THE CODE BOOK
It seemed as though Peter McSwain never did anything without
perspiring. He perspired now with the simple effort of thought. But
it was a considerable effort and a considerable thought. He crowded
more of the latter into five minutes, he assured himself, than a
bankrupt Wall Street man could have done on the eve of settling day.
The object of his thought was the telegraph operator and the subject of
it the interesting thesis of bribery. Then, too, there were the side
issues, which included David Slosson, a telegraph message, and two men
waiting at the other end of things for the result of his share in the
proceedings.
He made no attempt at pleasant conversation with the row of guests
lounging with feet skywards on the shady veranda. For the time at
least the affairs of his hotel were quite secondary. It seemed to him
just now that these men were the misfortunes of a commercial interest.
They were the things that kept him living concealed beneath an exterior
of polite attention which he detested. He had never had a chance of
being his real self until this moment. There was work of a delicate
nature to be performed, work which was to prove his ability in those
finer channels where individuality would count and genuine cleverness
must be displayed. A lot was depending upon his capacity.
This feeling inspired him, and the dew on his forehead became a moist
and shallow lake that was already overflowing its banks. At the end of
five minutes, after having seen David Slosson leave the telegraph
office and move off down the Main Street, this lake became a streaming
torrent as he left the veranda and passed round to the back of the
hotel.
This retrograde movement was a part of his deeply laid plans. He had
no object in visiting either his barn or his kitchens. The Chinese
cook possessed no interest for him at the moment, and as for the hens
and the team of horses, and his lame choreman who tended them, they had
never been farther from his thoughts.
He appeared interested, however, and mopped his forehead several times
as he surveyed the scene with attentive eye. Then he passed on without
a word. Now his route became circuitous. He walked a hundred yards
away from the town, and appeared to be contemplating the open country
with weighty thoughts in his mind. Then he turned away and moved in
another direction, towards the railroad track. Again he paused with
measuring eye. Then he crossed the track and strode off in a fresh
direction. This time he was moving northwards away from the depot and
telegraph office. Those who now chanced to observe him lost all
interest in his movements, and for the time his perspiring face was
forgotten. By the time he came within view of the hotel veranda again
his very existence had been forgotten in the midst of the busy talk of
his guests. And so he was enabled to reach the telegraph office from
the farther side without arousing comment.
He casually opened the door and found himself standing before the
barrier of the paper-littered office. The operator was at his
instrument table ticking out a message in that alert, concentrated
manner peculiar to all telegraphists. The man glanced round at his
visitor and continued his work without a sign of recognition, and the
hotel-keeper propped himself on the counter and drew a cigar from his
vest pocket.
By the time he had lit it satisfactorily the ticking of the instrument
ceased, and a sigh of relief warned him that Steve Mason was free. He
glanced across at the table with his hot eyes and a shadowy smile.
"Busy these times, Steve," he said genially. "The old days when we had
time to sit around in this office and yarn are as far back as the
flood. Say, you ain't got paralysis of the arm yet? Maybe you work
'em both. Hev a smoke?"
Steve smiled wearily.
"Don't you never take on operatin', Peter," he said, accepting the
proffered smoke. "Thanks. What's this? One of those 'multiflavums'
of yours you keep for drummers?"
Peter shook his head.
"My own smokes. They match the times. We're all making fortunes."
"Are we?"
"Well--ain't we?"
"None of it's come my way," said Steve, lighting his cigar. "But
that's always the way. We get shunted to a bum town like this on a
branch, and they pay us salary according. If the city makes a break
and gets busy and we're nearly crazy with overwork they don't boost us
up. Overwork don't mean overpay, nor overtime. They ain't raised me a
dollar. I'm going to get right on the buck if things keep up. I tell
you I've eaten three meals in this office to-day, with my hand on the
key, and I--I'm just sick to death. I don't take or send again this
night."
"Guess you'll be able to make a break when you sell your holdings,"
McSwain went on sympathetically. He raised the barrier and stepped
into the office, and sat himself in a chair he had often occupied in
the unruffled days before the coal.
Steve laughed and sat himself on the corner of his instrument table.
"I ain't got no holding. You can't buy land on a hundred dollars a
month. No, sir. What with the Chinee laundry and my boarding-house, I
guess I need to smoke your 'multiflavums' and drink your worst rye.
Why, I ain't got a balance over to buy an ice-cream-soda in winter."
"You sure are badly staked," murmured Peter.
They smoked in silence for some moments. The atmosphere of the little
office was opening the pores of Peter's skin again.
"Say," he went on presently, mopping his brow carefully, "I made quite
a stake out of that agent feller, Slosson. Somewheres around ten
thousand dollars. Quite a piece of money, eh? I ain't sure he's a
fool or a pretty wise guy."
"He's the railroad man," said Steve significantly.
"Yes. That don't make him out a fool, does it?"
"I'd smile."
