CLOSE QUARTERS
Brennan, Night Editor of the _Recorder_, scribbled a two-column head,
folded it in with a sheet of "flimsy," dropped it into the dumb-waiter
box and yanked the string that shot it aloft to the composing room. He
reached for his long scissors, snipped off a fresh piece of the
typewritten C.A.P. report, fastened it with a daub of paste to a sheet of
copy paper and marked it for a single-column "box," Page 1. The whistle
blew in the speaking-tube at his elbow and he answered the foreman's
question while scribbling his initials to the slip which a newly arrived
messenger boy from one of the telegraph companies was holding flat for
him.
"'Phone, Bren," called Chic White, Sporting Editor.
Brennan took down the receiver as a reporter laid a wad of new "copy" on
the desk and hurried out again. Then Brennan opened a drawer in his desk
and took another bite out of a ham sandwich before tearing the envelopes
from the newly arrived telegrams.
Up until now things had been very quiet all evening, so quiet that the
lay-out of a decent front page was a problem. The Chief had gone home
early to-night and had paused on his way out to ask Brennan how the news
was breaking and instruct him to "boil everything down." If there was
anything that McAllister detested it was a thirty-six point head on a
twelve-point item.
"Kerr! Jackson! Brock!"
Every typewriter in the city room stopped clacking and the three
reporters jumped. They crowded together in the doorway as Brennan
snapped his instructions.
"Get the Chief on the 'phone and hold him for me, Jackson. Here, Brock,
sit in at the desk and keep everything down to a couple of sticks. Call
a taxi, Kerr."
He glanced at his watch as he made for the stairs. It was ten minutes to
1 a.m. Up in the composing-room he went over the forms with the foreman,
asking questions, "killing" perfectly good "stories" with rapid decision,
clearing space for the biggest "scoop" which the _Recorder_ had achieved
in many months.
"Chief's not home and they don't know where he is," came Jackson's
anxious voice through the speaking tube.
"Find him! Find him!" cried Brennan impatiently. "Try the National
Club. Use your head, Jackson!"
But when Brennan hurried downstairs a few minutes later McAllister had
not been located yet.
"He went out somewhere with Wade, of the C.L.S., and left no word at the
house as to when he'd be back," explained Jackson.
"Call up Wade, then."
"I did, but he's out too, and nobody seems to know where."
Brennan swore.
"Get me Nat Lawson on the 'phone. Say, Chic, where's Pardeau? What?
Not back from that assignment? Then see if you can find him for me. The
rest of you chop your stuff. Cristy Lawson owns the front page!"
Briefly he answered their eager questions, then turned to listen to
Jackson, talking to the Lawson residence. Apparently Nathaniel Lawson
was not at home either.
Brennan fiddled with the stem of his watch for a moment. He was in a
quandary. He had been taken into McAllister's confidence, of course,
regarding this graft exposure story which had been nursed along so
carefully. The cuts to illustrate it were locked up in McAllister's
desk, he knew. It was unlike the Chief to leave no word of his
whereabouts. That it should happen on this of all nights! No doubt
they'd locate him after a bit; but in the meantime--? It was nearly one
o'clock and Cristy Lawson's wire brooked no delay.
There was only one thing to do--go ahead on his own initiative. Brennan
went into McAllister's private office and closed the door while he talked
to the Chief of Police on the private line. He came out hurriedly,
called Kerr, and went down in the elevator to the waiting taxi. Next to
Pardeau, Kerr was the fastest shorthand man on the staff.
They stopped at the Central Police Station to pick up a couple of
plainclothes men who were waiting for them and the taxi sped through the
almost deserted streets at breakneck pace, heading for the waterfront.
A few minutes later the harbor police launch was streaking across the
quiet waters of the bay. It threw a wake that curled and widened, and in
it danced the broken reflections of the harbor lights.
The Honorable Milton Waring ushered them into the library with a smile.
He was quite calm as he cleared away the blueprints and invited them to
find seats.
"You are just in time, gentlemen, to witness the end of the comedy," and
he pressed a button beneath the edge of his desk as he spoke. "Pass
around the cigars, Blatch, like a good fellow-- Well, upon my word!"
"Arrest that man!" cried Ferguson, springing after J. Cuthbert Nickleby,
who had made a dash towards the French doors which opened on the verandah.
"It's all right, sir. I've got him," assured one of the detectives who
was waiting without for some such move. As he came through the doorway
the click of the handcuffs was quite audible to the startled group within
the room.
"What's the meaning of this, Waring?" shouted Nickleby, his face
distorted with rage. "Are you trying to frame something on me? Take off
these bracelets, damn you!"
"I'd advise you to sit down, Nickleby, and keep quiet. You are under
arrest and you'll know all about it in a few minutes. Ah, good evening,
gentlemen, I'm afraid there aren't chairs enough to go around; but make
yourselves at home please."
From the hallway they filed into the library--McAllister, of the
_Recorder_; President Wade, of the Canadian Lake Shores Railway;
Nathaniel Lawson, ex-president of the Interprovincial Loan & Savings
Company; Timothy Drexel and another director of the same concern.
