When a servant had ushered Brainard into a private _salon_ of the old
Bible Hotel, and discreetly closed the door, an alert, middle-aged German
with grizzled hair and close-trimmed beard rose from a table and advanced
with outstretched hand.
“Mr. Brainard, I presume?” he said in fluent English. “I am Adolf
Schneider.”
“So it’s important enough for the old boy to come himself!” Brainard
thought as they shook hands.
Herr Schneider cast a quick look at the small bag which the servant had
taken from Brainard’s hand and placed beside his coat and hat.
“You haven’t brought the papers with you!” the banker exclaimed with
unconscious disappointment.
“They are in a safe place,” Brainard replied; “but I have a pretty
complete inventory of them.”
He drew from his pocket a copy of the list that he had made on board the
_Toulouse_, and also a copy of the power of attorney that Krutzmacht had
signed. The former he handed to the banker, who seized it with a poorly
assumed air of indifference, and ran his eye down the list.
Herr Schneider’s face expanded, it seemed to Brainard, as he neared the
bottom; but without making any comment he took a list from his pocket and
compared it with Brainard’s. When he had finished, he looked at the
young man with fresh interest.
“There’s some more stuff—books and files of papers, which I packed in a
trunk,” Brainard explained. “But I had to leave the trunk behind me. It
should be safe in Chicago by this time, and I can get it, if it’s still
there, when I return to America.”
“You were thorough!” the banker exclaimed with a smile. “You did not
leave much behind you.”
Apparently Herr Schneider already knew something about the raid upon
Krutzmacht’s safe.
“I took everything in sight,” Brainard said simply.
“And I am to understand that you have these”—the banker pointed to the
inventory—“with you in Europe?”
“They are where I can get at them easily,” Brainard replied guardedly.
For several moments the two men looked at each other across the table.
“What do you mean to do with it?” the banker asked casually at last.
“I don’t know yet,” Brainard replied lightly. “I want to find out what
it’s worth, if I can.”
“Your _coup_ has created much excitement in certain quarters. I suppose
you are aware of that,” Herr Adolf observed in a warning tone. “You will
find it difficult to negotiate any securities you may have—if you escape
worse complications!”
Brainard realized that the German was speaking diplomatically—bluffing,
to use a plainer word.
“I have merely obeyed the orders I received,” he observed innocently,
handing the banker a copy of Krutzmacht’s power of attorney.
“Unfortunately, as you know, Mr. Krutzmacht died suddenly, and I am left
with only the most general instructions to direct my future movements.”
The banker glanced at the power of attorney, and, shrugging his
shoulders, handed it back to Brainard. Apparently he preferred to regard
the young stranger as merely a clever adventurer.
“That can’t be of much use to you,” he said coldly.
Brainard tipped back in his chair and eyed the banker. Finally he
brought the chair down on the floor with a bang, and, leaning forward,
tapped the banker pleasantly on the knee.
“I’m no crook, Herr Schneider—not really, you know! You can think so, if
you want to, but it won’t make the price of the goods any cheaper in the
end. You might like to hear how I happened to get mixed up in this
affair?”
He proceeded to tell the story of his movements since that April evening
when he had found Krutzmacht in a fit on a New York street. He omitted
all references to the vague Melody, who seemed irrelevant for the moment.
“An extraordinary story!” the banker commented, with more warmth, but
still dubiously.
“And it’s all true!” Brainard cried. “Now I want to know a lot of things
from you. First, who was Krutzmacht? And why was the old man so dead
set on getting his property over here?”
The banker’s manner relaxed into its habitual suavity. This
extraordinary young American, who looted safes for a chance acquaintance,
amused as well as puzzled him. Evidently Brainard was not easily
intimidated. The banker resolved upon another method of attack.
“Really, young man,” he said, “you know nothing more than you have told
me about your—employer?”
“Hardly a thing—except that he was mixed up in some big business deals.
Naturally, these past weeks, I have wondered a good deal about who he
was.”
