"No; I do not!" rasped Poindexter. "But I would like to call your attention to the fact that time is an expensive commodity with me."
The faintest of smiles crossed the little old gentleman's lips.
"I venture to think that it is equally so in my case," he returned evenly; "and of late perhaps even more so than with you. However, I have no wish to detain you here an unnecessary moment. You do not recognise me? Well, no matter! I think you will before I am through. I want you to listen to a little story. Some twenty years ago there was a man who lived in a little town in the Middle West. I imagine he was about thirty-five years old then. He kept a small and, I fear, unprofitable general store." Charlebois paused.
Gordon raised his head suddenly. Poindexter, with a muttered growl, stared at Gordon, then settled heavily in his chair and glared at Charlebois. Stranway, at a slight nod from the little old gentleman, moved unostentatiously to the end of the desk between the two, facing Charlebois, who stood at the other end.
"This man," Charlebois resumed, "was of a mechanical turn of mind. He invented and patented an attachment for a lathe. I am not versed in such matters, and I do not pretend to say just what it was. In any case, it is immaterial now, except that it was of real value. This secured him an opening with a machine company, and he gave up the general store. The years went on, he added other patents to the first, gave all that was in him to the business, and, little by little, as he saved money, invested those savings in the company's stock, and eventually he rose to the presidency of the concern."
"Quite a pretty homily!" sneered Mr. John K. Poindexter.
"Quite," agreed Charlebois, nodding his head gravely. "About this time a certain group of promoters, who had acquired control of most of the machine interests in the country, decided that they wanted the patents of this company. They made an offer to purchase the company outright, with a threat to help themselves to it if the offer was refused—and their offer, as they meant it to be, was so low that there was no possibility of its acceptance. It had the desired effect, however. It frightened a lot of small shareholders. The trust bought their shares—transferred in blank to cover the operation until the trust was ready to show its hand; but, also, the trust took the precaution to have the stock accompanied by proxies made out in the same manner so that the stock could be voted at any time though the original holders still appeared on the company's books." Again Charlebois paused for an instant, and his sharp little steel-blue eyes rested grimly on Poindexter. "Like mechanics," he murmured, "I am not versed in matters of high finance, but I trust I am making myself clear. The president at this time owned thirty per cent. of the stock, and he took up the fight against the 'steal'—both as a matter of principle and to save himself. I shall not attempt to trace in detail what followed. By pledging his stock to the bank he obtained a loan. With this loan he bought other stock, got a further loan on that, and bought still more—pyramiding, I believe you term it. At first he had no difficulty in obtaining shares, and at a low price. Then the market began to tighten. The shares went up and up until they rose to an incredible figure"—Charlebois' hand went suddenly to his pocket—"and one lot, the block of twenty-five shares that I hold here, went for—fifty thousand dollars."
Livid-faced, Poindexter leaped to his feet.
"Let me see that certificate!" he cried hoarsely.
Charlebois spread it out on the desk.
Poindexter bent over it. "That's mine!" he shouted furiously, the next instant. "You're a thief, or worse than a thief! That's mine, do you hear? That's——"
"Sit down!" ordered Charlebois sternly.
"I won't! I——" Poindexter's voice broke in a snarl, as, at a motion from the little old gentleman, Stranway jerked the magnate back into his chair.
"You are interrupting my story," said Charlebois coldly. "There came a day when all the shares were in the hands of two men—the president of the company and the head of the trust. The president was heavily involved; what real estate he had was mortgaged, he had borrowed on personal notes where he could, his stock was pledged to the bank to secure his loans, every resource was gone in his desperate fight—and he had lost by less than twenty-five shares, egged on to ruin with remorseless cunning by the other side because he had dared to oppose them. He was ruined, penniless, in debt. The trust had now only to demand a meeting of the shareholders and vote to sell the company to itself, for it held, until this certificate came into my possession, the majority of stock, but"—Charlebois turned the certificate over, took out his fountain pen and began to fill in the blank line—"but with an——"
"You write any name but mine as the transferee of that stock and I'll put you behind the bars!" yelled Poindexter in a fury, jumping to his feet again. "It's forgery! It's felony! You stole it, you—you——"
His voice trailed off apoplectically.
