by Rex Stout
Mr. Warner nodded.
“Then it shouldn’t be so difficult. Besides, they know very well there isn’t a chance in the world of winning, so they won’t care who handles the case. If necessary, you could offer your services without fee. You had better see the mayor in the morning.”
“But—”
“Well?”
“Would it be professionally correct?”
“Correct? How?”
“For us to take retainers in opposition.”
“Good Heavens! Why not?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps—I suppose it would be all right.” He hesitated for a minute, then added diffidently, “Naturally, you know, I don’t like to take a hopeless case.”
“I know. I thought of that. But nobody expects you to win. Every one knows you can’t win.”
“True.” The little man walked across to a window and stood looking out on the night. This for perhaps ten seconds; then he returned to the chair and sat down, not on the arm, but in the seat. He looked up at his wife and found her regarding him expectantly; he kept his eyes steadfast, noting her fresh velvety skin, her pretty parted lips, her mass of glorious brown hair. Then he looked away, blinked and sighed.
“I’ll see Mayor Slosson in the morning,” he said.
Lora sprang up from the divan, ran to his chair and threw her arms about his neck. “You’re a dear, Timmie!” she cried.
When he got to his room ten minutes later his face was still flushed with the remembrance of her kiss.
III
At ten o’clock the following morning Timothy D. Warner called on Mayor Slosson at the city hall, and was shown at once into the private office.
Mayor Slosson, a square-jawed, athletic-looking man of thirty-two or-three, had been carried into office by a wave of liberal sentiment that had swept the city at the last election.
He had been a factory hand, had risen to the position of superintendent, and some five years before had started a factory of his own with capital borrowed from one Timothy D. Warner. He had paid back the money, but it will be seen that he considered himself still in debt.
“Pretty busy?” inquired Mr. Warner, dropping into a chair. “There’s a crowd outside. I supposed I’d have to wait.”
“Beggars, most of ’em,” commented the mayor. “I’m never too busy to see you, Mr. Warner. Thank God, I haven’t reached the point yet where I forget my friends. I’ve discovered that most people have. How’s everything?”
Mr. Warner replied in a somewhat doubtful tone that everything was all right. Then, because what he had to say tasted badly in his mouth, he got it out at once, without preamble.
“Jim, I want to represent the city in the Holdup Suit.”
The mayor whistled in mild surprise; but before he had time to put it into words his visitor continued:
“I know it’s a great deal to ask, and I’d rather bite my tongue off. But—that is—I have a personal reason. I ask it as a favor. It isn’t as though you were endangering your case, because everyone says you haven’t any.”
Some inward thought had brought a grin to the mayor’s face.
“Isn’t Mrs. Warner representing Nelson?” he asked curiously.
The other replied simply: “Yes.”
“Then—would it be professional?”
“I think so. We are not partners, you know.”
There was a pause, while the mayor gazed thoughtfully at a paperweight on his desk.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it,” he said finally. “Gray, the city attorney, could appoint you as temporary assistant and give you the assignment. He’d be glad of the chance, for I’m afraid they’re right when they say we haven’t a case. It’s a pity, too. The people are entitled to that money and they ought to have it. I know they say we are trying to make political capital, and maybe we are, but it’s a just claim for all that.”
“Then do you think—shall I see Gray?”
“Yes. Wait a minute.” The mayor looked at his watch. “He ought to be in now. Come on—we’ll go round there together.”
Thus it happened that at two o’clock that afternoon Mr. Warner entered his office on Main Street with a huge bundle of papers under his arm and a worried frown on his brow. The papers he had got from City Attorney Gray, who had evidently been glad to get rid of them; the frown came from a certain newfound perplexity that was destined to give him many uncomfortable hours in the immediate future.
Mr. Warner’s trained legal mind had shown him at a glance that Mayor Slosson was indisputably correct in his contention that the city’s case was a just one. Also, that it was as hopeless as it was just. But the curious thing was that, finding himself thus accidentally the leader of a lost cause, he felt suddenly freed from his immemorial timidity and diffidence. Instead, he felt a new instinct stirring within him—a glorious, breathtaking instinct—the instinct to fight.
He sat down at his desk, untied the bundle of papers, and read over the clause in the franchise that was the center of dispute.
ARTICLE 14—It is further agreed that whenever the net profits of the party of the first part for any fiscal year, beginning on the first day of July and ending on the thirtieth day of June following, shall be shown to be in excess of eight per centum of the amount of capital stock as stated in the papers of incorporation, the party of the second part shall receive an amount not less than fifty per centum of such excess, to be paid within sixty days from the expiration of the fiscal year in which such excess was realized. (Net profits defined below.) Furthermore, that the party of the second part, through its representatives, shall at all times have access to the books, papers and accounts of the party of the first part, in order to determine such excess.
“Not a chance,” Mr. Warner muttered to himself. “We can’t win. It’s as simple as A B C. That part of the railway which runs to Vinewood Park, being without the city limits, is not covered by the franchise, and the city can’t collect a cent on its profits. And yet it’s the city people that use it and they’re certainly entitled to their share. The man that signed this franchise for the city was either a crook or a brainless fool!”
