Love Insurance

by Earl Derr Biggers

  "But Mr. Meyrick is very busy to-day," the clerk objected.

  "Say this is—life and death," replied Gonzale, and the clerk, wilting, telephoned the millionaire's apartments.

  For nearly an hour Gonzale was kept waiting. Nervously he paced the lobby, consuming one cigarette after another, glancing often at his watch. Finally Spencer Meyrick appeared, pompous, red-faced, a hard man to handle, as he always had been. The Spaniard noted this, and his slits of eyes grew even narrower.

  "Will you come with me?" he asked suavely. "It is most important."

  He led the way to a summer-house in a far forgotten corner of the hotel grounds. Protesting, Spencer Meyrick followed. The two sat down.

  "I have something to show you," said Gonzale politely, and removed from his pocket a copy of the San Marco Mail, still damp from the presses.

  Spencer Meyrick took the paper in his own large capable hands. He glanced casually at the first page, and his face grew somewhat redder than its wont. A huge head-line was responsible:

  HARROWBY WASN'T TAKING ANY CHANCES.

  Underneath, in slightly smaller type, Spencer Meyrick read:

  Remarkable Fores1ght Of Engl1sh Fortune

  Hunter Who Weds M1ss Meyr1ck To-day

  Took Out A Pol1cy For Seventy-f1ve

  Thousand Pounds W1th Lloyds.

  Same To Be Payable 1n Case The

  Beaut1ful He1ress Suffered A

  Change Of Heart

  Prominent on the page was a large photograph, which purported to be "An Exact Facsimile of the Policy." Mr. Meyrick examined it. He glanced through the story, which happened to be commendably brief. He told himself he must remain calm, avoid fireworks, think quickly. Laying the paper on his knee, he turned to the little white-garbed man beside him.

  "What trick is this?" he asked sharply.

  "It is no trick, sir," said Gonzale pleasantly. "It is the truth. That is a photograph of the policy."

  Old Meyrick studied the cut again.

  "I'll be damned," he remarked.

  "I have no desire to annoy," Gonzale went on. "But—there are five thousand copies of to-day's Mail at the office ready to be distributed at a signal from me. Think, sir! Newsboys on the street with that story at the very moment when your daughter becomes Lady Harrowby."

  "I see," said Meyrick slowly. "Blackmail."

  Manuel Gonzale shuddered in horror.

  "Oh, I beg of you," he protested. "That is hardly it. A business proposition, I should call it. It happens that the men back of the Star Publishing Company, which issues the Mail, have grown tired of the newspaper game in San Marco. They are desirous of closing out the plant at once—say this morning. It occurs to them that you might be very glad to purchase the Mail—before the next edition goes on the street."

  "You're a clever little dog," said Meyrick, through his teeth.

  "You are not exactly complimentary. However—let us say for the argument—you buy the Mail at once. I am, by the way, empowered to make the sale. You take charge. You hurry to the office. You destroy all copies of to-day's issue so far printed. You give orders to the composing-room to kill this first-page story—good as it is. 'Please kill,' you say. A term with newspaper men."

  "You call yourself a newspaper man?"

  "Why not? The story is killed. Another is put in its place—say, for example, an elaborate account of your daughter's wedding. And in its changed form the Mail—your newspaper—goes on the street.''

  "Urn—and your price?"

  "It is a valuable property."

  "Especially valuable this morning, I take it," sneered Meyrick.

  "Valuable at any time. Our presses cost a thousand. Our linotypes two thousand. And there is that other thing—so hard to estimate definitely—the wide appeal of our paper. The price—well—fifteen thousand dollars. Extremely reasonable. And I will include—the good will of the retiring management."

  "You contemptible little—" began Spencer Meyrick.

  "My dear sir—control yourself," pleaded Gonzale. "Or I may be unable to include the good

  1 will I spoke of. Would you care to see that story on the streets? You may at any moment. There is but one way out. Buy the newspaper. Buy it now. Here is the plan—you go with me to your bank. You procure fifteen thousand in cash. We go together to the Mail office. You pay me the money and I leave you in charge."

  Old Meyrick leaped to his feet.

