I get through with him. The train hold-up was a criminal act, and you
are the witness who can convict the pair of them. Of course, we'll leave
Mrs. Macrae and the little girl entirely out of it. Nobody knows that
they were there with us, and nobody need know."
I agreed to that, and this mention of Mrs. Sheila and Maisie Ann makes
me remember that I've been leaving them out pretty severely for a good
long while. They weren't left out in reality-not by a jugful. In spite
of all the rush and hustle, the boss had found time to get acquainted
with Major Basil Kendrick and had been made at home in the transplanted
Kentucky mansion in the northern suburb. I'd been there too, sometimes
to carry a box of flowers when the boss was suddenly called out of
town, and some other evenings when I had to go and hunt him up to give
him a bunch of telegrams. Of course, I didn't play the butt-in; I didn't
have to. Maisie Ann usually looked out for me, and when she found out
that I liked pumpkin pie, made Kentucky fashion, we used to spend most
of those errand-running evenings together in the pantry.
But to get back on the firing line. I wasn't around when Mr. Norcross
had his "declaration of war" talk with Hatch. Mr. Norcross, being pretty
sure he wasn't going to have that evening off, had sent me out to
"Kenwood" with a note and a box of roses, and when I got back to the
office about eight o'clock, Hatch was just going away. I met him on the
stair.
The boss was sitting back in his big swing chair, smoking, when I broke
in. He looked as if he'd been mixing it up good and plenty with Mr.
Rufus Hatch--and enjoying it.
"We've got 'em going, Jimmie," he chuckled; and he said it without
asking me how I had found Mrs. Sheila, or how she was looking, or
anything.
I told him I had met Mr. Hatch on the stair going down.
"He didn't say anything to you, did he?" he asked.
"Not a word."
"I had to pull that Sand Creek business on him, and I'm rather sorry,"
he went on. "He and his people are going to fight the new company to a
finish, and he merely came up here to tell me so--and to add that I
might as well resign first as last, because, in the end, he'd get my
goat. When I laughed at him he got abusive. He's an ugly beggar,
Jimmie."
"That's what everybody says of him."
"It's true. He and his crowd have plenty of money--stolen money, a good
deal of it--and they stand in with every political boss and gangster in
the State. There is only one way to handle such a man, and that is
without gloves. I told him we had the goods on him in the matter of Mr.
Chadwick's kidnapping adventure. At first he said I couldn't prove it.
Then he broke out cursing and let your name slip. I hadn't mentioned you
at all, and so he gave himself away. He knows who you are, and he
remembered that you had overheard his talk with Henckel in the Bullard
lobby."
I heard what he was saying, but I didn't really sense it because my head
was ram jam full of a thing that was so pitiful that it had kept me
swallowing hard all the way back from Major Kendrick's. It was this way.
When I had jiggled the bell out at the house it was Maisie Ann who let
me in and took the box of flowers and the boss's note. She told me that
Aunt Mandy, the cook, hadn't made any pie that day, so we sat in the
dimly lighted hall and talked for a few minutes.
One thing she told me was that Mrs. Sheila had company and the name of
it was Mr. Van Britt. That wasn't strictly news because I had known that
Mr. Van Britt was dividing time pretty evenly with the boss in the Major
Kendrick house visits. That wasn't anything to be scared up about. I
knew that all Mr. Norcross asked, or would need, would be a fair field
and no favor. But my chunky little girl didn't stop at that.
"I think we can let Mr. Van Britt take care of himself," she said. "He
has known Cousin Sheila for a long time, and I guess they are only just
good friends. But there is something you ought to know, Jimmie--for Mr.
Norcross's sake. He has been sending lots of flowers and things, and
Cousin Sheila has been taking them because--well, I guess it's just
because she doesn't know how not to take them."
"Go on," I said, but my mouth had suddenly grown dry.
"Such things--flowers, you know--don't mean anything in New York, where
we've been living. Men send them to their women friends just as they
pass their cigar-cases around among their men friends. But I'm afraid
it's different with Mr. Norcross."
"It is different," I said.
Then she told me the thing that made me swell up and want to burst.
"It mustn't be different, Jimmie. Cousin Sheila's married, you know."
"I know she has been married," I corrected; and then she gave me the
sure-enough knock-out.
"She is married now, and her husband is still living."
