For the first time in his life Cowperwood felt conscious of having been
in the presence of that interesting social phenomenon—the outraged
sentiment of a parent. While he had no absolute knowledge as to why
Butler had been so enraged, he felt that Aileen was the contributing
cause. He himself was a father. His boy, Frank, Jr., was to him not so
remarkable. But little Lillian, with her dainty little slip of a body
and bright-aureoled head, had always appealed to him. She was going to
be a charming woman one day, he thought, and he was going to do much to
establish her safely. He used to tell her that she had “eyes like
buttons,” “feet like a pussy-cat,” and hands that were “just five
cents’ worth,” they were so little. The child admired her father and
would often stand by his chair in the library or the sitting-room, or
his desk in his private office, or by his seat at the table, asking him
questions.
This attitude toward his own daughter made him see clearly how Butler
might feel toward Aileen. He wondered how he would feel if it were his
own little Lillian, and still he did not believe he would make much
fuss over the matter, either with himself or with her, if she were as
old as Aileen. Children and their lives were more or less above the
willing of parents, anyhow, and it would be a difficult thing for any
parent to control any child, unless the child were naturally
docile-minded and willing to be controlled.
It also made him smile, in a grim way, to see how fate was raining
difficulties on him. The Chicago fire, Stener’s early absence, Butler,
Mollenhauer, and Simpson’s indifference to Stener’s fate and his. And
now this probable revelation in connection with Aileen. He could not be
sure as yet, but his intuitive instincts told him that it must be
something like this.
Now he was distressed as to what Aileen would do, say if suddenly she
were confronted by her father. If he could only get to her! But if he
was to meet Butler’s call for his loan, and the others which would come
yet to-day or on the morrow, there was not a moment to lose. If he did
not pay he must assign at once. Butler’s rage, Aileen, his own danger,
were brushed aside for the moment. His mind concentrated wholly on how
to save himself financially.
He hurried to visit George Waterman; David Wiggin, his wife’s brother,
who was now fairly well to do; Joseph Zimmerman, the wealthy dry-goods
dealer who had dealt with him in the past; Judge Kitchen, a private
manipulator of considerable wealth; Frederick Van Nostrand, the State
treasurer, who was interested in local street-railway stocks, and
others. Of all those to whom he appealed one was actually not in a
position to do anything for him; another was afraid; a third was
calculating eagerly to drive a hard bargain; a fourth was too
deliberate, anxious to have much time. All scented the true value of
his situation, all wanted time to consider, and he had no time to
consider. Judge Kitchen did agree to lend him thirty thousand dollars—a
paltry sum. Joseph Zimmerman would only risk twenty-five thousand
dollars. He could see where, all told, he might raise seventy-five
thousand dollars by hypothecating double the amount in shares; but this
was ridiculously insufficient. He had figured again, to a dollar, and
he must have at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars above all
his present holdings, or he must close his doors. To-morrow at two
o’clock he would know. If he didn’t he would be written down as
“failed” on a score of ledgers in Philadelphia.
What a pretty pass for one to come to whose hopes had so recently run
so high! There was a loan of one hundred thousand dollars from the
Girard National Bank which he was particularly anxious to clear off.
This bank was the most important in the city, and if he retained its
good will by meeting this loan promptly he might hope for favors in the
future whatever happened. Yet, at the moment, he did not see how he
could do it. He decided, however, after some reflection, that he would
deliver the stocks which Judge Kitchen, Zimmerman, and others had
agreed to take and get their checks or cash yet this night. Then he
would persuade Stener to let him have a check for the sixty thousand
dollars’ worth of city loan he had purchased this morning on ’change.
Out of it he could take twenty-five thousand dollars to make up the
balance due the bank, and still have thirty-five thousand for himself.
