For so many years Elihu Crane had preserved his impassive demeanor in
public that he gradually ceased to let down the bars at all. Even in his
own office--that inner sanctum which he had made as difficult of access
as the specie vault of the Bank of England--he retained his pose. At
this particular moment, even, holding in his hand that slip of paper
which was the strongest thread in the web he had been weaving so long
and patiently about his hated competitors, his face revealed nothing of
the fierce joy which filled his soul.
That paper was the note which fell due upon the morrow. Bainbridge &
Tweedy could not meet it, he was certain. Their funds were exhausted;
their credit gone. Barring a miracle, he held them in his power at last.
He meant to exercise that power ruthlessly and without mercy.
There was one little carping doubt in his mind--though that, too, was
hidden behind the impenetrable mask. Was he to be deprived, after all,
of the keen pleasure he had planned for himself--the pleasure of being
the one imparting to young Bainbridge by word of mouth the exact status
of his affairs, and a gloating account of what the future held in store?
His letter had been placed in Bainbridge’s hands hours before. Bob was
not obliged to come, but Crane had written with a perfect knowledge of
the young man’s nature, coupled with all the diabolical cunning he
possessed. It would be strange if the combination did not serve to goad
the high-spirited youngster into doing what his former partner desired,
and yet the minute hand of the clock was climbing swiftly upward from
half past one, and there had come no word.
Frowning the least bit, Crane at length stretched out a lean, wrinkled
hand toward one of a row of pearl-topped buttons set in the surface of
the flat mahogany desk. Almost as he did so one of the telephones at his
left tinkled lightly, and he lifted it swiftly. A brief conversation
took place which smoothed miraculously the forehead of the Lumber Trust
official.
“Show them in at once, Banning,” he finished.
Setting down the instrument, he leaned back, eyes fixed on the door with
a touch almost of pleasurable anticipation in them. When presently it
swung open to admit Bob Bainbridge, followed closely by Tweedy, Crane’s
mouth tightened cruelly, and the sandy-fringed lids drooped a trifle.
“And so,” he said at length, his lips curling, “you’ve come to crawl.”
Bainbridge did not answer for a moment. He was busy settling down in the
chair which had not been offered him, and in seeing that Tweedy did the
same. Then he drew out a cigar case and, with elaborate courtesy,
extended it to Crane.
“No?” he murmured, as the latter declined with a brief gesture. “Given
up smoking? Here, John.”
When Tweedy had accepted, and his own weed was lighted, Bainbridge
leaned comfortably back in his chair.
“To crawl?” he repeated slowly, “Well, I don’t know about that. A fellow
never likes to crawl if there’s another way out of a difficulty.”
Crane’s eyes glinted. “Rest assured there isn’t,” he retorted crisply.
“You’re in a hole. You haven’t a single resource left. Your credit’s no
good.”
“Oh, I don’t admit that,” put in Bob hastily.
“Whether you admit it or not, it’s true,” retorted Crane, a note of
cold, calculating triumph creeping into his voice. “You can’t bluff me.
I’ve had a man looking up your affairs for some time, and I know what
I’m talking about. Tweedy, here, has been breaking his neck all last
week trying to borrow enough to meet your note of eight thousand which
is due at noon to-morrow. That note”--he bent forward, and raised for an
instant the oblong sheet of paper from his desk--“is here.”
If he expected signs of surprise or consternation from Bainbridge he was
disappointed. Bob simply crossed one leg over the other, and nodded.
“So I understand,” he drawled.
There was a briefest sort of pause, during which his dark eyes held the
older man’s in thrall. Suddenly he arose.
“You may as well hand it over now,” he said coolly, moving toward the
desk.
In a twinkling Crane had acted. With amazing agility he bent forward
over the desk. A buzzer sounded. A drawer popped open. A second later he
had snatched from it a revolver, which he leveled swiftly at Bob. Last
of all, doors at either end of the office opened noiselessly to admit a
pair of stalwart attendants.
Bainbridge, pausing in the middle of the floor, surveyed these maneuvers
with interest and frank amusement.
“Very clever and effective,” he murmured slowly, exhaling a whiff of
smoke. “Plainly no one’s ever going to catch you napping. It happens,
though, that I had no idea of playing the holdup game. I wished merely
to hand you a check for the amount of that note and interest, and cancel
it. Would you mind turning that barrel just a trifle to one side?
Accidents will happen, you know, and your staff here seems quite able to
cope with the situation alone.”
A single momentary flash of incredulous anger ripped across Crane’s
impassive countenance. Then the mask fell again, and, lowering the
revolver, he bent forward.
“You certainly don’t expect me to accept a personal check of yours for
that amount, do you?” he inquired coldly.
“Not quite,” smiled Bainbridge. “Knowing your skeptical nature, I took
the trouble to have it certified.”
