The Sixty-First Second

by Owen Johnson

  *CHAPTER VIII*

  The two young men and McKenna descended by the elevator into the lobbyof the hotel. The news of the Clearing-house's drastic action againstthe Atlantic Trust was already in the scare-heads of the evening papers,though Majendie's resignation was still unknown. The halls were crowdedwith a fleet of newspapers, spread out, fluttering feverishly.Everywhere was a suppressed murmur and nervous tension, whichoccasionally exploded in exclamations when acquaintances met. The newswas indeed staggering to the little man of the Street; the greatAtlantic Trust with its hundreds of millions of deposits was on theverge of collapse and this at the end of a period of depression andalarm!

  As they proceeded toward the carriage entrance, Gunther stopped to speakto one of the clerks at the desk, who, with a frightened face, came outto seek his advice. McKenna profited by the moment to say to Beecher:

  "By the way, if you're a friend of Miss Charters', find out if she hasany money invested in Wall Street, and who she's dealing through."

  "Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she oughtto get out?"

  "Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I'm in a hurry.Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you're so interestedin this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood."

  He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance.Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detectivehad expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of theinstantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberatelyavoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had thiscomplete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressiveoddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, hewas conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearingaway a precious illusion.

  "There's a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust,"said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile.

  "The Atlantic Trust can't fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren'tas bad as that."

  "Don't know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow,what's bound to happen is--I should say--a receivership and closed doorsto-morrow."

  "But that means panic."

  "Sure."

  Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before,correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies.

  "By Jove, how game he was!" he said aloud. "I should hate to think therewas anything crooked in him."

  They had reached Forty-second Street in their smooth and rapid flight.There, newsboys were shrieking the latest extra, dodging under the headsof horses, swinging on the steps of surface-cars, bumping their shrillway through the crowd, with their hysterical instinct for heighteningthe effect of a sensation.

  Gunther stopped the automobile and bought a handful of papers which adozen urchins fought to press into his hands. On every sheet, frontpage, accompanied by sudden scare-heads, was the photograph of BernardL. Majendie, whose resignation had been demanded and accepted.

  The two scanned the pages for additional details. Some papers hinted atcriminal actions--the district attorney had been suddenly summoned totown. Scattered through the sheets were photographs entitled,"Majendie's Palace on Fifth Avenue." "$100,000 Yacht of DeposedPresident." "Newport Estate of Millionaire."

  "Is he a crook after all?" said Beecher, flinging down the extra.

  "No, he is not a crook," said Gunther quietly, repeating the words withslow emphasis. "He is a speculator, a great speculator, and he has beenmade the victim of greater speculators who covet his territory. Then,there is this to be said: I doubt if at the present moment any greatpublic corporation would face an investigation without alarm."

  "What do you mean?" said Beecher, with his thoughts still wandering backto the handsome, stoic features of the Majendie of the night before.

  Gunther began to speak, and, as he became serious and animated, Beecherfollowed him with surprise, noting the vigor and vitality thattransformed the young idler.

  "The present era we are passing through," said Gunther, "is probablyAmerica at its worst. We see only the gorgeous facades of things: theskyscraper, the industries that have developed into little kingdoms. Weonly try to comprehend statistics, and we are satisfied that we havebounded into greatness. As a matter of fact, the true test of theindustrial greatness of a country is honesty. Dishonesty and graft areeconomic weakness--waste. A railroad that is spending a million a yearto fight off hold-up state laws is by so much handicapped in itsfunction of promoting commerce by low freight rates. A corporation thatsecures its franchise by bribing aldermen has taught them to blackmailin the future. It is difficult to say where the responsibilitybegan--whether capital corrupted politics, or whether, in ourunscientific political system, corruption was not inevitable."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "At this time, when our political history is one of businessdevelopment, we are over-burdened with useless offices. Aldermen andlegislators who receive on an average less than a thousand a year--oftenless than it costs to be elected--are suddenly intrusted with theresponsibilities of laws and franchises involving millions. When youask yourself how a man is to continue a political career, support afamily, and fight a costly fight for reelection on a thousand a year,the wonder is that any remain honest. We have not the slightestconception of values in America; the worst paid professions are thosethe vigor of the nation depends on most--the minister, the teacher, andthe legislator. There are ministers living on five hundred a year,teachers on six hundred, legislators on less, while the carpenter orplumber who doesn't make at least $5 a day is unorganized." Then,perceiving that he had wandered from his subject, he added: "You see,Ted, this state of affairs results: politics becomes the business ofbusiness. Industry is at the mercy of the legislator, and thelegislator knows it. He may restrict the field of business of insurancecompanies, prohibit others from operating in his state, add or detractfrom the wealth of individuals by tariffs, force the adoption of certainbuilding material on contractors, regulate rates of railroads and forcethem to adopt certain life-preserving devices; can create rivalfranchises or tax out of existence corporations that refuse to pay itsblackmail.

