Bince saw that it was futile to argue the matter further.
“Very well, sir,” he said. “I hope that I am mistaken and that no serious harm will result. When do you expect to start these accountants in?”
“Immediately,” replied Compton. “I shall get in touch with somebody today.”
Bince shook his head dubiously as he returned to his own office.
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The following Monday Miss Edith Hudson went to work for the International Machine Company as Mr. Compton’s stenographer. Nor could the most fastidious have discovered aught to criticize in the appearance or deportment of Little Eva.
The same day the certified public accountants came. Mr. Harold Bince appeared nervous and irritable, and he would have been more nervous and more irritable had he known that Jimmy had just learned the amount of the pay-check from Everett and that he had discovered that, although five men had been laid off and no new ones employed since the previous week, the payroll check was practically the same as before— approximately one thousand dollars more than his note-book indicated it should be.
“Phew!” whistled Jimmy. “These C.P.A.s are going to find this a more interesting job than they anticipated. Poor old Compton! I feel mighty sorry for him, but he had better find it out now than after that grafter has wrecked his business entirely.”
That afternoon Mr. Compton left the office earlier than usual, complaining of a headache, and the next morning his daughter telephoned that he was ill and would not come to the office that day. During the morning as Bince was walking through the shop he stopped to talk with Krovac.
Pete Krovac was a rat-faced little foreigner, looked upon among the men as a trouble-maker. He nursed a perpetual grievance against his employer and his job, and whenever the opportunity presented, and sometimes when it did not present itself, he endeavored to inoculate others with his dissatisfaction. Bince had hired the man, and during the several months that Krovac had been with the company, the assistant general manager had learned enough from other workers to realize that the man was an agitator and a troublemaker. Several times he had been upon the point of discharging him, but now he was glad that he had not, for he thought he saw in him a type that in the light of present conditions might be of use to him.
In fact, for the past couple of weeks he had been using the man in an endeavor to get some information concerning Torrance and his methods that would permit him to go to Compton with a valid argument for Jimmy’s discharge.
“Well, Krovac,” he said as he came upon the man, “is Torrance interfering with you any now?”
“He hasn’t got my job yet,” growled the other, “but he’s letting out hard-working men with families without any reason. The first thing you know you’ll have a strike on your hands.”
“I haven’t heard any one else complaining,” said Bince. “You will, though,” replied Krovac. “They don’t any of us know when we are going to be canned to give Compton more profit, and men are not going to stand for that long.”
“Then,” said Bince, “I take it that he really hasn’t interfered with you much?”
“Oh, he’s always around asking a lot of fool questions,” said Krovac. “Last week he asked every man in the place what his name was and what wages he was getting. Wrote it all down in a little book. I suppose he is planning on cutting pay.”
Bince’s eyes narrowed. “He got that information from every man in the shop?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Krovac.
Bince was very pale. He stood in silence for some minutes, apparently studying the man before him. At last he spoke.
“Krovac,” he said, “you don’t like this man Torrance, do you?”
“No,” said the other, “I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” said Bince. “I know his plans even better than you. This shop has short hours and good pay, but if we don’t get rid of him it will have the longest hours and lowest pay of any shop in the city.”
“Well?” questioned Krovac.
“I think,” said Bince, “that there ought to be some way to prevent this man doing any further harm here.”
He looked straight into Krovac’s eyes.
“There is,” muttered the latter.
“It would be worth something of course,” suggested Bince. “How much?” asked Krovac.
“Oh, I should think it ought to be worth a hundred dollars,” replied Bince.
Krovac thought for a moment.
“I think I can arrange it,” he said, “but I would have to have fifty now.”
“I cannot give it to you here,” said Bince, “but if I should happen to pass through the shop this afternoon you might find an envelope on the floor beside your machine after I have gone.”
The following evening as Jimmy alighted from the Indiana Avenue car at Eighteenth Street, two men left the car behind him. He did not notice them, although, as he made his way toward his boarding-house, he heard footsteps directly in his rear, and suddenly noting that they were approaching him rapidly, he involuntarily cast a glance behind him just as one of the men raised an arm to strike at him with what appeared to be a short piece of pipe.
Jimmy dodged the blow and then both men sprang for him. The first one Jimmy caught on the point of the chin with a blow that put its recipient out of the fight before he got into it, and then his companion, who was the larger, succeeded in closing with the efficiency expert. Inadvertently, however, he caught Jimmy about the neck, leaving both his intended victim’s arms free with the result that the latter was able to seize his antagonist low down about the body, and then pressing him close to him and hurling himself suddenly forward, he threw the fellow backward upon the cement sidewalk with his own body on top. With a resounding whack the attacker’s head came in contact with the concrete, his arms relaxed their hold upon Jimmy’s neck, and as the latter arose he saw both his assailants, temporarily at least, out of the fighting.
