From Richards & Tuttle's office Robison went to the nearest Western
Union office and gave a letter to the manager.
“Send this at once! City editor, _Evening World_, Park Row. No answer.
How much?”
The manager told him. Robison paid him and then went to the
Postal-Telegraph office and sent a message to the city editor, _Evening
Journal_. Inside of each envelope was a letter. Both read alike, as
follows:
_Dear Sir,--Three years ago one of your reporters did me a good turn.
In return I promised to tip him off if ever I came across a big piece of
news. He saved me from being wrongly sent to state prison. Things looked
pretty black for me, though I was not guilty. I've forgotten his name.
He looked to be twenty-eight or thirty years old, about five foot
ten, not very heavy-built, smooth-shaven, dark-brown hair, and wore
eyeglasses. He had on a dark-blue serge suit and was always smoking
cigarettes. It happened on Chambers Street, not far from the Irving
Bank. Ask him if he remembers my promise to pay him back for being
good to me. Here is where I do it. Mr. W. H. Garrettson, the banker and
promoter, is going to be kidnapped. The plans are all made. He will be
held for one hundred million dollars ransom, and no harm will come to
him, because he will be sure to pay._
_Don't warn the police of this, because the other papers would get it
and you would lose your scoop. You can warn Garrettson if you wish,
but it will be useless, as in that event we should wait until vigilance
relaxes, as it will surely do. Please do not think this is a crazy
yan! Don't print anything now. Simply be ready, with photographs of
Garrettson, his home, art-gallery, bank, list of his promotions,
and corporations controlled by him, and so on. Keep this letter for
reference, and just before you throw it into the waste-basket remember
this: It costs you nothing; it commits you to nothing, involves no
expense; there is no concealed dynamite and no fool joke. Remember my
writing and my signature, and wait for the tip I shall send you if I
possibly can, so that you alone publish the news._
_Grateful Friend._
The city editors thought it was a crank's letter and threw it away, but
each made a mental note--in case! Also they did not “tip off” anybody.
They afterward stated that they said nothing to Garrettson, because if
they acted on every freak missive they received half the city would not
sleep. They thus were ready for the kidnapping of the great Garrettson.
At nine-forty-five on Tuesday morning Mr. James B. Robison, accompanied
by an office-boy and an order-pad on which was printed “From J. B. R.,
for Richards & Tuttle,” went to the Broad Street entrance of the New
York Stock Exchange. His gaze was fixed steadily on the Subtreasury, or
so it seemed to the office-boy. At nine-fifty-two he exclaimed: “There
he is!”
The office-boy, Sweeney, looking in the same direction, saw nothing
but hurrying pedestrians and a carriage or two. Robison seemed so
disappointed that the office-boy out of kindness asked, sympathetically,
“Who, sir?”
“Nobody!” answered Mr. Robison, shortly. “Go back to the office and tell
Mr. Richards to send me the clerk he promised me--the clerk with the
ticker deafness, tell him. I'll wait here.”
The boy left and presently returned with one of the bookkeepers.
“Here is Mr. Manley,” the office-boy told Mr. Robison.
“Thank you. Here is something for you, my boy. Go back to the office.”
The office-boy put the five-dollar bill in his pocket, said “Thank you”
in a voice celestial, and hurried away before the crazy Frenchman with
the Cape Cod voice discovered the size of the tip. To Manley, the clerk,
Mr. Robison said:
“Look across the street--W. H. Garrettson & Co. You can see Mr.
Garrettson by the window. See him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, just you stay here and watch him; and if you see him do anything
unusual or if anything happens in Garrettson's office that you think
strange, run to our office and let me know. I'll be waiting for you.
Don't be afraid to say so if you think something unusual is going on,
because I tell you now that Mr. Garrettson never does anything unusual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now what would you call unusual?”
“What would you?”
“If a bareheaded man came out of the office, stood at the head of
the steps and threw an egg into the middle of the street, I'd call it
unusual.”
“So would I.”
“Especially if I went up to the smashed egg and found the insides were
of ink. It might be red ink or black.”