Detective Sainsbury from Headquarters and Parsons, official court
stenographer, brought up the rear with Pardeau, star reporter for the
_Recorder_. Their faces were serious and their entry partook of the
solemnity of a jury bringing a verdict into court.
A brief whispered colloquy with his editor quickly smoothed the
perplexity from Brennan's face. McAllister had picked up Pardeau on the
street and had sent a belated message to the office. It was a big
"story" that was breaking and he ordered Brennan and Pardeau back to
their desks with instructions to hold the galleys till he arrived
shortly. Kerr could handle the present end of it. He waved his hand
impatiently and focussed his undivided attention upon what was
transpiring.
A silence had fallen upon the crowded room and as the Honorable Milton
Waring allowed his gaze to rove upon their tense, expectant faces he
smiled reassuringly. He began with an explanation of the circumstances
leading up to the present situation. It was not merely to adjust
Interprovincial Loan Company affairs by the exposure of its official head
that he had brought them together. His integrity as a public servant had
been questioned and there were certain features that in the interests of
clean government required official enquiry. He was prepared to move for
the appointment of a royal commission to investigate and report upon
conditions vitally affecting financial institutions, election laws and
other matters. It was something with which he had concerned himself
seriously for several years, and it was partly to prove his theories in
this connection that with the assistance of Mr. Blatchford Ferguson he
had taken advantage of the situation which had developed in the affairs
of the Interprovincial. As a result of their investigations they stood
prepared to prove gross mismanagement, falsification of the returns
required by the Federal authorities, misuse of trust funds for private
ends, attempted corruption of government officials, et cetera.
The Honorable Milton was frank in his admission that during the recent
orgy of speculation into which the discovery of new mineral wealth had
led the public, he had become personally involved. He was only human and
the general excitement had induced him to make several disastrous
investments which had left his personal affairs in a precarious tangle
for a time. But it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. The financial
crisis through which he had passed had brought him in touch with J. C.
Nickleby, and it was not long before his eyes had been opened to the
unscrupulous methods that were being followed by the president of the
Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company. He had called in his learned
friend, Mr. Ferguson, and as a result of their consultations it had been
decided to make a few experiments in high finance with the object of
uncovering the whole system.
To this end they deliberately had cultivated Nickleby's confidence. It
was apparent from the first that the man was utterly devoid of common
honesty. It was his idea that government graft was an established method
of revenue and he seemed to be obsessed with the belief that no Minister
of the Crown would allow his oath of office to interfere with the
acquisition of personal wealth. As their relations had ripened he had
grown bolder and had organized a construction company with the object of
using his "connection" to swing certain tenders for public works into the
graft column. Nickleby had felt so sure of himself by this time that he
even had proposed a contribution of $50,000 to the party campaign funds
in return for "privileges." He had been told quite plainly that he would
make such a contribution at his own risk. Nevertheless he had gone ahead
with it on his own initiative. The money had mysteriously disappeared
between the office of the construction company and its destination; it
had never reached the party exchequer.
Which brought the Honorable Milton Waring to the point of paying high
compliment to the editor of the _Recorder_. He bowed to McAllister. He
had never before quite realized, he said, what a debt all lovers of clean
government owed to the press. No man with designs upon the public
treasury could go very far without some journalistic watch-dog being on
his trail, and it was so in the present instance.
The Alderson Construction Company had aroused the suspicions of Mr.
McAllister shortly after it became active. In some way he had learned of
the proposed campaign fund contribution and, as it turned out, it was due
to the zeal of a _Recorder_ reporter that Nickleby's contribution had
been intercepted and photographed. It had then fallen into the hands of
Mr. Benjamin Wade by accident and Mr. Wade had deposited the $50,000 in
trust, pending proof of ownership.
A few days ago Mr. Wade had come to him with these facts and also to warn
him that the _Recorder_ was preparing to accuse him of being implicated
with Nickleby and Blatchford Ferguson in a certain doubtful real-estate
transaction. Not until then had he realized the risk which Mr. Ferguson
and he had assumed in attempting to follow their own line of
investigation in secret. The possibility that the hunter might in turn
be hunted--and quite legitimately hunted on the face of it--had not
occurred to them. They had taken Mr. McAllister into their confidence as
soon as they realized the extent of his knowledge, and only his patience
and co-operation had enabled them to carry their investigations to
fruition.
The real-estate transaction in question had been planned by Mr. Ferguson
for the purpose of quieting suspicion in the mind of Nickleby. It was a
case of fighting the devil with fire; for had Nickleby not believed that
he was dealing with men who were as greedy as himself they would never
have succeeded in uncovering the evidence they were after.
