The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  The old man peered intently at his daughter, a full minute, then with a peculiar sinking at his heart, made shift to say:

  “About Wally, yes; you simply don’t understand. That’s all. Listen now, Kate, and be reasonable.”

  “I will, daddy. Only don’t ask me to marry a man I don’t and can’t love, ever, ever, so long as I live!”

  “That isn’t anything, my girl. Love isn’t all.”

  “It is, to me! Without it, marriage is only—” She shuddered. “No, daddy; a thousand times better for me to be an old maid, and—and all that, than give myself to him!”

  Flint set his teeth hard together.

  “Kate,” said he, his voice like wire, “now hear what I have to say! I want you fully to understand the character and desirability of Maxim Waldron!”

  Then in a cold, analytic voice, carefully, point by point, he analyzed the suitor, told of his wealth and power, his connections and his prospects, his culture, travel, political influence and world-wide reputation.

  “Furthermore,” he added, while Kate listened with an expression as cold as her father’s tone itself, “he is my partner. We are allied, in business. I hope we may be, too, in family. This man is one that any woman in the world might be proud to call her husband—proud, and glad! Love flies away, in a few brief months or years. Wealth and power and respect remain. And, with these, love too may come. Be strong, Kate! Be sensible! You are no child, but a grown woman. I shall not try to force you. All I want to do is show you your own best interest. Think this all over. Sleep on it. Tomorrow, let us talk of it again. For your own sake, and mine, do as you should, and let folly be averted. Renew the engagement. Hush the breath of gossip and scandal. Conform. Play the game! Do right—be strong!”

  She only shook her head; and now he saw the glister of tear-drops in those beautiful gray eyes.

  “Father,” cried she, standing up and holding out both hands to him. “Have mercy on me! I can’t—I can’t! My heart refuses and I cannot force it. All this—what is it to me?” She swept her hand at the glowing luxury around her. “Without love, what would such another home be to me? Worse than a prison-cell, I swear! A living death, to one like me! Barter and sale—cold calculation—oh, horrible prostitution, horrible, unspeakable!

  “Poverty, with love—yes, I would choose it. Without love, I never, never can give myself! Never, as long as I live!”

  The Billionaire, too, stood up. He was shaking, now, as in a palsy, striving to control his rage. His fingers twitched spasmodically, and his eyes burned like firecoals behind those gleaming lenses.

  Then, as he peered at her, he suddenly went even paler than before. Through his heart a stab of understanding had all at once gone home. The veils were lifted, and he knew the truth.

  Her manner in speaking of that unknown, wandering rescuer; the blush that had burned from breast to brow, when he had mentioned the fellow; her aversion for Waldron and her reticence in talking of the accident—all this, and more, now surged on Flint’s comprehension, flooding his mind with light—with light and with terrible anger.

  And, losing all control, he took a step or two, and raised his shaking hand. His big-knuckled finger, shaken in denunciation, was raised almost in her face. Choking, stammering, he cried:

  “Ah! Now I know! Now, now I understand you!”

  Terrified, she retreated toward the door of the music-room.

  “Father, father! What makes you look so?” she gasped. “Oh, you have never looked or spoken to me this way! What—what can it be?”

  “What can it be?” he mouthed at her. “You ask me, you hypocrite, when you well know?”

  Suddenly she faced him, stiffening into pride and hard rebellion.

  “No more of that, father!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing. “I am your daughter, but you can’t talk to me thus. You must not!”

  “Who—who are you to say ‘must not?’” he gibed, now wholly beside himself. “You—you, who love a vagabond, a tramp, scum and off-scouring of the gutter?”

  A strange, half-choking sound was his only answer. Then, with no word, she turned away from him, biting her lip lest she answer and betray herself.

  “Go!” he commanded, bloodless and quivering. “Go to your room. No more of this! We shall see, soon, who’s master of this house!”

  She was already gone.

  Old Flint stood there a moment, listening to her retreating footfalls on the parquetry of the vast hall. Then, as these died he turned and groped his way, as though blind, back to his chair, and fell in it, and covered his eyes with both his shaking hands.

