expenses. The emotional suspense
that I undergo shall be my reward. I'll take my commission in thrills."
This offer evoked a light laugh from Gray's guest. "You'd get enough of
'em," he asserted. "I'll advance a mild one, on account, at this
moment. Notice the couple dining at the third table to your left." Gray
lifted his eyes. "What do you see?"
"A rather well-dressed, hard-faced man and a decidedly attractive
woman--brunette. There's a suggestion of repressed widowhood about her.
It's the gown, probably. I am not yet in my dotage, and I had seen her
before I saw you."
"She's living here. I don't know much about her, but the man goes by
the name of Mallow."
"No thrill yet."
"He's been hanging about our store for the past month, making a few
purchases and getting acquainted with some of the clerks. Wherever I
go, lately, there he is. I'll wager if I took to-night's train for
Ranger, he'd be on it."
"And still my pulses do not leap."
"Wait! I got a sort of report on him and it's bad. I believe, and so
does the chief of police, that Mr. Mallow has something to do with the
gang of crooks that infests this country. One thing is certain, they're
not the native product, and our hold-ups aren't staged by rope-chokers
out of work."
Calvin Gray turned now and openly stared at the object of Coverly's
suspicions. There was an alert interest in his eyes. "You've cinched
the matter with me," he declared, after a moment. "Get out your
diamonds to-morrow; I'm going to take the night train to Ranger."
Later that evening, after his guest had gone, Gray took occasion
deliberately to put himself in Mallow's way and to get into
conversation with him. This was not a difficult maneuver, for it was
nearly midnight and the lobby was well-nigh deserted; moreover, it
almost appeared as if the restless Mr. Mallow was seeking an
acquaintance.
For the better part of an hour the two men smoked and talked, and had
Coverly overheard their conversation his blood would have chilled and
he would have prematurely aged, for his distinguished host, Calvin
Gray, the worldly-wise, suave man of affairs, actually permitted
himself to be pumped like a farmer's son. It would have been a ghastly
surprise to the jeweler to learn how careless and how confiding his
friend could be in an off moment; he would have swooned when Gray told
about his coming trip to Ranger and actually produced the misspelled
Briskow letter for the edification of his chance acquaintance. Any
lingering doubt as to his friend's honesty of purpose would have
vanished utterly had he heard Mallow announce that he, too, was going
to Ranger, the very next night--a curious coincidence, truly--and
Gray's expression of pleasure at the prospect of such a congenial
traveling companion. The agitated Coverly no doubt would have phoned a
frantic call for the police, then and there.
Once Gray was in his rooms, however, his manner changed, and into his
eyes there came a triumphant glitter. Hastily he rummaged through one
of his bags, and from a collection of trinkets, souvenirs, and the like
he selected an object which he examined carefully, then took into the
bathroom for further experiment. His step was springy, his lips were
puckered, he was whistling blithely when he emerged, for at last those
vaguely outlined plans that had been at the back of his mind had
assumed form and pattern. His luck had turned, he had made a new start.
Mallow was indeed a crook, and Gray blessed the prompt good fortune
that had thrown both him and Coverly in his way.
It had been a busy day; he was well content with its fruitage.