Melville Davisson Post
I.
THE morning paper contained this extravagant personal: “Do not suicide. If you are a non-resident of New York in difficulty, at nine to-night walk east by the corner of the ———— Building with a copy of this paper in your right hand.”
The conservative foreigner, unfamiliar with our great dailies, would, perhaps, be surprised that the editor would print such a questionable announcement in his paper, but at this time in New York the personal column had become a very questionable directory, resorted to by all classes of mankind for every conceivable purpose, be it gain, adventure, or even crime; no one thought to question the propriety of such publications. Indeed, no one stopped to consider them at all, unless he happened to be a party in interest.
II.
Afew minutes before the hour mentioned in the above personal, a cab came rattling down ————
Street. The driver wore a fur-cap and a great-coat buttoned up around his ears. As he turned the corner to the ———— Building, he glanced down at his front wheel and brought his horses up with a jerk. There was evidently something wrong with the wheel, for he jumped down from the box to examine it. He shook the wheel, took off the tap, and began to move the hub carefully out toward the end of the axle. As he worked he kept his eyes on the corner. Presently a big, plainly dressed man walked slowly down by the building. He carried a half-open newspaper in his right hand and seemed to be keeping a sharp lookout around him. He stopped for a moment by the carriage, satisfied himself that it was empty, and went on. At the next corner he climbed up on the seat of the waiting patrol wagon and disappeared.
The cabman seemed to be engrossed with the repair of his wheel and gave no indication that he had seen the stranger. Almost immediately thereafter a second man passed the corner with a newspaper in prominent evidence. He was a “hobo” of the most pronounced type and marched by with great difficulty. After he had passed, he turned round and threw the newspaper into the gutter with a volley of curses.
The cabman worked on at his wheel. He had now removed it to the end of the axle and was scraping the boxing with his knife. At this moment a young man wearing a gray overcoat and a gray slouch hat came rapidly down the street. At the corner he put his hand quickly into his overcoat pocket, took out a newspaper, and immediately thrust it into his other pocket. The cabman darted across the street and touched him on the shoulder. The man turned with a quick, nervous start. The cabman took off his cap, said something in a low tone, and pointed to his wheel. The two men crossed to the carriage. The cabman held the axle and the stranger slipped the wheel into place, while the two talked in low tones. When it was done, the stranger turned round, stepped up on the pavement, and hurried on by the building. The cabman shut his door with a bang, climbed up on his box, and drove rapidly down ———— Street.
III.
Parks,” said Randolph Mason, taking off his great-coat in the private office, “who wanted to see me at this unusual hour?”
“He was a Philadelphia man, he said, sir,” answered the little melancholy clerk.
“Well,” said Mason, sharply, “did he expect to die before morning that I should be sent for in the middle of the night?”
“He said that he would leave at six, sir, and must see you as soon as possible, so I thought I had best send for you.”
“He is to be here at ten, you say?”
“At ten, sir,” answered the little man, going out into the other office and closing the door behind him. When the door was closed, Parks went over to a corner of the room, took up a hackman’s overcoat and fur cap, put them into one of the bookcases and locked the sliding top. Then he went quietly out of the room and down the steps to the entrance of the building.
In the private office Randolph Mason walked backward and forward with his hands in his pockets. He was restless and his eyes were bright.
“Another weakling,” he muttered, “making puny efforts to escape from Fate’s trap, or seeking to slip from under some gin set by his fellows. Surely, the want of resources on the part of the race is utter, is abysmal. What miserable puppets men are! moved backward and forward in Fate’s games as though they were strung on a wire and had their bellies filled with sawdust! Yet each one has his problem, and that is the important matter. In these problems one pits himself against the mysterious intelligence of Chance,—against the dread cunning and the fatal patience of Destiny. Ah! these are worthy foemen. The steel grates when one crosses swords with such mighty fencers.”
There was a sound as of men conversing in low tones in the outer office. Mason stopped short and turned to the door. As he did so, the door was opened from the outside and a man entered, closed the door behind him, and remained standing with his back against it.
