XIX
A Reckoning and a Hold-Up
I imagine it is only in fiction that a man is able to live a doublelife successfully to the grand climax. I failed because the mountingfortunes of the Little Clean-Up, my share of which was as yet merelygiving me money to squander on the extravagant whims and caprices ofAgatha Geddis, were making all three of us, Gifford, Barrett andmyself, marked men.
One incident of the marking timed itself in one of my trips to Denver.I had breakfasted at the Brown and was leaving my room-key with theclerk when I ran up against the plain-clothes man who had arrested meon the day of my arrival as a runaway. I should have passed himwithout recognition, as a matter of course, but he stopped and accostedme.
"Carson's my name," he said, offering me his hand and showing hisconcealed badge in one and the same motion. Then: "You'll excuse mefor butting in, Mr. Bertrand, but there is something you ought to know.You've got a double kicking around here somewhere; a fellow who hasswiped your name and looks just a little like you. He's a crook, allright, and we've got his thumb-print and his 'mug' in the headquartersrecords. I ran across his dope the other day in the blotter, andthought the next time I saw you I'd give you a tip. You never can tellwhat these slick 'aliases' 'll do. He might be following you up to geta graft out of you. That's done, every day, you know."
Naturally, there was nothing to do but to thank the purblind citydetective, to press a bank-note into his hand, and to beg him to be onthe lookout for this dangerous "double" of mine. But the incidentserved to show what the bonanza-fed publicity campaign was doing for us.
Gifford, grubbing in the various levels of the mine, had the mostimmunity; the newspaper reporters let him measurably alone. Butneither Barrett nor I could dodge the spotlight. Every move we madewas blazoned in type, and I lived in daily fear of the moment when someenterprising newspaper man would begin to make copy of the theaterparties and road-house rides and midnight champagne suppers.
I knew that the blow had fallen one morning when Phineas Everton cameunannounced into my private office and asked me to send thestenographer away. The _debacle_ had arrived, and I was no more readyto meet it than any other spendthrift of good repute caught red-handedwould have been.
"I think you can guess pretty well what I have come to say, Bertrand,"Everton said, after the door had closed behind the outgoing shorthandman. "I have been putting it off in the hope that your own sense ofthe fitness of things would come to the rescue. I may be old-fashionedand out of touch with the times and the manners of the new generation,but I can't forget that I am a father, or that common decency still hasits demands."
Out of the depths of my humiliation there emerged, full-grown, a hugerespect for this quiet-eyed ex-schoolmaster who, for the few of us whoknew him, lived the life of a studious recluse among his technicalmechanisms in the laboratory. He was a salaried man, and I was one ofhis three employers. That he was able to ignore completely thebusiness relation was a mark of the man.
He waited for his reply but I had none to make. After a time he wenton, without heat, but equally without regard for anything but thedespicable fact.
"For quite a long time, if I am informed correctly, you have beenassociating in Denver with a set of people who, whatever else may besaid about them, are not people with whom my daughter would care toassociate. More than this, you have allowed your name to becomecoupled with that of a woman whose reputation, past and present, is notaltogether of the best. Tell me if I am accusing you wrongfully."
"You are not," I admitted.
"I have been waiting and postponing this talk in the hope that youwould realize that you are not doing Polly fair justice. Like mostAmerican fathers, I am not supposed to know how matters stand betweenyou, and I deal only with the facts as they appear to an onlooker. Thehome has been open to you, and you have made such use of your welcomeas to lead others to believe that you are Polly's lover."
"I am," I asserted.
"Ah," he said; "that clears the ground admirably. I like you,Bertrand, and I shall be glad to hear your defense, if you have any."
What could I say? Driven thus into a corner, I could only protest,rather incoherently, that I loved Polly, and that, in othercircumstances, I should long since have asked her to be my wife.
"The 'circumstances' are connected with Miss Geddis?" he askedpointedly.
"Only incidentally. Considered for herself, Miss Geddis is a woman forwhom any self-respecting man could have little regard."
For the first time in the interview the ex-schoolmaster's mild eyesgrew hard.
"Then I am to infer that she has a hold of some sort upon you?"
"She has," I rejoined shortly.