  "That is why there are, back in the secret life of every great business,ledgers it is not good the public should see. That is one reason whybusiness goes into politics, nominates its men, and assists them--inorder to protect itself against strikes and blackmail. The greatpolitical alliance of business is almost always expressed by therailroad which is the natural agent. All this is known; every newspaperthat will shriek out horrified editorials next week knows this; but whenthe Atlantic Trust is caught in a business depression, and is unable toget ready money from influences it has antagonized, the public willlearn only that one institution has secretly contributed to a politicalparty, maintained a huge fund for lobbying purposes, made loans onsecurities that were speculative, and transgressed the letter of thelaw. The public will be indignant, and Majendie will be disgraced."

  "But, Bruce," said Beecher, who was thinking of the analysis that hadbeen made, "if we are so riddled with corruption, where is it all goingto end?"

  "The end will come in the opening of another phase of national life. Wewill become honest through the purifying process of another generation.Honesty, you see, has this one great advantage over corruption--it isthe goal of corruption. Those who acquire, wish to retain, to resistthose who in turn wish to graft from them. Stealing was an attribute ofdistinction, until men came to live together. The next generation willpurify and reorganize."

  "I didn't know you'd gone into things so deeply," said Beecher,impressed.

  "I've worked like a pup since I started to amuse myself," said Gunther,with a laugh.

  The automobile drew up before the glittering doors of Lazare's, and agilded footman, recognizing it, flashed obsequiously to their door.

  "Say, let's cut thi
s out," said Gunther, frowning. "I'm out of the moodnow. Let's run off for a chop and a baked potato somewhere. I'm tiredof this."

  "Too late," said Beecher, laughing and pointing to an upper window wherea feminine arm was waving frantically. "We're caught." Then, suddenlyhe remembered the hint of McKenna's, and added: "I say, what's the storyabout Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood? I'm not up on the gossip, you know."

  Gunther signaled impatiently to the flunky to close the door, andrelated, what every one knew, the attachment of the financier and thewife of the owner of the New York _Star_.

  "Of course, every one believes what he chooses in such matters," hesaid. "Personally, knowing Majendie, I believe it's purelyplatonic--such things do happen. He has a sort of old-fashionedchivalry, you know. Bloodgood is a hard old nut, leads his ownlife--chorus girls' friend and all that--thirty years older than hiswife--parents got her into it--and I shouldn't be surprised if he tookadvantage of the situation to touch up Majendie through the AtlanticTrust for a good-sized loan. The rumor was that Mrs. Bloodgood was toget a divorce. If so, it may have been held up by this rotten business.One thing's clear: she's crazy about Majendie, and doesn't care who seesit--poor devil. Well, let's get out."

  They entered Lazare's, saluted by a sudden storm of clatter, music, andshrill laughter. Lazare himself, seeing Gunther, came up hurriedly,anxiety in his olive face, while several employees hovered near, witheager ears. Gunther exchanged again a few words on the financialsituation, and led the way into the elevator.

  "McKenna's a great one," he said. "Rather puzzled you, didn't he?There's no show about him--he's direct. You'll see the way he works.It'll be a revelation."

  Beecher did not answer.

