A few days later Peter Ganser appeared before Beck, triumph flaunting
from his stupid features. Beck instantly scented bad news.
"Stop the case," said Peter with a vulgar insolence that grated upon
the lawyer. "It's no good."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ganser. I don't follow you."
"But I follow myself. Stop the case. I pay you off now."
"You can't deal with courts as you can with your employees, Mr. Ganser.
There are legal forms to be gone through. Of course, if you're
reconciled to your son-in-law, why--"
Peter laughed. "Son-in-law! That scoundrel--he's a bigamist. I got
the proofs from Germany this morning."
Beck became blue round the edges of his mouth and his eyes snapped.
"So you've been taking steps in this case without consulting me, Mr.
Ganser?"
"I don't trust lawyers. Anyway, what I hire you for? To try my case.
It's none of your business what I do outside. I pay you off, and I
don't pay for any dirty works I don't get." He had wrought himself
into a fury. Experience had taught him that that was the best mood in
which to conduct an argument about money.
"We'll send you your bill," said Beck, in a huge, calm rage against
this dull man who had outwitted him. "If you wish to make a scene,
will you kindly go elsewhere?"
"I want to pay you off--right away quick. I think you and Loeb in
cahoots. My detective, he says you both must have known about
Feuerstein. He says you two were partners and knew his record. I'll
expose you, if you don't settle now. Give me my bill."
"It is impossible." Beck's tone was mild and persuasive. "All the
items are not in."
Ganser took out a roll of notes. "I pay you five hundred dollars.
Take it or fight. I want a full receipt. I discharge you now."
"My dear sir, we do not give our services for any such sum as that."
"Yes you do. And you don't get a cent more. If I go out of here
without my full receipt, I fight. I expose you, you swindler."
Peter was shouting at the top of his lusty lungs. Beck wrote a receipt
and handed it to him. Peter read it and handed it back. "I'm not as
big a fool as I look," he said. "That ain't a full receipt."
Beck wrote again. "Anything to get you out of the office," he said, as
he tossed the five hundred dollars into a drawer. "And when your
family gets you into trouble again--"
Peter snorted. "Shut up!" he shouted, banging his fist on the desk.
"And don't you tell the papers. If anything come out, I expose you.
My lawyer, Mr. Windisch, say he can have you put out of court." And
Peter bustled and slammed his way out.
Beck telephoned Loeb, and they took lunch together. "Ganser has found
out about Feuerstein's wife," was Beck's opening remark.
Loeb drew his lip back over his teeth.
"I wish I'd known it two hours sooner. I let Feuerstein have ten
dollars more."
"More?"
"More. He's had ninety-five on account. I relied on you to handle the
brewer."
"And we're out our expenses in getting ready for trial."
"Well--you'll send Ganser a heavy bill."
Beck shook his head dismally. "That's the worst of it. He called me a
swindler, said he'd show that you and I were in a conspiracy, and dared
me to send him a bill. And in the circumstances I don't think I will."
Loeb gave Beck a long and searching look which Beck bore without
flinching.
"No, I don't think you will send him a bill," said Loeb slowly. "But
how much did he pay you?"
"Not a cent--nothing but insults."
Loeb finished his luncheon in silence. But he and Beck separated on
the friendliest terms. Loeb was too practical a philosopher to hate
another man for doing that which he would have done himself if he had
had the chance. At his office he told a clerk to send Feuerstein a
note, asking him to call the next morning. When Feuerstein came into
the anteroom the gimlet-eyed office boy disappeared through one of the
doors in the partition and reappeared after a longer absence than
usual. He looked at Feuerstein with a cynical, contemptuous smile in
his eyes.
"Mr. Loeb asks me to tell you," he said, "with his compliments, that
you are a bigamist and a swindler, and that if you ever show your face
here again he'll have you locked up."
Feuerstein staggered and paled--there was no staginess in his manner.
Then without a word he slunk away. He had not gone far up Center
Street before a hand was laid upon his shoulder from behind. He
stopped as if he had been shot; he shivered; he slowly, and with a look
of fascinated horror, turned to see whose hand had arrested him.
He was looking into the laughing face of a man who was obviously a
detective.
"You don't seem glad to see me, old boy," said the detective with
contemptuous familiarity.
"I don't know you, sir." Feuerstein made a miserable attempt at
haughtiness.
"Of course you don't. But I know YOU--all about you. Come in here and
let's sit down a minute."
They went into a saloon and the detective ordered two glasses of beer.
"Now listen to me, young fellow," he said.
"You're played out in this town. You've got to get a move on you, see?
We've been looking you up, and you're wanted for bigamy. But if you
clear out, you won't be followed. You've got to leave today,
understand? If you're here to-morrow morning, up the road you go."
The detective winked and waggled his thumb meaningly in a northerly
direction.
Feuerstein was utterly crushed. He gulped down the beer and sat wiping
the sweat from his face. "I have done nothing," he protested in tragic
tones. "Why am I persecuted--I, poor, friendless, helpless?"
"Pity about you," said the detective.
"You'd better go west and start again. Why not try honest work? It's
not so bad, they say, once you get broke in." He rose and shook hands
with Feuerstein. "So long," he said. "Good luck! Don't forget!" And
again he winked and waggled his thumb in the direction of the
penitentiary.
Feuerstein went to his lodgings, put on all the clothes he could wear
without danger of attracting his landlady's attention, filled his
pockets and the crown of his hat with small articles, and fled to
Hoboken.