Target Practice (Stout, Rex)

by Rex Stout

  621 Main Street,

  City.

  Dear Madam:

  I am writing to ask if it would be convenient for yourself and a representative of the Granton Electric Railway Company to receive a call from the undersigned in your office sometime tomorrow (Friday, September 1). Mayor James L. Slosson will probably be with me. We wish to confer concerning the suit brought by the City of Granton against the Granton Electric Railway Company.

  Yours very truly,

  TIMOTHY D. WARNER.

  A grim smile hovered about Mr. Warner’s lips as he signed this letter, sealed, and stamped it. Then he put on his hat and went out to the mailbox on the corner.

  The following morning brought a reply, typewritten:

  MR. TIMOTHY D. WARNER,

  417 Main Street,

  Granton.

  Dear Sir:

  Replying to your favor of August 31, I wish to say that Mr. John Henry Nelson, secretary of the Granton Electric Railway Company, and myself will expect you and the mayor at my office at 11 a.m. tomorrow (Friday). But I also wish to say that if it is your intention to offer any compromise in this matter the conference will be fruitless. My client has too high a confidence in the justice of his case to submit to any compromise whatever short of an unconditional withdrawal of the suit.

  Yours truly,

  LORA WARNER.

  Up to the receipt of this letter Mr. Warner had been conscious of a stubborn disinclination to do what he felt to be his duty both to the city and to himself. But the mention of young Nelson’s name drove away the last vestige of a qualm. Indeed, when he called up Mayor Slosson to tell him the hour of appointment there was a note of vindictiveness in his tone that caused the mayor to grin to himself. He thought he knew the reason for it, and perhaps he was not so far wrong at that.

  At exactly one minute to eleven Mr. Warner and Mayor Slosson turned in at the entrance of 621 Main Street and mounted a flight of stairs to the most luxurious suite of law offices in Granton. The door at the end of the hall bore the inscription in gold letters:

  LORA WARNER

  Attorney at Law

  “This way, gentlemen,” said a neatly dressed female clerk; and they were ushered through a door on the right into a large, sunny room facing on Main Street. At one end of a shining mahogany table sat Mrs. Lora Warner; behind her chair stood John Henry Nelson.

  Everyone said good morning at once, and young Nelson placed chairs for the newcomers. None of the four appeared to be exactly at his ease; constraint was in the air. Mrs. Warner, who had remained seated at the end of the table, motioned young Nelson to a chair at her right; her husband, seated at the other end, was busily fumbling among some papers in a portfolio. His face was flushed.

  “We await your pleasure, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Warner in a most professional tone.

  The mayor glanced at Mr. Warner, who cleared his throat and looked around the table with steady eyes.

  “In the first place,” he began, “we wish to announce our intention of withdrawing our suit against the Granton Electric Railway Company for excess profits. I speak for the City of Granton”—he looked at the mayor; the mayor nodded—“and we admit that under the terms of the present franchise our claim cannot be justified at law.”

  An involuntary exclamation of surprise came from the lips of young Nelson; but Mrs. Warner maintained her professional gravity.

  “Will you give us a notice of this withdrawal in writing?” she inquired coolly.

  “Certainly. I have it here.” Mr. Warner tapped his portfolio. “But I wish first to speak of another matter.” He opened the portfolio and took from it a sheet of paper, which he unfolded. “This is a copy of the franchise under which the Granton Electric Railway operates. No doubt you are familiar with it, but I shall take the liberty of reading a portion of Article Fourteen.

  “ ‘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.’

  “You will notice it is provided and agreed that the excess of profit shall be paid within sixty days after the end of the fiscal year. Obviously, an infraction of this rule would constitute a violation of franchise. Such violation has been consummated. The Granton Electric Railway has admitted in writing an excess of profits amounting”—Mr. Warner consulted a slip of paper—“to $10,604.20, and no payment, or offer of payment has been made. This is the first day of September. The sixty days have terminated.”

  “Of course not!” cried young Nelson, springing to his feet. “Of course we haven’t paid! You know very well we have merely been waiting till the dispute was settled. We’ve been willing to pay the ten thousand at any time. The sixty-day clause has nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, only last year we didn’t send the city a check till well in October. I signed it myself.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Nelson,” put in Mrs. Warner, whose face had suddenly gone white. She turned to her husband and stretched out a hand that trembled. “Will you please let me see that franchise?” she asked, with an evident effort at control.

  “With pleasure,” replied the lawyer. “But just a moment, please.” He turned to young Nelson. “The fact that your check last year was not sent till October proves merely that the preceding city administration were better friends of yours than they were of the city’s.” Then again to his wife, holding up the franchise:

  “You will notice, here at the bottom, it is provided that any violation of franchise shall be deemed sufficient cause for revocation. We wish to announce our intention to take full advantage of this technical violation. Here are our terms:

  “The Granton Electric Railway Company is to pay the city $31,254.65, the full amount of its claim for excess profits. It is to submit to the revocation of the present franchise and accept a new one which shall include the Vinewood Park line in the computation of future profits. The alternative is that we will revoke the present franchise by law and refuse to grant a new one.”

