MR. CHAMBERS TAKES A HAND
Mr. Alexander Chambers sat in the center of his airy private office,
panelled to the ceiling in Flemish oak, looking through the selections
from the Monday morning's mail his secretary had just laid upon his
great glass-topped desk. His lofty forehead, crowned with soft, white
hair, made one think of the splendid dome of Walter Scott. But below the
forehead, in the face that was beginning to be netted with fine
wrinkles, there was neither poetry nor romanticism: power, that was
all--power under perfect mastery. The gray eyes were quiet, steady; the
mouth, half hid under a thick, short-cropped, iron-gray moustache, was a
firm straight line; the jaw was a great triangle with the squared apex
as a chin. Facetious persons sometimes referred to that triangular chin
as "Chambers's cowcatcher;" but many there were who said that those that
got in Chambers's way were never thrown aside to safety, but went down
beneath the wheels.
As he skimmed the letters through with a rapidity that in him seemed
ease, there was nothing about him to suggest the "human dynamo," which
has come to be the popular conception of the man of vast business
achievement--no violent outward show of effort, no whirring of wheels,
no coruscating flashes of escaping electricity. He ran noiselessly,
effortlessly, reposefully. Those who knew him intimately could no more
have imagined Alexander Chambers in a strain than Providence.
He glanced the last letter through--a report from Mr. Jordon on the
negotiations for the land controlled by Rogers--pushed the heap aside
and touched a button. Immediately there entered a young man of
twenty-eight or thirty.
"Please have Mr. Jordon come over as soon as he can," Mr. Chambers said
in a quiet voice to his secretary.
"Yes, sir. I was just coming to tell you, when you rang, that Mr. Allen
is waiting to see you."
"Have him come in."
As Allen entered Mr. Chambers raised his strong, erect figure to his
feet and held out his hand with a smile. "How are you, Allen. You look
as fresh as a spring morning."
"Then I look as I feel. I'm just back from Myrtle Hill. It was a
glorious two days--though we missed you a lot."
"Come now, some of the party may have missed me--but you, did you think
of me once?" Those who knew Mr. Chambers in a business way alone, would
have felt surprise at the humorous wrinkles that radiated from the outer
corners of his eyes. "The next time I arrange for a weekend party I'll
see that the wires to Boston are cut. But how did you leave Helen?"
They sat down. "With nothing to be desired in point of health"--Allen
hesitated a moment--"and everything to be desired in point of her regard
for me."
Mr. Chambers considered Allen's strongly masculine face. "You'll win
her in the end, as you've won everything else--by fighting right on.
There's no one that ranks higher with her than you."
"She's told me if an edict were passed compelling her to marry
to-morrow, I'd be the man. But--she's not eager for the edict."
"You've won her head, at least. That's progress."
"Not even all her head. She disapproves of my ideas. She made that clear
to me again yesterday. I tell you, I do wish her concern in St.
Christopher's and such things could be--well, at least lessened quite a
bit."
"That's hardly possible--her concern is too deeply rooted." Mr. Chambers
shook his head reminiscently. "She has it from her mother."
"Yes, but the strength with which she holds to it--that she has from
you. I suppose there is little chance of uprooting her convictions.
But--I feel I've gained one concession."
"Yes?"
"She's promised at the end of five weeks to give me her yes or no."
Mr. Chambers leaned forward and grasped Allen's hand. "You know which
answer I want. And I'm sure it will be that."
They looked at each other steadily a moment, then settled back into
their chairs.
"Now about that merger," said Allen. "That's what brought me in." And
Allen, who handled the legal side of many of Mr. Chambers's affairs,
began to discuss certain legal details of a railroad consolidation Mr.
Chambers had under consideration.
The instant Allen was out of the office, the secretary announced Mr.
Jordon and at Mr. Chambers's order ushered him in. Mr. Jordon, a man
whom prosperity had flushed and bulked, wished Mr. Chambers good morning
with that little tone of deference which a successful business man uses
to a more successful business man, and seated himself in the
leather-covered chair Allen had just vacated.
Mr. Chambers picked up Mr. Jordon's letter from the heap on his desk.
"I wanted to speak to you about the price this Mr. Rogers insists on for
the land he controls," he said in his even voice. "It is at a far higher
rate than we paid for the rest of the land. You've done all that's
possible to get him to lower his terms?"
"Everything!" For emphasis Mr. Jordon clapped two fat hands down upon
two fat knees. "But he's as solid as a rock. If we were dealing with the
real owners individually, it would be different. They're anxious to sell
and they're all short on nerve. It's him that holds them together and
keeps them braced up."
"I suppose you've tried to get them to withdraw their land from his
control?"
"I tried that long ago. But it wouldn't work. He's promised them a big
price, and he's made them believe they'll get it."
"Then you think as you say here"--he laid his hand upon the
letter--"that we'd better pay him what he demands and close the deal?"
"I certainly do. We've got to have that land, and to get it we've got to
pay his price. He knows that and he won't come down a dollar. Since
we've got to pay the price in the end, I'm for paying it right now and
not losing any more time in launching the company before the public."
"Your reasoning is sound. But you're aware, of course, that the
difference between his price and the rate we've been paying is
considerably over fifty thousand?"
"Yes, but we're not going to lose money on it even at that." Mr. Jordon
nodded knowingly. "Besides, when we come to counting up the profits on
the whole deal, we'll never miss that fifty thousand."
"Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Jordon," Mr. Chambers said quietly, "is
fifty thousand dollars."
