He received Bogan in his little apartment on Lyon Avenue, the Bronx, and after a few commonplaces such as old-time acquaintances might exchange, asked him his business.
Bogan looked him over before replying. In his own way, Bogan was just as keen as this cosmopolitan with the high-domed forehead, the tendency toward baldness, the thin cheeks of unnatural pallor. As Bogan appraised him, from gray and conscienceless eyes to slim, dexterous fingers, he realized this was, indeed, the kind of man Cozzens needed.
The price Bogan knew would be high. Vestine was no “greasy-coat stiff,” to be bought for a song. On the contrary, as Bogan observed his correct linen and cravat, his fine blue suit with the almost invisible vertical stripe, his custom-made shoes, he understood that here was just what the politician had meant when he had demanded: “A good, high-class fall guy. No roughnecks.”
He thought, furthermore:
“If I can work this right, there’s promotion in it for me, and maybe a little rake-off on the side. I’ll play it for a wad o’ good, honest graft. Honesty’s the best policy, all right.”
“Well, Mr. Bogan,” inquired Vestine, “what can I do for you?”
“You know me, Al,” Bogan replied. “When I say I got a good thing, I got one.”
“Yes?”
“An’ now, I got a bundle o’ kale for you.”
“That sounds interesting,” smiled the Dane. “Sit down, and tell me all about it.” He gestured toward a chair. “How much, why, when, where, and what?”
Bogan sat down, lighted a cigar to give himself countenance—which is one of the principal uses of cigars in this world—and opened up:
“You know the burg I hail from, don’t you?”
“Somewhat. I’ve done a little business there, off and on.”
“Well, supposin’ some big guy there had to marry his daughter to an assistant district attorney, an’ she wouldn’t fall for him till he’d pulled some stunt to give him a rep, what would you advise?”
“I’d advise having the stunt pulled, by all means,” answered Vestine, likewise sitting down. His eyes were watchful, in his pale, intellectual face.
“Correct,” approved Bogan. “We’ve got to get a fall guy.”
“I see. Well?”
“There’s hefty coin in the job, an’ nothin’ more’n about four years—easy years—in the pen.”
“What’s the case?”
“Some guy forges the name of John C. Wycoff to a check on the Wheat Exchange National, for seven hundred and fifty-five dollars and fifty cents, about three months ago. He’s an A-1 scratch man, an’ the name looks right. He gets a gents’ furnisher named Markwood Hinman to cash it. Hinman’s found two days later, croaked, in a hallway on Oregon Avenue. The bull’s dope it that Hinman got wise to the scratch work, an’ went to see the guy to get him to make good, or somethin’, an’ the guy bumped him off to keep him from tippin’ over the bean pot. That’s all old stuff.”
“Yes, I remember reading something about it in the papers,” agreed Vestine. “The forger cracked Hinman’s skull with brass knuckles, didn’t he? Back of the left ear?”
“That’s the case! Well—”
“What then?”
“The check’s in the bank, see? The murder jazzes the bank up, investigatin’, an’ they get wise the check’s a phony. Henry Kitching, the cashier, takes it an’ heads for the district attorney’s office to raise a roar an’ start things. He gets out of his auto on Kent Street an’ goes in through the rear alley entrance to the courthouse. He’s found slugged there, five minutes later, an’ the check’s gone. Brass knucks, again.”
“Clever!” smiled Vestine. “I suppose the criminal trailed him, and gave him what I believe is called the K. O., from behind.”
“Yes, that’s the way it looks from here. An’ that’s how the story’d be put over. But nobody was ever sloughed in for none of it.”
“I see. You mean, then, you’re looking for a scapegoat in the wilderness?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, a fall guy.”
“Oh, sure. Goat, yes—I get you. I see you’re wise. Well, then—”
“And this hypothetical goat would have to stand for all the charges, so as to establish the assistant district attorney’s reputation for brilliancy?”
“Yes, but the murder charge won’t stick, no more’n a red-hot flapjack to a greased griddle.”
“How can you guarantee that?” insisted the Dane.
“Cinch!” And Bogan, his eyes kindling with enthusiasm, pulled at his cigar. Vestine, by the way, never smoked, nor did he drink. Both things, he knew, worked on the nerves.
“Please explain?”
“Why, it’s this way,” Bogan expounded. “We’ll fix the story right, an’ copper-rivet it, so it can’t do more’n establish a strong suspicion. An’ it’s all circumstantial evidence, too. Nobody seen the guy croak Hinman or sneak up on Kitching. That’s one point. Another is, we’ll have a hand-picked jury. There’ll be at least two on that’ll stick for acquittal till New York approves of Volstead. So that’ll be a disagreement, an’ the fall guy gets away with the murder charge, all right. I’ve been into this thing pretty deep with Cozwith—the man I’m workin’ for, an’ he’ll go through with his end of it.”
