The Midnight Passenger by Richard Henry Savage
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Richard Henry Savage >> The Midnight Passenger
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"In your position you should have already married and settled down,"
resolutely contended Witherspoon. "Besides, you'll lose Ferris
soon. He's slated to marry Alice Worthington, I hear."
The smoking-table between them went over with a crash as Clayton
sprang to his feet.
"Impossible!" cried the cashier. "Ferris never told me anything of
it."
"Certainly not," calmly replied Jack Witherspoon, as Clayton busied
himself with the wreck and ruin. "It's not in his game to do anything
but hoodwink you. What did he tell you now of this Western trip?"
Clayton frankly unbosomed himself to his visitor, pacing up and
down in a sudden indignation.
"All that story of Miss Worthington's illness is mere moonshine,"
confidently answered the Western lawyer. "Hugh Worthington is one
of the coldest business calculators in America."
"Our road and its allies are naturally inside of all the secrets
of the big cattle trust. I have watched the old Croesus' career for
years. It's only since I got into possession of the law business
of this branching-out railroad that I have been able to fathom old
Worthington's designs.
"He has used young Ferris for years to quietly gather in all the
loose stock of his unsuspicious partners. You may not know that
Arthur Ferris is the favorite nephew of Senator Durham, Chairman
of the Committee on Interstate Commerce.
"This Western visit of old Worthington's is only a betrothal trip
for Ferris and Miss Alice. The Senator and his friends will put
up the legislation.
"Worthington is craftily frightening out all his Western partners
and Mr. Arthur Ferris will bob up at the annual election with a
stack of proxies and a power of attorney from Worthington.
"The new deal will follow the annual election, old Hugh captures
the whole concern, Mr. Ferris will be not only Hugh's son-in-law
but the new managing vice-president in the East. The trick will
double old Hugh's fortune. Once husband of the old miser's only
child, he can be trusted to guard his own. So, look out for yourself!"
Clayton's eyes burned with a sudden anger.
"You asked me why I did not marry," he fiercely cried. "I have
a fair salary. True; but at a word, on a single telegram from old
Hugh, out I go. Dropped, cast off like a squeezed lemon." Clayton's
eyes gleamed in a sudden rage.
"Have you saved much?" demanded his friend. Clayton shook his
head. "I have a couple of thousand in bank, that's all."
"Then you are dependent upon this old skinflint's bounty," answered
the lawyer, "for you have no profession, no backing, no capital.
He wished to leave you helpless in his hands; I see it all. The
crafty old fox! To watch you during your boyhood, to railroad you
away from Michigan, and to hoodwink you as to your possible rights.
Never mind, old man; I will be back in three months, and if you
will confide in me, we may frighten a good sum out of Worthington.
"But you must let this annual election go on undisturbed. Smile
and keep your counsel. Let this sleek ferret Ferris, go on and marry
the girl, for I, alone, can aid you. Worthington fears me. I know
too much of his secret operations.
"When I get you a slice of your lost patrimony, you can break loose,
find yourself a fitting mate, and lead the life of a man, and not
a galley-slave. Oh! It has been a beautifully worked scheme. The
parchment-faced old wretch!"
"What do you mean? Explain yourself! Have I been tricked like a
dog my whole life?" cried Randall Clayton, the hidden espionage
and Ferris' duplicity returning to arouse him into a glow of rage.
"I mean only this," coolly answered Jack Witherspoon, "our railroad
has just agreed to pay Hugh Worthington two millions of dollars for
two hundred acres of outlying city lands, to be used as our lumber
and ore and stock-handling depots. The lake commerce has increased
a thousand fold.
"I had still supposed it was only railroad rivalry which caused our
people to keep the purchase secret and to record only a ninety-nine
year lease, when they had Hugh Worthington's guarantee deed in
their possession.
"He takes the whole purchase price out in freights, paid in to him
by your cattle trust, and with this same money he buys the majority
of the outlying stock."
"How does this touch me?" cried the now thoroughly angered Clayton.
"Because your father deeded all the real estate holdings of Clayton
& Worthington to his partner before the old trouble came on. Only
this, a then valueless, tract was forgotten.
"In honor and equity you are entitled to one-half as Everett
Clayton's heir."
The young cashier clenched his fists in anguish, as Witherspoon
sadly said: "But he has had twenty-one years' unbroken possession.
You were of age seven years ago, and he allowed it to be sold
for taxes every year, and has also secretly bought up all the tax
titles. It is too late. But wait, keep silent, and trust to me."
CHAPTER III.
IN MAGDAL'S PHARMACY.