The one unfortunate thing about such an arrangement was that by doing
it he was building up a rather complicated situation in regard to these
same certificates. Since their purchase in the morning, he had not
deposited them in the sinking-fund, where they belonged (they had been
delivered to his office by half past one in the afternoon), but, on the
contrary, had immediately hypothecated them to cover another loan. It
was a risky thing to have done, considering that he was in danger of
failing and that he was not absolutely sure of being able to take them
up in time.
But, he reasoned, he had a working agreement with the city treasurer
(illegal of course), which would make such a transaction rather
plausible, and almost all right, even if he failed, and that was that
none of his accounts were supposed necessarily to be put straight until
the end of the month. If he failed, and the certificates were not in
the sinking-fund, he could say, as was the truth, that he was in the
habit of taking his time, and had forgotten. This collecting of a
check, therefore, for these as yet undeposited certificates would be
technically, if not legally and morally, plausible. The city would be
out only an additional sixty thousand dollars—making five hundred and
sixty thousand dollars all told, which in view of its probable loss of
five hundred thousand did not make so much difference. But his caution
clashed with his need on this occasion, and he decided that he would
not call for the check unless Stener finally refused to aid him with
three hundred thousand more, in which case he would claim it as his
right. In all likelihood Stener would not think to ask whether the
certificates were in the sinking-fund or not. If he did, he would have
to lie—that was all.
He drove rapidly back to his office, and, finding Butler’s note, as he
expected, wrote a check on his father’s bank for the one hundred
thousand dollars which had been placed to his credit by his loving
parent, and sent it around to Butler’s office. There was another note,
from Albert Stires, Stener’s secretary, advising him not to buy or sell
any more city loan—that until further notice such transactions would
not be honored. Cowperwood immediately sensed the source of this
warning. Stener had been in conference with Butler or Mollenhauer, and
had been warned and frightened. Nevertheless, he got in his buggy again
and drove directly to the city treasurer’s office.
Since Cowperwood’s visit Stener had talked still more with Sengstack,
Strobik, and others, all sent to see that a proper fear of things
financial had been put in his heart. The result was decidedly one which
spelled opposition to Cowperwood.
Strobik was considerably disturbed himself. He and Wycroft and Harmon
had also been using money out of the treasury—much smaller sums, of
course, for they had not Cowperwood’s financial imagination—and were
disturbed as to how they would return what they owed before the storm
broke. If Cowperwood failed, and Stener was short in his accounts, the
whole budget might be investigated, and then their loans would be
brought to light. The thing to do was to return what they owed, and
then, at least, no charge of malfeasance would lie against them.
“Go to Mollenhauer,” Strobik had advised Stener, shortly after
Cowperwood had left the latter’s office, “and tell him the whole story.
He put you here. He was strong for your nomination. Tell him just where
you stand and ask him what to do. He’ll probably be able to tell you.
Offer him your holdings to help you out. You have to. You can’t help
yourself. Don’t loan Cowperwood another damned dollar, whatever you do.
He’s got you in so deep now you can hardly hope to get out. Ask
Mollenhauer if he won’t help you to get Cowperwood to put that money
back. He may be able to influence him.”
There was more in this conversation to the same effect, and then Stener
hurried as fast as his legs could carry him to Mollenhauer’s office. He
was so frightened that he could scarcely breathe, and he was quite
ready to throw himself on his knees before the big German-American
financier and leader. Oh, if Mr. Mollenhauer would only help him! If he
could just get out of this without going to jail!
“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” he repeated, over and over to himself,
as he walked. “What shall I do?”
The attitude of Henry A. Mollenhauer, grim, political boss that he
was—trained in a hard school—was precisely the attitude of every such
man in all such trying circumstances.