“Stop beating round the bush, Bogan, I know Cozzens about as well as you do, and I know you’re asking me, for him, to take this job, I know, too, he’ll go through, if I do take it. I’ve got enough information about him to kill him politically if he tries to renege. You can’t double cross, either, or I’d have both of you on a charge of conspiracy to do an illegal act. There are three of us in on this. It’s a triangle, understand? All go through, or all collapse! I hope I make myself quite clear?”
“Oh, I get you, all right,” answered Bogan, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’ll play this frame-up honest. That’s the best policy, every time. All you’ll have to go up for will be forgery an’ assault.”
“H’mmmm! That’s enough, I should say,” judged the Dane. He pensively brushed a tiny thread from his sleeve with manicured fingers. “How long a sentence—”
“Four years is the limit. Good conduct would cut that down a few months, too. An’ you gotta remember this, too—nix on the hard-labor stuff. You got brains, you see, an’—”
“Thank you.”
“An’ it’ll only be a job teachin’ arithmetic, or writin’ or French an’ them guinea languages, in the pen school. See?”
“Nice, pleasant little program you’ve got all mapped out for me, isn’t it?” queried Vestine.
“Sure it is! You can figure you’re workin’ on salary. So much time, so much coin. Ain’t much worse’n bein’ a college professor, at that, an’ you’ll pull down a hell of a lot more coin. We’ll have you happy, an’ Cozzens happy, an’ his daughter, an’ Brant, too—he’ll think he dug up the case, himself—an’—”
“Regular little love feast, all round, eh?” commented the gambler. “I shall consider myself quite a philanthropist—if I take the job.”
“Sure you’ll take it!” urged Bogan, with increasing eagerness. This man’s quick intelligence and grasp of the situation far exceeded his hopes. Why, things were surely coming very much his way. “You gotta! Think o’ the good you’ll do! An’ ain’t it always the best policy to be honest an’ do good? You’ll square the bank, land a rich wife for Brant, put Cozzens where he can rip things wide open, an’—”
“How about the man that really did the forgery, killed Hinman, and assaulted Kitching?” put in the Dane. “I suppose he’ll be happy, too? After I’m tried and acquitted for the killing he’ll be safe. And all the time I’m behind bars—”
“Oh, forget him! Just think what you’ll be gettin’ out of it!”
“I am thinking of that, every minute, you can rest assured. And I may as well tell you right now, I’m a high-priced man.”
“That’s the kind we’re after. No cheap stiff, but a ketch that’ll really burn some red fire in B
rant’s front yard! Fine!”
“You realize, of course, it’s no joke to be what they call ‘mugged,’ and finger-printed, and sell four years of my life, and—”
“’Twon’t be four. Not over—”
“And then, after it’s all over, have to clear out—”
“You’ve cleared out before now, Vestine, or whatever your name is,” asserted Bogan. “Don’t play none o’ that injured-feelings stuff on me! You got a dozen aliases, an’ you’re as much at home in China as you are on Broadway. So we’ll tie the can to all that ‘no-joke’ stuff, an’ get down to tacks. Will you take the frame?”
“I might, if you pay me my figure.”
“Name it!” said Bogan, hands tightening on knees.
III.
“Fifty thousand dollars, spot cash.’’
“Oh, hell, no!” Bogan vociferated. “That’s ridic’lous!”
“All right, then. I didn’t ask for the job. You can probably go down on the Bowery and pick up a dozen men that’ll do it for a thousand. Don’t let me detain you.”
“But see here, Vestine—”
“Of course, the fact that after Cozzens gets next to the throne he can clean up a million or two—of course that has no bearing on the case at all. Naturally, such being the prospect, you stick at fifty thousand. That’s quite characteristic of men of your stamp. Well, good evening, Mr. Bogan. Don’t slam the door as you go out.”
“I might go twenty ‘thou,’ you bein’ such a big ketch.”
“Rubles, you mean? Bolshevik money?”
“Twenty thousand good hard seeds!”
“Forty,” answered the gambler. “That’s my rock-bottom.”
“Nothin’ doin’!” declared Bogan. “Be reasonable, can’t you? Make it twenty-five, an’ say no more?”
“Twenty-five?” smiled Vestine. “See here, now. I know Cozzens, all right. He’s a good sport and likes a fair gamble almost as much as I do myself. I’ve got a proposition according to his own heart.”
“What’s that?” demanded Bogan leaning forward.
“Doubles or quits.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Double that twenty-five thousand, or not a sou. Fifty thousand or nothing. We’ll stick the book for it.”
“Gawd!” cried Bogan, and for a moment remained pondering. Into his thin-lidded eyes crept a gleam of craft, exceeding evil. Then he shot back the answer decisive:
“I’ll go you!” Much agitated, he stood up.
Calmly, as though about to pitch pennies, instead of gamble for infamy and nearly four years of his life, Vestine reached for a book on the table—The Arrow of Gold, for in his literary tastes the Dane was unimpeachable. He laid the book in front of Bogan and handed him a sharp steel paper cutter.
“One stick, each,” said he. “Right-hand page, and high last number wins. After you, my clear Alphonse.”
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 op
en 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.”
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