Randall Clayton and his friend heard the "chimes at midnight" after
the disquieting disclosures. Witherspoon finally allayed Clayton's
sudden distrust. The Detroit lawyer succeeded in lamely explaining
his own delay in making the fraud known.
"You see, Randall," he finally said at parting for the night, "I
must live my life in Detroit under the heel of these great operators.
"I intended to take this long hidden matter up on my return from
this trip, but I have been carried on, into a premature confidence.
"Just take care of yourself and bide your time! I want Worthington
to consummate the whole deal. I wish the marriage and the election
to take place undisturbed by clamor. For Worthington has put a
fancy price on the land. It is to-day only worth a million at market
rates. We, however, get immediate possession and pay in hauling,
but the real extra million comes out of the pockets of the Cattle
Trust, for as President, Worthington sells his own land really to
the Cattle Company for two million dollars.
"He has duties as a Trustee to all the stockholders of the cattle
association. When all is over, when Ferris is his son-in-law,
I will have Senator Durham connected with this matter. The young
couple will set up in royal style.
"I will then open out on Hugh Worthington, lay all the uncontested
facts before him, and bring him to bay! I will soon squeeze out of
him a fortune for you and also one for me. I only want twenty-five
per cent. of the recovery. That will be a guarantee against my
losing my place as railroad attorney. But old Hugh will never dare
to "squeal." He wants social quiet, and he does not care to have
his toga of respectability ripped up."
"Your motive?" agnostically demanded Clayton. I am poor, friendless;
you will risk much in this."
"There's a sweet little dark-eyed French-descended angel in
Detroit, whom I will then marry at once," smilingly answered Jack
Witherspoon, "that is, as soon as Papa Worthington has given me the
sinking fund. Any college man is a fool now who marries in these
days unless he has the assured income on the principal of a quarter
of a million."
"Money is the one thing, my boy," sighed Jack. "Without it, Venus
herself, ever young and ever fair, would be a millstone around
any man's neck, in these later days. Great God! How you missed it!
If I had only stumbled on this discovery sooner. You could have
antedated Ferris' crafty game.
"You could have easily married Alice. She has often told my Francine
that you were the noblest of men."
But the moody Randall Clayton had tired already of hearing Miss
Francine Delacroix's praises in divers keys.
"Poor Little Sister," muttered Randall Clayton. "Traded off
to a senator's nephew, for an illicit government pull. Damn all
treachery!" he growled, as he stalked off to bed.
He felt that he was powerless in his calculating friend's hands,
and yet, the possibilities of a coming future swept him from his
feet. He wanted money now but for one purpose--revenge upon Arthur
Ferris.
"Of course," he growled, "the dog knew the whole deal, and has
been a secret guardian over me, in the interest of the thief who
has robbed my father's grave. Poor, dear old Dad! If he had only
remembered these cheap lands and set them aside for me. It was
the only real estate holding forgotten in the hard-driven bargain
which vastly enriched old Hugh. But old Hugh shall pay; yes, to
the last farthing. I will lock up my heart. I will circumvent his
spies, and then await my own hour of triumph. It will be a fight
to the finish and no quarter asked or given. I swear it!"
A thorough confidence was reestablished between the two collegians
before the coming of Monday morning took Randall Clayton back
to his money mill. His first impulse to give up the apartment had
returned to him. He now loathed the memory of Arthur Ferris as the
slimy snake in the grass; and yet he resisted his desire to shove
all the traitor's traps into a storage warehouse.
"Be ruled by me, Randall," urged Jack Witherspoon, as he set out
on Monday morning for his last business conferences with the New
York end of his railroad employers.
"I will surely make Hugh give up the million. You shall have your
three-quarters, for it would be ruin to Worthington to drag out
his relations with Durham."
"Play the honest Iago. Keep your counsel. Dismiss this from you
mind. Make love to some pretty girl, amuse yourself. Do anything
but drink or gamble. Keep up a jolly mien. Go in to the summer
pleasures a little. It will throw these two crafty ones off their
guard. The weeks will soon roll around. I will cable you of my
return.
"Then we will jointly descend upon this new combination of
Worthington, Durham, and Ferris. But I must first be in Detroit,
back in my impregnable railroad law fortress. Then, at my nod,
he settles or down come the gates of Gaza on him! Remember that
you have no one in your matrimonial eye. I want to win Francine
Delacroix's home from these robbers. And then install the little
dainty therein. I will go in and win for you!"
The college comrades had now unravelled all the past, and their
Sunday outing had after all been a jolly one. Thoroughly reassured,
Clayton had given Jack Witherspoon his whole history, and the future
campaign was laid out in all its details.
