IN THE WEB
At about eleven o’clock the next morning Joe and Reggie reached Wall
Street and were whizzed up in an elevator to the floor on which Harrish
had his offices.
Joe found them quite as sumptuous as Reggie had described. There was
a large outer room, in which a score or more of customers were moving
about, watching the ticker, or noting down the quotations on the
various stocks that were chalked up on a big blackboard. Beyond this
room was a group of offices, from which came the click of typewriters,
and the private office of Harrish himself.
Joe had anticipated some difficulty in reaching the inner sanctum when
his name should be announced, but had made up his mind that unless the
door were actually locked nothing would prevent him from getting in
there.
He was saved the necessity of any abrupt measures, however, for almost
the first man their eyes fell upon was Harrish himself, who had been
at the desk of the security clerk and was returning to his own room.
He caught sight of his visitors and there was a slight stiffening of
his attitude that showed he had thrown himself on his guard.
He hesitated only a moment and then came forward with an oily smile and
extended his hand to Reggie.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Varley,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to see you privately in your office,” said Reggie. “This is my
brother-in-law, Mr. Matson.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harrish, reaching out his hand, which Joe failed to
notice. “Didn’t recognize him at first. I have met Mr. Matson before.
Come right into my office.”
He ushered them into the room and when they were seated he pushed
toward them a box of cigars. Neither availed himself of the implied
invitation.
It had been understood between them that Joe should do most of the
talking, and, as was his habit, he went at once to the point.
“Mr. Varley has come to demand the return of the stocks he placed in
your hands some time ago,” he stated bluntly.
Harrish started a trifle, but recovered himself instantly.
“Isn’t Mr. Varley able to make his own demands?” he asked with a
sarcastic smile. “Are you his guardian?”
Reggie flushed.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that I need a guardian,” he said. “Mr.
Matson represents me and has full authority to speak for me.”
“That being understood,” said Joe, “suppose you cut out the stalling
and come straight to the point. Mr. Varley demands his stocks.”
An ugly glint came into Harrish’s eyes, but his voice was as suave as
usual as he replied:
“Mr. Varley has no equity in those stocks. The money that he owes me
for the advances I have made on the stock to cover his losses in the
stock market amounts to the full value of the collateral he placed in
my hands.”
Joe drew an arrow at a venture.
“He hasn’t suffered any losses in the stock market.”
“What do you mean by that?” Harrish asked.
“I mean by that,” Joe answered, still stating as a fact what he
believed with all his heart but was at the moment unable to prove,
“that you haven’t bought or sold a single share of stock for Mr. Varley
in the market. I mean that you’ve been bucketing his orders, pretending
to buy or sell, and charging against him any losses suffered by any
stock that you happened to pick out as suitable for your purpose.”
Harrish summoned up a look of virtuous indignation.
“I bucket an order!” he ejaculated. “I never bucketed an order in my
life. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t if I wanted to. It’s against the
law. Every broker is required to furnish his customer with a written
statement showing the execution of the order, the exact time it was
made on the floor of the Exchange, and the name of the floor broker who
put the order through. Mr. Varley will tell you that he has received
such a statement every time a transaction has been put through on his
account. Isn’t that so, Mr. Varley?” he asked, turning to Reggie.
“I guess it is,” admitted Reggie.
“Well, there’s positive proof that the purchases and sales were bona
fide,” said Harrish triumphantly. “Mr. Varley has lost his money in
legitimate speculation, and he has to take his medicine like any other
loser. I think you owe me an apology, Mr. Matson.”
“Do you?” asked Joe. “Then you have another think coming. I wasn’t born
yesterday, and you needn’t think that the pretended regularity of your
transactions can pull the wool over my eyes. I’m not a lawyer, but I
have a lawyer friend close to the district attorney’s office, and he’s
put me wise to some of the ways the bucket shop keepers circumvent
the law. Here’s what you did. You went through the form of making the
purchases and sales on the floor of the Exchange so that you could have
a comeback if the law got after you. But every time you did it you
put through a duplicate selling or purchasing order for yourself on a
fictitious account that exactly neutralized the first one.
“You went on with these matched orders through the day, and at the
close of business you charged Mr. Varley with the transactions that
showed a loss and kept for yourself the ones that showed a profit.”
An unmistakable look of fear came into Harrish’s eyes.