For a little while I couldn't do anything but gape like a chicken with
the pip. It was simply fierce! I knew, as well as I knew anything, that
the boss was gone on Mrs. Sheila; that he had fallen in love, first with
the back of her neck and then with her pretty face and then with all of
her; and that the one big reason why he had let Mr. Chadwick persuade
him to stay in Portal City was the fact that he had wanted to be near
her and to show her how he could make a perfectly good spoon out of the
spoiled horn of the Pioneer Short Line.
When I began to get my grip back a little I was right warm under the
collar.
"She oughtn't to be going around telling people she is a widow!" I
blurted out.
"She doesn't," was the calm reply. "People just take it for granted, and
it saves a lot of talk and explanations that it wouldn't be pleasant to
have to make. They've separated, you know--years ago, and Cousin Sheila
has taken her mother's maiden name, Macrae. If we were going to live
here always it would be different. But we are only visiting Cousin
Basil, or I suppose we are, though we've been here now for nearly a
year."
There wasn't much more to be said, and pretty soon I had staggered off
with my load and gone back to the office. And this was why I couldn't
get very deep into the Hatch business with Mr. Norcross when he told me
what he had been obliged to do about the Sand Creek hold-up.
He didn't say anything further about it, except to tell me to be careful
and not let any of the Hatch people tangle me up so that my evidence, if
I should have to give it, would be made to look like a faked-up story;
and a little before nine o'clock Mr. Ripley dropped in and he and the
boss went up-town together.
I might have gone, too. Fred May had got through and gone home, and
there was nothing much that I could do beyond filing a few letters and
tidying up a bit around my own desk. But I couldn't make up my mind
either to work or to go to bed. I wanted a chance to think over the
horrible thing Maisie Ann had told me; time to cook up some scheme by
which the boss could be let down easy.
If he had been like other men it wouldn't have been so hard. But I had a
feeling that he had gone into this love business just as he did into
everything--neck or nothing--burning his bridges behind him, and having
no notion of ever turning back. I had once heard our Oregon Midland
president, Mr. Lepaige, say that it was not good for a man always to
succeed; never to be beaten; that without a setback, now and then, a man
never learned how to bend without breaking. The boss had never been
beaten, and Mr. Lepaige was talking about him when he said this. What
was it going to do to him when he learned the truth about Mrs. Sheila?
On top of this came the still harder knock when I saw that it was up to
me to tell him. I remembered all the stories I'd ever heard about how
the most cold-blooded surgeon that ever lived wouldn't trust himself to
stick a knife into a member of his own family, and I knew now just how
the surgeon felt about it. It was up to me to whet my old Barlow and
stick it into the boss, clear up to the handle.
While I was still sweating under the big load Maisie Ann had dumped upon
me, the night despatcher's boy came in with a message. It was from Mr.
Chadwick, and I read it with my eyes bugging out. This is what it said:
"To G. NORCROSS, G. M.,
"Portal City.
"P. S. L. Common dropped to thirty-four to-day, and banks lending
on short time notes for betterment fund are getting nervous. Wire
from New York says bondholders are stirring and talking
receivership. General opinion in financial circles leans to idea
that new policy is foregone failure. Are you still sure you can
make it win?
"CHADWICK."
Right on the heels of this, and before I could get my breath, in came
the boy again with another telegram. It was a hot wire from President
Dunton, one of a series that he had been shooting in ever since Mr.
Norcross had taken hold and begun firing the cousins and nephews.
"To G. NORCROSS, G. M.,
"Portal City. RUSH.
"See stock quotations for to-day. Your policy is a failure. Am
advised you are now fighting Red Tower. Stop it immediately and
assure Mr. Hatch that we are friendly, as we have always been. If
something cannot be done to lift securities to better figure, your
resignation will be in order.
"DUNTON."
They say that misfortunes never come singly. Here were two new griefs
hurling themselves in over the wires all in the same quarter-hour,
besides the one I had up my sleeve. But there was no use dallying. It
was up to me to find the boss as quickly as I could and have the
three-cornered surgical operation over with. I knew the telegrams
wouldn't kill him--or I thought they wouldn't. I thought they'd probably
make him take a fresh strangle hold on things and be fired--if he had to
be fired--fighting it out grimly on his own line. But I wasn't so sure
about the Mrs. Sheila business. That was a horse of another color.