"That simplifies matters still more," he averred, with as near anapproach to severity as one of his characteristics could compass. "Idon't wish to make or meddle to the extent of telling Polly what I haveheard and what you have admitted. But in justice to her and to me, youshould be man enough to stay away from the house and let Polly alone.Am I unreasonable?"
"Not in the least. You might go much farther and still be blameless.I have no valid excuse to offer, but if I should say that there areextenuating circumstances----"
He raised a thin hand in protest.
"Let us leave it at the point at which there will be the leastill-feeling," he cut in; and from that he switched without preface to adiscussion of the varying ore values in a newly opened adit of the mine.
When he was gone I went into Barrett's room. As I have intimated, oneof the troubles of mine-owning--if the mine be a producer--is to holdthe smelter people in line. Like other Cripple Creek property owners,we had been up against the high costs of reduction almost from thefirst, and we were constantly sending test consignments of our ore tovarious smelters throughout the country, and even to Europe, in orderto obtain checking data.
"About that car-load of Number Three ore we are sending to Falkenheimin California," I said to Barrett. "I'm going to break away and gowith it if you have no objections."
Barrett looked up quickly.
"I think that is a wise move, Jimmie; a very wise move," he saidgravely; and this meant that he, too, had been reading the Denvernewspapers. Then he added: "We can get along all right without you,for awhile, and you may stay as long as you like. When will you go?"
"To-day; on the afternoon train."
"Straight west?--or by way of Denver?"
"Straight west, over the Midland, I guess."
This is what I said, and it is what I meant to do when I went back tomy own office to set things in order for the long absence--for I fullymeant it to be long. My office duties were not complicated, and thefew things to be attended to were soon out of the way. One of theletters to be written was one that I did not dictate to thestenographer. It was to the Reverend John Whitley, enclosing a draftto be forwarded to my sister in Glendale. Ever since he had served mein the matter of returning Horace Barton's pocketbook, I had used himas an intermediary for communicating, money-wise, with my people. Hehad kept my secret, and was still keeping it.
The business affairs despatched, I crossed to the hotel to pack acouple of suit-cases. All these preliminary preparations included noword or line to Polly. I promised myself that I should write her whenit was all over. The thing to be done now and first was to drop out asunostentatiously as possible. So ran the well-considered intention.But when I went down to an early luncheon there was a telegram awaitingme. It was from Agatha Geddis, and its wording was a curt mandate."Expect you on afternoon train. Don't fail."
During the half-hour which remained before train-time I fought thewretched battle all over again, back and forth and up and down until mybrain reeled. At the end there was a shifty compromise. I was stillfully determined to drop out and go to California; at one stroke tobreak with Polly Everton, and to put myself beyond the reach of thewoman with claws; but I weakly decided to go by way of Denver, takingthe night train west from the capital city over the Union Pacific
. Itwas a cowardly expedient, prompted wholly by the old, sharp-toothedfear of consequences if I should fall to obey the wire summons, and Iknew it. I offer nothing in extenuation.
Agatha met me at the Denver Union Station, and at her suggestion wewent together to dinner at the Brown Palace. I did not know untillater why she had sent for me, or why she chose a particular table inthe dining-room, or why she went to pieces--figurativelyspeaking--when, at the serving of the dessert, a note was handed her.
After that, I should have said that she had been drinking too muchchampagne, if I had not known better.
"I want you to go with me up to my suite, Bertie; I've moved to thehotel," she said hurriedly as we were leaving the dining-room.
If I went reluctantly it was not owing to any new-born squeamishness.Heaven knows, I had been compromised with her too many times to caregreatly for anything that could be added now. In the sitting-room ofher private suite she punched the light switch and came to sit on thearm of my chair. If she had put an arm around my neck, as she did nowand then when the wine was in and what few scruples she had were pushedaside, I think I should have strangled her.
"You are going to be awfully sweet to me to-night, Bertie," she began,with honey on her tongue. "You are going to be my good angel. I needa lot of money, and I want you to be nice and get it for me."
"No," I refused briefly. "You've bled me enough."
"Just this one more time, Boy," she coaxed. "I've simply _got_ to haveit, you know."
"Why don't you get it from your father?"
"He has quit," she said, with a toss of the shapely head. "Besides,you are so much easier."
"How much do you want, this time?"