"So'd I--if I knew more. I'd give a hundred dollars to see what's to
happen in the next week or so. I've got a big stake here, if the
railroad don't shift the depot. Slosson says they won't. Says he's
bought all he needs right here for his company. I take it he's helped
himself, too. Still, I'd like to know. The boys back at the hotel are
fallin' right over 'emselves to get in. They reckon this place is a
cinch--since Slosson's bought. I'd like to be sure."
Steve laughed. He read through his friend's purpose now. The visit
was not, as he told himself, for nothing. Peter was looking for
information which it would be a serious offense for him to give--if he
possessed any, which he didn't.
"Guess there's nothing doing, Peter," he said slyly.
"What d'you mean?" The hotel-keeper's eyes were hotter than ever. But
there was no resentment in them.
"Why, I just don't know a thing what Slosson's doing. And if I did I
couldn't tell you. It would be a criminal offense. Slosson ain't sent
a word over the line since he started to buy metal until to-night, and
the message I've just sent for him is in code, so, as far as I'm
concerned, it's so much Greek. I don't know who it's to, even. That's
why I guess there's nothing doing."
"No--I s'pose not. I s'pose codes can be read, though? There's
experts who worry out any old code. Guess it's mighty interestin'. If
Slosson's sendin' in code I guess he's got something in it he don't
need folks to know. That makes it more worrying."
Peter heaved a great sigh of longing. The other shook his head.
"You've got to find the key to 'em," he said.
"Yep--a Bible, or some queer old book. Maybe the 'History of the
United States.' Say, I'd hate to chase up the 'History of the United
States' looking for a key. Maybe it would be interestin', though.
Say----"
"You couldn't do it in a month of years," laughed Steve, humoring his
friend. "What would it be worth to you to be able to read his code?"
"Oh, maybe I'd make fifty thousand dollars."
"Whew! That's some money."
"Sure. I'd like to try. Say, boy, I'll hand you five hundred dollars
to let me take a copy of that message. All you need do is just leave
it on your table there for five minutes and lock the outer door. Then
just pass right into the other room till the five minutes is up. I'll
hand you the bills right here an' now. I'd like to figure on that
message. Is it a bet?"
Steve shook his head. He was scared. He knew the consequences of
discovery to himself too well. It was penitentiary. It was the
equivalent of tapping wires. But Peter was unfolding a big roll of
bills, and the temptation of handling that money was very great.
"You just need to copy the message out? That all?"
"Just that. No more."
"You won't need to disfigure my record?"
"Sure not." Peter grinned. He was sweating, profusely. He felt he
was on a hot scent and likely to make a kill.
"Only to make a _copy_. It's a big bunch of money for just a copy,"
Steve demurred suspiciously.
Peter laughed.
"Say, boy, we're old friends. I ain't out to do you a hurt. All I
need is to try and worry out that code and know things. If I was sure
of being able to read it, why, this five hundred would be five
thousand, and worth it all to me, every cent of it. If I can't read
that code, then I'll just hand you back my copy, and no harm's done.
See? I tell you I wouldn't hurt you for more than the money I hope to
make. Is it a bet?"
Steve passed out through the barrier and turned the key in the door.
Then he came back.
"I'll take that money."
"Good."
Peter paid it over, and then watched the other as he took the original
message which Slosson had written off a file and laid it on the table
beside a blank form.
"Say, be as sharp as you can over it," Steve said urgently. Then he
passed into the inner room and closed the door.
The interior of Mike Callahan's livery barn was typical of a small
prairie town. Rows of horse-stalls ran down either side of it, from
one end to the other. At the far end sliding doors opened out upon an
enclosure, round which were the sheds sheltering a widely varied
collection of rigs and buggies. Also here there was further
accommodation for horses. Just inside the main barn, to the left, the
American Irishman had two small rooms. The one at the front, with its
window on Main Street, was his office. Behind this, dependent for
light upon a window at the side of the building, was a harness-room
crowded with saddles and harness of every description, also a bunk on
which Mike usually slept when he kept the barn open at night.
It was late at night now, about midnight on the day following Peter
McSwain's momentous effort with Steve Mason. Four men were gathered
together in profound council in Mike's harness-room. The atmosphere of
the place was poisonous. A horse blanket obscured the window, and the
door was shut and locked, although the barn itself was closed for the
night, and there was small enough chance of intrusion. Still, every
precaution had been taken to avoid any such contingency.
A single guttering candle stuck in the neck of a black bottle illumined
the intent faces of the men. Gordon was sitting at a small table with
a sheet of paper in front of him and a small morocco-bound book beside
it. Silas Mallinsbee and Peter McSwain were sitting upon Mike
Callahan's emergency bunk, while the owner of it contented himself with
an upturned bucket near the door. Cigar-smoke clouded the room and
left the atmosphere choking, but all of them seemed quite impervious to
its inconvenience.