"As for these Fidelity Company men," said Jack, "you can gjve them
the go by in only frequenting secluded places.
"As long as you avoid the public resorts of New York, they cannot
reach you. But keep your eyes always open. And, remember, secrecy
above all. If Hugh Worthington should divine our plan to unveil
his devilment, you might be the victim of some 'strange accident!'
"Money has a long arm in these days," ominously said the lawyer,
"and, it can strike with remorseless power. So, keep on here, but
look out for yourself.
"I shall not come back to your rooms. I will send for my luggage;
go down to the Astor House, and you must not be seen in the streets
with me. I want Worthington to think that I have dug up his villainy
all alone.
"Otherwise you would suffer in some strange way.
"When I open my battery, you must publicly resign your place by a
simple telegram. And then jump out of New York to some secret haunt
until I telegraph you to come to Detroit and make your deeds for
the stolen property."
Clayton saw the cogency of his friend's reasoning, and, after
agreeing to meet Witherspoon in the Astor Rotunda each evening until
the sailing of the "Fuerst Bismarck," he proceeded to the office
to take up the white man's burden.
Swinging down Fourteenth Street from Broadway, he paused once more
to look at the lovely Danube scene smiling out from the window of
the Newport Art Gallery.
It was an exquisite artist proof and bore the name of the Viennese
artist and a pencilled address. "I'll buy it at once," thought the
man whose memory now brought back that lovely, wistful face.
As his foot was on the doorstep he paused. "No! It may bring her
back to me! When I go out to the bank I can step in and secure it.
It can remain on exhibition in the window for a few days. She may
be there again to-day, who knows?"
He was under the spell of the unknown beauty again, as he absently
exclaimed, "Pardon me!" when he rudely jostled a sedate-looking
gentleman emerging from the gallery. "My fault, sir," courteously
remarked Mr. Fritz Braun, beaming benevolently through his blue
glass eye screens.
The pharmacist turned and raised a warning finger as Clayton hastened
away to resume his morning duties.
In the doorway, following Braun's mouse-colored overcoat, as he
mingled with the "madding crowd," stood Mr. Adolph Lilienthal, the
proprietor of the "Art Emporium."
Briskly rubbing his hands, the art dealer murmured "Vot devilment
is Fritz up to, now?"
He was only one of the many comrades in evil of the Sixth Avenue
chemist, for Mr. Lilienthal boasted a "private view" room, in rear
of his pretentious "Art Gallery," where many conveniently arranged
interviews habitually took place.
Not one in one hundred of his patrons knew the secret of that room
with its cosy divans and a private entrance to the stairway of an
adjoining fashionable photograph gallery.
But the dealers in the "queer," the handlers of lottery tickets,
the pool-sellers, the oily green-goods man, and many a velvet-voiced,
silken clad Delilah knew the pathway to that inner room.
Benevolent-looking old capitalists with gold-rimmed spectacles;
soft-eyed sirens of the Four Hundred, and the splendid Aspasias of
the apartment-house clique, brisk clubmen, and the reckless jeunesse
doree, were all in the secret of the "private view" rooms.
A meek, furtive cat-like connoisseur was Mr. Adolph Lilienthal,
and the "diamond coterie" of smugglers often hastily exchanged in
the safe retirement of the "art parlors" packages of glittering
gems all innocent of Uncle Sam's imposts. The "Newport Art Gallery"
was a gem, a very gem in itself and judiciously protected.
Mr. Fritz Braun enjoyed the crystalline spring air as he hastened
along to catch his avenue car. There was a gleam of triumph behind
the blue shields as he murmured, "If she only plays her part as I
laid it down yesterday, he is a hooked fish, sure enough."
Randall Clayton sat for an hour in his office, dispatching his
accumulated two-days' mail, all unobservant of the cat-like tread
of Einstein, the office boy, moving in and out. He lingered in a
gloomy reverie, after checking up his correspondence, and a half
hour's sharp dictations, absorbed in the cautious letter of Hugh
Worthington, Esq., the man who had robbed him of his birthright.
It was in vain that he tried to be cool. Every drop of blood in
his heart now throbbed through his pulses in an eager unrest. He
had suddenly lost faith in all men. "Wait, only wait," he murmured,
and then started up as Einstein touched his arm.
"Mr. Somers has the deposits all ready, now, sir. It's a quarter
of twelve," the boy remarked, with a veiled scrutiny of the
restless-eyed cashier. Clayton sprang to his feet and then, with
lightning rapidity, packed up the treasure which the old accountant
had gathered out of the morning mail, and received from the prompt
and timorous debtors fearful of having their "credit cut."