He was wondering, in view of what Butler had told him, just how much he
could advantage himself in this situation. If he could, he wanted to
get control of whatever street-railway stock Stener now had, without in
any way compromising himself. Stener’s shares could easily be
transferred on ’change through Mollenhauer’s brokers to a dummy, who
would eventually transfer them to himself (Mollenhauer). Stener must be
squeezed thoroughly, though, this afternoon, and as for his five
hundred thousand dollars’ indebtedness to the treasury, Mollenhauer did
not see what could be done about that. If Cowperwood could not pay it,
the city would have to lose it; but the scandal must be hushed up until
after election. Stener, unless the various party leaders had more
generosity than Mollenhauer imagined, would have to suffer exposure,
arrest, trial, confiscation of his property, and possibly sentence to
the penitentiary, though this might easily be commuted by the governor,
once public excitement died down. He did not trouble to think whether
Cowperwood was criminally involved or not. A hundred to one he was not.
Trust a shrewd man like that to take care of himself. But if there was
any way to shoulder the blame on to Cowperwood, and so clear the
treasurer and the skirts of the party, he would not object to that. He
wanted to hear the full story of Stener’s relations with the broker
first. Meanwhile, the thing to do was to seize what Stener had to
yield.
The troubled city treasurer, on being shown in Mr. Mollenhauer’s
presence, at once sank feebly in a chair and collapsed. He was entirely
done for mentally. His nerve was gone, his courage exhausted like a
breath.
“Well, Mr. Stener?” queried Mr. Mollenhauer, impressively, pretending
not to know what brought him.
“I came about this matter of my loans to Mr. Cowperwood.”
“Well, what about them?”
“Well, he owes me, or the city treasury rather, five hundred thousand
dollars, and I understand that he is going to fail and that he can’t
pay it back.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Sengstack, and since then Mr. Cowperwood has been to see me. He
tells me he must have more money or he will fail and he wants to borrow
three hundred thousand dollars more. He says he must have it.”
“So!” said Mr. Mollenhauer, impressively, and with an air of
astonishment which he did not feel. “You would not think of doing that,
of course. You’re too badly involved as it is. If he wants to know why,
refer him to me. Don’t advance him another dollar. If you do, and this
case comes to trial, no court would have any mercy on you. It’s going
to be difficult enough to do anything for you as it is. However, if you
don’t advance him any more—we will see. It may be possible, I can’t
say, but at any rate, no more money must leave the treasury to bolster
up this bad business. It’s much too difficult as it now is.” He stared
at Stener warningly. And he, shaken and sick, yet because of the faint
suggestion of mercy involved somewhere in Mollenhauer’s remarks, now
slipped from his chair to his knees and folded his hands in the
uplifted attitude of a devotee before a sacred image.
“Oh, Mr. Mollenhauer,” he choked, beginning to cry, “I didn’t mean to
do anything wrong. Strobik and Wycroft told me it was all right. You
sent me to Cowperwood in the first place. I only did what I thought the
others had been doing. Mr. Bode did it, just like I have been doing. He
dealt with Tighe and Company. I have a wife and four children, Mr.
Mollenhauer. My youngest boy is only seven years old. Think of them,
Mr. Mollenhauer! Think of what my arrest will mean to them! I don’t
want to go to jail. I didn’t think I was doing anything very
wrong—honestly I didn’t. I’ll give up all I’ve got. You can have all my
stocks and houses and lots—anything—if you’ll only get me out of this.
You won’t let ’em send me to jail, will you?”
His fat, white lips were trembling—wabbling nervously—and big hot tears
were coursing down his previously pale but now flushed cheeks. He
presented one of those almost unbelievable pictures which are yet so
intensely human and so true. If only the great financial and political
giants would for once accurately reveal the details of their lives!
Mollenhauer looked at him calmly, meditatively. How often had he seen
weaklings no more dishonest than himself, but without his courage and
subtlety, pleading to him in this fashion, not on their knees exactly,
but intellectually so! Life to him, as to every other man of large
practical knowledge and insight, was an inexplicable tangle. What were
you going to do about the so-called morals and precepts of the world?