  The disclosure of the relations of Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood hadsuddenly recalled the suspicion that had come to him the night before,while following the agitation of Nan Charters; and he was askinghimself, in a bewildered manner, if Mrs. Bloodgood, desperate, perhapson the verge of a separation, had not in an uncontrollable moment takenthe ring. Gunther continued in praise of McKenna:

  "It's the organization that's wonderful. It's like a spider-web, andMcKenna sits in the center and pulls the threads. What the public nevergets is this--that half of the work's done before McKenna's on the case.He knows to-day where every forger is living, every cracksman. He's gothis informers in every saloon, in every cheap hotel, where thugscongregate. If a bank's robbed, nine times out of ten he can tell in aday who's done the job, because he knows who's disappeared from hisregular haunts. A detective agency is a great news bureau that neverprints its news."

  "I guess the case is more complicated than I thought," said Beecher,struck by the new lead. "It begins to look as though a whole lot ofpersons might have taken the ring."

  "Thinking of Mrs. B?" said Gunther quickly.

  "Yes," said Beecher meditatively. They were in the corridor leading tothe private dining-rooms. He put his hand out and checked his companion.

  "I say, who's Madame Fornez?"

  "Opera squealer," said Gunther irreverently; "Carmen and all that sortof thing. Bob Holliday's daffy about her. Come on; let's face themusic."

  He nodded to the attendant waiting with extended ears, who now sprangforward to open the door on the flaring room and the dazzling white ofthe richly covered table set for five.

  Holliday and two women in decollete instantly burst into exclamations ofreproach.

  "Sorry; couldn't be helped--business," said Gunther, without taking thepains for a more elaborate apology. Then, sure of his explanation, headded: "You probably missed it. Poor old Majendie's up the spout.Forced resignation. There'll be the devil to pay to-morrow."

  The reproaches ceased, succeeded by a rush of excited questions.Holliday, a tall, scoured blond, who had been drumming at the piano, wasso disturbed by the news that he forgot his duties as a host.

  "_Allons_, Bobbie," said Mme. Fornez, turning her great Spanish eyes onBeecher with an expression of approval, "introduce your nice-lookingfriend."

  Beecher, amid laughter, was presented. Mme. Fornez, who, from prideperhaps, chose to retain the freedom of the peasant, tapped himfamiliarly on the arm and said: "I like you. You don't look so cleanand stupid as most of your dollar men. You will sit by my side. Iselect you. Monsieur Gunthere, Bobbie--enough of your old panics andyour stocks; you have two charming ladies present, that's all you needto know. Bobbie, obey me at once!"

  Beecher was giving his hand to Mrs. Craig Fontaine, a young widow,slight, with quick eyes, and almost masculine vitality, and anextraordinary elegance of dress and carriage, whom Gunther calledLouise. She was scarcely twenty-six, possessed of a large fortune fromher husband, who had been killed in a steeplechase three years before.Her position in society was unquestioned, and, being of a singulartemperament, she did as she pleased. She was seen everywhere with youngGunther, and gossip had already arranged their marriage--an eventualitywhich she alone, who ambitiously desired it, knew to be impossible.

  Beecher, who was particularly sensitive to the air of distinction thatalways surrounded her, even when most unbending, took her hand with alittle extra gallantry, saying:

  "I changed my mind on your account only, Louise, and I expect you toreward me."

  Between the two, from his college days, had been a sort of confidentialintimacy which Beecher had the knack of cultivating.

  Holliday having ordered the dinner, Mme. Fornez took special delight incountermanding everything that could be countermanded, substitutingother wines and abolishing the soup, scolding her escort all the whilewith a calculated tyranny which Mrs. Fontaine admired with a slightsmiling tribute of her lips, as the clever advertisement of aprofessional woman that Mr. Holliday's fetch and carry attentions wereentirely on her own sufferance.

  "How have you escaped being married?" said Mrs. Fontaine in a banteringtone to Beecher, after Mme. Fornez had relinquished him for a moment.

  "Because I fly like a coward," he said, pleased at the complimentimplied.