He read on through the articles to the end, including the stipulation for fines for violation of franchise and the conditions of revocation. Then he returned to Article 14 and read it over several times, shaking his head dismally. Then—suddenly he stopped short, uttered a sharp exclamation, and glanced up at a calendar on the wall.
“August thirtieth,” he observed, while his eyes shone with excitement. “I wonder—but they wouldn’t be such fools. They’re too sharp for that. Anyway—”
He turned to the telephone. A short wait—then:
“Hello! Mayor Slosson? This is Mr. Warner. Warner. I want to see you for a minute. Will you be in? I’ll run right over. Yes. Something important.”
These were the sentences—short, snappy—of a man of ability and decision in action. Mr. Warner had not talked like that for fifteen years. Some such thought crossed his mind as he ran out to hail a Main Street car. He felt dazed and intoxicated, but thoroughly alive.
His interview with Mayor Slosson was a short one. As soon as they were alone in the private office he fired a question:
“Jim, has the Granton Electric Railway Company sent the city a check for its share of the excess profits last year?”
The mayor looked surprised. “Why no, of course not,” he replied. “That’s what they won’t do. We claimed thirty thousand”—the mayor looked at a paper on his desk—“$31,254.65 for our share, including the profits on the Vinewood Park line, and they refused to pay it.”
“I know,” said Mr. Warner impatiently, “but have they paid the ten thousand they admit they owe?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Have they offered it?”
The mayor thought a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I think not. Metcalf, at the city treasurer’s office, could tell you.
Why? Is it important?”
“Rather,” said the lawyer dryly.
“Well, here’s the telephone.”
But Mr. Warner was already halfway to the door. “No telephone for this,” he declared. “It has too many leaks. I’ll go and see Metcalf. And listen, Jim, don’t breathe a word of what I’ve asked you. Not a word to anybody.”
And he was gone before the astonished mayor could frame a reply.
Metcalf, at the city treasurer’s office, proved to be a thin, sorrowful-looking young man with an immense white brow and a mass of coal-black hair. When Mr. Warner had explained his errand, after swearing the young man to the strictest secrecy, he turned to a large book and examined its pages attentively, after which he turned over one by one the contents of a bulging letter file. Then he turned to the lawyer:
“They have never sent a check, Mr. Warner. I was sure of it, anyway, but I thought I’d better look it up. On July twentieth we wrote demanding the payment of $31,254.65. They returned a refusal and a denial of the obligation on July twenty-third. On the twenty-fourth we replied that if the amount were not paid by the end of the month we would bring suit. On the twenty-fifth they told us to go ahead. The correspondence, with our copies, can be placed at your disposal at any time.”
“Who signed the letters?” Mr. Warner’s eyes positively glittered.
“John Henry Nelson, the secretary of the company—old man Nelson’s son,” replied the young man.
Mr. Warner returned to his office. His eyes shone more than ever, but the frown had deepened. His perplexity was great and intolerably painful, and it entirely overshadowed his elation.
He knew one thing for certain—he could not face his wife with defiance in his heart and get away with it. At least, not at home. The fighting instinct had done valiant work within him in the past hour, but he had not reached so sublime a height as that.
So, lacking the firmness of moderation, he adopted the only course left to a desperate man. He burned his bridges. In other words, he went to a Main Street restaurant and ate two mutton chops and some fried potatoes; and on his way back to the office he stopped at a furniture store and made certain purchases, stipulating that they be delivered within the hour.
Ten minutes later he stood before his desk regarding the telephone that stood upon it with an expression of fearsome dread. He was saying to himself, “I am about to perform the bravest act of my life—that is, I hope I am.”
He coughed twice for courage, whistled aloud, pressed his lips firmly together and stretched out a trembling hand toward the receiver. As he did so the bell rang violently. He jumped backward halfway across the office, knocking over a chair and bumping his head on the chandelier.
But it was only Mayor Slosson calling up to ask if he had seen Metcalf. Mr. Warner replied that he had.
“What did he have to say? Had they sent the check? What’s the game, Mr. Warner?”
“I can’t tell you over the telephone,” replied the lawyer; and hung up with a bang.
After a wait of a few seconds he took the receiver down again and gave the operator the number of his own home.
“Hello!”
Mr. Warner recognized the voice of Higgins, the maid. He requested in a firm tone that Mrs. Warner be called to the phone.
“Who is it wants to speak to her?” came the voice of Higgins.
“Mr. Warner.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Warner!”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Her husband—Timmie!” shouted the unhappy man.
“Oh—wait a minute!”
And then, in much less than a minute, came a well-known voice, clear and pleasant:
“Hello! Timmie?”
“Good evening, my dear,” said Mr. Warner.
“It would be a better one if you would come home to dinner.” There was a smile in the voice. “Where on earth are you? It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
Mr. Warner took his courage between his teeth. “I’m at the office. I’m going to sleep here. I’m having a cot sent in. I want to know if you could send Higgins or somebody over with my bag—a comb and brush—my things, you know—”
“My dear Timmie!” Mr. Warner could feel her astonishment and incredulity oozing through the wire. “Are you crazy? Come home at once.”
