Bogan’s hand trembled as he made the first cut.
“Two hundred and fifty-one,” he spat, with a curse. “I’m done!”
“Never say die,” laughed Vestine. He took the knife and thrust it deep between the leaves.
“Ninety-one,” he announced, without a quiver. He seemed but mildly interested. “Two ones. That’s an even break. Come again, Bogan. Here.” And he handed back the knife.
“One forty-seven,” said Bogan, with an unsteady laugh. “That’s a seven-to-ten shot I’ve got you, or tied. Looks like you’re done!”
“If I am, I’ll go through just the same,” answered the Dane, unmoved. “This is a trifle to some games I’ve gone against, and I’ve never welshed yet.”
Again he knifed the book. Without the quiver of an eye he flung back the page.
“Eighty-nine,” he approved. “That’s good. At four years and some months that makes a safe income of about twelve thousand dollars a year. A thousand a month for conducting some little classes in congenial studies — not too bad. And when am I to arrive in your illustrious city, for what you call the pinch?”
Bogan’s lips were trembling so that he could hardly answer: “You stay right here, see? That’s half the game, lettin’ Brant nail you in New York. About ten days from now there’ll —”
“And when do I get the excellent and desirable fifty thousand?”
“Oh — let’s see — damn it all! Cozzens will raise —”
“That’s immaterial to me, my dear Bogan, so long as he raises the fifty — in legal tender, you understand. When is it to be?”
“It’s Wednesday, today, ain’t it? I’ll be back with the stuff Saturday, sure.”
“That’s perfectly all right for me. Well, then, there’s no more to be said. Must you be going so soon?”
“I — I — yes. I better be gettin’ along.”
“Good night, then. See you Saturday.”
“Good night,” said Bogan, and departed.
On the stairway he kicked himself, groaning.
“What a damn fool I was not to take him up at forty! Why, Cozzens was countin’ on fifty, anyhow. I could of knocked down ten for myself, easy as pie. If I hadn’t tried to grab the whole fifty — My Gawd, when will I learn that honesty’s the best policy, after all?”
IV.
THE WEDDING was one of the most brilliant ever held at St. Simon Stylites Church. Brilliant, too, was the future of Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge Brant held to be. He, as the only son-in-law of so prominent a politician as old Dexter Cozzens; she, as the wife of a man destined in short order to erase the word “assistant” from his present title, received innumerable felicitations.
The papers gave the ceremony brilliant write-ups, and mentioned the brilliancy with which young Brant had run down — from very slight clews — the forger responsible for the death of Markwood Hinman, for the assault on Henry Kitching, and for the theft of the forged check in Kitching’s pocket.
The trial, everybody remembered, had been brilliant. Only for the unfortunate “hanging” of the jury, on account of circumstantial evidence, brilliant justice would have been done. The criminal, however — a Norwegian named Aalborg, and rather a brilliant fellow — had got four years. So everybody agreed it had all been very brilliant, especially as the criminal would have remained quite undetected had it not been for young Brant’s exceptional legal ability. The general brilliancy made everybody happy, and the papers all predicted a crushing campaign against the crime wave, a cleanup of municipal politics, and all sorts of lovely and desirable reforms.
Not the least brilliant of all developments from the case were those that before very long began to smile down on the stanch old war horse and reformer, Dexter Cozzens. His fortunes soon began to prosper, rapidly though quietly. For brilliancy of this kind is usually kept hidden under bushels — nay, even under pecks. And this, of course, is all as it should be.
Another brilliant feature of the affair, likewise unknown to the public, was the kind of instruction given at the pen by Aalborg, now known only as No. 45327. He undertook to teach the tough idea not, indeed, to shoot, but to explore mathematics, penmanship, and foreign languages. His services were recognized as exceptionally brilliant. They were willing, too. No. 45327 was never “stood out,” got all kinds of good-conduct marks, became popular with everybody from the warden down — or up, as you choose — and seemed to enjoy his work almost as if he were getting paid a thousand dollars a month for it. So brilliant a teacher he became, and so model a prisoner, that before long special privileges were extended to him; and, though confined, his punishment hung not too onerously upon his gray-clad shoulders.
Thus everything turned out most brilliantly for all hands, save for Best-policy Bogan. He, strangely enough, took scant joy of anything connected with the matter. For some reason unknown, he seemed to be cherishing a secret sorrow. But as his opinion, one way or the other, was not of the slightest importance, nobody cared.
Thus time passed, Cozzens waxed fat, Brant became powerful. Aalborg was forgotten by the world; and presently three years and seven months were gone. Then the prison gates swung open for him and he walked out — a man who had well served his purpose, a free man, with his debt to society all paid.
Society, having long since dismissed him from its mind, gave him no slightest heed. What is deader than dead news?
Another question: Does all this mean our story is completely done? Not in the least, as we shall very presently see.
V.
HALF A YEAR after Aalborg’s release, Aalborg himself sent in his card to District Attorney Coolidge Brant. The card read: “John Carl Enemark.” The visitor requested only a few words in private. Brant, expansive with prosperity and power, bade the clerk usher Mr. Enemark into the private office.
“Mr. Brant,” said the visitor, laying his hat and gloves on the glass-topped desk, “I did you a great favor, just a little more than five years ago. Your conviction of me was the first case that brought you prominently into the public eye. I am not overstating the facts when I say you are now district attorney because of that case. Do you remember me?”
“Perfectly,” answered Brant, which was quite true. Vestine, Aalborg, Enemark — whatever you choose to call him — had not changed appreciably. He had grown a little higher in the forehead, perhaps, where the hair had faded; had taken on a few pounds of flesh, and showed a fresher color, that was all. His clothes still were of the quiet blue with the faint vertical stripe, that he always wore. He looked content and well-to-do. Prosperity seemed to have knocked at his door and found that door open.
“Are you amicably disposed toward me, Mr. Brant?” asked Vestine, for so we shall name him.
“Sit down, please,” invited the district attorney with a smile.
Vestine sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and waited.
“Well?” asked Brant.
“I still have a question before you, Mr. Brant. Are you amicable?”
“Perfectly. To be frank with you, Mr. — er — Enemark, I’m sorry I couldn’t send you to the chair. I did my best to, and failed. That’s all part of the fortunes of war, and I hold no ill will. So long as you go straight, and break no laws, I bear no animus.”
“Neither do I against you. I am planning to go back to Denmark in about a month. ‘My native country, thee,’ and all that sort of thing. Before I start, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What is it?”
“I want to get married.”
Brant smiled and drummed his fingers on the desk.
“That’s very laudable,” he answered. “Marriage is often an excellent asset to a man’s success and honesty.”
“Quite so. Have I your permission to marry the young lady of my choice, under honorable conditions?”
“Certainly! Why ask me?”
“There’s a very special reason, Mr. Brant.”
“Which is —”
“She
happens, at present, to be under indictment for forgery in this city, and out on bail. This forgery she committed without my knowledge or consent, in a kind of moment of inadvertence, so to speak. Her bail is two thousand dollars. I’m her bondsman — indirectly. Well?”
“Well?”
“I want the indictment quashed and the bail bond returned. She could jump bail, easily enough, and I could afford to lose two thousand dollars without serious inconvenience. But that doesn’t suit my purpose. First, because two thousand dollars is really money; and second because forgery’s an extraditable offense, and I don’t intend to have my wife a fugitive from justice. Therefore, I’m asking you to do me this favor.”
“Well, you are a cool one, I must say!” exclaimed the district attorney.
“Very true. Will you arrange the matter for me?”
“I like your nerve!”
“I’m glad of that, Mr. Brant. It’s helped you before now. Please make a note of my fiancée’s case. It’s docketed as No. 327, for the spring term. And —”
“Why, this is preposterous!” cried Brant, reaching for the push button. “Good day, sir!”
“Wait,” smiled Vestine, gently pushing back the other’s hand. “Suppose you refuse me, what then?”
“Why — why —”
“Imagine the disastrous effect on you, if the facts of my trial and conviction — the inside facts — should come out.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean,” answered Vestine, with not a trace of emotion, “that if you refuse me what I ask, I shall positively have to tell you the truth about yourself.”
“What truth?”
“Truth that you won’t want the opposition newspapers to get hold of. Will you quash the indictment?”
“Certainly not!”
Vestine sighed, as if with regret for Brant’s obstinacy.
“Too bad,” said he. “You force me to disclose facts that might so easily have remained hidden. Facts that will forever destroy your peace of mind and your confidence in — well, in certain persons you might prefer to trust. Before I tell you, I ask again whether you will do what —”
“Why, this is insanity! I should say not!”
“It can all be done very quietly. ‘No bill’ is a formula covering a multitude of errors. And I am prepared to make restitution on the check forged by the young lady. Then away we go, back to Denmark, and all is merry as the traditional marriage bell. What do you say, Mr. Brant?”
“I say this interview is ended! And do you realize you’re trying to intimidate me, to suborn justice? Do you know what the consequences of that may be to you?”
“My dear Mr. Brant, pray listen to reason,” persisted Vestine. “I assisted you in your marital program, and brought happiness to your wife and you. Now I am asking a little reciprocation, that’s all. In the name of your excellent wife, I beg you will allow another woman to become mine, free and clear.”
“See here, Enemark, or whoever you are,” rapped out the district attorney, “we’re not going to discuss this any further. My wife’s name isn’t going to be dragged into any matter by a man who —”
“Sh!” smiled the Dane imperturbably. “My good young man, I see you are one of those unfortunate beings who can’t be led, but must be driven. Well, then, on your own head be it. The fact is —”
“I don’t want to hear your ‘facts!’ I’ve heard enough, had enough of you. I advise you to go, now, before —”
“The fact is, Mr. Brant, in that famous case of yours I was what your American slang so picturesquely calls ‘the fall guy,’ that made the corner stone of your success, I was bought and paid for in the market — bought and paid for, like a herring, by your esteemed father-in-law. And the price paid for me was just exactly —”
VI.
“That’s a damned lie!” cried Brant passionately, starting up.
“The price paid for me was just exactly fifty thousand dollars which I at once very securely invented in Danish securities,” Vestine calmly finished. He, too, stood up. “With accrued interest, and the rates of exchange as they now are, I am comfortably well off ‘in my ain countree.’ I have exchanged a life of chance and insecurity for one of respectability and competence. I no longer need continue any activities that might bring me into conflict with the law.”
“You — you —” choked the district attorney, but could articulate nothing.
“I have purchased a controlling interest in a reform newspaper at Aarhus, Denmark,” smiled Vestine. “My wife-to-be, whom you will release, will help me do uplift work — quite like yours, that is perfectly safe and pays fine dividends, as Mr. Cozzens, the Honorable Mr. Cozzens, well knows. As your humble servant and fall guy, I ask you the one favor in question.”
“Fall guy, nothing! It’s a damned lie!” Brant had grown quite livid with agitation. His hands twitched.
“Please phone the Honorable Cozzens,” requested Vestine. “Ask him to come to this office for a few minutes. And tell him to bring Best-policy Bogan with him. Say Mr. Vestine is here, spilling immense numbers of appalling beans. Go on, Mr. Brant, call your father-in-law, who ‘framed’ you to success.”
Brant gasped, paled, reached for the phone, but did not take it up. Suddenly he sat down, with an oath.
“It’s — it’s all a —”
“Of course,” laughed Vestine. “All a fairy story of mine. Hans Christian Andersen, my esteemed compatriot, isn’t in it with me as a raconteur, is he? By no means! For that reason I am so intimately acquainted with the way the first clue was fed you; with all the details leading up to the arrest; with a score of other factors in the case, as I’ll prove directly. For that reason I am —”
“Hold on!” choked Brant. “What number did you say that case was?” His eyes looked hunted. “That case you — the case of that woman?”
“My fiancée, you mean?”
“Yes, your fiancée.”’
“Ah, that’s better. It is No. 327, on the spring list. I see your memory needs refreshing. I can refresh it to any extent you may need. And you’ll attend to the matter at once?” Brant nodded.
“I’ve had enough of you,” said he hoarsely. “Get out! I wish you were both in hell!”
“On the contrary, we’re leaving it for good. Well, I’ll expect you to take action inside of twenty-four hours. That will square everything. I squared the bank, squared your highly necessitous legal record, squared myself with fifty thousand dollars of your esteemed father-in-law’s money — which really bought you your present success as well as my own — and squared your father-in-law.”
Vestine smiled at Brant, who, disarmed before him, stood there speechless and staring.
“Just one more thing before I go,” said the Dane. “This case represents a very pretty mathematical problem. It is known as the Theorem of Pythagoras. Mr. Cozzens and you and I form a triangle. Perhaps I may state it better by saying we three are the three sides of a right triangle. I insist on being the hypotenuse, or longest side. I’m the hypotenuse, because the square of the hypotenuse equals the squares of the other two sides, added. And I’m going to be squared, now. I’m going square. Hope you and the Honorable Cozzens are, too.”
Speaking, he drew from his pocket a slip of paper, a blue check, and looked at it; and as he looked, he nodded.
“No more prison for mine, thank you,” said he. “Under your law, a man can’t be twice put in jeopardy of his life or liberty for the same crime. Even though guilty, if he’s tried and acquitted, that lets him out. So I’m safe now. Therefore, I don’t mind telling you —”
“What?”
“See this check?”
“What is it?”
“It’s the one that Markwood Hinman cashed. The one that was taken from Henry Kitching, after he had been knocked cold in the alley.”
“The forged check that — that disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“But how did you —�
��
“Listen, my dear young man,” answered the Dane. “What I got for being the fall guy, and agreeing to be tried by you before a fixed jury — facts that your father-in-law will verify — was a good deal more than fifty thousand dollars. I got —”
“What else? What more?”
“Perpetual immunity. Now you know. But you will never dare tell the world. That would ruin you. But now you understand.”
He struck a match, lighted the check, and held it till it flared. He dropped the ashes into the wastebasket, picked up his hat and gloves, and turned toward the door.
“Here, wait a minute!” gulped Brant “What — what’s the idea? Where did you get that check — and what do you mean by immunity, if — if you aren’t the man that — that killed —”
“Ah, but I am, you see,” smiled Vestine impassively. “Good-by!”
TEST TUBES
I HAVE SEEN daisies growing on an ash-dump. I have seen perfumes made of evil chemicals in test tubes. Steel forms itself under slag, in crucibles. Freud tells us we are merely psychologically reacting automata, slaves of external stimuli. But some believe in free will. Does anybody know anything? All things are possible.
The chiming of the clock in Peter Brodbine’s library brought the banker to his feet.
“Midnight,” said he. “Let’s be going.”
Lillian nodded. “All right. It’s time we hit the pike!” She stood up and walked into the front hall.
Peter still delayed a minute. He remained there, looking round the library. On a rainy November night like this, it invited the soul to loaf and be warm. Peter loved his books. When he had been “Tony the Scratcher,” he had always loved to read. He had educated himself behind barred windows. But never until now had he possessed enough books. Much he hated to leave them. In a fugitive motorcar, however, one can’t be loaded with books. Everything would have to be abandoned. That meant pain to the banker. It hurt. In eleven years, a man accumulated so many things!
His eyes traveled in mute farewell round the room where innumerable evenings had been happily passed, where innumerable cigars and pipefuls had been smoked with the men of Rockville. Lots of business deals had been put through there, as well. Now, a smolder of ashes in the fireplace told where many a record of such had perished. Not that any of those deals had ever been crooked. Not one! Honesty had, indeed, been Brodbine’s trump, his joker. But the banker had not wanted to leave any records. Tonight’s deal was to be a cash one. Just cash.
THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS Page 8
