THE
SUBSTITUTE MILLIONAIRE
1
On a certain morning, just as on six mornings in the week (barring
holidays) and fifty weeks in the year, Jack Norman wormed his way into
a crowded subway local at Fiftieth street, and, propping himself
against the end of a cross seat, opened his paper. But this morning,
like everybody else in the train, he approached the headlines with an
unusual thrill of interest, for an immense sensation was in process of
being unrolled in the press.
Two days before, Silas Gyde, the millionaire miser and usurer, had been
blown to pieces in the street by a bomb. The assassin, arrested,
proved to be not one of those who had a grievance against the old money
lender (there were supposed to be many such) but a maniac of
anarchistic proclivities. His name was Emil Jansen. He was already on
the way to an asylum for the criminal insane.
The main facts of the case having been given in previous issues, space
in the paper to-day was largely devoted to anecdotes illustrating the
extraordinary eccentricities of the dead man. It was said that with an
income of perhaps six millions a year, he spent no more than six
hundred. He bought his clothes at an immigrant outfitters' on
Washington street, and even so had not had a new suit in two years. To
keep himself from spending money it was his habit to go about with
empty pockets, and borrow what few cents he needed from bootblacks,
newsboys and applewomen to whom he was well known. But he was
scrupulous in repaying these debts. Every day, even when he had become
old and feeble, he turned up at the office of a certain corporation for
the sake of a free lunch provided to the directors, though he had to
walk a mile from the Wall street district where all his business was
transacted. It was at the door of this office that he had met his end.
And so on. And so on.
Silas Gyde died a bachelor, and had left no kin so far as was known.
His wealth was said to be well in excess of a hundred million dollars.
The paper gave a tempting list of the gilt-edge securities he was
supposed to own; but nothing was known for sure, for though continually
engaged in litigation, he had left no personal attorney; he had not
sufficiently trusted any man. No one could say, now, where he had kept
his wealth or how he had intended to dispose of it.
Young Jack Norman read of the millions with the kind of aching gusto
that a hungry man pictures a good dinner. Jack's earnings were twelve
dollars a week. He knew little about sociology or economics, but he
could not but feel a dim dissatisfaction with the scheme of things that
restricted him, with all a youth's capacity for living largely, to
twelve dollars weekly, while it provided the old man with the tastes of
a hermit crab, with a hundred thousand.
Twelve dollars a week meant that Jack's still boyish appetite daily had
to be less than satisfied by the fare of a second rate boarding house;
it meant that he had to wear cheap clothes when the instinct of his
years was to array himself like Solomon; it meant that his lip must
curl with envy as the pleasures of the town passed him by; hardest of
all to bear, it meant that the joys of honorable courtship were denied
him. A fellow must have money to take a girl out in town.
Jack's case was not peculiar. The same expression of sullen
wistfulness might have been read in many a young face on the same
train. What distinguished this face from the others was a latent fire
in the eyes which suggested that, given the opportunity, the possessor
had the capacity to play a larger part in life than twelve dollars a
week permitted.
He got off at Worth street and made his way East to Centre where he
worked as book-keeper in Fisher's sash and blind factory. Walking the
street, like many another young head that morning, his was light with
dreams.
"If I had Silas Gyde's money I wouldn't be pounding the concrete like
this. I'd be fluffing down to Wall street in my Rolls-Royce. Or my
yacht would be putting me ashore at the Battery. Or a special train up
from Lakewood. First thing I'd do would be to tell Fisher to go to
Hell. Oh, that would be worth a million!
"I'd say to Fisher: 'Who do you think you are, you little two-spot
bankrupt carpenter with your business in your wife's name! One would
think you were William K. Astorbilt, the airs you give yourself. Why I
could buy you out for the price of what I spend for a meal!'"
As he turned in at the door of Fisher's place Jack's eyes involuntarily
sought a window in the establishment of the hardware jobber opposite.
As present the window was tenantless; later it would be sanctified by a
chestnut head bending over a typewriter. Jack's dreams were diverted
into another channel.
"If I had Silas Gyde's money she wouldn't have to pay for her own lunch
when she eats with me. And I could take her out nights. Oh!
Automobile, dress-suit, box seats at the Opera, supper at the Bienvenu
and a dance! Lord! And they say old Gyde lived on my salary!"
The offices of the Fisher factory were on the second floor. As Jack
turned in from the hall, Fisher himself was standing at the door of his
private office; hands in pockets, cigar rolling between thick lips, hat
on the back of his head, on his face the customary brutal sneer.
