THE STENOGRAPHER STILL LISTENING
The visitors who came and went occasionally up the back stairs at
Blatchford Ferguson's office were a motley lot. Silk hats and
expensive overcoats sometimes hung on the hooks in the corner. Again,
ill-kempt figures slunk up that back way and signal-tapped an entrance;
for in his police-reporter days Blatch Ferguson had been interested in
the study of underworld types and he made no secret of his intention of
one day writing an authoritative work upon the psychology of crime.
The big leather chair, so placed that it faced the light and left the
lawyer in partial shadow behind his desk, had held many a strange and
anxious caller in its day. Great men, men of national importance, had
sat in that deep old leather chair; but with fine passivity it yielded
the same comforts to men who only thought they were important.
Just now it was occupied by Mr. Hugh Podmore--within an hour of that
worthy's arrival in the city. At three p.m. his new-found friend,
Philip Kendrick, had agreed to call upon Ferguson to corroborate the
story which Mr. Podmore had just finished telling and to which his
auditor had listened with great intentness, that being the only
indication of surprise which the practiced Mr. Ferguson permitted
himself to exhibit.
"You always were pretty cock-sure of yourself, Poddy, even back in the
days when we both worked on the old _Tribune_," commented Ferguson with
a smirk of amusement. "But this proposition of yours is the
deckle-edged limit and no mistake. If you were anybody else I'd have a
lot of fun--kicking you downstairs!"
"Old stuff, Fergey!" grinned Podmore, unperturbed. "You don't need to
pull that for my benefit. Talk brass tacks. Kendrick will be here in
ten minutes with all the proof you want that I'm handing it to you
straight and that that campaign-fund wad of Nickleby's is where I can
lay hands on it. Do I pass it to you or must I hand it over to Charlie
Cady? Guess the Opposition'll know what to do with it. I'm asking you
this: What's it worth to the Government to win the next election?
That's the little old answer I want."
"Would a couple of million satisfy you? How'll you have it?--in fives
and tens?" and Mr. Ferguson gravely stroked his fleshy red nose.
"Be serious, Fergey," protested Podmore. "You can see for yourself
that I came near getting killed, lining this thing up."
"I could not be more serious if you really had got killed, Poddy," and
again he stroked the emblem of his _entrez_ to the social functions of
John Barleycorn. "I'm afraid your mind is warping in the sunshine of
your own cleverness, Poddy. This fool notion of yours--coming to me
about this money Nickleby's lost--if anybody had told me that once that
long green was in your possession you'd come away back here----"
"What do you take me for, Ferguson?--a thief?" glared Podmore angrily.
"Opportunist is not so harsh a word," soothed the lawyer, thoroughly
enjoying the baiting. He frowned with an abrupt change of manner.
"You want brass tacks, do you? Here they are, then. That money is
none of my business, none of the Government's business. Understand
that clearly. You say it was a campaign-fund contribution. How do I
know it was? It never reached us. It's Nickleby's money and its loss
is his funeral. Go and report to him and try to understand the meaning
of the word 'loyalty.' Our party doesn't care a tinker's dam who has
had, now has, or will have that envelope. And if you want to get
thrown out by the scruff of the neck just try going to headquarters
with your crazy proposition."
"You--surely you don't mean that, Fergey, old man?" said Podmore,
searching the other's face with misgiving.
"Every word of it. And here's something else, Podmore, that I won't
charge you for. If you're wise you'll take a straight tip and get out
of this office as fast as you know how--out of town--clean out of the
country! You don't seem to keep as well posted on the latest news as
you used to. Have you read that?"
Ferguson had opened a drawer as he spoke and tossed out a newspaper, so
folded that an item encircled by red ink was uppermost. Podmore slowly
picked up the paper. As his glance travelled quickly through the
marked item his face paled--what part of it was not black and blue.
"Oh, Rives, eh? I--No, I didn't know he was out of the pen." He tried
hard to keep his voice steady, but did not succeed very well.