Jimmy glanced hastily in both directions. There was no one in sight. His boardinghouse was but a few steps away, and two minutes later he was safe in his room.
“A year ago,” he thought to himself, smiling, “my first thought would have been to have called in the police, but the Lizard has evidently given me a new view-point in regard to them,” for the latter had impressed upon Jimmy the fact that whatever knowledge a policeman might have regarding one was always acquired with the idea that eventually it might be used against the person to whom it pertained.
“What a policeman don’t know about you will never hurt you,” was one way that the Lizard put it.
When Jimmy appeared in the shop the next morning he noted casually that Krovac had a cut upon his chin, but he did not give the matter a second thought. Bince had arrived late. His first question, as he entered the small outer office where Mr. Compton’s stenographer and his worked, was addressed to Miss Edith Hudson.
“Is Mr. Torrance down yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the girl, “he has been here some time. Do you wish to see him?”
Edith thought that the “No” which he snapped at her was a trifle more emphatic than the circumstances seemed to warrant, nor could she help but notice after he had entered his office the vehement manner in which he slammed the door.
“I wonder what’s eating him,” thought Miss Hudson to herself. “Of course he doesn’t like Jimmy, but why is he so peeved because Jimmy came to work this morning—I don’t quite get it.”
Almost immediately Bince sent for Krovac, and when the latter came and stood before his desk the assistant general manager looked up at him questioningly.
“Well?” he asked.
“Look at my chin,” was Krovac’s reply, “and he damn near killed the other guy.”
“Maybe you’ll have better luck the next time,” growled Bince.
“There ain’t goin’ to be no next time,” asserted Krovac. “I don’t tackle that guy again.”
Bince held out his hand.
“All right,” he said, “you might return the fifty then.”
“Return nothin’,” growled Krovac. “I sure done fifty dollars’ worth last night.”
“Come on,” said Bince, “hand over the fifty.”
“Nothin’ doin’,” said Krovac with an angry snarl. “It might be worth another fifty to you to know that I wasn’t going to tell old man Compton.”
“You damn scoundrel!” exclaimed Bince.
“Don’t go callin’ me names,” admonished Krovac. “A fellow that hires another to croak a man for him for one hundred bucks ain’t got no license to call nobody names.”
Bince realized only too well that he was absolutely in the power of the fellow and immediately his manner changed.
“Come,” he said, “Krovac, there is no use in our quarreling. You can help me and I can help you. There must be some other way to get around this.”
“What are you trying to do?” asked Krovac. “I got enough on you now to send you up, and I don’t mind tellin’ yuh,” he added, “that I had a guy hid down there in the shop where he could watch you drop the envelope behind my machine. I got a witness, yuh understand!”
Mr. Bince did understand, but still he managed to control his temper.
“What of it?” he said. “Nobody would believe your story, but let’s forget that. What we want to do is get rid of Torrance.”
“That isn’t all you want to do,” said Krovac. “There is something else.”
Bince realized that he was compromised as hopelessly already as he could be if the man had even more information.
“Yes,” he said, “there is something beside Torrance’s interference in the shop. He’s interfering with our accounting system and I don’t want it interfered with just now.”
“You mean the pay-roll?” asked Krovac.
“It might be,” said Bince.
“You want them two new guys that are working in the office croaked, too?” asked Krovac.
“I don’t want anybody ‘croaked’,” replied Bince. “I didn’t tell you to kill Torrance in the first place. I just said I didn’t want him to come back here to work.”
“Ah, hell, what you givin’ us?” growled the other. “I knew what you meant and you knew what you meant, too. Come across straight. What do you want?”
“I want all the records of the certified public accountants who are working here,” said Bince after a moment’s pause. “I want them destroyed, together with the pay-roll records.”
“Where are they?”
“They will all be in the safe in Mr. Compton’s office.”
Krovac knitted his brows in thought for several moments. “Say,” he said, “we can do the whole thing with one job.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bince,
“We can get rid of this Torrance guy and get the records, too.”
“How?” asked Bince. “Do you know where Feinheimer’s is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you be over there to-night about ten thirty and I’ll introduce you to a guy who can pull off this whole thing, and you and I won’t have to be mixed up in it at all.”
“To-night at ten thirty,” said Bince.
“At Feinheimer’s,” said Krovac.