Charlebois completed the signature, brushed the certificate to the far side of the desk away from Poindexter's reach, and took a step suddenly toward the other. The steel-blue eyes were hard as flint, and before them Poindexter fell back a pace. And now Gordon, too, was on his feet, leaning heavily against the desk, his face, a little colour back in it, full of changing expressions—a dawning hope, fear, wonder and amazement each struggling for the mastery.
For a tense moment the tableau held, then Charlebois' voice, addressing Poindexter, rang through the room.
"You!" he cried in cold fury. "You should be upon your knees thanking your God that this man's blood is not upon your soul! I found him with a pistol at his head fifteen minutes ago. Does that effect you any? Or are you too calloused? Is money too omnipotently your only god?" Charlebois' words were coming now in short, quick, deadly sentences. "I am a thief, you say! This is your certificate, you say! But the trap worked well, did it not, and you liked the bait? Even you, with all your money, were greedy for fifty thousand dollars—if it could be yours with so little effort. Fifty thousand dollars for twenty-five shares! You laughed in your sleeve at the poor fool who would offer that. You could spare those twenty-five shares and still have a majority of the stock—if those twenty-five shares were not voted. It was too ridiculously easy; and fifty thousand dollars at a hand's turn was—fifty thousand dollars. You refused the offer, of course, for you could not afford to appear in the matter personally; but, nevertheless, you must not let fifty thousand dollars slip through your fingers. You had two things to consider: you must not be known in the transaction; and the shares must not be voted at the meeting. After the meeting it did not matter; the West County Tool and Machine Company would have lost its entity. I did not know how you would snatch at the bait. I only knew, for I knew you, that the bait was irresistible. You refused the offer of the man who visited you; and then you sent your secretary to him to——"
"You lie!" shrieked Poindexter wildly. "I did nothing of the kind. I had no hand in it. He's a scoundrel, a thief! He's played me false, he——"
"You anticipate a little—dangerously—do you not?" Charlebois interrupted in the same merciless tones. "This certificate was not stolen. It was sold by your instructions. Your secretary was coached by you in his part. He was to say that he had overheard the offer, that for the sum mentioned, in cash, he would undertake to get the shares, to steal them from you and——"
Stranway, with a quick, involuntary movement, leaned across the table toward Charlebois.
"Steener!" he gasped out. "You say Steener was in the game? Oh, good Lord!"
"Ah!" said Charlebois whimsically. "You, eh, my boy? And your conscience? Is that it? I had not heard the details, but I take it Steener played his part with commendable realism." He turned again sharply to Poindexter. "But I am encroaching on your valuable time. Let us bring this interview to an end. You planned to have the stock turned over too late to be used to-day here in Cleveland, but the purchaser was not to know that, naturally. He asked your secretary the date of this meeting at the time the 'theft' was being planned. Your secretary said he did not know; he said that as you now had
control it remained with you to demand a meeting when you would, but that legal notice would have to be given to the shareholders. He stated that he did not know whether this notice had been given or not, but that of course Mr. Gordon here would know. He suggested that a wire be sent to Mr. Gordon asking for that information. That was really your cleverest move, Poindexter, your cleverest move—and for such gratification as it may afford you, I will admit that it was almost successful. The wire was sent—but Mr. Gordon, though still president, never received it. Some scoundrel of yours in these offices here in Cleveland—whom I trust Mr. Gordon will in due course unearth and deal with as he deserves—was on the watch for it, intercepted it, and wired back, signing Mr. Gordon's name, saying that the meeting was called for the eighteenth—that is, to-morrow—whereas, in reality, it was set for to-day. And your secretary had promised to deliver the shares last night, which was ample time in which to get them here for the—eighteenth. I knew——"
"My God!" interjected Gordon, in a hoarse, passionate whisper. He was swaying on his feet, reaching out with a queer, slow, ominous movement of his hands across the desk toward Poindexter.