  For a long time he sat there, anguished and crucified amid all that unmeaning luxury and splendor.

  At last he rose and with uncertain steps sought his own suite, above-stairs.

  Billionaire and world-master though he was, that night he knew his heart lay dead within him. He realized that all the fruits of life were Dead Sea fruits, withered to dust and ashes on his pale and quivering lips.

  CHAPTER XX.

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S PLOT.

  He was aroused from this bitter revery by a rapping at the door. Opening, he admitted Slawson, his valet. The servile one handed him a letter with a special-delivery stamp on it.

  “Excuse me for intruding, sir,” said Slawson, meekly smiling, “but I knew this was urgent.”

  “All right. Get out!” growled Flint. When the man was gone, he fortified himself with a couple of morphine tablets, and ripped the long envelope. It was from Slade, he knew, of the Cosmos Agency.

  With a rapid eye he glanced it over. Then uttering a sudden oath, he studied it carefully, under the electric bulb beside his dressing-table.

  “Gods and devils!” he ejaculated. “What next?”

  The letter read:

  142A Park Row, New York City,

  June 28, 1921.

  Isaac L. Flint, Esq.,

  Idle Hour, Englewood, N. J.

  Dear Sir:

  Reporting in the matter of the young man who rescued your daughter, in the recent accident, let me say I have discovered his identity and some important facts concerning him. I take the liberty of thinking that your intention of rewarding him, when found, will be somewhat modified by this information.

  This man’s name is Gabriel Armstrong, age 24. Occupation, expert electrical and chemical worker. A Socialist and labor agitator, of the most dangerous type, because intellectual and well-read. A man of considerable power and influence in Socialist and labor circles. Has been something of a wanderer. Is well known to union men and Socialists, all over the country. A powerful speaker, and resourceful.

  He was last employed at your testing-works on Staten Island. Discharged by your Mr. Herzog, about two weeks ago for having, I understand, been in possession of a certain red-covered note-book, which Mr. Herzog found in his pocket. This book is the same which you commissioned me to find, but which Mr. Herzog returned to you before I undertook the search for it. The inference is that this Armstrong is in possession of some private information about your work, which may make him even more dangerous. Herzog informs me that you and Mr. Waldron have had Armstrong blacklisted. But this seems of no importance to the man, as he is clever and can live anywhere, by casual labor and by working with the Socialists.

  Armstrong is now at Syracuse. He has been tramping the roads. Have had two of my operators enter his room at the Excelsior Lodging House and search, his effects, while he was taking a bath. Can find nothing to give me any legal means of proceeding against him. He has some ready money, so a vagrancy-charge will not hold. If you wish me to resort to extreme measures to “get” him, kindly give me carte blanche, and guarantee me protection in case of trouble. The job can be done, but it may be risky, in view of his influence and backing among the Socialists and labor people. Before proceeding further I want to know how far you will support me.

  Am having him shadowed. He cannot get away. As yet he suspects nothing. On receipt of your next, will take measures to put him away fo
r a few months. I know that, once he lands behind bars, his finish can be easily arranged.

  Trusting this information will prove satisfactory to you, and awaiting your further instructions, I am,

  Very truly yours,

  THE COSMOS AGENCY,

  Dillon F. Slade, Mgr.

  Old Flint read this extraordinary communication twice through, then, raising his head, growled in his shrunken throat, for all the world like a wild beast. His gold tooth, gleaming in the light, made his rictus of passion more venomous, more malevolent still.

  “The—the Hell-hound!” he stammered, his eyes narrowed with hate and rage. “Oh, wait! Wait till we land him! And this—this is the devil, the scum, that Kate, my daughter—”

  He could not finish; but, clutching at his sparse gray hair, fell to pacing the floor and mouthing execrations. Had he been of the sanguine manner of body, he must inevitably have suffered an apoplexy. Only his spare frame and bloodless type, due to the drug, saved his life, at that first shock of rage and hate.