I had just reached for my hat and was getting ready to snap the
electrics off when I heard footsteps in the outer office. At first I
thought it was the despatcher's boy coming with another wire, but when I
looked up, a stocky, hard-faced man in a derby hat and a short overcoat
was standing in the doorway and scowling across at me.
It was Mr. Rufus Hatch, and I had a notion that the hot end of his black
cigar glared at me like a baleful red eye when he came in and sat down.
IX
And Satan Came Also
"I saw your office lights from the street," was the way the Red Tower
president began on me, and his voice took me straight back to the Oregon
woods and a lumber camp where the saw-filers were at work. "Where is Mr.
Norcross?"
I told him that Mr. Norcross was up-town, and that I didn't suppose he
would come back to the office again that night, now that it was so late.
Instead of going away and giving it up, he sat right still, boring me
with his little gray eyes and shifting the black cigar from one corner
of his mouth to the other.
"My name is Hatch, of the Red Tower Company," he grated, after a minute
or two. "You're the one they call Dodds, aren't you?"
I admitted it, and he went on.
"Norcross brought you here with him from the West, didn't he?"
I nodded and wondered what was coming next. When it did come it nearly
bowled me over.
"What pay are you getting here?"
It was on the tip of my tongue to cuss him out right there and then and
tell him it was none of his business. But the second thought (which
isn't always as good as it's said to be) whispered to me to lead him on
and see how far he would go. So I told him the figures of my pay check.
"I'm needing another shorthand man, and I can afford to pay a good bit
more than that," he growled. "They tell me you are well up at the top in
your trade. Are you open to an offer?"
I let him have it straight then. "Not from you," I said.
"And why not from me?"
Here was where I made my first bad break. All of a sudden I got so angry
at the thought that he was actually trying to buy me that I couldn't see
anything but red, and I blurted out, "Because I don't hire out to work
for any strong-arm outfit--not if I know it!"
For a little while he sat blinking at me from under his bushy eyebrows,
and his hard mouth was drawn into a straight line with a mean little
wrinkle coming and going at the corners of it.
When he got ready to speak again he said, "You're only a boy. You want
to get on in the world, don't you?"
"Supposing I do: what then?" I snapped.
"I'm offering you a good chance: the best you ever had. You don't owe
Norcross anything more than your job, do you?"
"Maybe not."
"That's better. Put on your hat and come along with me. I want to show
you what I can do for you in a better field than railroading ever was,
or ever will be. It'll pay you--" and he named a figure that very nearly
made me fall dead out of my chair.
Of course, it was all plain enough. The boss had him on the hip with
that kidnapping business, with me for a witness. And he was trying to
fix the witness. It's funny, but the only thing I thought of, just then,
was the necessity of covering up the part that Mrs. Sheila and Maisie
Ann had had in the hold-up affair that he was so anxious to bury and put
out of sight.
"I guess we needn't beat about the bushes any longer, Mr. Hatch," I
said, bracing up to him. "I haven't told the sheriff, or anybody but Mr.
Norcross, what I know about a certain little train hold-up that happened
a few weeks ago down at Sand Creek Siding; but that isn't saying that
I'm not going to."
At this he flung the stump of the black cigar out of the window, found
another in his pocket, and lighted it. If I had had the sense of a field
mouse, I might have known that I was no match for such a man; but I
lacked the sense--lacked it good and hard.
"You're like your boss," he said shortly. "You'd go a long distance out
of your way to make an enemy when there is no need of it. That hold-up
business was a joke, from start to finish. I don't know how you and
Norcross came to get in on it; the joke was meant to be on John
Chadwick. The night before, at a little dinner we were giving him at the
railroad club, he said there never was a railroad hold-up that couldn't
have been stood off. A few of us got together afterward and put up a job
on him; sent him over to Strathcona and arranged to have him held up on
the way back."
Again I lost my grip on all the common, every-day sanities. My best
play--the only reasonable play--was to let him go away thinking that he
had made me swallow the joke story whole. But I didn't have sense enough
to do that.
"Mr. Chadwick didn't take it as a joke!" I retorted.
"I know he didn't; and that's why we're all anxious now to dig a hole
and bury the thing decently. Perhaps we had all been taking a drop too
much at the club dinner that night."
At that I swelled up man-size and kicked the whole kettle of fat into
the fire.
"Of course, it was a joke!" I ripped out. "And your coming here to-night
to try to hire me away from Mr. Norcross is another. The woods are full
of good shorthand men, Mr. Hatch, but for the present I think I shall
stay right where I am--where a court subpoena can find me when I'm
wanted."