"He's been out over two weeks now," nodded Ferguson, making no effort
to conceal his contempt. "And he hasn't forgotten that a fresh
newspaper reporter by the name of Podmore played him a dirty trick
twelve years ago. He's sworn to get you for that."
"How--how do you know this?" asked Podmore hoarsely.
"'Itchy' McGuire called to see me day before yesterday. He's met
Rives. If I were you I'd hunt me up a nice little island somewhere in
the Tropics where you can live with the rest of the monkeys; they might
elect you to Parliament or crown you king or something. Rives is one
bad actor and he's sore--good and sore."
Podmore's attempted laugh had no mirth in it. He reached for his hat,
and as he said a hasty good-bye he did not look at all well. For
several minutes after he had closed the rear door Blatchford Ferguson
leaned back in his chair, chuckling.
Now, while this remarkable interview was taking place in the inner
sanctum Phil Kendrick was again shaking hands with Conway in the outer
office. A moment later he went on through to the secretary's office,
speculating on just what he should say to the self-contained Miss
Williams. But, as before, he found her office deserted. To his
amazement when he glanced through the inner doorway he saw her for the
second time on one knee in front of the keyhole of Ferguson's private
office.
She came towards him swiftly, closing the doors behind her as she had
done on the occasion of his first visit. She was very angry; that much
was apparent.
"I'll admit, Miss Williams, that it is often extremely difficult to
break off a bad habit----"
"Mr. Ferguson is busy," she snapped.
"I would judge as much," said Kendrick dryly. "He is expecting me. If
you will just hand him my card please,--Thank you."
He was surprised at the look of disdain with which she took his card.
Surely this girl whom he had caught twice in the act of eavesdropping
upon her employer ought to be grateful for his silence, his toleration
of such an utter misdemeanor! Instead, her whole attitude was one of
dislike. She made no attempt to conceal it. It might do her good to
get a sharp rebuke from Ferguson, and he was of two minds whether or
not to speak to the lawyer about her. Then he remembered that she was
only substituting and that dismissal would not mean much to her. There
was the chance that it was just her woman's curiosity to know what was
going on. Women were often like that, he had heard.
"Mr. Ferguson will see you now. Tell him anything you like." She eyed
him coolly.
Phil gave her a cheerful smile as he passed on into the private office.
Podmore had just gone.
"I had no trouble in getting a line on him for you, Phil. He came in
right after you 'phoned and has been here ever since. Now, what the
devil's the meaning of all this? What are you up to?"
"Tell me just what he said to you, Blatch," said Kendrick, refusing a
cigar and filling his pipe.
"He said he gave you the envelope to mail and that you hid it for him
in a hollow stump near the water-tank at Thorlakson Siding when Wade
came after it. He said that Wade and Cranston gave both of you the
third degree and that you lit into Wade and gave him one awful calling
down for not accepting your word that you hadn't seen any envelope and
knew nothing about it. He said it made Wade so mad that he not only
fired Podmore but told you also that you couldn't work for the C.L.S.
another minute, so it was no use you rejoining this survey party you
were with. It's a swell kettle of fish you've got into, Phil. What's
your uncle going to say to all this?"
"Nothing. Unless you tell him he won't know I've bumped into this mix.
He's got enough worries of his own without bothering about me."
"But Phil,----"
"Listen, Blatch. I know what was in that envelope and where it came
from. I want to know where Uncle Milt stands in connection with this
campaign-fund money, and I want to know what Podmore is trying to do.
What did he want?"
"Podmore isn't as clever as he thinks he is," Ferguson laughed. "He
actually came here to see if he could work out a little graft
proposition by threatening to expose a deal which he imagines has taken
place between the Alderson Construction Company and your uncle. His
mind works that way. He thinks everybody is as crooked as himself and
that all governments are like the late Rives administration. Well, he
knows different now."
"Then no such deal is involved?"
"Good heavens, Phil! Surely you didn't think that? Neither your uncle
nor the Party cares a hang about this money of Nickleby's or
Alderson's, or whoever owns it. We're not interested in what becomes
of it. There's been no deal of any kind."