She named a sum which was a fair measure of my entire checking accountin the Cripple Creek bank; no small amount, this, though by agreementGifford, Barrett and I had set aside a liberal portion of the mineearnings as undivided profits. When I hesitated, fairly staggered bythe enormity of her demand, she added: "Don't tell me you haven't gotit; I know you have. You don't spend anything except the little youdole out for me."
"If I have that much, I am not carrying it around with me."
"I didn't suppose you carried it in your pocket. But you are wellknown here in Denver, and you can get your checks cashed at any hour ofthe day or night, if you go to the right places. You've done itbefore."
I was desperate enough to be half crazed. Not content with making melose the love of the one woman in the world, she was preparing to robme like a merciless highwayman.
"Nothing for nothing, the world over," I said, between set teeth. "Imean to have the worth of my money, this time."
With a quick twist on the arm of the chair she leaned over and put hercheek against mine. "There are others," she laughed softly, "but therehas never been a day or an hour when you couldn't make them wait,Bertie, dear." And then: "No; I haven't been drinking."
"You will give me what I want, if I will pay the price?" I demanded.
"You heard what I said," she whispered.
I made her sit up and tried to face her.
"This is what I want. Four years ago you and your father sent me toprison for a crime that I didn't commit. Go over to that table andwrite and sign me my clearance--tell the bald truth and sign your nameto it--and you shall have your money."
In a flash she slipped from her place on the arm of the chair and stoodbefore me transformed into a flaming incarnation of vindictive rage.In spite of the pace she had been keeping she was still very beautiful,and her anger served to heighten that physical charm which was thekeynote of her power over men.
"_Oh_!" she panted; "so _that_ was what you were willing to pay for!You want a bill of health so you can go back to that little hussy inCripple Creek! Listen to me, Bert Weyburn: you've broken the lastthread. I could kill you if you couldn't serve my turn better alivethan dead! _I want that money_. If you don't bring it here to me byten o'clock, the Denver police are going to find out that you, thewealthy third partner in the Little Clean-Up, are the man theyphotographed nearly a year ago, the man whose thumb-print they took,the man who is wanted as an escaped convict who has broken hisparole--No, don't speak; let me finish. For the money you are going tobring me, I'll keep still--to the police. But for the slap you've justgiven me. . . . Did you ever read that line of Congreve's about awoman scorned? You've had your last little love-scene with PollyEverton!"
I'll tell it all. This time the murder demon proved too strong for me.It was a sheer madman who sprang at her out of the depths of thearm-chair and bent her back over the little oak writing-table with hishands at her throat. She was not womanly enough to scream; instead,she fought silently and with the strength and cunning of mortal fear.Even as my fingers clutched at her for the strangling hold she twistedherself free and put the breadth of the table between us; then I foundmyself looking into the muzzle of a small silver-mounted revolver.
"You fool!" she gasped. "Do you think I would take any chances withyou? If you should kill me, the axe would fall and find your neck,just the same! I put it in a letter to the chief of police. Get methat money before ten o'clock if you want me to stop the letter!"
I was beaten, this time not by fear of her or what she could do, but bythe crushing loss I had suffered in those few mad moments. I had donethe thing that no man may do and still claim that he has a single dropof gentle blood in his veins; I had laid my hands in violence upon awoman, and with murder in my heart.
Convinced now that there was no deeper depth of degradation to which Icould sink, I set about the task she had given me, laboring through itlike a man in a dream. To gather up such a huge sum of money afterbanking hours was well nigh impossible; but I compassed the end bychartering a cab and going to anybody and everybody who could by anypossibility cash my checks, leaving a disgraceful trail of the bankpaper in dives and gambling dens and night resorts withoutnumber--driven to this because all respectable sources were closed atthat time in the evening.
Returning to the hotel only a few minutes before the critical hour, Iwent directly to her rooms, carrying the money in a small hand-bag thatI had bought for the purpose. I found her waiting for me, gowned andhatted as if for a journey. She was standing before a mirror, dabbingher neck with a powder-puff--histronic to the last; she was showing mehow she had to resort to this to cover up the marks of my assault. Ihave failed in my picture of her if I have not portrayed her as a womanof moods and lightning changes. There was no trace of the latevolcanic outburst in her manner when she greeted me and handed me asealed and stamped envelope addressed to the Denver chief of police.