“I should think you might!” the banker agreed, with a laugh. “I can tell
you in a few words what I know about him. Mr. Herbert Krutzmacht was a
countryman of mine, as you might infer from his name—a native of
Mannheim. He went to the States when he was a young man, back in the
fifties. Like so many of my countrymen, he carried nothing to your land
but his brains and his will. He had many adventures out there. After
your Civil War, he moved to the Pacific coast, engaged in mining
operations, made a great deal of money, and lost it. He put it all into
one property, from which he expected to take a vast fortune, but—”
“At Monument, Arizona?” Brainard interrupted.
“In Arizona, I think. I don’t remember the name of the place. The mine
was called—let me see—yes, the Melody mine.”
“The Melody!” Brainard exclaimed, startled. “So that was it, was it?”
“What was?”
“Nothing—merely a guess of mine. Please proceed!”
“After the failure of his mine he had a hard time, and everything seemed
against him. Then, a few years ago, he got control of a company to
develop water power in northern California—the Shasta Company, it was
called. From this he went into land and timber business, and finally
began to build a railroad, the Pacific Northern. From time to time, as
he needed money for his various enterprises, he applied to us, and we
found the capital for him when he could not get it in the States. It was
our capital, mostly, that went into the railroad, which was to go
northward into a region controlled by other roads. That started the
opposition in California to him and his schemes, and trouble quickly
developed. Your countrymen, Mr. Brainard, are not always scrupulous in
the weapons they use. These hostile parties had bought up one of the
judges in California, and they struck their blow while Mr. Krutzmacht was
in New York a month or more ago conferring with our representative. It
had been arranged to raise the necessary funds to pay the interest due on
the outstanding bonds, and to complete the railroad. Then Mr. Krutzmacht
disappeared, the California court granted the other side their
receivership, and he was found dead in a New York hospital!”
“It must have been foul play!”
“What do you mean?”
“As I figure it out, those crooks must have been watching him all the
time in New York, and when they learned that he had succeeded in raising
this money he needed to keep his property out of their hands, they did
not wait. They—”
“What?” the banker demanded.
“Made away with him—drugged him, probably, then chucked him out of a cab
into the street.”
“Quite possibly that was it. Your people do such peculiar things! Well,
the crooks, as you call them, got their receivership for the Shasta
Company—the parent company—the very day he died. Krutzmacht was a
fighter, a hard man to conquer, and if he had lived, I have very little
doubt that he would have succeeded in worsting his enemies.”
“And now?” Brainard asked with a smile. The banker made a comical
gesture.
“The receiver found very little to receive, naturally, after your visit.
Of course, you can understand what they were after was not the Shasta
Company, but its rich subsidiaries. You had left the shell, of which the
Court has taken physical possession.”
Brainard laughed.
“The old boy knew what he was about,” he said. “There was no time to
lose! Tell me,” he asked abruptly, “do you know whether Krutzmacht had
any relatives—any heirs?”
“He must have some connections at Mannheim. Krutzmacht is a common
enough name there. But I do not think that any of them were closely
related to Mr. Herbert Krutzmacht.”
“I don’t mean thirty-third cousins. Had he a wife or children?”
The banker hesitated, and then said:
“Several years ago, when I was in New York, I remember meeting some woman
with Mr. Krutzmacht at a hotel—a very handsome woman, from one of your
Southern States, I judged by her accent. But,” he added hastily, “I have
no reason to believe that she was his wife. It is probable that one
might find out in San Francisco, where he lived the latter part of his
life. I could not say.”
“So far as you know, there is no one interested in this deal?” Brainard
persisted.
“The heirs will announce themselves soon enough, if there are any. Until
then,” Herr Schneider remarked slyly, “we need not go into the question.”
The young American stared at the banker with honest, uncomprehending
eyes.
“But that’s just what it is my business to do!” he exclaimed. “There was
some one, I am sure, whom the old man tried to tell me about.”
“Oh!”
“He was too far gone to say the whole name, but I think he had in mind
some one whom he wanted to have his money. You see how it is, Herr
Schneider. I am acting as this old fellow’s representative—his executor,
so to speak—to take care of his property and hand it over to some one
named Melody, or—”
“Melody?” inquired the banker, puzzled.
“Yes—that was what I made it out to be,” Brainard said, blushing.
