BY
ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
1913
I
Marcus Gard sat at his library table apparently in rapt contemplation of
a pair of sixteenth century bronze inkwells, strange twisted shapes,
half man, half beast, bearing in their breasts twin black pools. But his
thoughts were far from their grotesque beauty--centered on vast schemes
of destruction and reconstruction. The room was still, so quiet, in
spite of its proximity to the crowded life of Fifth Avenue, that one
divined its steel construction and the doubled and trebled casing of its
many windows. The walls, hung with green Genoese velvet, met a carved
and coffered ceiling, and touched the upper shelf of the breast-high
bookcases that lined the walls. No picture broke the simple unity of
color. Here and there a Donatello bronze silhouetted a slim shape, or a
Florentine portrait bust smiled with veiled meaning from the quiet
shadows. The shelves were rich in books in splendid bindings, gems of
ancient workmanship or modern luxury, for the Great Man had the instinct
of the masterpiece.
The door opened softly, and the secretary entered, a look of uncertainty
on his handsome young face. The slight sound of his footfall disturbed
the master's contemplation. He looked up, relieved to be drawn for a
moment from his reflection.
"What is it, Saunders?" he asked, leaning back and grasping the arms of
his chair with a gesture of control familiar to him.
"Mrs. Martin Marteen is here, very anxious to see you. She let me
understand it was about the Heim Vandyke. I knew you were interested, so
I ventured, Mr. Gard--"
"Yes, yes--quite right. Let her come in here." He rose as he spoke,
shook his cuffs, pulled down his waistcoat and ran a hand over his bald
spot and silvery hair. Marcus Gard was still a handsome man. He remained
standing, and, as the door reopened, advanced to meet his guest. She
came forward, smiling, and, taking a white-gloved hand from her sable
muff, extended it graciously.
"Very nice of you to receive me, Mr. Gard," she said, and the tone of
her mellow voice was clear and decisive. "I know what a busy man you
are."
"At your service." He bowed, waved her to a seat and sank once more into
his favorite chair, watching her the while intently. If she had come to
negotiate the sale of the Heim Vandyke, let her set forth the
conditions. It was no part of his plan to show how much he coveted the
picture. In the meantime she was very agreeable to look at. Her strong,
regular features suggested neither youth nor age. She was of the goddess
breed. Every detail of the lady's envelope was perfect--velvet and fur,
a glimpse of exquisite antique lace, a sheen of pearl necklace, neither
so large as to be ostentatious nor so small as to suggest economy. The
Great Man's instinct of the masterpiece stirred. "What can I do for
you?" he said, as she showed no further desire to explain her visit.
"I let fall a hint to Mr. Saunders," she answered--and her smile shone
suddenly, giving her straight Greek features a fascinating humanity--"
that I wanted to see you about the Heim Vandyke." She paused, and his
eyes lit.
"Yes--portrait? A good example, I believe."
She laughed quietly. "As you very well know, Mr. Gard. But that, let me
own, was merely a ruse to gain your private ear. I have nothing to do
with that gem of art."
The Great Man's face fell. He was in for a bad quarter of an hour. Lady
with a hard luck story--he was not unused to the type--but Mrs. Martin
Marteen! He could not very well dismiss her unheard, an acquaintance of
years' standing, a friend of his sister's. His curiosity was aroused.
What could be the matter with the impeccable Mrs. Marteen? Perhaps she
had been speculating. She read his thoughts.
"Quite wrong, Mr. Gard. I have not been drawn into the stock market. The
fact is, I _have_ something to sell, but it isn't a picture--autographs.
You collect them, do you not? Now I have in my possession a series of
autograph letters by one of the foremost men of his day; one, in fact,
in whom you have the very deepest interest."
"Napoleon!" he exclaimed.
She smiled. "I have heard him so called," she answered. "I have here
some photographs of the letters. They are amateur pictures--in fact, I
took them myself; so you will have to pardon trifling imperfections. But
I'm sure you will see that it is a series of the first importance." From
her muff she took a flat envelope, slipped off the rubber band with
great deliberation, glanced at the enclosures and laid them on the
table.
The Great Man's face was a study. His usual mask of indifferent
superiority deserted him. The blow was so unexpected that he was for
once staggered and off his guard. His hand was shaking, as with an oath
he snatched up the photographs. It was his own handwriting that met his
eye, and Mrs. Marteen had not exaggerated when she had designated the
letters as a "series of the first importance." With the shock of
recognition came doubt of his own senses. Mrs. Martin Marteen
blackmailing him? Preposterous! His eyes sought the lady's face. She was
quite calm and self-possessed.