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As the workman passed through the little outer office Edith Hudson glanced up at him.
“Where,” she thought after he had gone, “have I seen that fellow before?”
Jimmy was in the shop applying “How to Get More Out of Your Factory” to the problems of the International Machine Company when he was called to the telephone.
“Is this Mr. Torrance?” asked a feminine voice.
“It is,” replied Jimmy.
“I am Miss Compton. My father will probably not be able to get to the office for several days, and as he wishes very much to talk with you he has asked me to suggest that you take dinner with us this evening.” “Thank you,” said Jimmy. “Tell Mr. Compton that I will come to the house right after the shop closes to-night.”
“I suppose,” said Elizabeth Compton as she turned away from the phone, “that an efficiency expert is a very superior party and that his conversation will be far above my head.”
Compton laughed. “Torrance seems to be a very likable chap,” he said, “and as far as his work is concerned he is doing splendidly.”
“Harold doesn’t think so,” said Elizabeth. “He is terribly put out about the fellow. He told me only the other night that he really believed that it would take years to overcome the bad effect that this man has had upon the organization and upon the work in general.”
“That is all poppycock,” exclaimed Compton, rather more irritably than was usual with him. “For some reason Harold has taken an unwarranted dislike to this man, but I am watching him closely, and I will see that no very serious mistakes are made.”
When Jimmy arrived at the Compton home he was ushered into the library where Mr. Compton was sitting. In a corner of the room, with her back toward the door, Elizabeth Compton sat reading. She did not lay aside her book or look in his direction as Jimmy entered, for the man was in no sense a guest in the light of her understanding of the term. He was merely one of her father’s employees here on business to see him, doubtless a very ordinary sort of person whom she would, of course, have to meet when dinner was announced, but not one for whom it was necessary to put oneself out in any way.
Mr. Compton rose and greeted Jimmy cordially and then turned toward his daughter.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “this is Mr. Torrance, the efficiency expert at the plant.”
Leisurely Miss Compton laid aside her book. Rising, she faced the newcomer, and as their eyes met, Jimmy barely stifled a gasp of astonishment and dismay. Elizabeth Compton’s arched brows raised slightly and involuntarily she breathed a low ejaculation, “Efficiency expert!”
Simultaneously there flashed through the minds of both in rapid succession a series of recollections of their previous meetings. The girl saw the clerk at the stocking-counter, the waiter at Feinheimer’s, the prize-fighter at the training quarters and the milk-wagon driver. All these things passed through her mind in the brief instant of the introduction and her acknowledgment of it. She was too well-bred to permit any outward indication of her recognition of the man other than the first almost inaudible ejaculation that had been surprised from her.
The indifference she had felt prior to meeting the efficiency expert was altered now to a feeling of keen interest as she realized that she held the power to relieve Bince of the further embarrassment of the man’s activities in the plant, and also to save her father from the annoyance and losses that Bince had assured her would result from Torrance’s methods. And so she greeted Jimmy Torrance pleasantly, almost cordially.
“I am delighted,” she said, “but I am afraid that I am a little awed, too, as I was just saying to father before you came that I felt an efficiency expert must be a very superior sort of person.”
If she placed special emphasis on the word “superior” it was so cleverly done that it escaped the notice of her father.
“Oh, not at all,” replied Jimmy. “We efficiency experts are really quite ordinary people. One is apt to meet us in any place that nice people are supposed to go.”
Elizabeth felt the color rising slowly to her cheek. She realized then that if she had thrown down the gage of battle the young man had lost no time in taking it up.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that I do not understand very much about the nature or the purpose of your work, but I presume the idea is to make the concern with which you are connected more prosperous—more successful?”
“Yes,” said her father, “that is the idea, and even in the short time he has been with us Mr. Torrance has effected some very excellent changes.”
“It must be very interesting work,” commented the girl; “a profession that requires years of particular experience and study, and I suppose one must be really thoroughly efficient and successful himself, too, before he can help to improve upon the methods of others or to bring them greater prosperity.”
“Quite true,” said Jimmy. “Whatever a man undertakes he should succeed in before he can hope to bring success to others.”
“Even in trifling occupations, I presume,” suggested the girl, “efficiency methods are best—an efficiency expert could doubtlessly drive a milk-wagon better than an ordinary person?” And she looked straight into Jimmy’s eyes, an unquestioned challenge in her own.
“Unquestionably,” said Jimmy. “He could wait on table better, too.”
“Or sell stockings?” suggested Elizabeth.
