Melville Davisson Post
I.
FOR my part, Sidney,” said the dark man, “I don’t agree with your faith in Providence at all. For the last ten years it has kept too far afield of our House in every matter of importance. It has never once shown its face to us except for the purpose of interposing some fatal wrecker just at the critical moment. Don’t you remember how it helped Barton Woodlas rob our father in that shoe trust at Lynn? And you will recall the railroad venture of our own. Did not the cursed thing go into the hands of a receiver the very moment we had gotten the stock cornered? And look at the oil deal. Did not the tools stick in both test wells within fifty feet of the sand, and all the saints could not remove them? I tell you I have no faith in it. The same thing is going to happen again.”
“There is some truth in your rant, brother,” replied the light man, “but I cling to my superstition. We have a cool million in this thing, a cool million. If we can only break the Chicago corner the market is bound to turn. The thing is below the cost of production now, and this western combine is already groggy. Ten thousand would break its backbone, and leave us in a position to force the market up to the ceiling.”
“But how in Heaven’s name, Sidney, are we going to get the other five thousand? To-day at ten I put up everything that could be scraped together, begged, or borrowed, and out of it all we have scarcely five thousand dollars. For any good that amount will do we might as well have none at all. We know that this combine would in all probability weather a plunge of five thousand, while a bold plunge of ten thousand would rout it as certainly as there is a sun in heaven, but we only have half enough money and no means of getting another dollar. If there were ten millions in it the case would be the same. The jig is up.”
“I don’t think so, Gordon. I don’t give it up. We must raise the money.”
“Raise the money!” put in the other, bitterly; “as well talk of raising the soul of Samuel. Did n’t I say that I had raised the last money that human ingenuity could raise; that there was not another shining thing left on earth to either of us, but our beauty?—And it would take genius to raise money on that, Sidney, gigantic genius.”
He stopped, and looked at his brother. The brother poured his soda into the brandy, and said simply, “We must find it.”
“You find it,” said Gordon Montcure, getting up, and walking backward and forward across the room.
For full ten minutes Sidney Montcure studied the bottom of his glass. Then he looked up, and said, “Brother, do you remember the little bald-headed man who stopped us on the steps of the Stock Exchange last week?”
“Yes; you mean the old ghost with the thin, melancholy face?”
“The same. You remember he said that if we were ever in a desperate financial position we should come to the office building on the Wall Street corner and inquire for Randolph Mason, and that Mason would show us a way out of the difficulty; but that under no circumstances were we to say how we happened to come to him, except that we had heard of his ability.”
“I recall the queer old chap well,” said the other. “He seemed too clean and serious for a fakir, but I suppose that is what he was; unless he is wrong in the head, which is more probable.”
“Do you know, brother,” said Sidney Montcure, thrusting his hands into his pockets, “I have been thinking of him, and I have a great mind to go down there in the morning just for a flyer. If there is any such man as Randolph Mason, he is not a fakir, because I know the building, and he could not secure an office in any such prominent place unless he was substantial.”
“That is true, although I am convinced that you will find Randolph Mason a myth.”
“At any rate, we have nothing to lose, brother; there may be something in it. Will you go with me to-morrow morning?”
The dark man nodded assent, and proceeded to add his autograph to the club’s collection, as evidenced by its wine ticket.
Gordon and Sidney Montcure were high-caste club men of the New York type, brokers and plungers until three p.m., immaculate gentlemen thereafter. Both were shrewd men of the world. And as they left the Ephmere Club that night, that same club and divers shop-men of various guilds had heavy equitable interests in the success of their plans.
Shortly after ten the following morning, the two brothers entered the great building in which Randolph Mason was supposed to have his office. There, on the marble-slab directory, was indeed the name; but it bore no indication of his business, and simply informed the stranger that he was to be found on the second floor front. The two men stepped into the elevator, and asked the boy to show them to Mr. Mason’s office. The boy put them off on the second floor, and directed them to enquire at the third door to the left. They found here a frosted glass door with “Randolph Mason, Counsellor,” on an ancient silver strip fastened to the middle panel. Sidney Montcure opened the door, and the two entered. The office room into which they came was large and scrupulously clean.