"That's all nonsense, and you know it--if you're not too much of a kid
to know anything," he snapped, shooting out his heavy jaw at me. "I
merely wanted to give you a chance to get rid of the railroad collar, if
you felt like it. And there'll be no court and no subpoena. The
poorest jack-leg lawyer we've got in Portal City would make a fool of
you in five minutes on the witness-stand. Nevertheless, my offer holds
good. I like a fighting man; and you've got nerve. Take a night and
sleep on it. Maybe you'll think differently in the morning."
Here was another chance for me to get off with a whole skin, but by this
time I was completely lost to any sober weighing and measuring of the
possible consequences. Leaning across the desk end I gave him a final
shot, just as he was getting up to go.
"Listen, Mr. Hatch," I said. "You haven't fooled me for a single minute.
Your guess is right; I heard every word that passed between you and Mr.
Henckel that Monday morning in the Bullard lobby. As I say, I haven't
told anybody yet but Mr. Norcross; but if you go to making trouble for
him and the railroad company, I'll go into court and swear to what I
know!"
He was half-way out of the door when I got through, and he never made
any sign that he heard what I said. After he was gone I began to sense,
just a little, how big a fool I had made of myself. But I was still mad
clear through at the idea that he had taken me for the other kind of a
fool--the kind that wouldn't know enough to be sure that the president
of a big corporation wouldn't get down to tampering with a common clerk
unless there was some big thing to be stood off by it.
Stewing and sizzling over it, I puttered around with the papers on my
desk for quite a little while before I remembered the two telegrams, and
the fact that I'd have to go and stick the three-bladed knife into Mr.
Norcross. When I did remember, I shoved the messages into my pocket,
flicked off the lights and started to go up-town and hunt for the boss.
After closing the outer door of the office I don't recall anything
particular except that I felt my way down the headquarters stair in the
dark and groped across the lower hall to the outside door that served
for the stair-case entrance from the street. When I had felt around and
found the brass knob, something happened, I didn't know just what. In
the tiny little fraction of a second that I had left, as you might say,
between the hearse and the grave, I had a vague notion that the door was
falling over on me and mashing me flat; and after that, everything went
blank.
X
The Big Smash
When I came to life out of what seemed like an endless succession of bad
dreams it was broad daylight and the sun was shining brightly through
some filmy kind of curtain stuff in a big window that looked out toward
the west. I was in bed, the room was strange, and my right hand was
wrapped up in a lot of cotton and bandaged.
I hadn't more than made the first restless move before I saw a sort of
pie-faced woman in a nurse's cap and apron start to get up from where
she was sitting by the window. Before she could come over to the bed,
somebody opened a door and tip-toed in ahead of nursey. I had to blink
hard two or three times before I could really make up my mind that the
tip-toer was Maisie Ann. She looked as if she might be the nurse's
understudy. She had a nifty little lace cap on her thick mop of hair,
and I guess her apron was meant to be nursey too, only it was frilled
and tucked to a fare-you-well.
I don't know whether or not I've mentioned it before, but she was always
an awfully wholesome, jolly little girl, with a laugh so near the
surface that it never took much of anything to make it come rippling up
through. But now she was as sober as a deacon--and about fourteen times
as pretty as I had ever seen her before.
"You poor, poor boy!" she cooed, patting my pillow just like my
grandmother used to when I was a little kid and had the mumps or the
measles. "Are you still roaming around in the Oregon woods?"
That brought my dream, or one of them, back; the one about wandering
around in a forest of Douglas fir and having to jump and dodge to keep
the big trees from falling on me and smashing me.
"No more woods for mine," I said, sort of feebly. And then: "Where am
I?"
"You are in bed in the spare room at Cousin Basil's. They wanted to take
you to the railroad hospital that night, but when they telephoned up
here to try to find Mr. Norcross, Cousin Basil went right down and
brought you home with him in the ambulance."
"'That night,' you say?" I parroted. "It was last night that the door
fell on me, wasn't it?"
"I don't know anything about a door, but the night that they found you
all burnt and crippled, lying at the foot of your office stairs, was
three days ago. You have been out of your head nearly all the time ever
since."
"Burnt and crippled? What happened to me, Maisie Ann?"
"Nobody knows; not even the doctors. We've been hoping that some day
you'd be able to tell us. Can't you tell me now, Jimmie?"