"I need not point out to you, Mr. Gard, the desirability of adding these
to your collection. These letters give clear information concerning the
value to you of the Texas properties mentioned, which are now about to
pass into the possession of your emissaries if all goes well. Of course,
if these letters were placed in the hands of those most interested it
would cause you to make your purchase at a vastly higher figure; it
might prevent the transaction altogether. But far more important than
that, they conclusively prove that your company _is_ a monopoly framed
in the restraint of trade--proof that will be a body blow to your
defense if the threatened action of the federal authorities takes place.
"Of course," continued Mrs. Marteen, as Gard uttered a suppressed oath,
"you couldn't foresee a year ago what future conditions would make the
writing of those letters a very dangerous thing; otherwise you would
have conducted your business by word of mouth. Believe me, I do not
underrate your genius."
He laid his hands roughly upon the photographs. "I have a mind to have
you arrested this instant," he snarled.
"But you won't," she added--"not while you don't know where the
originals are. It means too much to you. The slightest menacing move
toward me would be fatal to your interests. I don't wish you any harm,
Mr. Gard; I simply want money."
In spite of his perturbation, amazement held him silent. If a shining
angel with harp and halo had confronted him with a proposition to rob a
church, the situation could not have astonished him more. She gave him
time to recover.
"Of course you must readjust your concepts, particularly as to me. You
thought me a rich woman--well, I'm not. I've about twenty-five thousand
dollars left, and a few--resources. My expenses this season will be
unusually heavy."
"Why this season?" He asked the question to gain time. He was thinking
hard.
"My daughter Dorothy makes her début, as perhaps you may have heard."
Gard gave another gasp. Here was a mother blackmailing the Gibraltar of
finance for her little girl's coming-out party. Suddenly, quite as
unexpectedly to himself as to his hearer, he burst into a peal of
laughter.
"I see--I see. 'The time has come to talk of many things.'"
She met his mood. "Well, not so _much_ time. You see, not _all_ kings
are cabbage heads--and while pigs may not have wings, riches have."
"You are versatile, Mrs. Marteen. I confess this whole interview has an
'Alice in Wonderland' quality." He was regaining his composure. "But I
see you want to get down to figures. May I inquire your price?"
"Fifty thousand dollars." There was finality in her tone.
"And how soon?"
"Within the next week. You know this is a crisis in this affair--I
waited for it."
"Indeed! You seem to have singular foresight."
She nodded gravely. "Yes, and unusual means of obtaining information, as
it is needless for me to inform you. I am, I think, making you a very
reasonable offer, Mr. Gard. You would have paid twice as much for the
Vandyke."
"And how do you propose, Mrs. Marteen, to effect this little business
deal without compromising either of us?" His tone was half banter, but
her reply was to the point.
"I will place my twenty-five thousand with your firm, with the
understanding that you are to invest for me, in any deal you happen to
be interested in--Texas, for instance. It wouldn't be surprising if my
money should treble, would it? In fact, there is every reason to expect
it--is there not? If all I own is invested in these securities, I would
not desire them to decline, would I? I merely suggest this method," she
continued, with a shrug as if to deprecate its lack of originality,
"because it would be a transaction by no means unusual to you, and would
attract no attention."
He looked at her grimly. "You think so?" Let me hear how you intend to
carry out the rest of the transaction--the delivery of the autographs in
question."
"To begin with, I will place in your hands the plates--all the
photographs."
"How can I be sure?" he demanded.
"You can't, of course; but you will have to accept my assurance that I
am honest. I promise to fulfill my part of the bargain--literally to the
letter. You may verify and find that the series is complete. Your
attorneys, to whom you wrote these, will doubtless tell you that they
personally destroyed these documents, but they doubtless have a record
of the dates of letters received at this time. You can compare; they are
all there; I hold out nothing."
"But if they say they have destroyed the letters--what in the name of--"
"Oh, no; they destroyed your communications perhaps, after 'contents
noted.' But they never had your letters, for the simple reason that they
never received them. Very excellent copies they were--most excellent."
Mr. Marcus Gard was experiencing more sensations during his chat with
Mrs. Marteen than had fallen to his lot for many a long day. His
tremendous power had long made his position so secure that he had met
extraordinary situations with the calm of one who controls them. He had
startled and held others spellbound by his own infinite foresight,
resource and energy. The situation was reversed. He gazed fascinated in
the fine blue eyes of another and more ruthless general.