Randolph Mason looked down at the stranger sharply. The man wore a gray suit and gray overcoat; he was about twenty-five, of medium height, with a clean-cut, intelligent face that was peculiar; originally it had expressed an indulgent character of unusual energy. Now it could not be read at all. It was simply that silent, immobile mask so sought after by the high-grade criminal. His face was white, and the perspiration, was standing out on his forehead, indicating that he was laboring under some deep and violent emotion. Yet, with all, his manner was composed and deliberate, and his face gave no sign other than its whiteness; it was calm and expressionless, as the face of the dead.
Randolph Mason dragged a big chair up to his desk, sat down in his office chair and pointed to the other. The stranger came and sat down in the big chair, gripping its arms with his hands, and without introduction or comment began to talk in a jerky, metallic voice.
“This is all waste of time,” he said. “You won’t help me. There is no reason for my being here. I should have had it over by this time, and yet that would not help her, and she is the only one. It would be the meanest kind of cowardice to leave her to suffer; and yet I dare not live to see her suffer, I could not bear that. I love her too much for that, I——”
“Sir,” said Mason, brutally, “this is all irrelevant rant. Come to the point of your difficulty.”
The stranger straightened up and passed his hand across his forehead. “Yes,” he said, “you are right, sir; it is all rant. I forget where I am. I will be as brief and concise as possible.
“My name is Camden Gerard. I am a gambler by profession. My mother died when I was about ten years old and my father, then a Philadelphia lawyer, found himself with two children, myself and my little sister, a mere baby in arms. He sent me to one of the eastern colleges and put the baby in a convent. Thus things ran on for perhaps ten or twelve years. The evil effect of forcing me into a big college at an early age soon became apparent I came under the influence of a rapid and unscrupulous class and soon became as rapid and unscrupulous as the worst. I went all the paces and gradually became an expert college gambler of such high order that I was able to maintain myself. At about twelve my sister Marie began to show remarkable talent as an artist and my father, following her wishes, took her to Paris and placed her in one of the best art schools of that city. In a short time thereafter my father died suddenly, and it developed after investigation that he had left no estate whatever. I sold the books and other personal effects, and found myself adrift in the world with a few hundred dollars, no business, no profession, and no visible means of support, and, further, I had this helpless child to look after.
“I went to supposed friends of my father and asked them to help me into some business by which I could maintain myself and my little sister. They promised, but put me off with one excuse after another, until I finally saw through their hypocrisy and knew that they never intended to assist me. I felt, indeed, that I was adrift, utterly helpless and friendless, and the result was, that I resorted to my skill as a gambler for the purpose of making a livelihood. For a time fortune favored me, and I lived well, and paid all the college expenses of Marie. I was proud of the child. She was sweet and lovable, and developing into a remarkably handsome girl. About two months ago, my luck turned sharply against me; everything went wrong with long jumps. Night after night I was beaten. Anybody broke me, even the ‘tender-feet,’ I gathered together every dollar possible and struggled against my bad fortune, but to no purpose. I only lost night after night. In the midst of all, Marie wrote to me for money to pay her quarterly bills. I replied that I would send it in a short time. I pawned everything, begged and borrowed and struggled, and resorted to every trick and resource of my craft; but all was utterly vain and useless. I was penniless and stranded. On the heels of it all, I to-day received another letter from Marie, saying that her bills must be paid by the end of the month, or they would turn her out into the city.”
His voice trembled and the perspiration poured out on his forehead. “You know what it means for a helpless young girl to be turned out in Paris,” he went on; “I know, and the thought of it makes me insanely desperate. Now,” said the man, looking Mason squarely in the eyes, “I have told you all the truth. What am I to do?”
For a time Mason’s face took on an air of deep abstraction. “This is Saturday night,” he said, as though talking to himself. “You should complete it by Friday. There is time enough.”
“Young man,” he continued, speaking clearly and precisely, “you are to leave New York for West Virginia to-morrow morning. A messenger boy will meet you at the train, with a package of papers which I shall send. In it you will find full instructions and such things as you will need. These instructions you are to follow to the very letter. Everything will depend on doing exactly as I say, but,” he continued, with positive and deliberate emphasis, “this must not fail.”