Mr. Jordon blushed as though caught in an ill deed. "Yes--yes--of
course," he stammered. "We don't want to lose it, but how are we going
to help it?"
Mr. Chambers did not answer--gave no sign of having noticed the other's
embarrassment. "Suppose we have a meeting here to-morrow afternoon, and
try again to get him to lower his price."
"Very well--I'll write him to be here. But I warn you that he'll not
come down a cent."
"Then I suppose we'll have to settle on some other basis." There was a
moment's pause. "By the way, who is this Mr. Rogers?"
"Never heard of him till I ran across him in this deal. Nobody seems to
know much about him. He's just a little two-for-a-cent agent that was
cute enough to see this chance and grab it."
Mr. Chambers said no more, and Mr. Jordon, seeing that use for himself
was over, departed.
Mr. Chambers had an instinct for loss that was like a composer's ear for
false notes. In his big financial productions he detected a possible
loss instantly; it pained him as a discord, and he at once set about
correcting it. The New Jersey Home Company was but one of the many
coexisting schemes that had sprung from his creative brain, and the
fifty thousand dollars was a beggar's penny compared to the sums that
floated through his mind. But the fifty thousand dollars was a loss, a
flaw, and he could not pass it by.
Mr. Chambers had the theory, proved by long practice, that many men have
something hidden away in their lives which if discovered and properly
used, or some vulnerable business spot which if struck, will so disable
them that they cannot stand up against your plans. This theory, applied,
had turned for him many a hopeless struggle into a quiet, easy
victory--so that it had become his practice, when dealing with a man
whose past life and whose present business relations he did not know, to
acquaint himself with all that could be uncovered.
The moment Mr. Jordon had gone Mr. Chambers wrote a line, requesting
full information about Rogers, and enclosed it in an envelope which he
addressed to the man who usually served him in such confidential
matters. He touched a button and handed the note to his secretary. "See
that Mr. Hawkins gets this at once," he said.
* * * * *
That afternoon a man, whom David afterward remembered as a diamond ring,
a diamond shirt-stud and a heavy gold watch-chain, walked into the
office of John Rogers.
"Is this Mr. Rogers?" he asked of David, who was alone in the room.
"No. Aldrich is my name. But I represent him. Can I do anything for
you?"
"I'd like to see him if I can. I'm thinking of investing in some real
estate in this neighbourhood, and I've been looking at a couple of
houses that I was told he was agent for."
"I'll call him--wait a minute."
David went into the living room, and at once returned. "Mr. Rogers will
be right in," he said.
"Thanks." The man turned his pinkish face about the room. "Cosy little
office you've got, for this part of town," he remarked, with an air of
speaking pleasantries to kill time.
"Yes--we think so."
"How long's Mr. Rogers been interested in real estate in this
neighbourhood?"
"I've been with him for less than a year, so I don't exactly know. But I
believe about eight or nine years."
"In the same business before then?"
But the entrance of Rogers at that instant saved David a reply. The
caller, who had sat down, rose and held out his hand.
"Is this Mr. Rogers? Harris is my name--William Harris."
Rogers, as he came up, laid hold of the back of a chair. He did not see
Mr. Harris's hand.
"I'm glad to meet you," he returned in his low voice. "Won't you sit
down?"
The three took chairs, and the next hour was filled with talk about the
houses Mr. Harris had examined. Mr. Harris was very eager for the
buildings, and David became excited at the prospect of the agent's
commission that would come from the sale. But Rogers was quiet and
reserved as always--answering all questions fully, save a few casual
personal queries which he evaded. When Mr. Harris went away he said in
so many words that the deal was as good as settled, except for a small
difference in the price which would bother them little.
The instant the office door closed upon Mr. Harris David turned eagerly
to Rogers, who was sitting motionless in his chair.
"Won't that be a windfall though if he takes those houses!" he cried.
"Your commission will be at least two thousand dollars!"
There was no tinge of enthusiasm in Rogers's pale cheeks. He did not
speak at once, and when he did he ignored David's exclamations.
"Did you notice, Aldrich," he said in a strained voice, "that I avoided
taking his hand when he offered it at first and again when we parted?"
"No. Why?"
"I was afraid."
"Afraid?" repeated David, puzzled. "What of?"
"I shook hands with Bill Halpin--and you know what he found out."
David stepped nearer to Rogers, and saw in his eyes the look of hunted
fear.
"I don't understand," he said slowly.
"Mr. Harris may be a _bona-fide_ dealer in real estate--but fifteen
years ago he was one of the cleverest detectives on the New York police
force. I recognised him the instant I saw him. He helped arrest me
once."
David sank slowly to a chair. "You don't say so!" he ejaculated. He
stared for several moments at Rogers's thin face, on which he could now
see the exhaustion of the straining interview. "Do you think he can
possibly be on your trail?--and if so, what for?"
"What for, I don't know. But didn't you notice how he was constantly
studying me?--how he slipped in a question about what I used to do?--how
he tried to learn the names of some of my friends, whom he might quiz
about me? He's clever."
"But do you think he found out anything?"
"I don't think he did. I was watching him closer than he was watching
me, for any least sign of recognition. I didn't see any. But you know I
can't help fearing, Aldrich! I can't help fearing!"
David tried to drive the strained, hunted look from Rogers's face by
saying that there was hardly any possibility of his identity being
discovered, and no apparent motive for it being used against him even if
found out. David succeeded in bringing back his own confidence, and at
length drew from Rogers the admission, "Well, maybe you're right."