Bogus Bondsman
Page 19
They still had the plates. Don Victor represented that he could repair his distribution ring. For his share, of course he could. The Counselor reckoned he could find a suitable printer and paper in time. He cautioned, however, that terminating a second printer might alert the Pinkertons. That eventuality was not to be taken lightly, though from these reports the real damage had come at the hands of this Great Western Detective League, whatever the hell that was. What it was mattered little. What mattered was how fast they closed in on the operation after losing the trail. The dead printer with the thirteenth bond got them off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. The Don’s adjustment to the pursuit should have given them sufficient time. It didn’t.
Gould was a realist. Games played best when they were solidly rigged in favor of the house, his house. This one had seemed so from the start, only to have the tables turned on them. It was time for the house to cut its losses. The Missouri Pacific opportunity wouldn’t wait for paper and ink. True he’d be forced to use his backup plan. He always had one. Regrettably in this case that plan was more expensive than the first, but timely nonetheless. The required financing could be arranged here in the east, safely removed from any meddling by the Great Western Detective League. He huffed out the lamp to retire for the night.
Shady Grove
Colonel Crook’s story came to a close on a note of regret.
“The big fish did indeed get away,” I said. “That’s why there is so little detail in the archive reporting on this case.”
He nodded. “That of course and the missing plates. One couldn’t allow a crisis of confidence in bearer bond financial instruments. The documents were far too useful in the creation of debt instruments, offering the holder secure liquidity. Any loss of confidence would translate to a loss of negotiability and diminished liquidity. Such a circumstance would doubtlessly have increased the interest cost to the borrower necessary to attract investors to a less liquid instrument.”
“Are you suggesting that the victims of the crime chose to mask the counterfeit risk?”
“The victims? Heavens, no. The victims in this case were the banks who accepted those bonds. The bond issuers, railroads in this case, wanted the risk swept under the rug. The victims merely went along with it.”
“But why would the banks go along? I don’t understand.”
“Robert, Robert, youthful idealism. The banks went along for two reasons. The banks who experienced the loss were deeply embarrassed at having been taken in. Banks rely on their depositors’ and customers’ confidence in the safety and soundness of the bank. The victims were fearful their reputations might be sullied by admission of their loss.”
“I see that, but what of those who hadn’t been taken in. Shouldn’t they have insisted the risk be exposed?”
“You might think so, my young friend, except for the fact that the issuers of these bonds, primarily railroads, were substantial consumers of bank services and valuable customers the banks were loath to oppose. The railroads made their feelings on the matter clear to their banks; and between the banks and the railroads, newspapers came to understand that the public interest would not be served by dwelling on the details of the case.”
“But what of journalistic ethics?”
“There is that. Perhaps you could put that to right by your book, though you might want to consider your employer’s reaction should you make too much of it. As I recall, you found the sketchy roots of this story in their archives. It’s possible they were persuaded to bury the story.”
“But why would a journalist bury such a story?”
“A journalist might be reluctant as you suggest, but journalists are employed by publishers. Newspaper publishers are compensated by advertising.”
“What does that have to do with journalistic ethics in this case?”
“My dear boy, banks and railroads are advertisers.”
“So you’re saying the story was buried for money.”
“Very perceptive of you.”
“And the public trust?”
“Regrettable.”
Disillusionment washed over principles I’d long held dear on the walk home. Surely this ethical travesty must be an anomaly. Mistakes were made. They couldn’t be institutionalized. My editors would defend to the death the right, no duty, to report the truth. Wouldn’t they?
I couldn’t indulge myself long on these disturbing questions. Penny and I were to attend a new moving picture show that evening, a western, certain to lift my spirits by upholding truth and justice by heroic adventure. I reached my boarding house with time for little more than a change of clothes. The mail stack that I took from the foyer table and carried upstairs to my room contained a thick manila envelope along with the usual assortment of bills. I glanced at the postmark in the dim light of my small room. I tore it open and read.
My disillusionment disappeared in a flood of euphoria. Tonight would be a night to celebrate.
The film offered a perfect metaphor for the possibilities of life ahead. The handsome hero on the dashing stallion saved the day, dispatched the villain, and rode off into the sunset with the beautiful heroine. We savored it along with our favorite sundaes. We walked hand in hand through a pleasant September evening, enjoying the warmth we knew must soon come to an end.
I waited until we were comfortably seated on the porch swing to reveal the good news. I drew the envelope out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her without preamble or ceremony.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
She knit her brow in the dim light. She turned to me, eyes puzzled. “Is this . . . ?”
I nodded. “They’ve accepted the book.”
“Oh, Robert!”
I must confess, I lost account of what transpired for some indeterminate amount of time after that. I can only recall it to be the most joyous celebration I’d experienced in my young life. When we recovered our breath, she smiled that misty-eyed Mona Lisa of hers.
“Does this mean?”
“Yes. I can’t yet say when, but we are on our way.”
EPILOGUE
Judges Chambers
“Five hundred dollars! That’s ridiculous. Is this some kind of joke?”
The lean dark-complexioned man in a gray suit inspected manicured nails with an air of indifference. “As you well know, Your Honor, my client is not given to outbursts of humor. I repeat my request. You will set bond for the prisoner at five hundred dollars.”
The judge scowled. “The man stands accused of passing five hundred thousand dollars in counterfeit bonds and you expect me to set bail at five hundred dollars. Five thousand would be a pittance. How do you expect me to explain this to the prosecutor when your man fails to appear in court?”
“That is your problem.”
“So you admit the man will take flight.”
“I know of no such intent. I only know that if he does, it will be up to you to offer any explanation necessary for your actions. Now, if you please, let us get on with this. I should not like to report your reluctance to my client. As you know, he might very well take offense to that.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Your Honor, I am only a simple counselor. I speak only of my client’s disappointment.”
“Your client’s disappointments are well known.”
“Good. Then we understand one another.”
“Five hundred dollars, so ordered.”
Great Western Detective League Offices
“Five hundred dollars and the man walks!” Cane paced the office in white-knuckled frustration. “What the hell is the matter with the judge?”
“He’s not generally given to such lapses in judgment,” Crook said.
“Well he sure is on this one. Does he not know we didn’t recover the plates? The gang could be back in business in no time at all.”
“Something doesn’t smell right,” Longstreet said. “You think it might have anything to do with El Anillo?”
�
��I’d bet my long-handles on it,” Cane said. “About the only thing I got out of the man after we collared him was, ‘You will never keep me.’ He knew from the start he’d walk. That’s why he sent that wire. Without a stage or train to jump he didn’t figure the chances of making it out of El Paso were good. He didn’t even put up much resistance when I arrested him.”
“You think the judge is involved?” Longstreet said.
“What do you think?”
“I figure we’re not finished with El Anillo.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Colt’s critically acclaimed historical fiction crackles with authenticity. His analytical insight, investigative research, and genuine horse sense bring history to life. His characters walk off the pages of history in a style that blends Jeff Shaara’s historical dramatizations with Robert B. Parker’s gritty dialogue.
Paul’s first book with Five Star, Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory, received the Marilyn Brown Novel Award, presented by Utah Valley University. His Grasshoppers in Summer received Finalist recognition in the Western Writers of America 2009 Spur Awards.
Paul’s work in western literature gives creative expression to a lifelong love of the west. He gets his boots dirty researching a story, whenever possible from the back of a horse. His work as an author follows a successful business career. When not writing, Paul enjoys riding, working with horses, reading, golf, scuba diving, and sport shooting. Paul and his wife, Trish, reside in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
Learn more at www.paulcolt.com.