The walls were literally covered with maps of every description. Two rows of mammoth closed bookcases extended across the room, and there were numerous file cases of the most improved pattern. At a big flat-topped table, literally heaped with letters, sat their friend, the little bald, melancholy man, writing as though his very life and soul were at stake.
“We desire to speak with Mr. Mason, sir,” said Sidney Montcure, addressing the little man. The man arose, and went into the adjoining room. In a moment he returned and announced that Mr. Mason would see the gentlemen at once in his private office.
They found the private office of Randolph Mason to be in appearance much like the private office of a corporation attorney. The walls were lined with closed bookcases, and there were piles of plats and blue prints and bundles of papers scattered over a round-topped mahogany table.
Randolph Mason turned round in his chair as the men entered.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” he said, removing his eye-glasses. “In what manner can I be of service?” His articulation was metallic and precise.
“We have had occasion to hear of your ability, Mr. Mason,” said Gordon Montcure, “and we have called to lay our difficulty before you, in the hope that you may be able to suggest some remedy. It may be that our dilemma is beyond the scope of your vocation, as it is not a legal matter.”
“Let me hear the difficulty,” said Mason, bluntly.
“We are in a most unfortunate and critical position,” said Gordon Montcure. “My brother and myself are members of the Board of Trade, and, in defiance of the usual rule, occasionally speculate for ourselves. After making elaborate and careful investigation, we concluded that the wheat market had reached bottom and was on the verge of a strong and unusual advance. We based this conclusion on two safe indications: the failure in production of the other staples, and the fact that the price of wheat was slightly below the bare cost of production. This status of the market we believed could not remain, and on Monday last we bought heavily on a slight margin. The market continued to fall. We covered our margins, and plunged, in order to bull the market. To our surprise the decline continued; we gathered all our ready money, and plunged again. The market wavered, but continued to decline slowly. Then it developed that there was a Chicago combine against us. We at once set about ascertaining the exact financial status of this combine, and discovered that it was now very weak, and that a bold plunge of ten thousand dollars would rout it. But unfortunately all our ready money was now gone. After exhausting every security and resorting to every imaginable means we have only five thousand dollars in all. This sum is utterly useless under the circumstances, for we know well that the combine would hold out against a plunge of this dimension and we would simply lose everything, while a bold, sudden plunge of ten thousand would certainly break the market and make us a vast fortune. Of course, no sane man will lend us money under circumstances of this kind, and it is not possible for us to raise another dollar on earth.” The speaker leaned back in his chair, like a man who has stated what he knows to be a hopeless case. “We are consuming your time unnecessarily,” he added; “our case is, of course, remediless.”
Mason did not at once reply. He turned round in his chair and looked out of the open window. The two brothers observed him more closely. They noticed that his clothing was evidently of the best, that he was scrupulously neat and clean, and wore no ornament of any kind. Even the eyeglasses were attached to a black silk guard, and had a severely plain steel spring.
“Have you a middle name, sir?” he said, turning suddenly to Sidney Montcure.
“Yes,” replied the man addressed, “Van Guilder; I am named for my grandfather.”
“An old and wealthy family of this city, and well known in New England,” said Mason; “that is fortunate.” Then he bent forward and looking straight into the eyes of his clients said: “Gentlemen, if you are ready to do exactly what I direct, you will have five thousand dollars by to-morrow night. Is that enough?”
“Ample,” replied Gordon Montcure; “and we are ready to follow your instructions to the letter in any matter that is not criminal.”
“The transaction will be safely beyond the criminal statutes,” said Mason, “although it is close to the border line of the law.”