“That would be queer!”
“Exactly. You watch. Go to lunch at twelve-thirty and be back at one.
Remember! Watch closely, and if anything unusual happens look carefully
and then come and tell me. Here's ten dollars for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It's only a beginning,” smiled Mr. Robison, promisingly.
Manley, the clerk, put the money in his pocket and began to think he
might be able to buy the motorboat next spring if this business kept up.
Between what Sweeney, the office-boy, suspected aloud and what Manley,
the clerk, confirmed the office force of Richards & Tuttle discussed Mr.
Robison with the zest of the deciding baseball game.
Richards had confided to his intimates some of his experiences, and Amos
Kidder, the _Evening Planet_ man, was as interested in the mystery as
if he had not been the man who first let loose the flood of surmise by
introducing Robison to the brokers.
Nothing happened on Tuesday more exciting than keeping tally on
the telegrams and cables received by Mr. Robison, which amounted to
thirty-seven in all. The object of so much conjecture--and hero of
the office-boy's improvised dime novel--spent the day in an arm-chair
looking at the blackboard, making elaborate calculations that convinced
other customers he must be a “chart fiend.” At three o'clock sharp he
went home.
He stopped long enough to send by messenger-boy a letter to the city
editor of the _Evening World_ and another to the city editor of the
_Evening Journal._ They bore the same message and said:
_Refer to my letter of yesterday. To-night W. H. Garrettson goes to the
opera to see “The Jewels of the Madonna.” He will leave the Metropolitan
in his automobile. In it will be his wife, his daughter, and his friend,
Harry Willett. And he will not arrive at his house--Lexington Avenue
and Thirty-eighth Street. Somewhere between the Opera House and his
residence he will vanish! It will be the most mysterious kidnapping
on record. Follow the Garrettson motor and have your reporters watch
carefully._
_Grateful Friend._
Whatever the city editors may have intended to do in the matter is of no
consequence, because at seven o'clock messages were received as follows:
_Kidnapping of W. H. G. postponed. Will keep you posted._
_Grateful Friend._
V
At nine-forty-five on Wednesday morning Mr. James B. Robison entered
the office of Richards & Tuttle, sought the senior partner, and said:
“I shall both buy and sell Con. Steel--or possibly sell first and buy
later. The order clerk knows about my printed slips. The orders will go
to you first. If at any time you are worried about margin, remember to
tell me at once, because, as you know, I have not yet used half of my
letter of credit; and, besides, the cables are working. I'd like to see
Amos Kidder.”
“He's in his office.”
“Would you mind having some one telephone to him? Thank you.”
Mr. Robison promptly left the office, followed by his faithful attendant
Sweeney, the office-boy. They took their stand just north of the Broad
Street entrance of the Stock Exchange.
It was not long before Amos Kidder, of the _Evening Planet_, who
had received the message, found Mr. Robison in the act of gazing
unblinkingly toward the Subtreasury.
“Good morning, Mr. Robison.”
Mr. Robison started as if he had been rudely awakened out of a profound
reverie.
“Oh! Kidder! How d'ye do? Ah, yes! Ah--I'd like you to dine with me and
a few friends--interesting people. You will--don't be offended!--you
will learn why all newspaper articles on the stock-market arouse mirth
among the people who pull the wires. What do you say?”
“I say,” replied Kidder, with a good-natured smile, “just this: When and
where?” His smile ceased. Mr. Robison had turned his back on his friend.
Kidder heard a nasal mumble and made out:
“Here in eight minutes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shall learn if the Lion ate the man or if it's a case of another
day.”
“Mr. Robison, I don't understand--”
“I beg your pardon. I was thinking of the old man who was seen in a
front seat at the circus every day. They asked him what he found so
interesting, and he said that some day the lion would eat the man and he
wanted to be a spectator. Well, one day he was sick. That day the lion
ate the lion-tamer. Well, I am here waiting to see Garrettson come out
of the cage.”
“Garrettson?”
“The great W. H. Garrettson! I am planning a campaign in Con. Steel.
