AN EVENING CALL
It was early in the evening and some of the Courier's reportorial staff
were in the office, waiting for late assignments. As often happened when
a few moments of leisure allowed, there was an animated group in the
corner, with O'Byrn occupying the center. The political situation was
beginning to grow warmer, so it naturally followed that Shaughnessy was
the subject of conversation.
Micky had just been indulging in what Dick Glenwood called one of his
"bursts of indiscriminate philosophy." "This game of politics," he
declared, "is getting to be a science in solitaire. It's up to you to
play it alone and use the rest of 'em for pawns, if you want to win out.
Now, look at Shaughnessy. He fools his bowers, right and left. He
annexes the whole graft. His gang of four-flushers think it's a divvy,
but the boss has the wad and they're gettin' one-half of one per cent
handouts. What a graft it is! I read in a paper the other day of a sign
in front of an eat-joint in a Western boom town. It read:
MEALS, 25 CENTS.
SQUARE MEALS, 50 CENTS.
GORGE, 75 CENTS.
But Shaughnessy's doin' a lot better than that. He's gettin' gorged
without payin' for it."
"Where did he hail from?" asked Peters. "Isn't indigenous, is he?"
"Please remember, Pete," remarked Dick, in a pained tone, "that kind of
vocabulary is barred outside your copy writing, and even then must never
be used unless you've lost your book of synonyms. You positively must
never throw verbal lugs into us like that. As for Shaughnessy, he isn't
whatever you call it. He came here from the devil knows where a dozen
years ago and annexed Goldberg, the gentleman that's so popular with
Micky. Mr. Shaughnessy had enjoyed a good ward training somewhere and
was quick to catch onto the possibilities of that section of the town.
His connection with politics has always been of the quietest nature, but
he's popularly supposed to rule the roost. They say, too, he's long on
aspirations and hopes humbly for the ultimate possession of the state."
"Newspapers are dead against him," observed Mead; "at least, all that
count."
"Two of 'em weren't till lately," responded Dick dryly. "He had 'em
bought, body and soul, till they had a row with him on a question of
patronage and did a chameleon change for political virtue. He's got his
own Messenger--good name for that organ. He's the owner of that sheet,
though he doesn't figure in the firm name. There's the Courier, of
course, and our rival over the way must have fought him from the first,
but the good in this city mostly died young, I guess."
"'Tisn't that," put in Micky, from the midst of a placid cloud of cigar
smoke. "There's enough of the decent element in this place to shelve
Shaughnessy, if you could rouse it. But it's doing a Rip Van Winkle
that it's going to take a big gob of dynamite to jar it out of. Some day
that will happen, and the decent element will be on top for a year or
two. Then it will fall asleep at the switch and do another century,
while the gang rings in again. Oh, it'll happen, for a little while, the
reform stunt. It always does. But it won't last long, and then it's the
gang that we have always with us. Boss rule? It's explained easily
enough. Your decent element is troubled with trances; the gang's got
insomnia."
"So you think Shaughnessy'll get what's coming to him some day?" mused
Dick. "Where's your dynamite?"
"Right here!" asserted O'Byrn, bracing in his chair and vigorously
banging his desk. "Here or in some other good newspaper office in this
town. Do you know the reason of Shaughnessy's success here? It's because
he never shows his hand. He's a gilt-edged daisy, that fellow. If he had
been doing his business in the open they'd have had him behind bars long
ago. But he's doing his directing from the wings. You and I know that if
we pick out a reputable man, hap-hazard, from the decent element we've
been speaking of, and begin talking to him of Shaughnessy, he'll laugh
and chase up the street, saying that the papers have Shaughnessy on the
brain. It's a fact that a lot of people don't look on that Irish
scoundrel as anything more than a cheap ward boss, with little influence
in the city at large. There's reason enough for the view. The newspapers
have poured out columns of abuse of Shaughnessy in the past few years,
but sum it all up and it's composed wholly of vague generalities.
They've never brought anything home to him that was worth the bringing,
never a thing that would jug him for a minute. The average voter here
holds him too cheap. That fact, coupled with the natural majority he
controls, always tips his scales right. Tell your voter-at-large that it
was Shaughnessy who engineered the queer, rotten deals that have figured
in this town--yes, and the legislature,--deals whose parentage they
can't trace, and the voter would give you the laugh."
"He'd have a right to," commented Kirk. "Go slow, Micky. Shaughnessy's a
good organizer, and maybe he's put some cheap ones through, but he's
limited."