  "Seriously, Teddy, you've been back in civilization two months and youare not yet caught?"

  "I am not the marrying kind," he said, with conviction.

  "What's he say--your Teddy?" said Mme. Fornez, turning, with a laugh.

  Beecher repeated his statement.

  "_Allons donc_, you!" She broke into a ripple of laughter. "What doyou say, Madame Fontaine?"

  Mrs. Fontaine's reply was a tolerant, amused smile, and, leaning over,she pinched his ear.

  Beecher furiously defended himself.

  "Yes, that's what all you women say. You think you can catch any man.It irritates you to think any man can resist you."

  "Ah, no, no," said Mme. Fornez energetically. "There are lots of men whocan't be married. I don't say that, but what I say is this: a womanknows, the moment she meets one of you, if he is the kind that marries.A clever woman knows if she can marry him, but all women know if he isthe marrying kind the moment they look in his eye. Is it not so, MadameFontaine?"

  "Of course," said Mrs. Fontaine calmly, with a glance around the table.

  "Nonsense," said Beecher valiantly; "women are as easily fooled as men."

  Mme. Fornez, drawing back her head, surveyed him critically.

  "Teddy, you will marry the first pretty woman who makes up her mind tomarry you," she said, tapping the table, amid laughter. "I see it; Iknow it."

  "I say, how do you see it?" said Holliday, who was what might be called"_un faux Anglais_."

  "It is in the eye; it responds or it does not respond," said Mme.Fornez, who shrugged her shoulders in Holliday's direction, and said:"You, you will never marry unless--unless there is one _big_ panic.Teddy, here, has the responsive eye. I saw it at once when I said hewas a nice boy. Oh, you needn't be furious and blush," she added,pulling his other ear. "It is quite right. I like you. You shall playwith me. You are much nicer than Bobbie, who is all collar and cuffs."

  "And Mr. Gunther?" said Beecher, to cover his confu
sion.

  Mme. Fornez looked at him with the same critical estimation.

  "Ah, Monsieur Gunthere is very interesting," she said. "What do youthink, Madame Fontaine?"

  She asked the question with a little of that malice which women can nothelp showing toward one another. But Mrs. Fontaine, with the perfectcontrol that never left her, answered at once:

  "Bruce will marry, but he is not the marrying kind. He will marry whenhe pleases and how he pleases, not the least sentimentally, a woman, ayoung girl, who will raise up a family of children--a son to succeedhim, as he will succeed his father."

  "Yes, yes, that's it," said Mme. Fornez excitedly. "He can not becaught; any woman would know that."

  Gunther smiled without embarrassment.

  "Perhaps," he said.

  "Yes, any woman would know it," repeated Mrs. Fontaine, looking at himwith a little smile. "The reason is, as Madame Fornez says, in theeyes--they don't respond. It's more than that, they make nodistinction. They look at a woman as they do at a man. He is quite tobe congratulated."

  "Ah, _la pauvre femme_," said Mme. Fornez--who was very romantic--in awhisper, pressing Beecher's arm. Then aloud, taking pity, "_Allons, mesenfants_, we are getting too serious. Bobbie, jump up and play ussomething lively."

  The dinner continued gaily. They reached the theater in the middle ofthe second act of the operetta, and deranged the whole orchestra in thefive minutes necessary for Mme. Fornez to be sure that she was properlyrecognized. Then, having carried off Elsie Ware, a dainty prima donnawith the wiles and figure of a child, they proceeded to the party atLindabury's studio, Mme. Fornez complimenting Elsie Ware on the qualityof her voice, which was insignificant, and saying nothing of her acting,which was distinguished for its charm and natural gaiety.

  Beecher, squeezed in between Louise Fontaine and Mme. Fornez, slightlybewildered by the fragrance of soft, filmy wraps, immensely flattered bythe favor he had won, nevertheless was wondering to himself whetheramong the gay party he was approaching would be the laughing eyes andrebellious ashen hair of Nan Charters, whom he intended to treat _enennemi_, and whom he particularly wished to witness his triumphant entryat the side of the celebrated Emma Fornez.