Garrettson's health is important. I must consider the state of his liver
as carefully as the condition of the iron trade, because it is not only
a question of the dividend rate, but of the price per share--not alone
an investment, but a speculation. You can't lose all your mills
and furnaces in one minute and you can't destroy all your customers
overnight; but Garrettson can die in a second!”
“Of course that contingency has been provided for. His firm would
undoubtedly be on the job.”
“So would the undertaker. As a matter of fact everything to-day depends
upon the character of Garrettson's life. Have you ever stopped to think
of how much depends upon the character of his death?”
“All deaths are alike. You talk like a novelist unaware of the resources
of a firm like Garrettson's.”
“And you talk like a plain ass or a bank president, my boy. Is there
no difference to the stock-market between the death of Garrettson by
pneumonia and his death by lynching at the hands of a thousand indignant
fellow-citizens? Stop and think.”
“Oh, well, that will never happen.”
“I cannot swear that it will, but you cannot guarantee that it never
will. Stranger things have come to pass. By Jingo! it's three minutes to
ten! Would it not be curious if something had happened?”
“How do you mean?”
“I have studied the great Garrettson and his habits, that I may, in
my operations in Con. Steel, know on what to bank and against what to
guard. He leaves his Lexington Avenue house every morning at nine and
arrives at his office not later than nine-fifty. He is like the clock.
All his life he has come down-town in his coupé, driven by a coachman
who has been in his employ thirty years. In this age of novelties
that old-fashioned coupé suggests a stability and solid respectability
comparable to _Founded 1732!_ on a firm's letter-head. However, just as
the wireless has introduced a new element into maritime life, so has the
automobile changed the character of street traffic. Do you remember the
case of James M. Barrier, the famous sculptor, smashed in his taxicab
on his way to his studio? You remember the insurance advertisements,
and how he carried a two-hundred-and-seventeen-thou-sand-dollar accident
policy? Well, it's ten o'clock. In one minute, if Garrettson is not
here, I shall sell short one thousand shares of Con. Steel. For each
delay of one minute, one thousand shares.”
Robison looked impressive, but the newspaper man was unimpressed.
“You'll have the pleasure of covering when he arrives as usual. Your
operation is of the kind that sounds wise.”
“How much do I stand to lose by covering, say, in a few minutes? A
fraction! How much do I stand to gain if something has happened? Five
or ten points! It's a fifty-to-one shot. I'll take it every time. Here,
boy, rush this to the office and hurry back. Tell Mr. Richards I shall
need another boy besides you, for a few minutes only.”
Young Sweeney hurried away with Robison's order to sell one thousand
shares of Con. Steel “at the market.”
“There are men who will risk money on the shadow cast by a human hair,”
observed Kidder, pleasantly. “In assuming that disaster has overtaken
Garrettson--”
“I assume nothing. I know that something unusual has happened! What
the nature of it is I know not--nor whether it is capitalizable, sight
unseen. Here, boy!” Sweeney had returned with a colleague and Robison
sent the new boy back with an order to sell two thousand shares of
Steel. Watch in hand, Robison stood staring unblinkingly toward the
north. Kidder also looked up Nassau Street, expecting and--such, alas,
is human nature!--hoping to see Garrettson's familiar coupé.
“Here, boy!” And Robison sent off another selling-order. He kept this up
until he had put out a short line of ten thousand shares.
At ten-fifteen he said to Kidder:
“Let us go over to Garrettson's office. His nonarrival is news, Kidder.”
“He may have stopped on the way to do some shopping--”
“Well, that's a story! Any deviation from the normal is, even though it
may not be tragedy. The delay may mean--”
“Nothing whatever,” finished Kidder, a trifle exultingly. “There comes
Garrettson's carriage. I guess you'd better cover!”
And the _Planet_ man laughed.
“Kidder, you'll never be rich! Of course I shall not cover until I know
the reason for the delay. Make haste! I ought to take a good look at his
face. I want to see how he looks and notice how he walks up the steps
to the office. One glimpse of Harriman getting off the train once put a
cool quarter of a million in my pocket.”