“But that was the name of the Arizona mine.”
“It might perhaps be the name of—of a person, too.”
The banker shrugged his shoulders. He turned to the inventory. Putting
on his glasses, he re-read the paper carefully. When he had finished, he
glanced up, saying:
“Well, Mr. Brainard, now for business, as your people say. What do you
want me to give you in exchange for these securities and papers?”
“What they are worth.”
“Ah, that would be very hard to say!”
“What would they be worth to Mr. Krutzmacht, if he were here?”
“If Mr. Krutzmacht were alive, they might be worth a great deal,” the
banker said cautiously, “and yet they might have no value, now that he is
dead.”
“He seemed to think they had some value,” Brainard said flatly.
The banker fidgeted.
“Oh, of course, naturally!”
“And they can’t have lost all their value within a few weeks.”
“One company is bankrupt already. This suit, the irregular manner in
which possession of these papers was obtained—” began the banker,
fencing.
“What will you give, cash down?” demanded Brainard.
The banker rose from his chair and walked to the window. He pulled out a
fresh cigar, lighted it, laid it down, and turned to Brainard.
“It is a great risk. We do not know what we can do with the properties.
We shall doubtless have lawsuits. We may lose all. Let us say fifty
thousand dollars for everything—everything!” he repeated.
The banker looked keenly at Brainard, as if he thought he had been
impressive.
“There are over eight millions of Pacific Northern bonds, and about
fifteen millions in stock—besides all the rest,” Brainard observed
reflectively. “It won’t do, Mr. Schneider—guess again!”
“Stocks and bonds are worth what you can get for them.”
“Then I’ll wait, and see if I can get more for these,” Brainard suggested
smilingly. “There’s no hurry about the matter. I came to you first,” he
said, “because I supposed you would have the old man’s account checked
up, and know just what was coming to him.”
The banker smiled at the young man’s simplicity.
“Business is not done that way. It is a question to whom the property
belongs,” he added meaningly.
“I see! Well, it belongs to me at present—”
“Let us say a hundred thousand—in cash, paid to you personally,” the
banker interrupted hastily.
“You think you are bidding for stolen goods, eh, and can get them cheap?”
Brainard suggested.
“Four hundred thousand marks is much money!”
“A whole lot of money—no question about that!” the young American
remarked with a quizzical smile, thinking that ten dollars was more ready
money than he had had, of his own, for many months. “But it isn’t
enough!”
“Are you not ready for dinner?” the banker suggested genially. “We can
have our dinner here and talk matters over quietly. I will explain.”
They dined at great leisure, while the banker gave Brainard his first
lessons in corporation finance, with apt illustrations from the history
of Krutzmacht’s enterprises. He explained how an individual or a
corporation might be put into bankruptcy and yet be intrinsically very
rich,—the spoil always going to the stronger in the struggle. He had
ordered a magnum of champagne, and pressed the wine upon the young man
with hospitable persistence; but Brainard felt that if he ever wanted to
keep his head clear, this was the time, and he drank little. He
suspected the banker’s geniality.
From finance the banker drifted to the topic of Krutzmacht himself. He
told many stories of the old man, which showed his daring and his ability
to take what he could get wherever he found it.
“He was always talking about that mine—the one in Arizona. He expected
to make a very big fortune from it some day. It was to get money with
which to develop his mine, I believe, that he went into all the other
things,” Herr Schneider explained.
“The Melody mine!” the young man murmured to himself.
“That was it! He sank one fortune in it, but he would never let go—that
was his way.”
When they had reached their coffee, the banker turned suddenly upon
Brainard.
“Have you made up your mind to take my offer?”
“Your people here have a good deal of money tied up in this business?”
“A good deal more than I wish we had,” the banker replied frankly. “So
we must send more down the well to bring back what’s there already. We
shall have a fight on our hands, too.”
“I don’t understand business,” the young man said. “The chances are that
Mel—Krutzmacht’s heirs don’t, either. That’s why he told me to come over
here to dispose of his stuff. The best I can do is to take cash and
quit.”
“Exactly!” the banker beamed.