For awhile there was no other sound than the rustle of the leaves of
Gordon's book and the scratching of the indifferent pen he had borrowed
from Mike. Then, after what seemed interminable minutes, he looked up
from his task with a transparent smile.
"It's all right," he said in a low, thrilling tone. "I guess we've got
the game in our hands. He's used the governor's code."
"You can read it?" demanded Peter quickly, leaning forward with a
stiff, tense motion.
"Is it what we guessed?" inquired Mike, with a sigh of relief.
Mallinsbee alone offered no comment.
Gordon nodded in answer to each inquiry. He was reading what he had
written over to himself.
Then he turned sharply to Peter.
"For goodness' sake give me a cigar. I need something to keep me from
shouting."
His tone, and the expression of his eyes were full of excitement.
"It's the greatest luck ever," he went on, while Peter produced a cigar
and passed it across to him. "This feller's in direct communication
with the governor. You see, this code is the private one. I had it as
the dad's secretary. The manager had it, and, of course, my father.
No one else. So it's just about certain this thing was an important
matter for Slosson to be allowed to use it. Now I'd never heard of
this Slosson before, so that it's also evident he's one of my father's
secret agents. A matter which further proves the affair's importance."
He lit his cigar and puffed at it leisurely as he contemplated his
paper with even greater satisfaction.
"This is addressed direct to the old man, which--makes our work doubly
easy," he went on. "Also the nature of the message helps us. If it
had been to our manager it would have been more difficult to work out
my plans."
He raised the paper so that the candlelight fell full upon it.
"This is the transcript. 'Occipud, New York'--that's my father," he
added in parenthesis.
"'Have bought in Snake's Fall, working on instructions. Buffalo Point
crowd out for a heavy graft. Utterly unscrupulous lot, offering
impossible deal. Have turned them down on grounds provided for in your
instructions. Snake's Fall everything you require. Would suggest you
come up here incognito, if possibly convenient. There are other
propositions in coal worth a deep consideration. Coal deposits here
the greatest in the country. Must come an enormous boom. Will send
word later on this matter. Am sending letter covering operations. I
think it will be urgent that you visit this place shortly in interests
of boom as well as the coal.--SLOSSON.'"
Gordon looked round at the faces of his companions in silent triumph.
And in each case he encountered a keen expectancy. As yet his fellow
conspirators were rather in the dark. The significance of that
transcript was not yet sufficiently clear.
"What comes next?" inquired Mallinsbee in his calm, direct fashion.
The others simply waited for enlightenment.
Gordon chuckled softly.
"Now we know we can get at Slosson's messages and my father's messages
to him, and, having the code book, by a miracle of good luck, in my
possession, the rest is easy. First, Peter must get a copy of my
father's reply to this. Meanwhile I shall send an urgent message to my
father in Slosson's name to _come up here at once_. The answer to that
must never reach Slosson. Get me, Peter? You've got that boy Steve
where you need him. You must hold him there and pay his price. I'll
promise him he'll come to no harm. When my father finds out things
I'll guarantee to pacify him. This way we'll get my father here, I'll
promise you. And when he does get here the fun 'll begin--as we have
arranged. That clear? Mike's got his work marked out. You yours,
Peter. Mr. Mallinsbee and I will do the rest. Peter, you did a great
act laying hands on this message. It was worth double the price. The
whole game is now in our hands."
Gordon folded up the paper and placed it inside the code book, which he
carefully returned to his pocket.
Mike rubbed his hands.
"Say, it's sure a great play," he said gleefully.
"And seein' you're his son the risk don't amount to pea-shucks," nodded
the perspiring hotel proprietor.
"You can be quite easy on that score," laughed Gordon. "I can promise
you this: it won't be the old dad's fault, when this is over, if you
don't find yourselves gathered around a mighty convivial board
somewhere in New York--at his expense. You know my father as a pretty
bright financier. I don't guess you know him as the sportsman I do."
Mallinsbee suddenly bestirred himself and removed his cigar.
"I kind o' wish he weren't your father, Gordon, boy," he said bluntly.
"It sort of seems tough to me."
Gordon's eyes shot a whimsical smile across at Hazel's father.
"I'd hate to have any other, Mr. Mallinsbee," he said. "Maybe I know
how you're feeling about it. But I tell you right here, if my father
knew I had this opportunity and didn't take it, he'd turn his face to
the wall and never own me as his son again. You're reckoning that for
a son to do his father down sort of puts that son on a level with David
Slosson or any other low down tough. Maybe it does. But I just think
my father the bulliest feller on earth, and I love him mighty hard. I
love him so well that I'd hate to give him a moment's pain. I tell you
frankly that it would pain him if I didn't take this opportunity. It
would pain him far more than anything we intend to do to him--when we
get him here."
He rose from his seat and his good-natured smile swept over the faces
of his companions.
"How do you say, gentlemen? Our work's done for to-night. Are we for
bed?"