“Stocks went up when he died. People sold them thinking--”
“When you know a man is dying and you know that the rabble doesn't know
it, you don't always sell stocks short, Kidder,” anticipated Robison,
with a gentle smile.
“Hello!” said Kidder, and ran forward.
Robison followed. The coupé had stopped before the door of the banking
firm's offices. The herculean private policeman in gray had hastened
to open the door of the chief's carriage and had staggered back as if
horrified by what he had seen.
“Murdered!” thought the newspaper man in a flash. “What a story!”
The policeman turned an alarmed face toward the coachman and asked:
“Where's Mr. Garrettson?”
“What!” Lyman, the coachman, who had been in Garrettson's employ
thirty-odd years, turned livid. He stared blankly at the big man in the
gray uniform.
“He isn't here!” said Allcock, the policeman. Kidder and Robison heard
him.
The coachman looked into the coupé.
“Good God!” he muttered.
“Are you sure he was inside?” asked Allcock. “Sure? Of course! There's
the newspapers. Look at the cigar-ashes on the floor.”
“Did you see him get in?” persisted the policeman. “Of course I saw him!
I heard him call to the footman, who was going back to the house without
leaving the newspapers.”
“And you didn't stop anywhere?”
“No. I was delayed a little at Twelfth Street and Fourth Avenue, and
again--”
“Are you sure he didn't jump off?”
“What would he be jumping off for?” queried the old coachman, irritably.
“And wouldn't I have heard the door slam? I can't account for it! My
God! Where's Mr. Garrettson? Where is he? Where is he?” He repeated
himself like one distraught.
“Could he have jumped out without your knowing it?” queried Kidder.
“Shut up, Jim. That's a reporter!” the policeman warned the coachman.
“Wait here and I'll tell Mr. Jenkins.”
The private policeman rushed into the bank, and rushed out, followed by
William P. Jenkins, junior partner of W. H. Garrettson & Company.
“What is all this about?” Mr. Jenkins, who had been speaking in a sharp
voice to the coachman, caught sight of Kidder. Nothing concerning Mr.
Garrettson's whereabouts could be discussed by or before newspaper men.
“Come with me, James,” Mr. Jenkins said, peremptorily, to the old
coachman.
“Get on the job!” whispered Robison to Kidder. “Don't be bluffed.
You've got enough to raise the dickens if printed. It's the scoop of a
lifetime!”
Amos Kidder nodded eagerly. He had ceased to think of Robison's
eccentricities and was occupied with the disappearance of the great
financier. He followed Jenkins and the coachman into the office, but
all efforts to listen to their colloquy were in vain. He could see
perturbation plainly printed on the face of Mr. Jenkins, for all that
Garrettson's junior partner was one of the master bluffers of Wall
Street and a consummate artist at poker. The newspaper man was,
moreover, fortunate enough to overhear Mr. Jenkins's private secretary
say: “Mrs. Garrettson says Mr. Garrettson left the house about
nine-twenty in the carriage, as usual. The butler saw him get in; the
footman helped him into the cab. She wanted to know what had happened. I
said, 'Nothing that I know of.'”
Jenkins nodded approval of the typical financier's evasion and
hastened back to the private office, where the cross-examination of the
coachman--a man above suspicion--was carried on by the other partners.
Amos Kidder had heard enough. He rushed out and, accompanied by the
patient Robison, telephoned to his office this bulletin:
_W. H. Garrettson left his residence in Lexington Avenue near
Thirty-eighth Street this morning as usual in his coupé, driven by James
Lyman, his coachman. Lyman, who has been in the employ of the family
from boyhood, declares positively that Mr. Garrettson got in as usual.
He was smoking one of his famous $2.17 cigars and had all the daily
newspapers. These and cigar-ashes were all that could be seen in the
coupé when it reached the Wills Building, at Broad and Wall streets,
where the offices of W. H. Garrettson & Company are. His partners are
unable to say where the multimillionaire promoter is to be found. Mrs.
