THE BILLIONAIRE'S PLOT.
He was aroused from this bitter revery by a rapping at the door.
Opening, he admitted Slawson, his valet. The servile one handed him a
letter with a special-delivery stamp on it.
"Excuse me for intruding, sir," said Slawson, meekly smiling, "but I
knew this was urgent."
"All right. Get out!" growled Flint. When the man was gone, he fortified
himself with a couple of morphine tablets, and ripped the long envelope.
It was from Slade, he knew, of the Cosmos Agency.
With a rapid eye he glanced it over. Then uttering a sudden oath, he
studied it carefully, under the electric bulb beside his dressing-table.
"Gods and devils!" he ejaculated. "What next?"
The letter read:
142A Park Row, New York City, June 28, 1921.
Isaac L. Flint, Esq.,
Idle Hour, Englewood, N. J.
Dear Sir:
Reporting in the matter of the young man who rescued your
daughter, in the recent accident, let me say I have discovered his
identity and some important facts concerning him. I take the
liberty of thinking that your intention of rewarding him, when
found, will be somewhat modified by this information.
This man's name is Gabriel Armstrong, age 24. Occupation, expert
electrical and chemical worker. A Socialist and labor agitator, of
the most dangerous type, because intellectual and well-read. A man
of considerable power and influence in Socialist and labor
circles. Has been something of a wanderer. Is well known to union
men and Socialists, all over the country. A powerful speaker, and
resourceful.
He was last employed at your testing-works on Staten Island.
Discharged by your Mr. Herzog, about two weeks ago for having, I
understand, been in possession of a certain red-covered note-book,
which Mr. Herzog found in his pocket. This book is the same which
you commissioned me to find, but which Mr. Herzog returned to you
before I undertook the search for it. The inference is that this
Armstrong is in possession of some private information about your
work, which may make him even more dangerous. Herzog informs me
that you and Mr. Waldron have had Armstrong blacklisted. But this
seems of no importance to the man, as he is clever and can live
anywhere, by casual labor and by working with the Socialists.
Armstrong is now at Syracuse. He has been tramping the roads. Have
had two of my operators enter his room at the Excelsior Lodging
House and search, his effects, while he was taking a bath. Can find
nothing to give me any legal means of proceeding against him. He
has some ready money, so a vagrancy-charge will not hold. If you
wish me to resort to extreme measures to "get" him, kindly give me
carte blanche, and guarantee me protection in case of trouble. The
job can be done, but it may be risky, in view of his influence and
backing among the Socialists and labor people. Before proceeding
further I want to know how far you will support me.
Am having him shadowed. He cannot get away. As yet he suspects
nothing. On receipt of your next, will take measures to put him
away for a few months. I know that, once he lands behind bars, his
finish can be easily arranged.
Trusting this information will prove satisfactory to you, and
awaiting your further instructions, I am,
Very truly yours,
THE COSMOS AGENCY,
Dillon F. Slade, Mgr.
Old Flint read this extraordinary communication twice through, then,
raising his head, growled in his shrunken throat, for all the world like
a wild beast. His gold tooth, gleaming in the light, made his rictus of
passion more venomous, more malevolent still.
"The--the Hell-hound!" he stammered, his eyes narrowed with hate and
rage. "Oh, wait! Wait till we land him! And this--_this_ is the devil,
the scum, that Kate, my daughter--"
He could not finish; but, clutching at his sparse gray hair, fell to
pacing the floor and mouthing execrations. Had he been of the sanguine
manner of body, he must inevitably have suffered an apoplexy. Only his
spare frame and bloodless type, due to the drug, saved his life, at that
first shock of rage and hate.
Grown calmer, presently, he took quick action. Seating himself at a desk
in the corner of his bed-chamber--a desk where some of his most
important private matters had been put through--he chose a sheet of
blank paper, with no monogram, and wrote:
Take immediate action. Will back you to the limit, and beyond. Ten
thousand bonus if you land him behind bars inside a week. Stop at
nothing, but get results. F.
This he folded and put in an envelope which he addressed to Slade, and
was about to seal, when another idea struck him.
"By God!" he exclaimed, smiting the desk. "It won't do to have this just
some ordinary charge. The thing has got to be disgraceful, unpardonable,
hideous!
"There are two things to be considered now. One is to 'get' him, in
connection with that red book of my plans--to head him off from making
any possible trouble in the development of the Air Trust.
"The other is--Kate! Nothing catches a woman, like martyrdom. If
anything happens to this cur, and she suspects that I've done it, out of
spite, all Hell can't hold her. I know her well enough for _that_. No,
this fellow has got to be put away on some charge that will absolutely
and utterly ruin him, in her eyes, for good and all--that will blast and
wreck him, forever, with her. Something that, when I tell her, will fill
her with loathing and horror. Something that will cause a terrible and
complete revulsion of feeling in her, and bring her back to Waldron, as
to a strong refuge in time of trouble. Something that will crush and
quell her, utterly cure her of those idiotic, school-girl notions of
hers, and make her--as she should be--submissive to my will and my
demands!"
He pondered a moment, an ugly, crafty smile on those old lips of his;
then, struck by sudden inspiration, laughed a dry, harsh laugh.
"The very thing!" he exulted, with the mirth of a vulture that has just
found a peculiarly revolting mass of carrion. "Fool that I was, not to
have thought of it before!"
Hastily he withdrew the letter from the envelope, opened it, and with
eager hand wrote three short sentences. He read these over, nodded
approval, and this time sealed and addressed the letter. Then he pushed
an electric button over the desk.
"Have this letter carried to this address at once," he commanded
Slawson. "Mr. Dillon Slade, 432 Highland Avenue, Rutherford, N. J.
See? Special delivery won't do. Have Sanders take it at once, in the
racer. No answer required. And after you've seen it start on its way,
come back here. I want to go to bed."
"Yes, sir. All right, sir," the valet bowed as he took the letter and
departed.
Ten minutes later, he was back again, helping old Flint undress.
Long after the Billionaire was in bed, in the big, luxurious room, with
its windows open toward the river--the room guarded all night by armed
men in the house and on the lawn outside--he lay there thinking of his
plot, chuckling to himself over its infernal cunning, and filled with
joy at the prospects now opening out ahead of him.
"Two birds with one stone, this time, for sure," he pondered. "Ha!
They'll try to beat old Isaac Flint at this or any other game, will
they? Man or woman, I don't care which, they'll never get away with
it--never, so long as life and breath remain in me!"
Then, soothed by these happy thoughts, and by a somewhat increased
dosage of his drug, the Billionaire gradually and contentedly fell
asleep, to dream of victory, and vengeance, and power.
Not in weeks had he slumbered so peacefully.
But for many hours after her father was asleep, Catherine sat at her
window, in a silk kimono, and with fevered pulses and dry eyes, with
throbbing heart and leaping pulses, thought long thoughts.
Sleepless she sat there, counting the hours tolled from the church-spire
in the town, below.
Morning still found her at the window, her brain afire, her heart laid
desolate and waste by the consuming struggle which, that night, had
swept and ravaged it.