“’Beyond, is as good as a mile,” said Gordon Montcure; “let us hear your plan.”
“It is this,” said Mason. “Down at Lynn, Massachusetts, there is a certain retired shoe manufacturer of vast wealth, accumulated by questionable transactions. He is now passing into the sixties, and, like every man of his position, is restless and unsatisfied. Five years ago he concluded to build a magnificent residence in the suburbs of Lynn. He spared nothing to make the place palatial in every respect. The work has been completed within the past summer. The grounds are superb, and the place is indeed princely. As long as the palace was in process of building, the old gentleman was interested and delighted; but no sooner was it finished than, like all men of his type, he was at once dissatisfied. He now thinks that he would like to travel on the continent, but he has constructed a Frankenstein Monster, which he imagines requires his personal care. He will not trust it to an agent, he does not dare to rent it, and he can find no purchaser for such a palace in such a little city. The mere fact that he cannot do exactly as he pleases is a source of huge vexation to such a man as old Barton Woodlas, of the Shoe Trust.”
The two Montcures apparently gave no visible evidence of their mighty surprise and interest at the mention of the man who had robbed their father, yet Mason evidently saw something in the tail of their eyes, for he smiled with the lower half of his face, and continued: “You, sir,” he said, speaking directly to Sidney Montcure, “must go to Lynn and buy this house in the morning.”
“Buy the house!” answered the man, bitterly, “your irony approaches the sublime; we have only five thousand dollars and no security. How could we buy a house?”
“I am meeting the difficulties, if you please, sir,” said Mason, “and not yourself. At ten tomorrow you must be at Lynn. At two p.m. you will call upon Barton Woodlas, giving your name as Sidney Van Guilder, from New York. He knows that family, and will at once presume your wealth. You will say to him that you desire to purchase a country place for your grandfather, and heard of his residence. The old gentleman will at once jump at this chance for a wealthy purchaser, and drive you out to his grounds. You will criticise somewhat and make some objections, but will finally conclude to purchase, if satisfactory terms can be made. Here you will find Barton Woodlas a shrewd business dealer, and you must follow my instructions to the very letter. He will finally agree to take about fifty thousand dollars. You will make the purchase proposing to pay down five thousand cash, and give a mortgage on the property for the residue of the purchase money, making short-time notes. Five thousand in hand and a mortgage will of course be safe, and the old gentleman will take it. You demand immediate possession, and as he is not residing in the house you will get it. Go with him at once to his attorney, pay the money, have the papers signed and recorded, and be in full possession of the property by four o’clock in the afternoon.”
Mason stopped abruptly and turned to Gordon Montcure. “Sir,” he said curtly, “I must ask you to step into the other office and remain until I have finished my instructions to your brother. I have found it best to explain to each individual that part of the transaction which he is expected to perform. Suggestions made in the presence of a third party invariably lead to disaster.” Gordon Montcure went into the outer room and sat down. He was impressed by this strange interview with Mason. Here was certainly one of the most powerful and mysterious men he had ever met,—one whom he could not understand, who was a mighty enigma. But the man was so clear and positive that Montcure concluded to do exactly as he said. After all, the money they were risking was utterly worthless as matters now stood.
In a few moments Sidney Montcure came out of the private office and took a cab for the depot, leaving his brother in private interview with Randolph Mason.
II.
The following afternoon, Gordon Montcure stepped from the train at Lynn. An hour before, en route, he had received a telegram from Mason saying that the deal had been made and that his brother was in possession of the property, and authorizing him to proceed according to instructions. He was a man of business methods and began at once to play his part. Calling a carriage, he went to the court-house and ascertained that the deed had been properly recorded. Then he drove to the hotel of Barton Woodlas and demanded to see that gentleman at once. He was shown into a private parlor and in a few minutes the shoe capitalist came down. He was a short, nervous, fat man with a pompous strut.
“Mr. Woodlas, I presume,” said Gordon Mont-cure.