  "Very good," he cried. "Come on."

  "One thing more," continued the crafty Gonzale. "It may pay you to note—we are watched. Even now. All the way to the bank and thence to the office of the Mail—we will be watched. Should any accident, now unforeseen, happen to me, that issue of the Mail will go on sale in five minutes all over San Marco."

  Spencer Meyrick stood glaring down at the little man in white. His enthusiasm of a moment ago for the journey vanished. However, the head-lines of the Mail were staring up at him from the bench. He stooped, pocketed the paper, and growled:

  "I understand. Come on!"

  There must be some escape. The trap seemed absurdly simple. Across the hotel lawn, down the hot avenue, in the less hot plaza, Meyrick sought a way. A' naturally impulsive man, he had difficulty restraining himself. But he thought of his daughter, whose happiness was more than money in his eyes.

  No way offered. At the counter of the tiny bank Meyrick stood writing his check, Gonzale at his elbow. Suddenly behind them the screen door slammed, and a wild-eyed man with flaming red hair rushed in.

  "What is it you want?" Gonzale screamed.

  "Out of my way, Don Quixote," cried the redtopped one. "I'm a windmill and my arms breathe death. Are you Mr. Meyrick? Well, tear up that check!"

  "Gladly," said Meyrick. "Only—"

  "Notice the catbirds down here?" went on the wild one. "Noisy little beasts, aren't they? Well, after this take off your hat to 'em. A catbird saved you a lot of money this morning."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow—" said the dazed Spencer Meyrick.

  "No? I'll explain. I have been working on this man's paper for the last week. So has a very good friend of mine. We knew he was crooked, but we needed the money and he promised us not to pull off any more blackmail while we stayed. Last night, after we left the office, he arranged this latest Planned to incriminate me. You little devil—"

  Manuel, frightened, leaped away.

  "We usually sleep until noon," went on O'Neill. "He counted on that. Enter the catbird. Sat on our window-sill at ten A. M. and screeched. Woke us up. We felt uneasy. Went to the office, broke down a bolted door, and found what was up."

  "Dog!" foamed Manuel. "Outcast of the gutter—"

  "Save your compliments! Mr. Meyrick, my partner is now at the Mail office destroying today's issue of the Mail. We've already ruined the first-page form, the cut of the policy, and the negative. And we're going north as fast as the Lord'U let us. You can do what you please. Arrest our little lemon-tinted employer, if you want to."

  Spencer Meyrick stood, considering.

  "However—I've done you a favor." O'Neill went on. "You can do me one. Let Manuel off—on one condition."

  "Name it."

  "That he hands me at once two hundred dollars—one hundred for myself, the other for my partner. It's legitimate salary money due us— we need it. A long walk to New York."

  "I myself—" hegan Meyrick.

  "Don't want your money," said O'Neill. "Want Gonzale's."

  "Gonzale's you shall have," agreed Meyrick. "You—pay him!"

  "Never!" cried the Spaniard.

  "Then it's the police—" hinted O'Neill.

  Gonzale took two yellow bills from a wallet. He tossed them at O'Neill.

  "There, you cur—"

  "Careful," cried O'Neill. "Or I'll punch you yet—"

  He started forward, but Gonzale hastily withdrew. O'Neill and the millionaire followed to the street.

  "Just as well," commented Meyrick. "I should not have cared to cause his arrest—it would have meant cou
ntry-wide publicity." He laid a hand on the arm of the newspaper man. "I take it," he said, "that your fortunes are not at the highest ebb. You have done me a very great service. I propose to write two checks— one for you, one for your partner—and you may name the amounts."

  But the red-haired one shook his head.

  "No," he replied. "Nix on the anticlimax to virtue on a rampage. We can't be paid for it. It would sort of dim the glory. We've got the railroad fare at last—and we're going away from here. Yes—away from here. On the choochoo—riding far—riding north."

  "Well, my boy," answered Spencer Meyrick, "if I can ever do anything for you in New York, come and see me."

  "You may have to make good on that," laughed O'Neill, and they parted.