"That's all I want to know, Blatch," said Kendrick, rising. "It's just
one of those things a fellow bumps into now and then, and if Uncle Milt
needed my help at all I wanted to know it, that's all. I know he's
absolutely on the square, of course."
"Absolutely," assured Ferguson earnestly. "Your uncle is one of the
hardest working, most conscientious and high principled public men of
the day, Phil, and perhaps I have had greater opportunity of knowing
that than most. No man can hold high public office, seemingly, without
paying the penalty of prominence--petty jealousy, envy, deliberate
misrepresentation, even underhand attacks upon his character. A
certain class of political aspirant seems to look on that sort of thing
as part of the game, and you don't want to believe all you see in some
newspapers around election time. That's the way it's been. But false
accusation never yet downed an honest man, Phil. Remember that."
As Kendrick noted the expression on the lawyer's face he thought to
himself that in spite of the marks of dissipation which marred it,
there was a finer side to Blatch Ferguson's character which few would
suspect.
"Please say nothing about my connection with Podmore, Blatch. It was
an unavoidable unpleasantness which is now over. Some day soon when I
have more time I'll drop in and give you all the details."
Miss Margaret Williams was nowhere about, he noted, as he took his
departure.
Kendrick caught the next ferry across the bay to the Island and walked
in on his uncle's housekeeper. He found that once more he had the big
summer residence to himself, that his uncle had taken a flying trip to
New York. That meant that his aunt would be alone in the summer
cottage at Sparrow Lake, except for the servants, and he decided
suddenly to run up and see her that very evening. After glancing
through a slight accumulation of mail he changed to outing flannels and
hied to the boathouse for an hour's run in the launch--out through the
Eastern Gap into the open lake, where he could cut away across miles of
blue water that danced invitingly in the golden sunshine on and on to
the horizon's clear rim. All alone out there with the wash of the
water, the steady undertone of the engine throbbing in his ears and the
cool breeze blowing through his hair, he could sort out his thoughts.
They were inclined to tangle. He had yet to plan how he would proceed
to obtain the information which Ben Wade wanted in regard to J. C.
Nickleby. The railroad executive had traced certain consignments of
cheap whisky which had been run through to construction camps in the
northern part of the province and had his own suspicions as to the
source from which the bootleggers were obtaining funds. If the luck
which had attended Phil's first efforts to learn what Podmore was
planning held good, it ought not to be difficult; but there would be no
Blatch Ferguson to help him out in a task which would call for the
utmost circumspection.
Podmore could be dismissed as of the brood of Esau, willing to sell to
the highest bidder anybody's birthright upon which he could lay hands.
Ferguson's confident assurance that the stolen campaign fund
contribution,--if that was what it had been intended to be,--implicated
the Government in no way, could be accepted without question. Had it
been otherwise, Ferguson would have been galvanized to action of some
sort. At any rate, the sudden disappearance of the money before it
reached its destination eliminated it so far as the Government was
concerned.
This much was clear to Kendrick. Beyond wondering greatly how such a
substantial sum as fifty thousand dollars could drop from sight
mysteriously without creating general excitement, he dismissed the
matter as outside his immediate concern. If the actual money had been
in Wade's possession, as Podmore had been led to believe, Phil would
have been more perplexed about it; even Wade's evident inside knowledge
of the transaction was sufficiently mystifying. That probably was part
of the "puzzle" which would be divulged in due course. Kendrick knew
that in the modern business world with its constant clashes between
powerful financial interests there were many undercurrents which a
young man fresh from college could not hope to gauge. He was content,
therefore, to accept Wade's superior judgment without question, to
follow instructions faithfully, secure in the knowledge that Benjamin
Wade was a man of the highest integrity.
The railroad president had gone on to Montreal and beyond delivery of a
letter to Nathaniel Lawson and the obtaining of an answer to it, his
final instructions to his new secretary had been simple.
"If you can get Nat Lawson to tell you his story, Phil, you'll spend
one interesting evening," he had suggested. "Good business for you to
know all about the Interprovincial. Use your own judgment and good
luck to you."