I told her all there was to tell, mumbling around among the words the
best I could. When she saw how hard it was for me to talk, I could have
sworn that I saw tears in the big, wide-open eyes, but maybe I didn't.
Then she told me how the headquarters watchman had found me about
midnight; with my right hand scorched black and the rest of me
apparently dead and ready to be buried. The ambulance surgeon had
insisted, and was still insisting, that I had been handling a live wire;
but there were no wires at all in the lower hall, and nothing stronger
than an incandescent light current in the entire office building.
"And you say I've been here hanging on by my eyelashes for three days?
What has been going on in all that time, Maisie Ann? Hasn't anybody been
here to see me?"
She gave a little nod. "Everybody, nearly. Mr. Van Britt has been up
every day, and sometimes twice a day. He has been awfully anxious for
you to come alive."
"But Mr. Norcross?" I queried. "Hasn't he been up?"
She shook her head and turned her face away, and she was looking
straight out of the window at the setting sun when she asked, "When was
the last time you saw Mr. Norcross, Jimmie?"
I choked a little over a big scare that seemed to rush up out of the
bed-clothes to smother me. But I made out to answer her question,
telling her how Mr. Norcross had left the office maybe half an hour or
so before I did, that night, going up-town with Mr. Ripley. Then I asked
her why she wanted to know.
"Because nobody has seen him since a little later that same night," she
said, saying it very softly and without turning her head. And then: "Mr.
Van Britt found a letter from Mr. Norcross on his desk the next morning.
It was just a little typewritten note, on a Hotel Bullard letter sheet,
saying that he had made up his mind that the Pioneer Short Line wasn't
worth fighting for, and that he was resigning and taking the midnight
train for the East."
I sat straight up in bed; I should have had to do it if both arms had
been burnt to a crisp clear to the shoulders.
"Resigned?--gave up and ran away? I don't believe that for a single
minute, Maisie Ann!" I burst out.
She was shaking her head again, still without turning her face so that I
could see it.
"I--I'm afraid it's all true, Jimmie. There were two telegrams that came
to Mr. Norcross the night he went away; one from Mr. Chadwick and the
other from Mr. Dunton. I heard Mr. Van Britt telling Cousin Sheila what
the messages were. He'd seen the copies of them that they keep in the
telegraph office."
It was on my tongue's end to say that Mr. Norcross never had seen those
two telegrams, because I had them in my pocket and was on my way to
deliver them when I got shot; but I didn't. Instead, I said: "And you
think that was why Mr. Norcross threw up his hands and ran away?"
"No; I don't think anything of the sort. I know what it was, and you
know what it was," and at that she turned around and pushed me gently
down among the pillows.
"What was it?" I whispered, more than half afraid that I was going to
hear a confirmation of my own breath-taking conviction. And I heard it,
all right.
"It was what I was telling you about, that same evening, you
remember--down in the hall when you brought the flowers for Cousin
Sheila? You told him what I told you, didn't you?"
"No; I didn't have a chance--not any real chance."
"Then somebody else told him, Jimmie; and that is the reason he has
resigned and gone away. Mr. Van Britt thinks it was on account of the
two messages from Mr. Chadwick and Mr. Dunton, and that is why he wants
to talk to you about it. But you know, and I know, Jimmie, dear; and for
Cousin Sheila's sake and Mr. Norcross's, we must never lisp it to a
human soul. A new general manager has been appointed, and he is on his
way out here from New York. Everything has gone to pieces on the
railroad, and all of Mr. Norcross's friends are getting ready to resign.
Isn't it perfectly heart-breaking?"
It was; it was so heart-breaking that I just gasped once or twice and
went off the hooks again, with Maisie Ann's frightened little shriek
ringing in my ears as she tried to hold me back from slipping over the
edge.
XI
What Every Man Knows
I wasn't gone very long on this second excursion into the woozy-woozies,
though it was night-time, and the shaded electric light was turned on
when I opened my eyes and found Mrs. Sheila sitting by the bedside. The
pie-faced nurse was gone; or at least I didn't see her anywhere; and the
change in Mrs. Sheila sort of made me gasp. She wasn't any less pretty
as she sat there with her hands clasped in her lap, but she was
different; sober, and with the laugh all gone out of the big gray eyes,
and a look in them as if she had suddenly become so wise that nobody
could ever fool her.