He drew out his bill case, and, taking from it a narrow slip of paper,
laid it before Crane. Silence followed--tense, vibrating with something
of the sense of that bitter, baffled fury which was rending the older
man as he stared at the scrap of paper that was depriving him of his
revenge. It was the equivalent of currency. He could not refuse to take
it. The amount was correct to the last cent. The whole transaction was
one in which even his cunning could find no flaw.
But where had the money come from? He could not believe that any one in
Bangor had supplied it. It was impossible that his subordinates could
have been so deceived.
With swiftly growing fury Crane made a brief note of payment on the back
of the paper. His hand trembled. By the time the signature was written
his lips were quivering--his face dark.
“There!” he rasped harshly, thrusting the note at Bainbridge. “Where you
got it I don’t know, but it’ll do you no good. Your best mill’s a total
loss. You haven’t sold a foot of lumber in weeks, and you won’t for
months to come. Everybody’s bought what they want from us at easy rates.
You may think this is a mighty smart move, but I’ll get you in the end!”
“I think not!”
Bob’s voice had taken on a sudden quality of hardness. His face lost the
half-bantering expression of a moment before, and grew coldly stern. It
was as if he had all at once wearied of the little drama he had been
staging, and was determined to ring down the curtain without delay.
“I think not,” he repeated curtly. “Who did you make those biggest sales
of cut-rate lumber to, Crane?”
There was an underlying significance in his tone which made Crane glance
sharply at him from under penthouse brows, and then dismiss the two
silent attendants with a gesture.
“What business is that of yours?” he demanded.
Bainbridge laughed harshly, triumphantly, “What business is it of mine?
I’ll tell you.”
He bent suddenly forward, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands.
His face was slightly flushed; his eyes, fixed intently on Crane, held
in their depths a gleam of singularly disconcerting triumph.
“I’ll tell you,” he said rapidly. “J. G. Brown, of Portland, had two
million feet, didn’t he? Creighton, of Rockland, bought half as much.
There was Cox, of Portsmouth--Blanchard--Manning--Lafitte. You see, I
_know_!”
There was a ring in his voice which made Tweedy begin to tingle and sit
forward, suddenly erect, in thrilling anticipation of the bombshell he
felt sure was coming.
“Why don’t you ask the questions you’re dying to? How? Why? You’re wild
to know; I can see it in your eyes.” Bob laughed again, and Crane winced
at the sound. “I’ll tell you. I know because they’re only my
agents--buying--for--me!”
“It’s a lie!” burst from Crane’s white lips. “They paid cash! You
haven’t a cent.”
“I have something better--unlimited credit. Shall I tell you who’s
backing me because he hates the trust, and has faith in my ability to
fight you? Wolcott Sears, of Boston. Now do you understand? Instead of
ruining us by cutting rates, you’ve played straight into our hands.
Timber values can’t go down. We’ll sell at market prices what we bought
from you and clean up a cool half million on the deal.”
With an inarticulate cry of fury, Crane leaped to his feet, and stood
glaring at Bainbridge with flaming, maddened eyes. The mask of
inscrutability had vanished from his face. One saw the real man now,
stripped of the veneer of temperament and civilization.
“It’s a plot!” he raved, shaking a skinny fist in Bob’s face. “It’s a
vile conspiracy. I’ll take the case to court. I’ll have you jailed
for----”
“Sit down!”
Bainbridge’s tone was not loud, but there was a compelling quality about
it which stopped the boiling torrent of fury with amazing suddenness.
Crane gulped hard, caught his trembling lips between his teeth--and
finally subsided into his chair.
“You talk of plots--you!” The young man’s voice was hard, cold, full of
unutterable contempt. “Do you happen to know the penalty for conspiracy
to commit arson--and worse?”
“I don’t know--what you mean,” faltered Crane, avoiding the dark eyes
bent so keenly on his face.
“Oh, yes, you do. Look at these.”
With a swift, dramatic motion Bainbridge suddenly jerked from his pocket
some sheets of paper covered closely with erect, spitefully black
writing, and held them before Crane.
“Your own hand,” he accused. “Instructions to your henchman, Bill
Kollock? I think the jury at your trial will consider them proof
enough.”
Crane’s jaw dropped. His white face had turned a sickly green.
“You--wouldn’t--dare!” he gasped.
“Wouldn’t I? Just let me show you.”
Without waiting a reply, Bob leaned over, and, picking up one of the
telephones, stood erect.
“Headquarters,” he said briefly. Then, after a momentary pause: “That
you, chief? This is Bainbridge. Will you send up those two plain-clothes
men we arranged about? Yes, the arrest can be made any time. That’s all.
Thank you!”
The receiver clicked into place again, and Bainbridge returned the
instrument to the desk. Crane sat hunched in his chair, his face a
mixture of hate and fear and baffled fury. Tweedy looked as if a mammoth
weight had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. Bob’s expression was
inscrutable.
The room was very still.