There was no hurry about calling on Lawson; it could wait till he got
back from this rush visit to Sparrow Lake. But what about this girl in
Ferguson's office? What a pippin! Phil was unable to decide whether
she had been listening at the keyhole because she had gone there for
that very purpose or whether he had surprised her merely taking
advantage of accidental opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. She
interested him greatly--probably because she was so pretty and had
rebuffed him so unmistakably.
He amused himself by absurd speculations about her. If she did have a
definite object in spying on Ferguson, the solitaire diamond on her
engagement finger might be a bluff; her cheap manner, so out of keeping
with refinement of feature and dress,--that might be faked likewise.
If she were one of these female detectives you read about, who had
hired her? Was she in the pay of Nickleby? If she were, it was
Kendrick's duty to keep an eye on her, wasn't it? And she was a tonic
for any eye!
Phil laughed at himself as he put the wheel over and swung back towards
home. He was becoming an utter fool! Darn girls, anyway! This was
the second one on whom he had wasted thought--one probably a thief and
the other a gum-chewing stenographer who was going to marry somebody in
Buffalo! And that, too, after each had told him quite plainly that if
he would just remove himself entirely from their ken they could go on
living happily! Just because he had happened to meet these two girls
under exceptional circumstances was no justification for placing them
on pedestals. King Solomon had the right idea. Poof! the seven seas
were full of fish!
With which swaggering philosophy did this strong-minded young man sweep
all womenkind from his thoughts--all but Aunt Dolly, who had no equal
anywhere in the world. He had left himself just enough time to get to
the station without undue haste. Sparrow Lake was a popular summer
resort for those who wished to forget the noise of the city and enjoy
the quiet surroundings of forest and lake, where good fishing was to be
had in combination with fresh cream daily and vegetables in season.
The cottage the Warings had rented for the season was on one of the
islands, and two hours later Phil was rowing eagerly over from the
station landing. He let out a whoop like a wild Indian to announce his
arrival and his aunt came running down to meet him, her gentle face
alight with pleasure and surprise. He swept her up off her feet and
kissed her till her cheeks were wild-rose pink, very becoming with her
fluffy aureole of snow-white hair.
Arm in arm they went towards the cottage, talking and laughing. The
two were very near to each other and he had a lot of interesting things
to tell her. He knew she would be delighted to learn of his new
position as Ben Wade's private secretary and she was; but he was
careful to keep from her any details of recent happenings that would be
liable to cause her anxiety. The conversation arranged its own
itinerary over such a wide range of topics that it was late that
evening before they had "talked themselves to a standstill," as he put
it.
Phil did not feel sleepy. Instead of retiring at once he lingered on
the screened balcony just off his room and lighted a final pipe of
tobacco. Back came the two mysterious young women to trouble his
thoughts and he did not dismiss them. The night was in harmony with
mystery; also there was a rising moon, hung low, golden like a lamp,
its dull glow lighting only the outer water spaces.
In that lake and forest country Nature seemed to brood in a deep hush
which but gathered accentuation from the raucous bass of the bullfrogs
and occasional weird night sounds of birds and animals in the depths of
the woods. The deep quiet was oppressive after the city's multitude of
noises. Earlier in the evening while he talked with his aunt he had
remarked upon the great distinctness with which the _putt-putt_ of a
motorboat somewhere on the lake had carried. Now when a whip-poor-will
flew to a nearby tree its rapid-fire call flung wide insistently:
_Whip_'rweel, _whip_'rweel, _whip_'rweel, _whip_'rweel, _whip_'rweel,
_whip_'rweel. . . .
"Go to it, old boy;" murmured Phil with some amusement, his thoughts
recalled at last to his surroundings.
As if insulted, the bird ceased abruptly and flew away. A dead stick
snapped at the edge of the clearing. It sounded like the report of a
small pistol and as Kendrick smiled at the start the sound gave him he
was sub-consciously aware that the bellowings of the frogs had stopped.
His glance in the direction of the sound was purely automatic, but his
attention was rivetted instantly by a movement among the trees at a
point where they thinned out against a silvering background of the lake.
There was no mistake about it. The slinking figure of a man was
visible against the water.