The man arose and drew a deep breath. “It will not fail,” he said; “I will do anything to save her from disgrace,—anything.” Then he went out.
At the entrance of the building Parks stepped up and touched the stranger on the shoulder. “My friend,” he said, “I will bring those papers myself, and I will see that you have sufficient money to carry this thing through. But remember that I am not to be trifled with. You are to come here just as soon as you return.”
IV.
Shortly before noon on Monday morning, Camden Gerard stepped into the jewelry establishment of William Van Broom, in the city of Wheeling, and asked for the proprietor. That gentleman came forward in no very kindly humor. Upon seeing the well dressed young man, he at once concluded that he was a high-grade jewel drummer, and being a practical business man, he was kindly at sales and surly at purchases.
“This is Mr. Van Broom, I believe,” said the young man. “My name is Gerard. I am from New York, sir.” Then noticing the jeweller’s expression, he added, quickly: “I am not a salesman, sir, and am not going to consume your time. I am in West Virginia on business, and stepped in here to present a letter of introduction which my friend, Bartholdi, insisted upon writing.”
The affability of the jeweller returned with a surge. He bowed and beamed sweetly as he broke the seal of the letter of introduction. The paper bore the artistic stamp of Bartholdi and Banks, the great diamond importers, and ran as follows:
“William Van Broom, Esq.,
“Wheeling, West Va.
“Dear Sir:
“This will introduce Mr. Camden Gerard. Kindly show him every possible courtesy, for which we shall be under the greatest obligations.
“Most sincerely your obedient servants,
“Bartholdi and Banks”
The jeweller’s eyes opened wide with wonder. He knew this firm to be the largest and most aristocratic dealers in the world. It was much honor, and perhaps vast benefit, to be of service to them, and he was flattered into the seventh heaven.
“I am indeed glad to meet you, sir,” he said, seizing the man’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I certainly hope that I can be of service. It is now near twelve; you will come with me to lunch at the club?”
“I thank you very much,” answered Camden Gerard, “but I am compelled to go to the Sistersville oil field on the noon train. However, I will return at eight, and shall expect you to dine with me at the hotel.”
The jeweller accepted the invitation with ill-concealed delight. The young man thanked him warmly for his kindly interest, bade him good-day, and went out.
That night at eight, Camden Gerard and Mr. William Van Broom dined in the best style the city could afford. The wine was excellent and plentiful, and Gerard proved to be most entertaining. He was brilliant and considerate to such a degree, that when the two men parted for the night the jeweller assured himself that he had never met a more delightful companion.
The following morning Camden Gerard dropped into the store for a few moments, and while conversing with his friend Van Broom, noticed a little ring in the show window. He remarked on its beauty, and intimated that he must purchase a birthday present for his little daughter. The jeweller took the ring from the case and handed it to Gerard. That gentleman discovered that it was far prettier than he had at first imagined it, and inquired the price.
“It is marked at twenty-five dollars,” said the jeweller.
“Why,” said Camden Gerard, “that is very cheap; I will take it.”
The jeweller wrapped up the ring and gave it to the New Yorker. That gentleman paid the money and returned to his hotel.
The next day Camden Gerard was presumably down in the great Tyler County oil field. At any rate he returned to the city on the evening train and dined with Van Broom at the club. As the evening waned, the men grew confidential. Gerard spoke of the vast fortunes that were made in oil. He said that the West Virginia fields were scarce half developed, but that they had already attracted the attention of the great Russian companies and that gigantic operations might be soon expected. He denounced the autocratic policy of the Czar in regard to oil transportation, and hinted vaguely at vast international combines. He spoke of St. Petersburg and the larger Russian cities; of the manners and customs of the nobility; of their vast fortunes, and their very great desire to invest in America. He intimated vaguely that there now existed in New York a colossal syndicate backed by unlimited Russian capital, but he gave the now excited and curious jeweller no definite information concerning himself or his business in West Virginia, shrewdly leaving Van Broom to draw his own inferences.
It was late when William Van Broom retired to his residence. He was happy and flattered, and with reason. Had he not been selected by the great firm of Bartholdi & Banks to counsel with one who, he strongly suspected, was the private agent of princes?