“The same, sir,” was the answer; “to what am I indebted for this honor?”
“To be brief,” replied Montcure, “I am looking for one Sidney Van Guilder. I am informed that he was to-day with you in this city. Can you tell me where I can see him?”
“Why, yes,” said the old gentleman, anxiously; “I suppose he is out at the residence I to-day sold him for his grandfather. Is there anything wrong?”
“What?” cried Montcure, starting up, “You sold him a residence to-day? Curse the luck! I am too late. He is evidently into his old tricks.”
“Old tricks,” said the little fat man, growing pale, “what in Heaven’s name is wrong with him? Speak out, man; speak out!”
“To come at once to the point,” said Gordon Montcure, “Mr. Van Guilder is just a little offcolor. He is shrewd and all right in every way except for this one peculiarity. He seems to have an insane desire to purchase fine buildings and convert them into homes for his horses. He has attempted to change several houses on Fifth Avenue into palatial stables, and has only been prevented by the city authorities. In all human probability the house you have sold him will be full of stalls by morning.”
“My house full of stalls!” yelled the little fat man, “my house that I have spent so much money on, and my beautiful grounds a barn-yard! Never! never! Come on, sir, come on, we must go there at once!” And Barton Woodlas waddled out of the room as fast as his short legs could carry him. Gordon Montcure followed, smiling.
Both men climbed into Montcure’s carriage and hurried out to the suburban residence. The grounds were indeed magnificent, and the house a palace. As they drove in, they noticed several Italian laborers digging a trench across the lawn. Barton Woodlas tumbled out of the carriage and bolted into the house, followed by Montcure. Here they found a scene of the greatest confusion. The house was filled with grimy workmen. They were taking off the doors and shutters, and removing the stairway, and hammering in different portions of the house until the noise was like bedlam.
Sidney Van Guilder stood in the drawing-room, with his coat off, directing his workmen. His clothing was disarranged and dusty but he was apparently enthusiastic and happy. “Stop, sir! stop!” cried Barton Woodlas, waving his arms and rushing into the room. “Put these dirty workmen out of here and stop this vandalism at once! At once!”
Sidney Van Guilder turned round smiling. “Ah,” he said, “is it you, Mr. Woodlas? I am getting on swimmingly you see. This will make a magnificent stable. I can put my horses on both floors, but I will be compelled to cut the inside all out, and make great changes. It is a pity that you built your rooms so big.”
For a moment the little man was speechless with rage; then he danced up and down and yelled: “Oh, you crazy fool! You crazy fool! You are destroying my house! It won’t be worth a dollar!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Van Guilder, coldly, “this is my house and I shall do with it as I like. I have bought it and I shall make a home for my horses of it by morning. It cannot possibly be any business of yours.”
“No business of mine!” shouted Woodlas, “what security have I but the mortgage? And if you go on with this cursed gutting the mortgage won’t be worth a dollar. Oh, my beautiful house! My beautiful house! It is awful, awful! Come on, sir,” he yelled to Gordon Montcure, “I will find a way to stop the blooming idiot!”
With that he rushed out of the house and rolled into the carriage, Gordon Montcure following. Together the two men were driven furiously to the office of Vinson Harcout, counsellor for the Shoe Trust.
That usually placid and unexcitable gentleman turned round in astonishment as the two men bolted into his private office. Woodlas dropped into a chair and, between curses and puffs of exhaustion, began to describe his trouble. When the lawyer had finally succeeded in drawing from the irate old man a full understanding of the matter, he leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said, “this is an unfortunate state of affairs, but there is really no legal remedy for it. The title to the property is in Mr. Van Guilder. He is in possession by due and proper process of law, and he can do as he pleases, even to the extent of destroying the property utterly. If he chooses to convert his residence into a stable, he certainly commits no crime and simply exercises a right which is legally his own. It is true that you have such equitable interest in the property that you might be able to stop him by injunction proceedings—we will try that at any rate.”