He was fifteen minutes late as he stepped out upon Fourteenth Street,
valise in hand and the ready pistol once more in his pocket. The
day's "haul" was rich in checks and light in cash, but the total
was a considerable fortune.
"Serve the old brute right if I'd bolt some day with a good stake,"
wrathfully murmured Clayton. "He would be in for fifty thousand
dollars' bond! Damn his famed benevolence. He wished to anchor me
here for life, and, so cover his tracks. He might even put up a
fancied theft on me if I quarrel. I'll be out of this slavery the
very moment that Jack opens his guns. And he shall pay the last
score, to the last stiver!"
In a vain effort at self deception Randall Clayton avoided glancing
at the art window where he had seen the mysterious beauty until
he was abreast of it. But his beating heart told him already that
she was not there. He paused a moment, once more to feast his eyes
upon the picture which he proposed to order reserved for him on
his return from the Astor Place Bank. It was gone!
He started back in surprise as he saw the place of honor vacated.
There was only a mawkish color reprint of "Mary Stuart and Rizzio"
parading its faded romance in the show window. Resolutely entering,
he quickly called for the proprietor.
In his momentary excitement, Clayton failed to notice the sly twinkle
of Mr. Adolph Lilienthal's crow-footed eyes. "You had a beautiful
artist proof of a Hungarian scene in your window this morning,"
began Clayton.
"Sold, sir; you are but a few moments too late," blandly replied
Lilienthal, in his best manner. "We are just packing it up for a
lady. An exquisite thing; sorry I cannot replace it, sir," remarked
the vendor, "Show you anything else?"
"You could not order me another, could you?" blankly demanded
Clayton, with a baffled sense of losing both the lady and the art
gem.
"It was a unique proof," volubly continued Lilienthal. "I might,
however,"--he briskly turned to an assistant, and after a few words,
led the annoyed Clayton back to a counter.
There a packing case was lying, plainly marked 'Fraulein Irma
Gluyas, No. 192 Layte Street, Brooklyn."
"I might open it," hesitated the dealer, "and yet, the lady might
not like it. She paid a round price for it, a hundred dollars. And
some persons do not like to have a proof duplicated. Still, I could
get the artist's name and address, and then my agents in Vienna
perhaps could get one. I might see the lady. She is a patron of
mine. This is Mr. Randall Clayton, is it not?"
The young man started in surprise, as his hand involuntarily
closed upon the handle of his portmanteau. "Oh, we are neighbors,"
laughed Lilienthal. "Your Mr. Robert Wade frequently drops in here
to pick up an etching or a bit of French color. I do a good deal
of business with the gentlemen of the Western Trading Company."
Clayton dropped his hand, instantly mollified. "I wish you would
see what you can do," he cordially said. "Perhaps the lady only
purchased it to fill a place on the walls of her drawing room. I,
at least, would like to be allowed to open it and have you take the
particulars. If she has no objection, you might be able to order
me a replica."
Lilienthal stood musing for a moment with his ferret eyes gleaming
under their bushy brows. "I might try! Suppose you look in here
after your lunch. The fact is," laughed the dealer, "Fraulein
Gluyas only took a sudden fancy to the Danube view a few days ago.
And she has gone down to the bank to get the money to gratify her
whim. She seemed to think some one else might claim it, and she
dropped in a half an hour ago, and ordered it packed up. She will
take it home in her carriage, as such a proof can be easily injured."
Randall Clayton's eyes were fixed on the floor, as he nodded an
assent. "I'll be back in half an hour. See what you can do," he
pleasantly said. "And at any rate, I'll be thankful to be allowed
to have the data."
"I think I can fix it all right," genially remarked Lilienthal.
"Fraulein Gluyas is a Hungarian prima donna of rare merit, an artist,
too, of no mean order. She may be heard here in grand opera this
winter. She is living in retirement until Mr. Grau's return, as
she does not want to be heralded before the public."
Clayton tried to appear unconcerned as he asked, "Is she married?"
"She is single," carelessly remarked Lilienthal, showing Clayton to
the door. "And I am told she has refused some very eligible offers
at home. But she is a Magyar of an old and noble family and they
detest the Austrian nobility, who have now all the fortunes and
privileges of the old Hungarian noblesse."
With crimsoned cheeks Randall Clayton was speeding away to the bank
before he had digested the crafty dealer's story. He was reassured
at the mention of Robert Wade's name and, hemmed in, all in ignorance
that his grave-mannered superior often met a bit of very lively
"French color" in the luxurious solitude of the "private view"
room, as yet a terra incognita to the young cashier.