  “It’s blackmail!” cried young Nelson, again starting to his feet; but at a glance from Mrs. Warner he sat down again.

  “Will you please let me see that franchise?” she repeated, and this time her voice plainly trembled.

  Mr. Warner handed the paper across the table.

  “You may keep it,” he said politely. “It’s only a copy.”

  Then he gathered the rest of the papers into the portfolio and rose to his feet. The mayor also rose.

  “We will wait till noon tomorrow for your decision,” said Mr. Warner. “Unless our demands are met by that time, we shall at once enter an action to annul your franchise.” And he turned to go.

  Mrs. Warner looked up from the paper; the print was dancing before her eyes.

  “But—wait!” she cried. “Timmie!” She stopped short, while her face reddened to the tips of her ears. Then her head went up proudly. “I mean Mr. Warner,” she amended. “Will you give me time to get in communication with Mr. Nelson?”

  Mr. Warner turned at the door. “Mr. Nelson is here,” he said, dryly.

  Again his wife’s face grew red. “I mean Mr. Henry Blood Nelson,” she explained. “The president of the company.”

  “He can communicate with me at my office at any time,” replied the lawyer. “But our terms, as I have given them, are final.” With that he departed, followed by the mayor.

  “The blackmailers!” cried young Nelson at the closed door.

  “Mr. Nelson,” came Mrs. Warner’s voice, curiously steady, “you are talking of my husband.”

  The young man turned, flushing. “I’m sorry, I—really, I forgot.”

  “Very well. I understand. Now go—
your car is outside, isn’t it?—go to your father’s office and tell him I shall be there in half an hour. Don’t say anything about what has happened. I’ll tell him myself. I deserve it.”

  She sent him away, in spite of his remonstrances. When she found herself alone she sat down with the franchise before her on the table and began to read Article Fourteen.

  V

  That night Mayor Slosson and Mr. Warner sat up till eleven in vain expectation of a word from the hostile camp. Then, considering it useless to wait longer, the mayor arose to go.

  “We’ll hear in the morning,” he observed hopefully. “You don’t think it possible they’ve found a loophole?”

  “Not a chance,” declared the lawyer confidently.

  As soon as his visitor had departed he undressed and lay down on the cot. He felt that he had done a good day’s work, both for himself and for others. But somehow this feeling brought no comfort. His wife’s face, white with consternation and dismay, would not leave his Vision. He wondered if she had gone to bed, and if so, whether she slept.

  For an hour he lay thus, uneasy, in torment. Suddenly he sprang up from the cot, turned on the light, took a pack of cards from a drawer of the desk and sat down. He began to lay them out for his favorite game of Canfield: One up, six down, one up, five down, one up, four down, one up, three down. He had nearly completed the pleasant task when his face suddenly filled with an expression of disgust.

  “Silly fool!” he muttered aloud, brushing the cards onto the floor and rising to his feet.

  Again he sought the cot and lay there, with eyes alternately open and closed, till morning. Then he arose, dressed and went out to a restaurant for breakfast.

  The first word from the enemy came a little before nine o’clock in the form of a telephone message from Mr. Henry Blood Nelson. He wished to know if he could call on Mr. Warner at his office at a quarter past nine.

  “We’ve got ’em,” said Mr. Warner, hanging up the receiver and turning to Mayor Slosson, who had just come in.

  “We have,” agreed the mayor. “Shall I leave?”

  “No. I may want you.”

  The mayor sat down and lit a cigar.

  The little office at 417 Main Street saw more bustle and excitement in the next three hours than it had witnessed in all the fifteen years of its uneventful career.

  First came Mr. Henry Blood Nelson, to depart sputtering with wrath. Then his son, John Henry Nelson, who departed likewise. Then different officers of the Granton Electric Railway Company, singly and in bodies, armed with books, arguments, and protestations. Then Mr. Arthur Hampton, of the firm of Hampton and Osgood, who had been the G. E. R. lawyers before the advent of Mrs. Warner.

  And, finally, came again Mr. Henry Blood Nelson, with hatred in his heart and a check for $31,254.65 in his hand. It was surrender.

  “Mr. Warner,” said the mayor, when he found himself again alone with the lawyer, “I want to congratulate and thank you on behalf of the people of Granton. You used sharp weapons against the enemy, but it is the only kind that will pierce their dirty, thick skin. And I thought I was doing you a favor when I gave you the case!”

  Late that evening Mr. Warner, after dining at the Main Street restaurant, walked wearily up the two flights of stairs that led to his office. In his hand were two evening newspapers, and on the front page of each was a three-column picture of Mr. Warner himself. He had not read the accompanying articles, but their tenor may easily be guessed.

  As he ate his dinner he had marveled somewhat at the pictures. To his certain knowledge there was not a photograph of himself anywhere in the world except the one he had given to his wife some fifteen years before, and he had supposed it had long since been destroyed. Yet here it was, staring him out of countenance from the columns of a newspaper!

  He wondered vaguely how they had managed to get hold of it. He remembered now that when he returned from a long walk late that afternoon the man in the office next door had told him that some reporters had been hanging around since one o’clock.