“No. I’m going to sleep here.”
“In the name of goodness, why?”
“Because I don’t think it would be exactly right for us to—that is, live together—while we—while this case—the Holdup Suit, you know. I’m retained for the city. I saw the mayor this morning. I’m going to stay here till the case is decided.”
“My dear Timmie”—his wife’s voice was becoming deliberate—“of all the silly notions you’ve ever had, this is certainly the silliest! What possible difference does that make?”
“It makes lots of difference. Will you send the bag?”
“No, I won’t! Come home!”
“Will you send it?”
“No!”
“Then I’ll do without it,” declared Mr. Warner with strange calmness; and again he hung up with a bang. Never in all his life, before that day, had he hung up with a bang even once.
He dropped into a chair, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The deed was done. Strange, bizarre emotions were leaping wildly about in his breast. He felt capable of anything. Suddenly he looked up quickly, while an expression of apprehension shot into his eyes. Suppose she did! It would be just like her. He walked to the door and locked it and put the key in his pocket.
As he sat down again the telephone bell rang. He turned around and eyed it malevolently. It rang again—a long insistent jingle. He reached out, took the receiver from the hook and set it on the table. Then, grinning, he took out his pipe, filled and lighted it, and cocked his feet upon the desk.
He had been in this position, puffing jerkily, for half an hour, when a knock sounded on the door. He jumped up, startled; then, remembering his purchase at the furniture store, crossed leisurely, taking the key from his pocket. But before he inserted it in the lock he called out:
“Who is it?”
Silence; then another knock.
“Who is it?” he repeated.
A well-known voice came:
“It’s I—Lora. Let me in!”
Mr. Warner felt his knees come together. He had not really expected this. He hoped the door was good and thick. Clutching the key firmly in his hand as though it were a weapon of defense, he called huskily:
“I won’t!”
“Timmie, open the door!”
“I tell you I won’t,” repeated Mr. Warner. Some of the huskiness left his voice. “I can’t, Lora. The mayor wouldn’t want me to. It wouldn’t be right. Did you bring the bag?”
“Yes. I want to give it to you.” The voice sharpened a little. “Don’t be an ass, Timmie! Open the door!”
But the brilliant Lora had made a mistake. At her confession that she had brought the bag Mr. Warner felt his heart leap with an intoxicating thrill. She had admitted to herself the possibility of defeat, then. He pressed his lips tightly together.
“If you’ve got the bag,” he said finally, between his teeth, “leave it in the hall and I’ll get it when you’re gone. I can’t let you in. I’m—I haven’t any clothes on.” This was a lie, but the poor man needed it. “Anyway,” he continued, “why should you want to come in? What do you want?”
“I want you to come home, of course.” The tone could not be called one of appeal, but neither was it that of command. “I honestly believe you need someone to look after you, Timmie. You’ve been acting queerly for weeks. Please open the door!”
“No!”
“Please!”
It was awfully hard; he could not remember that she had ever said please to him before. He gritted his teeth. “Go away!” he shouted savagely.
Silence followed for perhaps ten seconds; on the part of Mr. Warner, a breathless silence. Then came a sound as of something heavy
dropped on the floor outside, and retreating footsteps. He ran to the window and looked out, and saw his wife cross the sidewalk and enter her car at the curb. The car started forward with a jerk and disappeared down Main Street. Mr. Warner dropped into a chair as one exhausted.
A little later he went into the hall and got the bag, which he found outside the door. Soon after that the cot came, and he put it up in a corner and went to bed, to dream strange dreams.
IV
The following morning Mr. Warner received a call from Mayor Slosson, who appeared to be slightly irritated at the discourtesy he had been subjected to the evening before. But he accepted the lawyer’s apology without reservation, and proceeded at once to inquire into the reason for the mysterious questions concerning the check the railway company hadn’t sent.
“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you,” replied Mr. Warner, glancing up at the calendar. “It’s August thirty-first, and it doesn’t matter now if the whole town knows it. Only we might as well keep the secret till we get in our work.”
“What is it?” inquired the mayor. “A puzzle?”
“Why, yes. It’s a puzzle to me, and a joke, too. But it won’t be a joke to Mr. Henry Blood Nelson. Listen.”
And Mr. Warner leaned forward and began to whisper. He whispered steadily for five minutes, save when he was interrupted by an exclamation of astonishment and delight from the mayor, which was often. When he had finished the mayor’s face was a study in exultation, glee, and triumph.
“By God, we’ve got ’em!” he cried; and he was not naturally a profane man.
“I think so,” agreed the lawyer.
“It’s certain. Certain! I’ll leave all details to you, Mr. Warner. But make the appointment for tomorrow if you can, and call me up as soon as you know. Of course, I won’t say a word to anyone.”
The mayor stayed half an hour longer, discussing the case from every possible angle. When he had gone Mr. Warner drew forth a sheet of paper from a drawer of his desk, took up a pen and wrote as follows:
MRS. LORA WARNER,