  Grown calmer, presently, he took quick action. Seating himself at a desk in the corner of his bed-chamber—a desk where some of his most important private matters had been put through—he chose a sheet of blank paper, with no monogram, and wrote:

  Take immediate action. Will back you to the limit, and beyond. Ten thousand bonus if you land him behind bars inside a week. Stop at nothing, but get results. F.

  This he folded and put in an envelope which he addressed to Slade, and was about to seal, when another idea struck him.

  “By God!” he exclaimed, smiting the desk. “It won’t do to have this just some ordinary charge. The thing has got to be disgraceful, unpardonable, hideous!

  “There are two things to be considered now. One is to ‘get’ him, in connection with that red book of my plans—to head him off from making any possible trouble in the development of the Air Trust.

  “The other is—Kate! Nothing catches a woman, like martyrdom. If anything happens to this cur, and she suspects that I’ve done it, out of spite, all Hell can’t hold her. I know her well enough for that. No, this fellow has got to be put away on some charge that will absolutely and utterly ruin him, in her eyes, for good and all—that will blast and wreck him, forever, with her. Something that, when I tell her, will fill her with loathing and horror. Something that will cause a terrible and complete revulsion of feeling in her, and bring her back to Waldron, as to a strong refuge in time of trouble. Something that will crush and quell her, utterly cure her of those idiotic, school-girl notions of hers, and make her—as she should be—submissive to my will and my demands!”

  He pondered a moment, an ugly, crafty smile on those old lips of his; then, struck by sudden inspiration, laughed a dry, harsh laugh.

  “The very thing!” he exulted, with the mirth of a vulture that has just found a peculiarly revolting mass of carrion. “Fool that I was, not to have thought of it before!”

  Hastily he withdrew the letter from the envelope, opened it, and with eager hand wrote three short sentences. He read these over, nodded approval, and this time sealed and addressed the letter. Then he pushed an electric button over the desk.

  “Have this letter carried to this address at once,” he commanded Slawson. “Mr. Dillon Slade, 432 Highland Avenue, Rutherford, N. J. See? Special delivery won’t do. Have Sanders take it at once, in the racer. No answer required. And after you’ve seen it start on its way, come back here. I want to go to bed.”

  “Yes, sir. All right, sir,” the valet bowed as he took the letter and departed.

  Ten minutes later, he was back again, helping old Flint undress.

  Long after the Billionaire was in bed, in the big, luxurious room, with its windows open toward the river—the room guarded all night by armed men in the house and on the lawn outside—he lay there thinking of his plot, chuckling to himself over its infernal cunning, and filled with joy at the prospects now opening out ahead of him.

  “Two birds with one stone, this time, for sure,” he pondered. “Ha! They’ll try to beat old Isaac Flint at this or any other game, will they? Man or woman, I don’t care which, they’ll never get away with it—never, so long as life and breath remain in me!”

  Then, soothed by these happy thoughts, and by a somewhat increased dosage of his drug, the Billionaire gradually and contentedly fell asleep, to dream of victory, and vengeance, and power.

  Not in weeks had he slumbered so peacefully.

  But for many hours after her father was asleep, Catherine sat at her window, in a silk kimono, and with fevered pulses and dry eyes, with throbbing heart and leaping pulses, thought long thoughts.

  Sleepless she sat there, counting the hours tolled from the church-spire in the town, below.

  Morning still found her at the window, her brain afire, her heart laid desolate and waste by the consuming struggle which, that night, had swept and ravaged it.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  GABRIEL, GOOD SAMARITAN.

  On the evening of July third, a week later, Gabriel Armstrong found himself at Rochester, having tramped the hundred miles from Syracuse, by easy stages. During this week, old Flint took good care not to reopen the subject of the break with Waldron; and his daughter, too, avoided it. They two were apparently at an impasse regarding it. But Flint inwardly rejoiced, knowing full well the plot now under way. And though Waldron urged him to take some further action and force the issue, Flint bade him hold his peace, and wait, telling him all would yet be well.