  He sat down at his desk, turned on the light—it was nearly eight o’clock—and opened one of the papers. So that was how he had looked fifteen years ago! Not so bad—really, not so bad. Silly mustache, though—kind of funny-looking. Had time improved it any? He got up and looked in the mirror over the mantel. As he turned again to the desk he was startled by hearing the telephone bell.

  He took up the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. Is this Mr. Warner?”

  He recognized the voice at once. “Yes. What is it, Higgins?”

  A pause followed, during which a mumbling of voices came over the wire. Then Higgins:

  “Mrs. Warner wants to know if you’re coming home to dinner.”

  “I’m not coming—” began Mr. Warner impulsively, then he stopped short. He reflected that such a message should not be given to a servant. But why not? The whole town would be talking of it in a day or two. He turned to the transmitter and spoke distinctly:

  “Tell Mrs. Warner I’m not coming home at all.”

  Then he hung up.

  He opened a paper, sat down and tried to read. But the print was a vacant blur to his eyes, though he tried hard for five minutes.

  “What the devil!” he muttered angrily, aloud, “am I losing my eyesight? Am I a baby?”

  He threw the paper on the floor and picked up a law book, but with no better success. Somehow the page bore a distinct resemblance to a tangled mass of brown hair.

  “If I’m going to do this I may as well do it like a man,” he growled; and to show that he meant what he said he got up and began to pace up and down the room. This for half an hour; then he crossed to the window and stood looking out on dimly lighted Main Street, two stories below.

  In the show windows of the Thayer Dry Goods Company, directly opposite, wax dummies stood simpering at the passersby. Half a block down were the red and blue lights of Rowley’s drugstore; a block in the other direction was the arc over the entrance of the restaurant of which he had become a patron two days before. The street itself was nearly deserted; perhaps a dozen pedestrians were in sight, and now and then a carriage or buggy came along.

  The whirr of an automobile sounded from the north, and soon the car itself appeared around the corner of Washington Avenue. It crossed, and came up the west side of Main Street; slowed down, and stopped in front of 417, directly beneath the window.

  Mr. Warner felt something catch in his throat. “It can’t be,” he muttered. But he knew it was, and hence felt no additional surprise when he saw a familiar figure leap from the tonneau and start for the entrance. But he felt something else. What was it? What was the matter with him? He only knew that he seemed suddenly to have been paralyzed, that he could not move a muscle to save his life. He remained staring stupidly out of the window, feeling as though he were about to be shot in the back.

  A moment passed that seemed an hour, and then he heard the door open and close and a voice sounded behind him:

  “Timmie.”

  He turned slowly, as on a pivot. Lora, with flushed face and strange eyes, stood with her back to the closed door.

  “Good evening, my dear,” said Mr. Warner. Then he wanted to bite his tongue off. Next he tried, “Won’t you be seated?” and felt more foolish than before. So he kept still.

  “I’ve come,” said Lora, advancing a step, “to take you home.”

  The lawyer found control of his tongue. “I’m not going home,” he declared calmly.

  “Yes, you are. You have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you.”

  “Is my own inclination to be disregarded?”

  “Oh!” She caught her breath. “Is that it? Don’t you want to live with me anymore?”

  “Yes, that’s it. That is—See here, Lora. Sit down. Let’s talk it over.”

  She crossed to the chair he placed for her with a curious hesitancy in her step he had never seen before, and wait
ed for him to speak.

  “You say you want me,” he began abruptly. “You don’t mean that. You mean you are used to me—miss me, like you would Higgins. Just now you asked me if I didn’t want to live with you. That’s just it. I’ve been living with you for fifteen years. If I were to say what I wanted, I’d say that I want you to live with me for a while.”

  “It’s the same thing—” began Lora, but he interrupted her:

  “Pardon me.” He caught her eye and held it. “Do you know what I meant?”

  Her gaze fell. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Then don’t pretend. You see, the trouble is you shouldn’t ever have married me. Perhaps you shouldn’t have married anyone. But don’t think I’m saying you’re a great lawyer. I used to think that, but I don’t anymore. Any smart lawyer, even, would have seen that sixty-day clause in that franchise the first time he glanced at it. And you didn’t see it at all.”

  He stopped; his wife raised a flushed face.

  “You are pretty hard on me, Timmie.”

  At that, moved by a swift, uncontrollable impulse, he sprang to his feet and shouted:

  “Don’t call me Timmie!”

  Lora looked amazed. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a fool name. ‘Timmie!’ No woman could think anything of a man with a name like that. That’s why I don’t blame you. It’s the most idiotic name I ever heard.”

  “It’s your name. That’s why I like it.”

  “And that’s why I hate it.” Mr. Warner actually glared. “I should never have let you call me Timmie. I shouldn’t have let you do lots of things—at the beginning, I mean—but I was so crazy about you I couldn’t help it. I thought—”

  She interrupted him:

  “You were crazy about me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mean you were in love with me?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s funny you never said anything about it.”

  “Good Heavens!” Again the little man glared. “It was you who wouldn’t let me say anything! Simple enough, since you weren’t in love with me.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “It is.”