About two o’clock on the following Thursday afternoon, Mr. Camden Gerard called upon William Van Broom and said that he wished to speak with him in his private office. The New Yorker was soiled and grimy, and had evidently just come from a train, but he was smiling and in high spirits.
When the two men were alone in the private office, Camden Gerard took a roll of paper from his pocket, and turned to Van Broom. “Here are some papers,” he said, speaking low that he might not be overheard. “I have no secure place to put them, and I would be under great obligations to you if you would kindly lock them up in your safe.”
“Certainly,” said the jeweller, taking the papers and crossing to the safe. He threw back the door and pulled out one of the little boxes. It contained an open leather case in which there was a magnificent diamond necklace.
“By George!” said Camden Gerard, “those are splendid stones.”
“Yes,” answered Van Broom, taking out the case and handing it to the New Yorker. “They are too valuable for my trade; I am going to return them.”
Camden Gerard carried the necklace to the light and examined it critically. The stones were not large but they were clear and flawless.
“What are these worth?” he said, turning to Van Broom.
“Thirty-five hundred dollars,” answered the jeweller.
“What!” cried Gerard, “only thirty-five hundred dollars for this necklace? It is the cheapest thing I ever saw. You are away under the foreign dealers.”
“They are cheap,” said Van Broom. “That is almost the wholesale price.”
“But,” said Camden Gerard, “you must be mistaken. Your mark is certainly wrong. I have seen smaller stones in the Russian shops for double the price.”
“We can’t sell the necklace at that figure,” said Van Broom, smiling. “We are not such sharks as your foreign dealers.”
“If you mean that,” said Camden Gerard, “I will buy these jewels here and now. I had intended purchasing something in the east for my wife, but I can never do better than this.”
The New Yorker took out his pocket-book and handed Van Broom a bill. “Before you retract,” he said, “here is fifty to seal the bargain. Get your hat and come with me to the bank.”
“All right,” said Mr. Van Broom, taking the money. “The necklace is yours, my friend.” Camden Gerard closed the leather case and put it into his pocket. The jeweller locked the safe, put on his hat, and the two went out of the store and down the street to the banking house of the Mechanics’ Trust Company. Mr. Gerard enquired for the cashier. The teller informed him that the cashier was in the back room of the bank and if he would step back he could see him. The New Yorker asked his companion to wait for a moment until he spoke with the cashier. Then he went back into the room indicated by the teller, closing the door after him.
The cashier sat at a table engaged with a pile of correspondence. He was busy and looked up sharply as the man entered.
“Sir,” said the New Yorker, “have you received a sealed package from the Adams Express Company consigned to one Camden Gerard?”
“No,” answered the cashier, turning to his work.
“You have not?” repeated Gerard, excitedly, “then I will run down to the telegraph office and see what is the matter.” Thereupon he crossed hurriedly to the side door of the office, opened it and stepped out into the street. The cashier went on with his work.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour William Van Broom waited for his companion to conclude his business with the cashier. Finally he grew impatient and asked the teller to remind Mr. Gerard that he was waiting. The teller returned in a moment and said that the gentleman had gone to the telegraph office some time ago. The jeweller’s heart dropped like a lead plummet. He turned without a word and hurried to the office of the Western Union. Here his fears were confirmed, Camden Gerard had not been in the office. He ran across the street to the hotel and enquired for the New Yorker. The clerk informed him that the gentleman had paid his bill and left the hotel that morning. The jeweller’s anxiety was at fever heat, but with all he was a man of business method and knew the very great value of silence. He called a carriage, went to the chief of police, and set his machinery in motion. Returning to his place of business he opened the safe and took out the package of papers which Camden Gerard had given him. Upon examination this proved to be simply a roll of blank oil leases. Then remembering the letter of introduction, he telegraphed to Bartholdi & Banks. Hours passed and not the slightest trace of Camden Gerard could be found. The presumed friend of the great diamond importers had literally vanished from the face of the earth.
About four o’clock the jeweller received an answer from Bartholdi & Banks, stating that they knew no such man as Camden Gerard and that his letter of introduction was false. Mr. William Van Broom was white with despair. He put the letter and answer into his pocket and went at once to the office of the prosecuting attorney for the State and laid the whole matter before him.