Charlebois stepped instantly toward him and forced him back.
"Leave this matter in my hands, Gordon; do not interfere," he said sharply, but not unkindly. He faced Poindexter again. "I knew, of course, that you were up to some crooked work, that you did not for a minute intend to allow those shares to go where they could do you any harm—even for fifty thousand dollars—but just what form your rascality was to take I did not know. You left New York for Cleveland last night. I left with you on the same train. You say you do not recognise me. I thank you for the unconscious compliment, for you have met me under rather intimate conditions on two occasions. Do you remember the little Jewish gentleman who made you the offer in the first place? He was rather coarse in manner and seedy in appearance, but he had the money with him—in cash. You had no hesitancy in concluding he would be a willing party to a theft—or anything else that would enable him to get what he was offering fifty thousand dollars to obtain."
Poindexter was clawing at the table with his hand. His face had lost much of its scarlet hue. A sweat bead glistened on his forehead.
"It's a lie!" he said gutturally.
"Well, then, do you remember," Charlebois went on in a voice whose very mildness enhanced its menace, "the innocuous little clergyman, who listened so humbly and with such awe and admiration to the great man's dissertations last night in the Pullman? Do you remember enlightening him ponderously on the intricacies of corporations and their control, very highly pleased with the impression you created? The little man was almost overwhelmed with your presence—with the thought of conversing so familiarly with the great John K. Poindexter, was he not? Do you remember, while dwelling on the subject of corporations, that you casually, with a casual wave of your hand, mentioned, without naming it specifically, a merger, or so you were pleased to term it, that you were about to effect this morning? And why should you not? You were already far from New York on the last train out of there for Cleveland; and your companion was so gratifyingly ingenuous, so appreciative of the condescension that you graciously accorded him—he would speak of John K. Poindexter in glowing terms ever after! Do you recognise me now? Yes, I see you do. Your game became clear then. Your hand was on the table. The meeting was to be twenty-four hours ahead of the time given in the forged telegram from Mr. Gordon. The rest was very simple—a wire to New York from the train's first stop—and in response a 'special' that has brought us"—he laid his hand on the stock certificate—"this little piece of paper, and its accompanying proxy."
"It's a lie!" choked Poindexter. "A lie! A lie!"
"Your vocabulary seems strangely stunted compared with last night," said Charlebois calmly. "But the game is up. I have witnesses who overheard you when you drilled Steener in the part he was to play—and I have Steener's confession."
"Steener's—confession!" The words came in gulps from Poindexter.
"Exactly!" said Charlebois. He drew a telegram from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "Steener was in my hands within twenty minutes after he had turned over this certificate last night. That telegram, received on the train this morning, informs me that he was persuaded to sign a statement of fact before a notary public. You should know Steener's calibre well enough to enable you to form your own opinion as to whether that is true or not; but you are permitted to doubt if you choose—until you can verify it."
Poindexter snatched up the telegram, read it, swallowed hard once or twice, laid it down, scowled at Gordon, and then shook his fist under Charlebois' nose.
"I don't know who in the fiend's name you are," he spluttered fiercely; "but I'll make it my business to find out, you understand? Meanwhile, I know when I'm beaten. I'll get you another time, Gordon. Go on with your meeting; I won't embarrass you with my presence. And you"—he shook his fist at Charlebois again—"I'm not through with you, either! You get that, don't you?" He jerked his chair away, and started for the door.
"I admire a good loser," said Charlebois grimly. "But just a moment before you go, Mr. Poindexter! There is one other little matter."
Poindexter swung around with an ugly scowl.
"Well?" he growled out. "What is it?"
"I believe you bank at the Fourteenth National, do you not?" inquired Charlebois pleasantly, as he extracted a slip of paper from his pocket, laid it on the desk and extended his fountain pen invitingly to the other.
"What's that?" demanded Poindexter roughly.