The attorney stopped and turned to his stenographer. “William,” he said, “ask the clerk if Judge Henderson is in the court-room.” The young man went to the telephone and returned in a moment. “Judge Henderson is not in the city, sir,” he said. “The clerk answers that he went to Boston early in the day to meet with some judicial committee from New York and will not return until to-morrow.”
The lawyer’s face lengthened. “Well,” he said, “that is the end of it. We could not possibly reach him in time to prevent Mr. Van Guilder from carrying out his intentions.”
Gordon Montcure smiled grimly. Mason had promised to inveigle away the resident judge by means of a bogus telegram, and he had done so.
“Oh!” wailed the little fat man, “is there no law to keep me from being ruined? Can’t I have him arrested, sir?”
“Unfortunately, no,” replied the lawyer. “He is committing no crime, he is simply doing what he has a full legal right to do if he so chooses, and neither you nor any other man can interfere with him. If you attempt it, you at once become a violator of the law and proceed at your peril. You are the victim of a grave wrong, Mr. Woodlas. Your security is being destroyed and great loss may possibly result. Yet there is absolutely no remedy except the possible injunction, which, in the absence of the judge, is no remedy at all. It is an exasperating and unfortunate position for you, but, as I said, there is nothing to be done.”
The face of Barton Woodlas grew white and his jaw dropped. “Gone!” he muttered, “all gone, five thousand dollars and a stable as security for forty thousand! It is ruin, ruin!”
“I am indeed sorry,” said the cold-blooded attorney, with a feeling of pity that was unusual, “but there is no remedy, unless perhaps you could repurchase the property before it is injured.”
“Ah,” said the little fat man, straightening up in his chair, “I had not thought of that. I will do it. Come on, both of you,” and he hurried to the carriage without waiting for an answer.
At the residence in question the three men found matters as Barton Woodlas had last seen them, except that the trench across the lawn was now half completed and the doors and shutters had all been removed from the house and piled up on the veranda.
Sidney Van Guilder laughed at their proposition to repurchase. He assured them that he had long been looking for just this kind of property, that it suited him perfectly, and that he would not think of parting with it. The attorney for Wood-las offered two thousand dollars’ advance; then three, then four, but Sidney Van Guilder was immovable. Finally Gordon Montcure suggested that perhaps the city would not allow his stable to remain after he had completed it, and advised him to name some price for the property. Van Guilder seemed to consider this possibility with some seriousness. He had presumably had this trouble in New York City, and finally said that he would take ten thousand dollars for his bargain. Old Barton Woodlas fumed and cursed and ground his teeth, and damned every citizen of the State of New York from the coast to the lakes for a thief, a villain, and a robber.
Finally, when the Italians began to cut through the wall of the drawing-room and the fat old gentleman’s grief and rage were fast approaching apoplexy, the lawyer raised his offer to seven thousand dollars cash, and Sidney Van Guilder reluctantly accepted it and dismissed his workmen. The four went at once to the law office of Vinson Harcout, where the mortgage and notes were cancelled, the money paid, and the deed prepared, reconveying the property and giving Barton Woodlas immediate possession.
III.
At nine-thirty the following morning, the two brothers walked into the private office of Randolph Mason and laid down seven thousand dollars on his desk. Mason counted out two thousand and thrust it into his pocket. “Gentlemen,” he said shortly, “here is the five thousand dollars which I promised. I commend you for following my instructions strictly.”
“We have obeyed you to the very letter,” said Gordon Montcure, handing the money to his brother, “except in one particular.”
“What!” cried Mason, turning upon him, “you dared to change my plans?”
“No,” said Gordon Montcure, stepping back, “only the fool lawyer suggested the repurchase before I could do it.”
“Ah,” said Randolph Mason, sinking back into his chair, “a trifling detail. I bid you goodmorning.”