“My dear sir,” said that official, when Mr. Van Broom had finished his story, “your very good friend Camden Gerard owes you thirty-four hundred and fifty dollars, which he will perhaps continue to owe. You may as well go back to your business.”
“What do you mean?” said the jeweller.
“I mean,” replied the attorney, “that you have been the dupe of a shrewd knave who is familiar with the weak places in the law and has resorted to an ingenious scheme to secure possession of your property without rendering himself liable to criminal procedure. It is true that if the diamonds were located you could attach and recover them by a civil suit, but it is scarcely possible that such a shrewd knave would permit himself to be caught with the jewels, and it is certain that he has some reasonably safe method by which he can dispose of them without fear of detection. He has trapped you and has committed no crime. If you had the fellow in custody now, the judge would release him the moment an application was made. The entire matter was only a sale. He bought the jewels and you trusted him. He is no more a law-breaker than you are. He is only a sharper dealer.”
“But, sir,” cried the angry Van Broom, spreading the false letter out on the table, “that is forged, every word of it. I will send this fellow to the penitentiary for forgery. I will spend a thousand dollars to catch him.”
“If you should spend a thousand dollars to catch him,” said the attorney, smiling, “you would never be able to send him to the penitentiary on that paper. It is not forgery.”
“Not forgery!” shouted the jeweller, “not forgery, man! The rascal wrote every word of that letter. He signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks at the bottom of it. Every word of that paper is false. The company never heard of it. Here is their telegram.”
“Mr. Van Broom,” said the public prosecutor, “listen to me, sir. All that you say is perhaps true. Camden Gerard doubtless wrote the entire paper and signed the name of Bartholdi & Banks, and presented it to you for a definite purpose. To such an act men commonly apply the term forgery, and in the common acceptation of the word it is forgery and a reprehensible wrong; but legally, the false making of such a paper as this is not forgery and is no crime. In order to constitute the crime of forgery, the instrument falsely made must be apparently capable of effecting a fraud, of being used to the prejudice of another’s right. It must be such as might be of legal efficacy, or might be the foundation of some legal liability.
“This paper in question, although falsely made, has none of the vital elements of forgery under the law. If genuine, it would have no legal validity, as it affects no legal rights. It would merely be an attempt to receive courtesies on a promise, of no legal obligation, to reciprocate them; and courtesies have never been held to be the subject of legal fraud. This is a mere letter of introduction, which, by no possibility, could subject the supposed writer to any pecuniary loss or legal liability. It is not a subject of forgery, and its false making is no crime.
“Men commonly believe that all writings falsely made or falsely altered are forgeries. There was never a greater error. Forgery may be committed only of those instruments in writing which, if genuine, would, or might appear as the foundation of another man’s liability, or the evidence of his right. All wrongful and injurious acts are not punished by the law. Wrongs to become crimes must measure up to certain definite and technical standards. These standards are laid down rigidly by the law and cannot be contracted or expanded. They are fixed and immutable. The act done must fit closely into the prescribed measure, else it is no crime. If it falls short, never so little, in any one vital element, the law must, and will, disregard it as criminal, no matter how injurious, or wrongful, or unjust it may be. The law is a rigid and exact science.”
Mr. William Van Broom dropped his hands to his sides and gazed at the lawyer in wonder.
“These facts,” continued the attorney, in his clear, passionless voice, “are matters of amazement to the common people when brought to their attention. They fail to see the wise but technical distinctions. They are willing to trust to what they are pleased to call common-sense, and, falling into traps laid by the cunning villain, denounce the law for impotency.”
“Well,” said the jeweller, as he arose and put on his overcoat, “what is the good of the law anyhow?”
The prosecuting attorney smiled wearily. To him the wisdom of the law was clear, beautiful, and superlatively just. To the muddy-headed tradesman it was as color to the blind.
V.
Over in the art school of old Monsieur Pontique, Marie Gerard saw the result of the entire matter in the light of kindness and sweet self-sacrifice; and perhaps she saw it as it was. This is a queer world indeed.