"You're late!" he rasped. "Can't you get out of bed in the mornings?"
This was a regular performance at Fisher's. The boss took his pleasure
that way, and the office employees were hardened to it. But at the
moment Jack was exalted. In his imagination he was still the master of
millions.
"The clock's fast," he said curtly, meeting Fisher square in the eye.
"You lie!" said that gentleman.
By way of answer Jack pulled out his watch and compared it with the
wall clock. The glance was not complimentary to Fisher's battered
time-piece. Fisher purpled with rage.
"You ---- ----! Don't give me any of your lip!"
"Who do you think you are?" said Jack coolly. The words were fatally
ready to his tongue. "You little two-by-four sash and blind maker with
your business in your wife's name! Better pay your bills before you
talk that way to honest men!"
Behind the fright in the eyes of the thin office-boy and the pale
typist, gleamed a wondering delight. Never had such words been heard
in that place!
"Get out of here! Get out of here!" roared Fisher on the verge of
apoplexy. "Get out before I throw you out!"
"As to that," said Jack, "you're not man enough," and he took a step
nearer the boss.
Fisher precipitately retired into his private office, slamming the door
behind him. The office boy tittered, and clapped a scared hand over
his mouth. Jack turned on his heel, and coolly lit a cigarette--lit it
and blew a whole cloud of smoke, there in those sacred precincts! The
eyes of the other two regarded him with a kind of adoration.
From behind the partition Fisher was still shouting: "Get out! You're
fired!"
"Much obliged," said Jack. "It was worth it."
But even while he spake the brave words his heart was sinking like a
stone in deep water. It was Wednesday, and his salary was always spent
in advance of course. All he possessed in the world was a dollar
twenty and his watch--fortunately out of hock for the time being. By
this time, he thought Fisher was probably sorry too, and would take him
back at a word of contrition--but with those admiring eyes on him, he
could not speak it.
"So long, Kids," he said airily, and started for the door.
"Oh, wait a minute," said the boy. "Here's a letter for you this
morning."
Jack thrust it carelessly into his pocket and went on down-stairs. At
the street door he stopped at a loss. Turned loose on the street at
nine o'clock of a working morning, which way was one to turn? He
glanced across the street again, the window was still vacant. Anyway,
he couldn't very well see her, jobless as he was. Better just drop of
sight. This thought cost him a shrewd pang. He started walking
quickly in the direction opposite to that whence she would presently
come.
He remembered the letter and took it out. Letters were not so frequent
in his life that he could afford to disdain them. This was a business
envelope, large, square, and made of thick, fine paper. "National New
York Bank" was neatly embossed on the flap. It was addressed in
long-hand, an untidy but powerful scrawl.
"Some high-class ad," thought Jack. "Want to sell me bonds, I
suppose." He chuckled with bitter humor.
Inside he found this communication in the same hand:
"Dear Mr. Norman:
"Will you please call me up at my office to-morrow morning. I shall
arrive there about nine-thirty. The number of my private phone is ----
Broad. You will not find it in the book.
"Very truly yours,
"Walter Delamare."
Jack, being a true American youth, regarded this skeptically. "What
kind of a con is he handing me?" he thought. "Who the deuce is Walter
Delamare?"
The name rang familiarly in his ears. He glanced at the note head
again. Under the name of the bank was printed: "Office of the
President." Of course! Walter Delamare, President of the National New
York Bank. His name was in the papers every day. It wielded a magic
influence in the nation.
Jack still suspected a hoax of some kind, though the expensive note
paper and the scrawly, characteristic hand were impressive. He
examined the latter with fresh care. It was surely real handwriting,
not process work.
"Oh well, it's worth a nickel for a telephone call," he thought. "I
have nothing to lose."
He had nearly half an hour to kill before nine-thirty, and no
twenty-five minutes ever passed more slowly. He walked down to Wall
street and had a look at the outside of the National New York Bank, an
imposing colonnade a whole block long. He circumnavigated it three
times, and at nine thirty-one, precisely, went into a cigar store and
called up the number that had been given him.
After a due interval he heard a voice at the other end of the wire that
certainly sounded like that of a man of mark--crisp, serene, potent;
humorous and kindly, too.
"Mr. Norman?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is Delamare. You are prompt. Can you come down to see me this
morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you come right away? Later I shall be very busy."
"Yes, sir."
"Good! Better taxi down. And by the way, it would be better if you
sent in an assumed name. I will explain why when I see you. Call
yourself--let me see--call yourself Mr. Robinson."
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. I shall be expecting you. Good-by."