For Mr. Robert Wade had a "Sunday-school reputation" to support,
and was dignified, worldly wise, a pillar of a fashionable church,
and hence, duly sly. His left hand often wisted not the doings of
his right hand, and Lilienthal found in Mr. Robert Wade a judicious
and accommodating patron.
"This is a simple-minded youth," grinned Lilienthal, as he turned
away. "He has swallowed my story, and--I fancy I see Mr. Fritz
Braun's little game. I wonder if the Vienna witch is still over
there. I must hurry up and post her. This young chap may be a good
customer, for he handles plenty of money." And the brisk Figaro darted
away, his eyes gleaming in the ardor of the undying covetousness
of the Israelite.
While Mr. Adolph Lilienthal was cautiously conducting a Philadelphia
money magnate into the "Private Gallery," a closely veiled lady
was entering that sanctum from the photographer's hall. The secret
of the two double rings of the push button admitted her to the
"packing room," where an innocent-faced young German lad stood guard
over the complicated system of letter boxes, telegraph racks, and
telephones in that jealously guarded "packing room."
It had been a busy morning with the astute Lilienthal, and the sudden
arrival of the "big fish," a wary "customer" from the Schuylkill,
caused the dealer to temporarily forget Randall Clayton. He scented
only an ordinary amorous intrigue in the young man's ardent desire
to make that particular "artist proof" his own.
Besides, the postman had just staggered in with a considerable
bundle of letters all addressed to the Newport Art Gallery. There
was a good hour's work for the rosy-faced graduate of a Viennan
cafe in removing the decoy wrappers and assorting the private
correspondence which alone paid the rental of Mr. Lilienthal's
"emporium."
Randall Clayton was already hastening back from the Astor Place Bank,
forgetting his own luncheon in his eagerness to hear once more of
Fraulein Irma Gluyas, when Mr. Fritz Braun had at last disposed
of the morning swarm of "privately attended" customers at Magdal's
Pharmacy.
The blue-spectacled chemist had been working with lightning rapidity
behind his effective screen, following the whispered directions
of his depraved London assistant. It was for him an anxious morning.
His heart would have leaped up in a wild joy had he known how
carefully Randall Clayton had already entered the accidentally
found address in the little silver-clasped address book, in which
he had recorded, with judicious cabalistic cloudiness, the combinations
of his safes and certain vital private business memoranda.
These secrets were all hidden in a mass of artfully inserted
characters so as to defy the curious eye of any stranger in case
of mishap, but the young cashier's fingers trembled with eagerness
as he had paused on his way in a corridor to boldly enter an already
beloved name.
"I can easily find her out over there," Clayton murmured. "She
shall not drift out of my life. I must some day read the secret of
those wistful eyes."
But Fritz Braun, anxiously waiting in his den on Sixth Avenue, was
chafing until his labors of the day should cease. "I'm all right,"
he mused, "if that sheepshead Lilienthal does not blunder. I do
not dare to tell him too much. And then, if only Irma follows my
instructions.
"But the wild-hearted witch may speculate in love a little on her
own account. She is only to be trusted as far as any other woman."
He snorted in disdain. "And the fellow is young, eager, good
looking. At any rate, I shall steer them both out of Lilienthal's
clutches. The game is too risky for 'mein frent Adolph.' He is
wrapped up in his greed, his blackmail schemes, his 'sure thing'
villainies.
"Here is the prize of a life to fight for, and--the electric chair
to face--should I be betrayed. Neither of them shall ever know my
little game." The master plotter was busy with dreams of an ill-gotten
harvest soon to ripen.
Braun peered out into his shop, sneeringly glanced at two shop girls
lingering at the soda fountain, drew up a chair, picked up the
Staats-Zeitung, and lit a cheroot, while he waited for the advance
guard of the afternoon customers.
"I dare not go over to the 'Bavaria' until three o'clock," mused
the chemist. "It will never do to let Clayton see me with either
Irma or Lilienthal. Once hooked, though, I can give him plenty
of line, and play him, in the shadows of water too deep for him.
Einstein has given me a fair insight into his character and habits.
I must go and see Leah and take her that promised dress. I need
that boy, for he is true to Leah, his dam, and she at least loves
me as fondly yet as the dumb dog that licks the hand. The other one,
I can never rule that way. Never mind, you proud-hearted Hungarian
devil, I'll tame you yet." There was an ugly cloud on his broad
brow as he dreamed of a yet unshapen crime.
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