As part of their plan, therefore, they had gone to Nickleby with the
proposal that the three of them--Nickleby, Ferguson and himself--form a
little syndicate on the quiet to buy up a tract of land on which the
Government had its eye as a prospective location for the new Deaf & Dumb
Institute. The land had a market value of $100,000 and this sum the
Government was quite ready to pay. Nickleby had advanced the loan to
negotiate the deal and Ferguson had bought up the land in small lots at
sacrifice prices from individual owners for a total of $50,000. The
Honorable Milton had told Nickleby that he was acting for the Government;
but the cheque with which he had "purchased" the land from the syndicate
of three had been his personal cheque. The amount was $200,000. The
syndicate's profit, therefore, was $150,000 and this sum they had divided
in three, $50,000 each. But Nickleby did not know--nor McAllister,
either--that the whole thing had been juggled for a purpose, with the
sanction of the Attorney General, and that the "profits" which had gone
to Mr. Ferguson and himself had been thrown back into the deal when the
site had been turned over to the Government, which therefore obtained the
land at its legitimate market value, $100,000.
No doubt the whole thing had been indiscreet; but by this time both
Ferguson and himself had got so interested in the little game they were
playing with the salvation of the loan company as the stakes that they
had overlooked the surface appearances. The discovery that every move
they had made had been watched by the lynx-eyed McAllister had instilled
in them a profound respect.
To bring things to a head and to justify their actions Ferguson and he
had undertaken to prove their case against Nickleby by exposing him and
his methods to the gentlemen who had last entered the room. These
gentlemen had been placed where they could listen to the evidence for
themselves and, to make doubly sure, a dictaphone had been installed and
an official court stenographer had taken down the whole thing. It was
almost incredible that a criminal of this man's type had been able to
engineer himself into a place of trust in an institution of such
influence as the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company, to play fast and
loose with its credit as he had done, and to bamboozle its directorate.
The fact that he had been made to convict himself must plead excuse for
the subterfuge in which they had been forced to indulge. It had been a
most disagreeable experience and the Honorable Milton Waring was glad
that it was over.
"I have only this to say, further, gentlemen," he concluded. "It is no
sinecure to hold public office and administer a public trust and I am
moved to protest most earnestly against the public tendency to discredit
politics and the men who are devoting their energies--frequently at great
personal inconvenience and loss--to the government of the country. There
are those who cannot seem to admit that it is possible for a man to enter
the political arena and remain as honest and sincere in public life as he
has been as a private citizen. Such a condition of the public mind is to
be deplored, even as the past events upon which the condition is based
are to be deplored. If the people look upon government as a joke, the
joke is on them; for their government is what they make of it or permit
it to be.
"It is my belief that below all government, like the sure-rock foundation
of a worth-while edifice, must lie the spirit of fair dealing and a
law-abiding citizenship. Let the people determine that corruption in
politics will spell political ruin instead of personal aggrandizement and
see how swiftly every political yacht will trim its sails. The cry that
politics are so rotten that the men who count most in their communities
will have nothing to do with active participation in government will then
cease and we will have genuine public service.
"I did not intend to make a political speech; but many times of late I
have felt like resigning. As long as party success and corporation
support dictate our political standards, so long will we have men like
Nickleby there attempting corruption, so long will political leadership
be forced to dance for its balance upon shifting platforms.
"I thank you, gentlemen, for your attention. The facts I have given you
can be substantiated readily by Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Wade and Mr.
McAllister; but no doubt the demonstration of the attempt to misuse the
loan company's funds to the extent of a quarter of a million dollars--the
interview that has taken place in this room tonight--is sufficiently
conclusive in itself."
"Conclusive?" piped old Timothy Drexel, unable longer to contain himself.
He elbowed his way towards the prisoner and shook a bony finger in front
of his nose. "You miserable scoundrel!" he exploded. "Old fool, eh?
Putty, eh? You hand me taffy and pat me into any shape you like, eh?
You confounded thief! You--you--!"
"Aw, you shut up!" snarled Nickleby, who had sat through it all with that
cynical sneer of his. He knew when he was beaten. With no further word
he followed the detectives from the room.
They crowded about the Honorable Milton Waring and Blatchford Ferguson
with congratulations. Nathaniel Lawson could not say much; but his grip
was tight when he shook hands and his gratitude was evident. McAllister
was not given to expressions of sentiment, but as he bade adieu there was
an unaccustomed enthusiasm in his keen eyes. His editorial in the
morning paper would be strong, very strong; he would call it "The Mantle
of Disraeli," or something like that.
Ben Wade stood to one side, watching them take their leave, and his
tanned face was alight with satisfaction. There would be a tremendous
sensation when the _Recorder_ came out. It would be a bully spread--not
one of graft charges, as originally planned by Mac, but even a better
story of the fight which an honest politician had been forced to put up
in order to remain honest, of the Honorable Milt's investigations and his
announcement regarding a royal commission to probe conditions, the escape
of the Interprovincial from the criminal activities of its president, the
dramatic arrest of Nickleby, the work of Cristy Lawson. Trust Mac not to
miss any of it.
And Ben Wade, whose faith in the Honorable Milton Waring had remained
unshaken when things looked blackest, smiled as he watched. His advice
to McAllister, his faith in Waring, had been vindicated; but he was not
thinking of this. He was thinking of another's steadfast faith that had
been sorely tried. It would be a happy morrow for Dolly Waring.
"So long, Milt," he said heartily. "We're proud of you, old man."