"My dear madam, do you mean to infer that this _coup_ of yours was
planned and executed a year ago, when I, even I," and he thumped his
deep chest, "had no idea what these letters might come to mean? Do you
mean to tell me _that_?"
"Yes"--and she smiled at his evident reluctance to believe--"yes,
exactly. You see, I saw what was coming--I knew the trend. I have
friends at court--the Supreme Court, it happens--and I was certain that
the 'little cloud no larger than a man's hand' might very well prove to
contain the whirlwind; so--well, there was just a flip of accident that
makes the present situation possible. But the rest was designed, I
regret to admit--cold-blooded design on my part."
"With this end in view?" He tapped the photographs strewn upon his desk.
"With this end in view," she confessed.
He was silent a moment, lost in thought; then he turned upon her
suddenly.
"Mind, I haven't acceded to your demands," he shouted.
"Is the interview at an end?" she asked, rising and adjusting the furs
about her throat. "If so, I must tell you the papers are in the hands of
persons who would be very much interested in their contents. If they
don't see me--hearing from me won't do, you understand, for a situation
is conceivable, of course, when I might be coerced into sending a
message or telephoning one--if they don't _see_ me personally, the
packet will be opened--and eventually, after the Texas Purchase is
adjusted, they will find their way into the possession of the District
Attorney. I have taken every possible precaution."
"I don't doubt that in the least, madam--confound it, I don't! Now when
will you put the series, lock, stock and barrel, into my hands?"
"When you've done that little turn for me in the market, Mr. Gard. You
may trust me."
"On the word--of a débutante?" he demanded, with a snap of his square
jaws.
For the first time she flushed, the color mantling to her temples; she
was a very handsome woman.
"On the word of a débutante," she answered, and her voice was steady.
"Well, then"--he slapped the table with his open hand--"if you'll send
me, to the office, what you want to invest, I'll give orders that I will
personally direct that account."
"Thank you so much," she murmured, rising.
"Don't go!" he exclaimed, his request a command. "I want to talk with
you. Don't you know you're the first person, man or woman, who has _held
me up_--me, Marcus Gard! I don't see how you had the nerve. I don't see
how you had the idea." He changed his bullying tone suddenly. "I wish--I
wish you'd _talk_ to me. I'm as curious as any woman."
Mrs. Martin Marteen moved toward the door.
"I'm selling you your autographs--not my autobiography. I'm _so_ glad to
have seen you. Good afternoon, Mr. Gard."
She was gone, and the Great Man had not the presence of mind to escort
his visitor to the door or ring for attendance. He remained standing,
staring after her. His gaze shifted to the table, where, either by
accident or design, the photographs remained, scattered. He chuckled
grimly. Accident! Nothing was accidental with that Machiavelli in
petticoats. She knew he would read those accursed lines, and realize
with every sentence that in truth she was "letting him down easy." There
was no danger of his backing out of his bargain. Seated at the desk, he
perused his folly, and grunted with exasperation. Well, after all, what
of it? He had coveted a masterpiece; now he was to have two in one--the
contemplation of his own blunder, and Mrs. Marteen's criminal
genius--cheap at the price. How long had this been going on? Whom had
she victimized? And how in the world had she been able to obtain the
whole correspondence? That his lawyers should have been deceived by
copies was not so surprising--they never dreamed of a substitution; the
matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of genuineness. But--he
thumped his forehead. He had been staying with friends at Newport at the
time. Had Mrs. Marteen been there? Of course! He took up the
incriminating documents again and thoroughly mastered their contents,
every turn of phrase, every between-the-line inference. Accidents could
happen; he must be prepared for the worst. Not that negotiations would
fail--but--not until the originals were in his hands and personally done
away with would he feel secure. He recalled Mrs. Marteen's graceful and
sumptuously clad figure, her clear-cut, beautiful head, the power of her
unwavering sapphire eyes, the gentle elegance of her voice. And this
woman--had--held him up!
He turned on the electric lamp, opened a secret compartment drawer in
the table, abstracted a tiny key, and, deftly making a packet of the
scattered proofs, unlocked a small hidden safe behind a row of first
editions of Bunyan and consigned them to secure obscurity.
A moment later his secretary entered the room in response to his ring.
"I'm going out," he said. "Lock up, will you, and at any time Mrs.
Marteen wants to see me admit her at once."
Mr. Saunders' face shone. He, too, was a devout worshiper at the shrine
of art.
"The Vandyke?" he inquired hopefully.
"Well, no--but I'm negotiating for a very remarkable series of
letters--of--er--Napoleon--concerning--er Waterloo."
* * * * *