"You got the money?" she said quietly. "I knew you would." And thenwith a sudden passion: "Oh, Bertie! if you weren't such a cold-bloodedfish of a man!--but never mind; it's too late now."
I placed the small hand-bag on the table, pocketed the fateful letter,and backed toward the door. "If there is nothing else," I said.
"Oh, but there is!" she put in quickly. "I want you to get a cab andtake me to the station. I'm leaving for California. Don't you want togo with me?"
"God forbid!" I exclaimed, and it came out of a full heart. Then Iwent down to order the cab.
She was curiously silent on the short drive down Seventeenth Street tothe Union Station, sitting with the little hand-bag on her knees andbreathing as they say the Australian pearl fishers breathe beforetaking the deep-sea dive. In the station she stood at a window in thewomen's room and waited while I purchased her ticket for San Franciscoand paid for the sleeper section which had evidently been reserved sometime in advance.
It is perhaps needless to say that I did not buy my own Californiaticket at the same time, though the train she was taking was the one Ihad planned to take. My journey could be postponed; and in the lightof what had happened, and what was now happening, I was beginning tounderstand that my runaway trip to the Pacific Coast was no longernecessary, on one account, at least. But in any event, wild horsescouldn't have dragged me aboard of th
e same train with Agatha Geddis.
She seemed strangely perturbed when I went to her with the tickets, andshe made no move to leave the window.
"Your train is ready," I told her, as she thrust the ticket envelopeinto the bosom of her gown.
"Wait!" she commanded; then she turned back to the window which lookedout upon the cab rank.
There were cabs coming and going constantly, and I didn't know untilafterward what she saw that made her eyes light up and the blood surgeinto her cheeks.
"Now I'm ready," she announced quickly. "Put me on the sleeper."
I took her through the gates and at the gate-man's halting of us I sawthat we were followed.
Our shadow was an alert, dapper young man who wore glasses, and Iremembered having seen him, both at the ticket window and in thewomen's room. Outside of the gates he confirmed my suspicion bytrailing us to the steps of the sleeping-car.
Even then I didn't suspect what was going on. While the sleeping-carconductor was examining the tickets and taking the section number I sawthe young man with the spectacles making a hurried reconnaissance ofthe car by walking back and forth beside it and peering curiously inthrough the lighted windows. Then I missed him for a minute or twountil he came running from the gates with a railroad ticket in his hand.
"I'm going to Cheyenne, and I want a berth in this car," he told thePullman conductor, "They said they couldn't sell me one at theoffice--that you had the diagram."
The conductor looked over his list. "Nothing doing," he returned."All sold out."
"That's all right," snapped the young man; "I'll take my chance sittingup." With that, he climbed aboard and disappeared in the car.
All this time we had been waiting for the conductor to return mycompanion's tickets. When he did so, I helped her up the steps. Theair-brakes were sighing the starting signal, and she turned in thelighted vestibule and blew me a kiss.
"Good-by, Bertie, dear," I heard her say. "Be a good boy, and give mylove to Little Brown-Eyes." Then, as if to prove the immortal sayingthat there is no such thing as ultimate total depravity in the humanatom, she leaned over to whisper the parting word: "Make good with herif you can, and want to, Bertie: I didn't mean it when I said I'd spoilyour chances. Good-night and good-by." And with that the train movedoff and she was gone.
I slept late in my room at the hotel the next morning, waking with avague sense of inexpressible relief, which was quickly followed by theemotions which may come to a man regaining consciousness after he hasbeen sandbagged and robbed. At table in the breakfast-room the boybrought me a morning paper. On the first page, in screaming headlines,I saw the complete explanation of the mysteries of the previousevening. Agatha Geddis had eloped with a married man notably prominentin social and business circles. The newspaper had two reliable sourcesof information. The deserted wife had been interviewed, and the guiltypair had been followed on the train by a reporter.
I laid the paper aside and stared out of the breakfast-room window likea man awakening from a horrid dream. Once again the submerging wave ofrealization and relief rushed over me. Truly, I had been held up androbbed; had in fact innocently financed this city-shaking elopement.But, so far as Agatha Geddis's banishment from Denver and Coloradocould accomplish it, I was once more a free man.
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