"So is the flyer," retorted Micky, "but it'll jerk you along some. Don't
you foolish yourself about that mick, Andy. He's a deep one. He's got a
side to him that's working overtime. It's an underground system, and any
lucky guy in this business that tumbles into it will see things that'll
fill his paper next day with facts, not surmises, facts that'll set 'em
all gapin'. That's the dynamite that'll explode some day and it'll blow
Shaughnessy into stripes and behind the bars. Of course, there'll be a
new boss after a while, but it won't be Shaughnessy."
The city editor summoned them just then and the conference was abruptly
terminated. Soon afterward Micky and Dick descended together in the
elevator and walked up the avenue toward the point where their paths
separated. They were still talking of Shaughnessy.
"He's an odd genius," Dick was saying, "and I think you have sized him
up about right. I've studied him more or less, and I gave him credit
from the first of having a lot more under his hat than a good many think
he has. He strikes me as a sort of a cross between a hyena and a
bulldog. From his start here he's never let go--and there's the stench
about him of a political charnel house. After he got his start,
everything that would be likely to hamper him went by the board. You
know he runs a wholesale liquor house. It used to be a little saloon
when he first struck here, and they tell me he used to drink up most of
his stock himself. Very secretive fellow, nobody knew anything about
him. Then, all of a sudden, he got started on his career. Alderman at
first, I believe, but wasn't in public life long, didn't need to be.
He's a wonder. They tell me that from the time of his first canvass for
office he cut out the booze and doesn't touch it at all. Wiped out his
own handicap. Well, you see what he's done; he's well fixed. They all
know it's there, but they can't prove where he got it. And say, speak of
the devil--there he is now."
Shaughnessy passed them, with a slight nod of recognition to Glenwood.
His face gleamed ghastly under the flood of electric light, there were
blue shadows under his black eyes. While he walked briskly enough, his
face, in addition to its usual lack of animation, held utter weariness.
"Looks bad, doesn't he?" remarked Dick, as they separated on the corner.
"Something must be the matter with him. Looks to be all in."
"No," grinned Micky; "it just makes him thin every campaign figuring to
keep his job." Then he added unsmilingly, "He makes me feel as tired as
he looks, Dick. I don't know what it is, but there's something about
that geezer that makes a fellow feel like crape on the knob."
A little later, seated in the library of his handsome residence on
Morley Street, Colonel John Westlake heard his door bell ringing and was
manifestly apprehensive. The closed oak desk in the corner, the sight of
the Colonel stretched contentedly in his easy chair, a fragrant cigar
between his lips and a favorite book in his hand, indicated a quiet,
enjoyable evening which the gentleman regretted to have disturbed. So it
was with suppressed irritation that the Colonel looked up, warned by the
rustle of feminine skirts, to find the maid standing in the doorway.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said she. "He didn't give any card. He
said to tell you that Mr. Shaughnessy wanted to see you a minute."
The Colonel's smile was grimly questioning, while he reflectively
stroked his sandy beard, which was faintly streaked with gray. Then he
cogitated for a moment, while he abandoned his whiskers for a small,
round bald spot on his crown, which he thoughtfully rubbed. "Well," said
he finally, "show him in, Mary."
Left to himself the Colonel took a couple of long thoughtful puffs at
his cigar, while he chuckled audibly. The look of irritation had
vanished; it had given place to one of piqued and peppery curiosity.
The look with which Colonel Westlake greeted his visitor, as the boss
entered the library, was one of eager aggressiveness. The Colonel was a
fighter and a gallant one; he itched for any fray that would allow him
to glory in honorable combat, for it was always honorable on his side.
His eyes were blue and stormy, but they always looked straight at you
and the fire of awakened antagonism in them had often caused the
dishonorable to quail. But at this particular moment, the black,
sinister eyes of Shaughnessy, the unbidden, sullenly impassive as an
Indian's, stared straight into the sharp, challenging ones of the
Colonel without a sign of wavering, and the even, expressionless voice
of Shaughnessy anticipated any words of dubious welcome the Colonel
might have spoken.
"You need not ask regarding the occasion for the honor of my visit,
Colonel," he said, as his host rose, "for I know well enough that you do
not regard it as an honor." He smiled sardonically.
The Colonel smiled also, quite broadly. This was not so bad. "You are
quite right, Mr. Shaughnessy," he acknowledged. "I know you well enough
to know that you're here on business. Well, take a chair and state it."
There was an underlying something in the Colonel's tone, a peremptory
note that spelled, "Be brief as possible and get out."
It failed to disturb the nonchalance of Shaughnessy. He leisurely seated
himself in a chair opposite that of the Colonel, the large oak table
being between them. Then, with half-closed eyes dreamily searching the
ceiling, he proceeded to apparently forget his host's presence in a
sudden fit of abstraction which was, under the circumstances, superb.
The Colonel waited a moment, his choler rising perceptibly. "Well, sir?"
he finally queried, and there was menace in his tone.