  O'Neill hastened to the Mail office. He waved yellow bills before the lanky Howe.

  "In the nick of time," he cried. "Me, the fair-haired hero. And here's the fare, Harry— the good old railroad fare."

  "Heaven be praised," said Howe. "I've finished the job, Bob. Not a trace of this morning's issue left.- The fare! North in parlor cars! My tobacco heart sings. Can't you hear the elevated—"

  "Music, Harry, music."

  "And the newsboys on Park Row—"

  "Caruso can't touch them. Where can we find a time-table, I wonder?"

  Meanwhile, in a corner of the plaza, Manuel Gonzale spoke sad words in the ear of Martin Wall.

  "It's the jinx," moaned Wall with conviction. "The star player in everything I do down here. I'm going to burn the sand hot-footing it away. But whither, Manuel, whither?"

  "In Porto Rico," replied Gonzale, "I have not yet plied my trade. I go there."

  "Palm Beach," sighed Wall, "has diamonds that can be observed to sparkle as far away as the New York society columns. But alas, I lack the wherewithal to support me in the style to which my victims are accustomed."

  "Try Porto Rico," suggested Gonzale. "The air is mild—so are the police. I will stake you."

  "Thanks. Porto Rico it is. How the devil do we get there?"

  Up the main avenue of San Marco Spencer Meyrick walked as a man going to avenge. With every determined step his face grew redder, his eye more dangerous. He looked at his watch. Eleven.

  The eleventh hour! But much might happen between the eleventh hour and high noon!

  Chapter 21

  HIGH WORDS AT HIGH NOON

  IN the Harrowby suite the holder of the title, a handsome and distinguished figure, adorned for his wedding, walked nervously the rather worn carpet. His brother, hastily pressed into service as best man, sat puffing at a cigar with a persistency which indicated a somewhat perturbed state of mind on his own part.

  "Brace up, Allan," he urged. "It'll be over before you realize it. Remember my own wedding—gad, wasn't I frightened? Always that way with a man—no sense to it, but he just can't help it. Never forget that little parlor, with the flower of Marion society all about, and me with my teeth chattering and my knees knocking together."

  "It is a bit of an ordeal," said Allan weakly. "Chap feels all sort of—gone—inside—"

  The telephone, ringing sharply, interrupted. George Harrowby rose and stepped to it.

  "Allan? You wish Allan? Very well. I'll tell him."

  He turned away from the telephone and faced his brother.

  "It was old Meyrick, kid. Seemed somewhat hot under the collar. Wants to see you in their suite at once."

  "Wha—what do you imagine he wants?"

  "Going to make you a present of Riverside Drive, I fancy. Go ahead, boy. I'll wait for you here."

  Allan Harrowby went out, along the dusky corridor to the Meyrick door. Not without misgivings, he knocked. A voice boomed "Comel" He pushed open the door.

  He saw Spencer Meyrick sitting purple at a table, and beside him Cynthia Meyrick, in the loveliest gown of all the lovely gowns she had ever worn. The beauty of the girl staggered Harrowby a bit; never demonstrative, he had a sudden feeling that he should be at her feet.

  "You—you sent for me?" he asked, coming into the room. As he moved closer to the girl he was to marry he saw that her face was whiter than her gown, and her brown eyes strained and miserable.

  "We did," said Meyrick, rising. He held out a paper. "Will you please look at that."

  His lordship took the sheet in unsteady hands. He glanced down. Slowjy the meaning of the story that met his gaze filtered through his dazed brain. "Martin Wall did this," he thought to himself. He tried to speak, but could not. Dumbly he stared at Spencer Meyrick.

  "We want no scene, HarroWby," said the old man wearily. "We merely want to know if there is in existence a policy such as the one mentioned here?"

  The paper slipped from his lordship's lifeless hands. He turned miserably away. Not daring to face either father or daughter, he answered very faintly:

  "There is."

  Spencer Meyrick sighed.

  "That's all we want to know. There will be no wedding, Harrowby."

  "Wha—what!" His lordship faced about. "Why, sir—the guests must be—down-stairs—"

  "It is—unfortunate. But there will be no wedding." The old man turned to his daughter. "Cynthia," he asked, "have you nothing to say?"