This man Stener fancied that he was dishonest, and that he,
Mollenhauer, was honest. He was here, self-convicted of sin, pleading
to him, Mollenhauer, as he would to a righteous, unstained saint. As a
matter of fact, Mollenhauer knew that he was simply shrewder, more
far-seeing, more calculating, not less dishonest. Stener was lacking in
force and brains—not morals. This lack was his principal crime. There
were people who believed in some esoteric standard of right—some ideal
of conduct absolutely and very far removed from practical life; but he
had never seen them practice it save to their own financial (not
moral—he would not say that) destruction. They were never significant,
practical men who clung to these fatuous ideals. They were always poor,
nondescript, negligible dreamers. He could not have made Stener
understand all this if he had wanted to, and he certainly did not want
to. It was too bad about Mrs. Stener and the little Steners. No doubt
she had worked hard, as had Stener, to get up in the world and be
something—just a little more than miserably poor; and now this
unfortunate complication had to arise to undo them—this Chicago fire.
What a curious thing that was! If any one thing more than another made
him doubt the existence of a kindly, overruling Providence, it was the
unheralded storms out of clear skies—financial, social, anything you
choose—that so often brought ruin and disaster to so many.
“Get Up, Stener,” he said, calmly, after a few moments. “You mustn’t
give way to your feelings like this. You must not cry. These troubles
are never unraveled by tears. You must do a little thinking for
yourself. Perhaps your situation isn’t so bad.”
As he was saying this Stener was putting himself back in his chair,
getting out his handkerchief, and sobbing hopelessly in it.
“I’ll do what I can, Stener. I won’t promise anything. I can’t tell you
what the result will be. There are many peculiar political forces in
this city. I may not be able to save you, but I am perfectly willing to
try. You must put yourself absolutely under my direction. You must not
say or do anything without first consulting with me. I will send my
secretary to you from time to time. He will tell you what to do. You
must not come to me unless I send for you. Do you understand that
thoroughly?”
“Yes, Mr. Mollenhauer.”
“Well, now, dry your eyes. I don’t want you to go out of this office
crying. Go back to your office, and I will send Sengstack to see you.
He will tell you what to do. Follow him exactly. And whenever I send
for you come at once.”
He got up, large, self-confident, reserved. Stener, buoyed up by the
subtle reassurance of his remarks, recovered to a degree his
equanimity. Mr. Mollenhauer, the great, powerful Mr. Mollenhauer was
going to help him out of his scrape. He might not have to go to jail
after all. He left after a few moments, his face a little red from
weeping, but otherwise free of telltale marks, and returned to his
office.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Sengstack called on him for the second
time that day—Abner Sengstack, small, dark-faced, club-footed, a great
sole of leather three inches thick under his short, withered right leg,
his slightly Slavic, highly intelligent countenance burning with a pair
of keen, piercing, inscrutable black eyes. Sengstack was a fit
secretary for Mollenhauer. You could see at one glance that he would
make Stener do exactly what Mollenhauer suggested. His business was to
induce Stener to part with his street-railway holdings at once through
Tighe & Co., Butler’s brokers, to the political sub-agent who would
eventually transfer them to Mollenhauer. What little Stener received
for them might well go into the treasury. Tighe & Co. would manage the
“’change” subtleties of this without giving any one else a chance to
bid, while at the same time making it appear an open-market
transaction. At the same time Sengstack went carefully into the state
of the treasurer’s office for his master’s benefit—finding out what it
was that Strobik, Wycroft, and Harmon had been doing with their loans.
Via another source they were ordered to disgorge at once or face
prosecution. They were a part of Mollenhauer’s political machine. Then,
having cautioned Stener not to set over the remainder of his property
to any one, and not to listen to any one, most of all to the
Machiavellian counsel of Cowperwood, Sengstack left.
Needless to say, Mollenhauer was greatly gratified by this turn of
affairs. Cowperwood was now most likely in a position where he would
have to come and see him, or if not, a good share of the properties he
controlled were already in Mollenhauer’s possession. If by some hook or
crook he could secure the remainder, Simpson and Butler might well talk
to him about this street-railway business. His holdings were now as
large as any, if not quite the largest.