“Of course,” Brainard drawled, “we don’t sell Krutzmacht’s private
things—the mine, I mean—the Melody mine.” The banker waved his hand
indifferently. “And for the rest you can give us”—the banker held his
cigar poised in the air—“two millions.”
The banker leaped to his feet.
“You swindler!” he shouted angrily. “You have the impudence—”
“Careful! That’s not a pretty name, Herr Schneider,” Brainard replied
coldly. “Perhaps I am not the only crook in this business. Don’t get
excited. You don’t have to take my offer.”
The banker slowly subsided into his chair.
“We shall appeal to the courts!” he snarled.
“What courts? I thought you might try to bluff, and so I suggested
having our talk in some neutral place.”
“You are pretty shrewd, my young man. You take all these precautions for
the sake of Mr. Krutzmacht’s heirs, I suppose,” he sneered unpleasantly.
“Careful now! I don’t mind one bit going to a Dutch jail for slugging
you; but what good would that do either of us? The stuff isn’t here, you
know.”
With this Brainard rose to his feet and took his coat and bag.
“Where are you going?” the banker asked in some alarm.
“Oh, I’ll take a look about the place, I guess, and then go back to
Paris. I don’t believe you and I can do business to advantage in your
present mood.”
“Your plunder won’t do _you_ any good,” the banker observed. “You can’t
raise a penny on it.”
“We’ll see about that. There are others who might be willing to pay me
something for the paper. I have a pretty good idea that their agents are
hunting for my address at the present moment. Suppose I let them find
me?”
“Call it a million marks!” the banker snapped.
“I said two million dollars, and I’ll keep the bonds, too. You said they
were no good, as I understand. They might as well stay with me, in that
case. They look pretty!”
The banker gave him an evil look. Brainard, unconcerned, rang for a
waiter, and when the man appeared he ordered his bill and a cab.
“When can you deliver the papers—those that you have with you in Europe?”
the banker asked briskly, when the servant had departed.
“Whenever you are ready with the cash—two million dollars, not marks—Herr
Schneider!”
“One doesn’t carry two million dollars in one’s trousers pockets, over
here,” the banker sneered.
“I will give you one week to deliver the cash in Paris,” Brainard replied
carelessly. “Just seven days.”
“Your cab is waiting, sir,” the waiter announced.
“All right! You will have to excuse me, Herr Schneider. I want to take
a look about the town.”
And thus they parted without shaking hands.
“Tell the driver,” Brainard said to the waiter, “to show me everything
worth seeing in your town.”
As he settled himself into the cab for his sightseeing, he mused:
“I wonder if I got enough! There’s no telling what the stuff is really
worth. I’d have given it to him for a million, all of it, if he hadn’t
taken me for a common sneak thief. Well, I guess I touched his limit.
If he lays down on my proposition, I’ll have to look up the other crowd,
and I suspect there isn’t much to choose between them so far as their
methods are concerned. But I bet old Schnei will turn up in Paris before
the week is out with a bag of dollars. And there are the bonds—they may
be worth something, after all, to Melody!”
He interrupted his meditation to squint an eye at a palace toward which
the _cocher_ was furiously waving his whip.
“All right, _cocher_,—you can drive on,” he replied, having taken in the
monument sufficiently. “Well”—he concluded his meditation aloud—“two
millions, cash, is a pretty good bunch of money for any girl. I don’t
believe she could have done any better herself. And there are the eight
millions of bonds. Now where in thunder _is_ Melody?”
“_Was_?” the coachman demanded.
Brainard waved him on, and continued his thoughts without speaking.
“There is the mine, too—the Melody mine. Queer name for a mine, and a
queer name for a woman, too, now you think of it! Is there any Melody
girl—woman, anyway, anywhere?”
The mere doubt of the existence of such a personage dampened his good
spirits. If Melody was a fiction of his youthful imagination, he was
loath to part with her; for she had become the possible reality that held
his dream together.
“No!” he concluded aloud. “No man would have made all that effort, when
he was dying, to speak the name of a mine!”
With this sage reflection he dismissed from his thoughts the teasing
puzzle of Krutzmacht and his heirs, and devoted his entire attention to
the monuments of The Hague.