  "Yes." White, trembling, the girl faced his lordship. "It seems, Allan, that you have regarded our marriage as a business proposition. You have gambled on the stability of the market. Well, you win. I have changed my mind. This is final. I shall not change it again."

  "Cynthia!" And any who had considered Lord Harrowby unfeeling must have been surprised at the anguish in his voice. "I have loved you—I love you now. I adore you. What can I say in explanation—of this. We gamble, all of us—it is a passion bred in the family. That is why I took out this absurd policy. My dearest —it doesn't mean that there was no love on my side. There is—there always will be, whatever happens. Can't you understand—"

  The girl laid her hand on his arm, and drew him away to the window.

  "It's no use, Allan," she said, for his ears alone. "Perhaps I could have forgiven—but somehow—I don't care—as I thought I did. It is better, embarrassing as it may be for us both, that there should be no wedding, after all."

  "Cynthia—you can't mean that. You don't believe me. Let me send for my brother—he will tell you of the passion for gambling in our family—he will tell you that I love you, too—"

  He moved toward the telephone.

  "No use," said Cynthia Meyrick, shaking her head. "It would only prolong a painful scene. Please don't, Allan."

  "I'll send for Minot, too," Harrowby cried.

  "Mr. Minot?" The girl's eyes narrowed. "And what has Mr. Minot to do with this?"

  "Everything. He came down here as the representative of Lloyds. He came down to make sure that you didn't change your mind. He will tell you that I love you—"

  A queer expression hovered about Miss Meyrick's lips. Spencer Meyrick interrupted.

  "Nonsense," he cried. "There is no need to—"

  "One moment." Cynthia Meyrick's eyes shone strangely. "Send for your brother, Allan. And—for—Mr. Minot."

  Harrowby stepped to the telephone. He summoned his forces. A strained unhappy silence ensued. Then the two men entered the room together.

  "Minot—George, old boy," Lord Harrowby said helplessly. "Miss Meyrick and her father have discovered the existence of a certain insurance policy about which you both know. They have believed that my motive in seeking a marriage was purely mercenary'—that my affection for the girl who is—was—to have become my wife can not be sincere. They are wrong—quite wrong. Both of you know that. I've sent for you to help me make them understand—I can not—"

  George Harrowby stepped forward, and smiled his kindly smile.

  "My dear young lady," he said. "I regret that policy very deeply. When I first heard of it I, too, suspected Allan's motives. But after I talked with him—after I saw you—I was convinced that his affection for you was most sincere. I thought back to the gambling schemes for which the family has
been noted—I saw it was the old passion cropping out anew in Allan —that he was really not to blame—that beyond any question he was quite devoted to you. Otherwise I'd have done everything in my; power to prevent the wedding."

  "Yes?" Miss Meyrick's eyes flashed dangerously. "And—your other witness, Allan?"

  The soul of the other witness squirmed in agony. This was too much—too much!

  "You, Minot—" pleaded Harrowby. "You have understood—"

  "I have felt that you were sincerely fond of Miss Meyrick," Minot replied. "Otherwise I should not have done—what I have done."

  "Then, Mr. Minot," the girl inquired, "you think I would be wrong to give up all plans for the wedding?"

  "I—I—yes, I do," writhed Minot.

  "And you advise me to marry Lord Harrowby at once?"

  Mr. Minot passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. Had the girl no mercy?

  "I do," he answered miserably.

  .Cynthia Meyrick laughed, harshly, mirthlessly.

  "Because that's your business—your mean little business," she said scornfully. "I know at last why you came to San Marco. I understand everything. You had gambled with Lord Harrowby, and you came here to see that you did not lose your money. Well, you've lost! Carry that news back to the concern you work for! In spite of your heroic efforts, you've lost! At the last moment Cynthia Meyrick changed her mind!"

  Lost! The word cut Minot to the quick. Lost, indeed! Lost Jephson's stake—lost the girl he loved! He had failed Jephson—failed himself! After all he had done—all he had sacrificed. A double defeat, and therefore doubly bitter.