Shaughnessy lazily lowered his eyes till they rested level with those of
his host. The Colonel thought instinctively, as he gazed into them, of
the fixed beady stare of a serpent.
"You are at present the principal owner of the Courier, having purchased
the controlling interest early the past summer, aren't you, Colonel?"
asked Shaughnessy.
"Most certainly. What of it?"
"You are not at present in favor of taking a contract for any or all of
the official city printing?" pursued Shaughnessy.
"What do you mean?" demanded the Colonel, his gorge rising. "You have
had my answer--"
"Wait a moment," interrupted the boss, raising a deprecating thin hand.
"Let's get at this logically. Keep cool, Colonel. And now, another
thing. Do I understand that you intend to pound what you are pleased to
call my machine during the present campaign?"
The Colonel's eyes lighted up with the battle fire, but his voice was
mellow with an ominous softness as he answered, "Pound you? As hard as
God will let me, my dear sir. Yes, you bet your life!"
"Well, now, let's see about that," pursued Shaughnessy, his voice as
soft and menacing as the other's. "I'm told by a friend of mine,
Colonel, that you're a heavy holder of this Consolidated Gas that is
arousing so much speculation just now." His voice had grown insolent.
His face remained impassive, but his eyes, beginning to burn with evil
exultation, searched the Colonel's own.
For his part, the host leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and
stared straight across at Shaughnessy. "Well," he inquired, still
softly, "what if I am, eh?"
"Well, if you are," retorted Shaughnessy, also leaning forward, his lips
set cruelly under his small black moustache, "if you are--not to please
me, for I'm getting out of the small share I've had in local politics,
but for your own good--don't you think you'd better reconsider that city
printing matter?"
"And if I should," suggested the Colonel, his tone even quieter, "why,
you'd expect the Courier--of course--"
Shaughnessy leaned back with a cynical, assured smile. His tone was now
arrogant. "The Courier," he sneered, "why, of course, the Courier will
get in line."
Colonel Westlake looked away for a moment. "Yes, the Courier will get in
line," he murmured. He slowly removed his still lighted cigar from his
mouth and placed it carefully on the corner of the table. Shaughnessy
silently exulted with evil eyes, which then again indifferently,
dreamily, sought the ceiling.
"The Courier will get in line!" There was a difference in the tone, a
ringing note which in a flash recalled Shaughnessy's wandering gaze. He
found the Colonel standing opposite him, his hands grasping the edge of
the table, his face crimson with rage. "You hound!" growled the Colonel,
"you crawling snake! I've drawn you out; I only wish it was far enough
for me to get my heel on you. But I'll do it yet. The Courier will get
in line, you leper, don't you doubt it, but it will be to crush you and
your dirty brood, for the forces of decency are going to stamp you out
this November as sure as there's a God in heaven! We've got to dig to do
it, thanks to your devilish ingenuity, but it'll be done. The Citizens'
Fusion ticket, with an honest man at the head, is going through, and
your ward heeler list will be wiped out at the polls, mark me. We're
going to clean this cesspool, but we'll drown you in it first! And now
let me tell you just how much of a cursed fool you made of yourself just
now in trying to intimidate me. Your solicitous friend didn't pry long
enough, it seems. I was the holder of a big block of Consolidated Gas
for just three days, solely through the blunder of an agent. It's an
infamous thing, which nobody should know better than yourself, and if
your sneaking lieutenant had been worth his salt, he'd have found that
I haven't had a dollar in that highway robbery combine for four months;
that I was not personally responsible for being in it in the first
place, and that I was at pains to get out of it at the expense of a
personal loss the moment I learned of it. Moreover, I suspect that it
was a cunning plan made months ago to compromise me in the belief that
the love of revenue would keep me in it and allow interests of which you
well know, you scoundrel, to get control of me. It's worked with others,
but I'm not built that way. You've shown your hand for nothing, and if
your heeler had been possessed of a penny's worth of brains, he'd have
found out about things and saved you unnecessary trouble. Let me assure
you that the Courier will put in double time to smash you, Shaughnessy,
and now I will ask you to leave before you are put out."
The Colonel ceased, his hands trembling with rage, his blazing eyes
fixed on Shaughnessy, who had sat with averted face and without a word
during Westlake's fiery denunciation. Now he rose, ever so leisurely,
and turned slowly, facing the owner of the Courier. The white face was
unruffled by any trace of emotion, the black, sinister eyes stared
unwaveringly as a reptile's into the Colonel's fiery blue ones.
Shaughnessy fumbled in an upper pocket of his vest.
"Pardon, Colonel, have you a match?" he inquired. His voice had all the
serenity of a mild June day. The dazed Westlake mechanically produced
one. Shaughnessy lazily lighted a cigar and sauntered out.