"When you have signed it," replied the little old gentleman softly, "it will be a cheque on the Fourteenth National Bank, payable to bearer, for forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars."
Poindexter's cheeks puffed in and out, and his face grew scarlet again.
"Sign that!" he fairly screamed, his rage pitching his voice in a high falsetto. "Sign that! You—you blackmailing, highway robber, you—you——" He choked. "I'll—I'll see you damned first!" he ended fervently.
"The par value of this stock," said Charlebois in a musing tone, picking up the certificate, "is one hundred dollars. It was due to your own machinations that the price was forced upward, and that you paid, I believe, considerably more for this particular block—to be exact, so I am credibly informed, two hundred and ten dollars a share. I am afraid I am over-generous, but I prefer to err in that regard rather than in any other. You will receive exactly what you paid for it. Twenty-five shares at two hundred and ten dollars per share is five thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. The difference between that amount and fifty thousand dollars is—forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. Have I made a mistake?"
"You have!" roared Poindexter. "You have, if you think I'm fool enough to make you a present of forty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars! I thought you said a minute ago that I sold you that stock—well, you've got it, haven't you?"
"You knew what I wanted it for," said Charlebois quietly. "If you had handed it over without attempting to rob me of its value by juggling the date of the meeting I should have been well content to have paid the price I offered—fifty thousand dollars. As it is——"
"As it is," broke in Mr. Poindexter, with a sneer—Mr. Poindexter was getting a grip on himself again, "you have paid fifty thousand dollars."
"As it is," continued Charlebois, as though he had not heard the interruption, "unless you sign that cheque I shall sue you for the amount on the ground of obtaining money under false pretences."
"Haw! Haw, haw!" guffawed Mr. Poindexter. "Why, you senile old fool, you couldn't win a suit like that in a million years! You admitted yourself before these witnesses that you bought the stock at your own price."
"H'm," said Charlebois gravely. "Yes; that is true. I am inclined to agree with you. I doubt very seriously if a court would uphold my claim."
"Well, then," snorted Mr. Poindexter, "why did you try to ram a fool bluff like that down my throat?"
; "It is not a bluff," said the little old gentleman Patiently. "I should still sue—for the sake of publicity. I have too high a regard for the financiers of this country to accept you as a type. I prefer to believe that the majority of the moneyed men, your associates, are too high principled to look with favour on such shady transactions as they would then know you to be capable of; and as for the others, those of your own ilk, I imagine that in their eyes your sin would be the most grievous you could have committed—the sin of failure, with its accompanying loss of prestige, and, I fancy too, a modicum of ridicule that I understand the 'street' knows how to make the most of." Charlebois paused and smiled deprecatingly. "I fear," he murmured, "that I have stated the case poorly. You are perhaps better able than I to judge just what exposure would——"
Poindexter's face was mottled.
"Have I your pledge," he gurgled, "that nothing will be known of this matter if I—I sign that cheque?"
"You have," said Charlebois, his tones cold again.
"Give me the pen," snarled Poindexter.
He scrawled his name across the bottom of the cheque, flung the pen upon the desk—and the next instant the door banged behind him.
Slowly Gordon turned and faced Charlebois.
"I don't know what this means," he said brokenly. "I only know that an hour ago I was a ruined man and—and that I had lost the courage to fight it any longer. I've a wife and a little girl, almost a woman, and—and you have saved them—and me. I cannot thank you, no words could do that; but tell me who you are so that I——"
"Tut, tut," said the little old gentleman brusquely, beginning suddenly to lose his sang-froid and squirm uneasily. "There are no thanks required, for no thanks are due. My name is of no consequence. I have simply liquidated a debt I owed you. Here, take this!" He thrust the stock certificate and proxy hurriedly into the other's hand. "This gives you control. You have nothing more to fear from Poindexter."
"A debt? A debt?" said Gordon blankly, accepting the papers mechanically. "You owed me a debt?" He shook his head. "I do not know of any."
The Red Ledger Page 5