Garrettson is equally positive that Mr. Garrettson left the house as
usual. The butler saw him get in. Nobody saw him get out. What makes
this remarkable is that Mr. Garrettson is punctuality itself and
not once in forty years has he failed to reach his office before ten
o'clock. His disappearance from the coupé is not thought to be a joke;
but, on the other hand, there is no reason to apprehend a tragedy. “It
is mysterious--that's all,” remarked a prominent Wall Street man; “and
mysteries are not always profitable in the stock-market!”_
“How long,” inquired Robison, as Kidder came out of the telephone-booth,
“will it be before the _Evening Planet_, with your account of the
non-arrival of Garrettson, is out on the street?”
“Well,” said Kidder, looking a trifle important, “if it had been any one
else who telephoned a story of that importance time would be wasted in
verifying it, but my story ought to be out in five minutes!”
“As quickly as that?”
“Well, maybe seven minutes--but that,” said Kidder, impressively, “would
be slow work for the _Evening Planet!_”
“Amazing!” murmured Robison, in a congratulatory tone. “And did you make
it clear that there was no explanation for the non-arrival of--”
“I said it had not been explained as yet. A man isn't kidnapped in broad
daylight in the city of New York--taken out of his own cab and
carried away. If conscious, he would have shouted to the coachman; if
unconscious, he would have attracted attention. It can't be done!”
“No, it can't,” agreed Robison. “Nevertheless, it has been done.”
“How could--”
“Kidder, the taxicab has introduced a new and easily utilizable
possibility into criminal affairs, against which the police cannot
yet protect the public. I can see one, two, three, five, ten, fourteen
different ways in which Mr. Garrettson could have been abducted from his
own carriage, put into a taxi, and carried away. Suppose there are six
taxis. Three are in front to prevent the coachman from passing them.
The coachman is also compelled to regulate his speed according as they
desire. Then put one taxi on each side and one behind. These taxis not
only escort the cab; they pocket it and keep out help. At one of the
many halts the cab door is opened and Garrettson induced to enter one of
the side taxis while the coachman is occupied taking care of his horses
because one of the taxis in front threatens to back, which will crush
the prancing beasts. Do you suppose the coachman, especially if he is
elderly and somewhat deaf, as all old people are, could hear a cry
for help with six taxis making all the noise they can, muffler cutouts
going, or backfiring, or--”
“Do you think that is--”
“I think nothing! I cited it as one of fourteen--indeed,
twenty--possible ways,” said Robison, quietly.
“It's funny--I mean it is a curious coincidence that on the one day you
had sold Steel short--”
“My young friend,” interrupted Robison, gravely, “I sold after
Garrettson was late! Wisdom is always accused of unfairness. A man whose
mind enables him to win steadily at cards is invariably suspected of
marking them. I had planned to buy Con. Steel provided Garrettson's
health, state of mind, and trade conditions satisfied me! Instead I
sold a little because of his delay. Why, man, we did that in London
once--Cecil Rhodes and I--when Barney Barnato, at the height of the
Kaffir craze, suddenly decided--”
“Wait till I get a piece of paper,” said Amos Kidder. He saw a big
story. But Robison said:
“I'll tell you all you wish to know--if you promise not to use names--in
Richards's office later, when Garrettson's disappearance is officially
admitted. You should hang round Garrettson's office. Don't lose sight of
it for one minute! Your office will keep in touch--”
“Yes; they are sending three men down to work under me.”
“Keep me posted, will you? I am going to Richards's office and watch the
market.”
Kidder nodded and hurried to the Wills Building. Robison went to the
office of his brokers, stopping previously at a telephone pay-station
to telephone to the city editors of the _Evening World_ and the _Evening
Journal_. This was his message:
_The Evening Planet is getting out an extra about the disappearance
of W. H. Garrettson. Send your men to Garrettson's office and also his
residence. Hurry!_
The _Evening Planet_ story was on the street before Robison returned to
Richards & Tuttle's office, and five minutes later _World_ and _Journal_
extras were selling in the financial district. Curiously enough, both
papers used the same scare-head, and that fact had a great deal to do
with the acceptance of the story by many people. The heading was: