The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  III

  McAllister had speculated for a day or two upon the probable identity of the man with the hole in his forehead, and then had finally given it up as a bad job. One didn’t like to dig up the past too carefully, anyhow. You never could tell exactly what you might exhume.

  The next Sunday afternoon, while running his eyes carelessly over the “personals,” his notice was attracted to the following:

  Business Opportunities.—Advertiser wants party with four thousand dollars ready cash; can make twelve thousand dollars in five weeks; no scheme, strictly legitimate business transaction; will bear thorough investigation; must act immediately; no brokers; principals only.

  Herbert, 319 Herald.

  The name sounded familiar. But he didn’t know any Herbert. Then there hovered in the penumbra of his consciousness for a moment the ghost of a scarlet dress, an ermine hat. Ah, yes! Herbert was the man with the hole in his forehead that night at Rector’s, that Alphonse didn’t know. But where had he known that man? He raised his eyes and caught a glimpse of Tomlinson, the saturnine Tomlinson, sitting by a window. Of course! Buncomb—Colonel C. T. P. Buncomb—Tomlinson’s high-rolling friend of the Champs-Élysées—turned up in New York as Mr. Herbert—a man who’d triple your money in five weeks! The chain was complete. If he kept his wits about him he might increase the reputation achieved at Blair’s. It would require finesse, to be sure, but his experience with Conville had given him confidence. Here was a chance to do a little more detective work on his own account. He replied to the advertisement, inviting an interview. The “Colonel” would probably call, try some old swindling game, McAllister would lure him on, and at the proper moment call in the police. It looked easy sailing.

  Accordingly the appointed hour next day found the clubman waiting impatiently at his rooms, and at two o’clock promptly Mr. Herbert was announced. But McAllister was doomed to disappointment. The visitor was not the Colonel at all, and didn’t even have a bullet-hole in his forehead. A short, thick-set man, arrayed carefully in a dark blue overcoat, bowed himself in. In his hand he carried a glistening silk hat, and his own countenance was no less shining and urbane. Thick bristly black hair parted mathematically in the middle drooped on either side of his forehead above a pair of snappy black eyes and rather bulbous nose.

  McAllister somewhat uneasily invited his guest to be seated.

  Mr. Herbert smilingly took the chair offered him.

  “Mr. McAllister?” he inquired affably.

  “Ye-es,” replied the clubman. “I noticed your advertisement in the Herald, and it occurred to me that I might like to look into it.”

  Mr. Herbert smiled slightly in a deprecating manner.

  “I admit my method savors a trifle of charlatanism,” he remarked, “but the situation was unusual and time was of the essence. Are we quite alone?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly! Will you smoke?”

  Mr. Herbert had no objection to joining McAllister in a cigar.

  “The gist of the matter is this,” he explained, holding the weed in the corner of his mouth as he spoke—a trick McAllister had never acquired. “I have a brother who is employed in a confidential capacity by the president of a large mining company—The Golden Touch. The stock has always sold at around four or five. Recently they struck a very rich lode. It was kept very quiet, and only the officers of the company actually on the field know of it. Needless to say, they are buying in the stock as fast as they can.”

  “Of course,” answered McAllister sympathetically. He felt as if he had run across an old friend again. Things were looking up a bit.

  “Well, I have located a block of which they know absolutely nothing. It was issued to an engineer in lieu of cash for services at the mine. He suddenly developed sciatica, and is obliged to go to Baden-Baden. At present he is laid up at one of the hotels in this city. Of course he is ignorant of the find made since he left Arizona, and of the fact that his stock, once worth only five dollars a share, is now selling at twenty.”

  “Well, he’s a richer man than he supposes,” commented McAllister naively.

  Mr. Herbert smiled with condescension.

  “Exactly. That is the point. If I had five thousand dollars I could buy his thousand shares tomorrow and sell it to the company at fifteen thousand dollars’ profit. You furnish the funds, I the opportunity, and we divide even. I’ve a sure thing! What do you think of it?”

  “By George!” exclaimed the clubman, slapping his knee delightedly, “I’ve a mind to go you!… But,” he added shrewdly, “I should want to see the prospective buyer of my stock before I purchased it.”

  “Right you are; right you are, Mr. McAllister,” instantly returned Mr. Herbert. “Now, I’m dead on the level, see? Tomorrow morning you can go down and see the president of The Golden Touch yourself. The offices are in the New York Life Building.”

  “All right,” answered McAllister. “Tomorrow? Wait a minute; I’ve an engagement. Why can’t we go now?”

  Mr. Herbert nodded approvingly. Ah, that was business! They would go at once.

  McAllister rang for Frazier, who assisted him into his coat and summoned a cab. On their way down-town Herbert waxed even more confidential. He believed, if they could land this block of stock, they might perhaps dig up a few more hundred shares. Conscientious effort counted just as much in an affair of this sort as in any other. McAllister displayed the deepest interest.

  Arrived at the New York Life Building, the two took the elevator to the fifth floor, where Herbert led the way to a large suite on the Leonard Street side. McAllister rarely had to go down-town—his lawyer usually called on him at his rooms—and was much impressed by the marble corridors and gilt lettering upon the massive doors. Upon a door at the end of the hall the clubman could see in large capitals the words,

  THE GOLDEN TOUCH MINING CO.

  Office of the President.

  They turned to the left and paused outside another door marked “Entrance.” Herbert thought he’d better remain in the corridor—the President might smell a rat; so McAllister decided to enter alone. In an adjoining suite he could see some men testing a fire-escape consisting of a long bulging canvas tube, which reached from the window in the direction of the street below. Someone was preparing to make a descent. McAllister wished he could stop and see the fellow slide through; but business was business, and he opened the door.

  Inside he found himself in a large, handsome office. Three gum-chewing boys idled at desks in front of a brass railing, behind which several typewriters rattled continuously. On learning that McAllister desired to see the President, one of the boys penetrated an inner office, and presently beckoned our friend into another room hung with large maps and photographs and furnished with a mahogany table, around which were ranged a dozen vacant but impressive chairs. In the room beyond, evidently the holy of holies, he could see an elderly man at a roll-top desk smoking a large cigar.

  McAllister was beginning to lose his nerve; everything seemed so methodical and everybody so busy. Telephones rang incessantly; buzzers whirred; the machines clacked; and the man inside smoked on serenely, unperturbed, a wonderful example of the superiority of mind over matter. Who was he? McAllister began to fear that he was going to make an ass of himself. Then the magnate slowly raised his eyes; retreat became no longer possible. With a start, McAllister found himself face to face with the man with the bullet-hole in his forehead. The latter bowed slightly.

  “I am President Van Vorst,” he announced in a dignified manner.

  McAllister hastily tried to assume the expression and manner of a yokel.

  “Er—er—” he stammered; “you see, the fact is, I want to sell some stock.”

  The Colonel eyed him sternly.

  “Stock? What stock?”

  “In the Golden Touch.”

  The President slightly elevated his eyebrows.

  �
��Stock in The Golden Touch? How much have you got?”

  “About a thousand shares.”

  “Nonsense!” remarked the Colonel.

  “No, it isn’t,” replied McAllister. “I have, really. What’ll you pay for it?”

  “Five dollars a share.”

  “No, no,” said McAllister, edging nervously toward the door. “I think it’s worth more than that.”

  “Come back here,” muttered the other, getting up from his chair and scowling. “What do you know about the value of The Golden Touch, I should like to know?”

  “Perhaps I know more than you think,” answered McAllister, with an inane imitation of airy nonchalance.

  “See here,” said the Colonel excitedly, “is this on the level? Can you deliver a thousand?”

  “Certainly.”

  The President sank back in his chair.

  “Then you have located Murphy’s stock!” he exclaimed. “You’ve beaten us! That cursed certificate was issued just before—” He paused, and looked sharply toward McAllister.

  “Just before you made that strike,” finished the clubman significantly.

  “Hang you!” cried the Colonel angrily. “What do you ask?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Too much. Give you ten.”

  McAllister started for the door.

  At that instant a telegraph-boy entered and handed the President a flimsy yellow paper.

  “Give you twelve,” added the Colonel, casting his eye rapidly over the telegram.

  “Can’t do business on that basis.”

  “Well, you’ve got us cornered. I’ll break the record. I’ll give you fifteen.”

  McAllister hesitated.

  “All right,” said he rather reluctantly. “Cash down?”

  “Of course,” replied the Colonel. “I’ll wait here for you. You might as well look at this now.” And he showed the clubman the paper.

  Stafford, Arizona.

  Struck very rich ore on the foot-wall. Recent assays show eight percent copper, carrying five dollars in gold to the ton. Try and locate Murphy’s stock.

  “You see,” added the Colonel, “I’ve got to get it, if it busts me!”

  “Well, you shall have it in half an hour,” replied McAllister.

  Out in the corridor Herbert wanted to know exactly what had happened, and laughed heartily when McAllister described the interview. Oh, that old Van Vorst was a sly dog! He’d steal the gold out of your teeth if you gave him the chance. Carrying five dollars in gold to the ton! That was even better than his brother had advised him. Well, the next thing was to capture Murphy’s stock.

  On their way to the Astor House to see the sick engineer, McAllister stopped at the Chemical National Bank, on the pretext of procuring the money to pay for the stock, and there called up Police Headquarters. Conville presently came to the wire, and it was arranged between them that the detective should communicate with Tomlinson and bring him at once to the New York Life Building. There they would await the return of McAllister and follow him to the offices of the mining company.

  McAllister then rejoined Mr. Herbert in the cab and drove at once to the hotel. The polite clerk informed the strangers that Mr. Murphy was bad, very bad, and that they would have to secure permission from the trained nurse before they could visit him. They might, however, go upstairs and inquire for themselves.

  Mr. Murphy’s room proved to be at the extreme end of a musty corridor, in which the pungent odor of iodoform and antiseptics, noticeable even at the elevator, gave evidence of his lamentable condition. A soft knock brought an immediate response from a muscular male nurse, who was at last persuaded to allow them to interview his patient on the express condition that their call should be limited to a few moments’ duration only. Inside, the smell of medicine became overpowering. McAllister could discern by the dim light a figure lying upon a bed in the far corner shrouded in bandages, and moaning with pain. Near at hand stood a table covered with liniment and bottles.

  “Wot is it?” whined the sick engineer. “Carn’t yer leave me in peace? Wot is it, I s’y?”

  For the third time in his life McAllister’s heart nearly stopped beating at the sound of that voice. It was, however, unmistakable. Should it come from the heavens above, or the caverns of the hills, or the waters beneath the earth, it could originate in but one unique, extraordinary individual—Wilkins! It was a startling complication, and for an instant McAllister’s brain refused to cope with the situation.

  “You really must pardon us!” Herbert began, “but we’ve come to see if you wouldn’t sell some of your Golden Touch mining stock.”

  “’Oly Moses!” wailed the sick engineer, turning his head to the wall. “Oh, my leg! Wot do you come ’ere for, about stock, when I’m almost dead? Go aw’y, I s’y!”

  McAllister pulled himself together. He had intended buying the stock, and on returning to the company’s offices to have Conville arrest Herbert and the Colonel, without bothering about the sick engineer. He was pretty sure he had evidence enough. But now, with Wilkins to assist him, he undoubtedly could force a confession from them both.

  “Go ahead,” he whispered to Herbert; “I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

  So Mr. Herbert started in to persuade his invalid confederate to part with his valueless stock for McAllister’s money. He waxed eloquent over the glories of the Continent and the miraculous cures effected at Baden-Baden, as well as upon the uncertainties of this life, and mining stock in particular.

  Meanwhile the sick man tossed in agony upon his pallet and cursed the inconsiderate strangers who forced their selfish interests upon him at such a moment. Outside the door the nurse coughed impatiently. At last, after an unusually persistent harangue on the part of Herbert, the invalid, inveighing against the sciatica that had placed him thus at their mercy, and more to get rid of them than anything else, reluctantly yielded. Fumbling among the bed-clothes, he produced a soiled certificate, which he smoothed out and regarded sadly.

  “’Ere, tyke it,” he muttered. “Tyke it! Gimme yer money, an’ go aw’y!”

  As yet he had not recognized McAllister, who had remained partially concealed behind his companion.

  “Now’s your chance!” whispered the latter. “Take it while you can get it. Where’s the money?”

  McAllister drew out the bills, which crackled deliciously in his hands, and stepped square in front of the sick engineer, between him and Herbert.

  “Mr. Murphy”—he spoke the words slowly and distinctly—“I’m the person who’s buying your stock. This gentleman has merely interested me in the proposition.” Then, fixing his eyes directly on those of Wilkins, he held out the bills. A look of terror came over the face of the valet, and he half-raised himself from the pillow as he stared horrified at his former master. Then he sank back, and turned away his head.

  “Now answer me a few questions,” continued McAllister. “Are you the bona fide owner of this stock?”

  Wilkins choked.

  “S’ ’elp me! Got it fer services,” he gasped.

  “And it’s worth what you ask—five thousand dollars?”

  Wilkins glanced helplessly at Herbert, who was examining a bottle of iodine on the mantelpiece. Then he rolled convulsively upon his side.

  “Oh, my leg!” he groaned, thrashing around until his head came within a few inches of McAllister’s face. “It’s rotten,” he whispered under his breath. “Don’t touch it!… Oh, my pore leg!… Just pretend to pass me the money.… ’Ere, tyke yer stock, if yer ’ave to!… I wouldn’t rob yer, sir, indeed I wouldn’t!… W’ere’s yer money?”

  A gentle smile came over McAllister’s placid countenance. Who said there was no honor among thieves? Who said there was no such thing as gratitude and self-sacrifice? He did not realize at the moment that it was the only thing Wilkins could possibly have do
ne to save himself. His simple faith accepted it as an act of devotion upon the other’s part. With a swift wink at his old servant, McAllister stepped back to where Herbert was standing.

  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “How can I be sure this sick man’s name is really Murphy, or that he is the fellow that worked at the mine? I guess I’d better have him identified before I give up my money.”

  “Don’t be foolish!” growled Herbert. “Of course he’s the man! My brother gave his description in the letter, and he fits it to a T. And then he has the certificate. What more do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” repeated McAllister hesitatingly. He shook his head and shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. I guess I won’t do it.”

  Herbert seemed annoyed.

  “Look here,” he demanded of the sick engineer, “are you so awful sick you can’t come over to the company’s offices and be identified?”—adding sotto voce to McAllister, “if he does, old Van Vorst will probably buy the stock himself, and we’ll lose our chance.”

  The sick man moaned and grumbled. By ’ookey! ’Ere was impudence for yer. Come an’ rob ’im of ’is stock, an’ then demand ’e be identified.

  “We’ll take you in our cab. It ain’t far,” urged Herbert, nodding vigorously at Wilkins from behind McAllister.

  “Oh, I’ll go!” responded the engineer with sudden alacrity. “Anything to hoblige.”

  He hobbled painfully out of bed. The nurse had by this time returned, and was demanding in forcible language that his patient should instantly get back. Seeing that his expostulations had no effect, he assisted Wilkins very ungraciously to get into his clothes. With the aid of a stout cane the latter tottered to the elevator and was finally ensconced safely in the cab. All this had occupied nearly an hour; twenty minutes more brought them to the New York Life Building.

  As McAllister and Herbert assisted their supposed victim into the building, the clubman caught a glimpse of the lean Tomlinson and athletically built Conville standing together behind the pillars of the portico. The elevator whisked them up to the fifth floor so rapidly that the sick man swore loudly that he should never live to come down again. As they turned into the corridor toward the entrance of the office, McAllister saw his confederates emerge from the rear elevator. Things were going well enough, so far. Now for the coup d’état!