Jack issued from the telephone booth a little dazed. A great captain
of finance asking him, the humble bookkeeper, to call! Putting Jack on
an equal footing by referring to himself as "Delamare"! A mystery
suggested by the use of an assumed name! What could it all mean! On
the one hand the skeptic in Jack whispered: "Some one is putting up a
game on you!" On the other hand the dear hidden ego in us all that
only needs a little appreciation to show its head said: "Why shouldn't
Walter Delamare have private business with you as well as anybody?"
Jack had only to walk across the street to the bank. The argument
within him showed itself in a kind of defiant sheepishness as he passed
the great portal and found himself under the far-flung vaulted ceiling.
It had been designed to impress, and impressive it was. With its rare
marbles and mural paintings it was more like a palace than a place of
sober business. It was not yet the opening hour, but many elegant
clerks were already starting to work behind the brass grills. Shabby
Jack eyed their cravats and fine linen wistfully.
He asked one of the uniformed attendants the way to Mr. Delamare's
office, half expecting a roar of laughter to go up. But nothing of the
sort occurred. He next found himself opposed by a silvery-haired old
gentleman whose exquisite courtesy was the same to all.
"Whom do you wish to see?"
"Mr. Delamare."
"Mr. Delamare can be seen only by appointment."
"I have an appointment."
The courteous old gentleman permitted himself a glance of surprise.
"What name shall I say?"
"Mr. Robinson."
"Very good, sir."
He returned with an air of slightly heightened respect. "Please step
this way, sir."
"It is all right," thought Jack. "Nobody is hoaxing me."
He followed his conductor down a mahogany and plate glass corridor.
2
Jack was introduced to a room of truly noble proportions, vast and
high, with a row of tall windows with round tops, looking down a narrow
street to the harbor. In the center was a flat-topped desk as big as a
banquet board and behind it sat a man, dwarfed in size by the vastness
of his surroundings--but immeasurably increased in significance. The
whole place focused in him.
Jack's silken-tongued conductor announced him, and softly withdrew.
The man at the desk raised his head and bent a look of strong interest
and quizzical amusement on Jack. It was the face of a man well-assured
of his place in the world; serene and careless; a man who consorted on
equal terms with labor leaders and kings.
"So this is what you're like!" he said.
The unexpected look of interest and the strange words instead of
heartening Jack had the contrary effect. His knees shook under him a
little, his mouth went dry.
"Sit down," said Mr. Delamare, indicating a chair opposite him.
Jack obeyed, walking jerkily like an automaton.
"I suppose you're wondering why I sent for you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have no idea?"
"No, sir."
"I will tell you as soon as you have answered a few questions. I must
make sure first that I have got hold of the right man."
He pulled out a drawer, and taking from it a typewritten sheet, read
his question from it.
"Your full name?"
"John Farrow Norman."
"Parents living?"
"Both dead, sir."
"Father's name?"
"John Goadby Norman."
"Mother's name?"
"Phoebe Farrow."
"Place of your birth?"
"Cartonsville, New York."
There were other questions of a similar tenor, and Jack's answers were
apparently satisfactory to Mr. Delamare. He folded the paper, and
searched in the drawer for something else. His next question was an
odd one.
"Are you wearing your father's watch?"
"Why, yes," stammered Jack.
It was the one article of value that he possessed. He unhooked it from
its chain and passed it over. The banker opened the back of the case
as if aware of what was to be found there, and the smiling face of
Jack's mother as a bride was revealed. From the drawer he took an
old-fashioned cabinet photograph, and compared it with the picture in
the watch case.
Jack catching sight of the second picture was startled out of his
diffidence. "My mother's picture! Where did you get that?"
Mr. Delamare showed him the two faces side by side. "Not the same
photograph, but unquestionably the same woman. You may have both now."
He handed them over. The picture he had taken from the drawer showed
Jack's mother at an earlier period, just graduating into womanhood with
all the touching innocence of youth about her. Jack's eyes filled.
"What does it mean?" he murmured.
"One more question," said Mr. Delamare. "Give me a brief account of
yourself as far back as you can remember."
Jack did so, wonderingly, and the banker checked his story with another
typewritten sheet that he held.
"That will do," he said at last. "I'm satisfied."
"How did you learn all this?" asked Jack. "I didn't think anybody in
the world was interested what jobs I had or where I lived."
"One never knows," was the smiling answer. "Write your name and I'll
tell you."
Jack obeyed. The banker compared it with a signature he had.
"Now then," he said. "How would you like to be rich?"
Jack stared at him in a daze.