  Outwardly calmer, the old man was raging, within, more and ever more bitterly, against Armstrong. On July first, Slade had reported in person that his operators who were trailing the quarry had—in the night—discovered in one of his pockets a maple leaf wrapped in a fine linen handkerchief marked “C. J. F.” Flint, recognizing his daughter’s initials, well-nigh burst a blood-vessel for wrath. But he instructed Slade not to have the handkerchief abstracted from Armstrong’s possession. By no sign or hint must the victim be made aware that he was being spied upon. When the final blow should fall, then (reflected the Billionaire, with devilish satisfaction) all scores would be paid in full, and more than paid.

  July third, then, found Gabriel at Rochester, now seventy-five or eighty miles from Niagara Falls, his goal, where—he had already heard—ground was being actually broken for the huge new power plant of which he alone, of all outsiders, understood the meaning. Gabriel counted on spending the Fourth at Rochester where a Socialist picnic and celebration had been arranged. Ordinarily, he would have taken part in the work and volunteered as a speaker, but now, anxious to keep out of sight, he counted merely on forming one of the crowd. There could be little danger, thought he, in such a mass. Despite the recent stringent censorship and military rule of the district by the new Mounted Police, a huge gathering was expected. The big railway and lake-traffic strikes, both recently lost, had produced keen resentment, and, as political and economic power had been narrowed here, as all over the country, in these last few months of on-sweeping capitalist domination, the Socialist movement had been growing ever more and more swiftly.

  “It will be worth seeing,” thought Gabriel, as he stood outside the lodging-house where he had taken a room for the night. The workers are surely awakening, at last. The spirit I’ve been meeting, lately, is uglier and more determined than anything I ever used to find, a year or two ago. It seems to me, if conditions are like this all over the country, the safety-valve is about ready to pop, and the masters had better look out, or some of them are going to land in Hell!

  “Yes, I’ll stop over here, one day, and look and listen. Sorry I can’t take part, but I mustn’t. My game, now, is to travel underground as it were. I’ve got a bigger job in view than soap-boxing, just now!”

  He ate a simple supper at an “Owl” lunch-cart, totally unaware that, across the street, a couple of Cosmos men were waiting for him to come out. And, after this, buying a Socialist paper, he strolled into Evans Park to sit and read, a while, by the red light of
the descending sun.

  Here he remained till dark, smoking his briar, watching the dirty, ragged children of the wretched wage-slaves at play; observing the exploited men and women on the park-benches, as they sought a little fresh air and respite from toil; and pondering the problems that still lay before him. At times—often indeed—his thoughts wandered to the maple-grove and the old sugar-house, far away on the Hudson. Memories of the girl would not be banished, nor longings for her. Who she might be, he still knew not. Unwilling to learn, he had refrained from looking up the number he had copied from the plate of the wrecked machine. He had even abstained from reading the papers, a few days, lest he might see some account of the accident. A strange kind of unwillingness to know the woman’s name possessed him—a feeling that, if he positively identified her as one of some famous clan of robbers and exploiters, he could no longer cherish her memory or love the thought of how they two had, for an hour, sat together and talked and been good, honest friends.

  “No,” he murmured to himself, “it’s better this way—just to recall her as a girl in need, a girl who let me help her, a girl I can always remember with kind thoughts, as long as I live!”

  From his pocket he took the little handkerchief, which wrapped the leaf, once part of her bed. A faint, elusive scent still hung about it—something of her, still it seemed. He closed his eyes, there on the hard park bench, and let his fancies rove whither they would; and for a time it seemed to him a wondrous peace possessed him.

  “If it could only have been,” he murmured, at last. “If only it could be!”

  Then suddenly urged by a realization of the hopelessness of it all, he stood up, pocketed the souvenirs of her again, and walked away in the dusk; away, through the park; away, at random, through squalid, ugly streets, where the first electric-lights were just beginning to flare; where children swarmed in the close heat, wallowing along the gutters, dodging teams and cars, as they essayed to play, setting off a few premature firecrackers and mocking the police—all in all, leading the ugly, unnatural, destructive life of all children of the city proletariat.