Delamare laughed. "Rich beyond the dreams of avarice! Worth eighty
million dollars in fact."
"Eighty million!" muttered Jack stupidly.
"As you sit there this minute you are worth eighty million--perhaps
more."
"Where--did I get it?" stammered Jack helplessly.
"Silas Gyde bequeathed you all he possessed."
Jack's face was a study in amazement, incredulity--not to say downright
alarm. At the sight Mr. Delamare threw back his head and laughed a
peal.
"Don't take it so hard! You'll live it down!"
"What was I to Silas Gyde?" murmured Jack.
"I don't know the whole story. Mr. Gyde took no man on earth into his
confidence. I judge, though, that he was an unsuccessful suitor for
your mother. The affair must have cut deep, for he never married."
"Eighty million!" murmured Jack, unable to grasp the idea of such a sum.
"Nearly five million a year; four hundred thousand a month; say
thirteen thousand a day."
The figures had a convincing ring. The color stole back into Jack's
cheeks, and a delicious warmth crept around his heart. He had no great
difficulty in believing his good fortune, because he had already
pictured it to himself in fancy. His first thought was of Kate. "I
can buy her anything now!"
For a moment or two he found nothing to say. Delamare seeing his eyes
become dreamy, smiled again. "Spending it already, I see!"
Jack blushed and descended to earth. "Please tell me all about it," he
said.
"I'll tell you what I know. As I said, I was not in Mr. Gyde's full
confidence--no man was. Indeed I knew him but slightly. He was a good
customer of the bank, but he did everything in his own peculiar way.
He rented a large vault from us, and had the locks changed under his
own supervision. I believe he kept the major part of his securities
there, but he may have other vaults too.
"Some five years or so ago, he came to me saying he wanted to rent a
small lock box in our vaults, the kind that we get ten dollars a year
for. He was so insistent upon the necessity for secrecy that we
allowed him to have it under an assumed name. Another officer of the
bank and myself were taken into the secret. Mr. Gyde left me a
duplicate key to this box with instructions to open it if ever a day
passed without my hearing from him. I believe he used to visit the box
himself to make sure that I had not been tampering with it, but his
peculiarities were so well known, one didn't mind that in him.
"Since then, every day of his life he dropped in here, or called me or
my secretary on the phone, just to report, he said. In the beginning I
often wondered why he had set himself such a task, but as time went on
it became a mere form, and at last I forgot how the custom had started.
"When word of his death was brought me day before yesterday, all
recollection of the small box had passed from my mind. My secretary
brought it back by remarking that the old gentleman's daily report was
now at an end. I found the keys and opened the box. The papers were
sealed into the box itself, so that they could not be removed without
breaking the wax. Very characteristic of Mr. Gyde.
"The contents consisted of his will; detailed instructions to me how to
find you and identify you, and several keys which I was directed to
hand you. Here they are. And here is the will, a model of clearness
and brevity you see."
Jack read: "I, Silas Gyde, being of sound mind and in the full
possession of my senses, do hereby devise and bequeath all that I die
possessed of to John Farrow Norman, son of John Goadby Norman and
Phoebe Farrow, and do appoint the said John Farrow Norman and Walter
Delamare, President of the National New York Bank, my executors."
"My instructions state," Mr. Delamare resumed, "that the witnesses to
the will were two clerks employed by Mr. Gyde at that time. You see he
forgot nothing.
"As to those keys, they are for the various doors in Mr. Gyde's
apartment at the Hotel Madagascar. I am told here not to deliver them
into any hands but yours, and you are instructed to visit the apartment
at once, and alone. Always mysterious, you see. By the way, Mr. Gyde
was the sole owner of the Madagascar, and it is therefor now yours."
"I suppose there will be lawyers to see, and so on," said Jack.
"Mr. Gyde had no personal attorneys. He was always suing and being
sued, but he retained a new man for every case. Obviously he has made
these arrangements on his own initiative. I expect it will be up to
you and me to ferret out his properties. I will have my attorney
probate the will. You had better have a lawyer to advise you. Have
you any one in mind?"
Jack shook his head.
"Very well, I will give you a note to a friend of mine for whose
integrity and ability I will vouch. His name is Hugh Brome. He is
young like yourself, and this matter will mean a big thing for
him--that is if you have no objection to his youth?"
"No indeed!" said Jack.
Mr. Delamare wrote a note and handed it over. "Go and look him over
before you commit yourself. If you approve of him the three of us can
have a talk here later."
Jack rose.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" asked Mr. Delamare smiling.
"What?" said Jack blankly.
"Well--some money?"