It was at this moment that Mr. Compton was called to the telephone in an adjoining room, and when he had gone the girl turned suddenly upon Jimmy Torrance. There was no cordiality nor friendship in her expression; a sneer upcurved her short upper lip.
“I do not wish to humiliate you unnecessarily in the presence of my father,” she said. “You have managed to deceive him into believing that you are what you claim to be. Mr. Bince has known from the start that you are incompetent and incapable of accomplishing the results father thinks you are accomplishing. Now that you know that I know you to be an impostor, what do you intend to do?”
“I intend to keep right on with my work in the plant, Miss Compton,” replied Jimmy.
“How long do you suppose father would keep you after I told him what I know of you? Do you think that he would for a moment place the future of his business in the hands of an ex-waiter from Feinheimer’s—-that he would let a milk-wagon driver tell him how to run his business?”
“It probably might make a difference,” said Jimmy, “if he knew, but he will not know—listen, Miss Compton, I have discovered some things there that I have not even dared as yet to tell your father. The whole future of the business may depend upon my being there during the next few weeks. If I wasn’t sure of what I am saying I might consider acceding to your demands rather than to embarrass you with certain knowledge which I have.”
“You refuse to leave, then?” she demanded.
“I do,” he said.
“Very well,” she replied; “I shall tell father when he returns to this room just what I know of you.”
“Will you tell him,” asked Jimmy, “that you went to the training quarters of a prize-fighter, or that you dined unescorted at Feinheimer’s at night and were an object of the insulting attentions of such a notorious character as Steve Murray?”
The girl flushed. “You would tell him that?” she demanded. “Oh, of course, I might have known that you would. It is difficult to realize that any one dining at my father’s home is not a gentleman. I had forgotten for the moment.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy, “I would tell him, not from a desire to harm you, but because this is the only way that I can compel you to refrain from something that would result in inestimable harm to your father.”
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Mr. Compton returned to the room before Jimmy had discovered whether the girl intended to expose him or not. She said nothing about the matter during dinner, and immediately thereafter she excused herself, leaving the two men alone.
During the conversation that ensued Jimmy discovered that Bince had been using every argument at his command to induce Compton to let him go, as well as getting rid of the certified public accountants.
“I can’t help but feel,” said Compton, “that possibly there may be some reason in what Mr. Bince says, for he seems to feel more strongly on this subject than almost any question that has ever arisen in the plant wherein we differed, and it may be that I am doing wrong to absolutely ignore his wishes in the matter.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Torrance, I have reached the point where I don’t particularly relish a fight, as I did in the past. I would rather have things run along smoothly than to have this feeling of unrest and unpleasantness that now exists in the plant. I do not say that you are to blame for it, but the fact remains that ever since you came I have been constantly harassed by this same unpleasant condition which grows worse day by day. There is no question but what you have accomplished a great deal for us of a practical nature, but I believe in view of Mr. Bince’s feelings in the matter that we had better terminate our arrangement.”
Jimmy suddenly noted how old and tired his employer looked. He realized, too, that for a week he had been fighting an incipient influenza and that doubtless his entire mental attitude was influenced by the insidious workings of the disease, one of the marked symptoms of which he knew to be a feeling of despondency and mental depression, which sapped both courage and initiative.
They were passing through the hallway from the dining-room to the library, and as Compton concluded what was equivalent to Jimmy’s discharge, he had stopped and turned toward the younger man. They were standing near the entrance to the music-room in which Elizabeth chanced to be, so that she overheard her father’s words, and not without a smile of satisfaction and relief.
“Mr. Compton,” replied Jimmy, “no matter what you do with me, you simply must not let those C.P.A.’s go until they have completed their work. I know something of what it is going to mean to your business, but I would rather that the reports come from them than from me.”
“What do you mean?” asked Compton.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” replied Jimmy. “I preferred that the C.P.A.’s discover it, as they will within the next day or two—you are being systematically robbed. I suspected it before I had been there ten days, and I was absolutely sure of it at the time I suggested you employ the C.P.A.’s. You are being robbed at the rate of approximately one thousand dollars a week.”
“How?” asked Compton.
“I would rather you would wait for the report of the C.P.A.’s,” returned Jimmy.
“I wish to know now,” said Compton, “how I am being robbed.”
Jimmy looked straight into the older man’s eyes. “Through the pay-roll,” he replied.
For a full minute Compton did not speak.
“You may continue with your work in the plant,” he said at last, “and we will keep the accountants, for a while at least. And now I am going to ask you to excuse me. I find that I tire very quickly since I have been threatened with influenza.”
Jimmy bid his employer good night, and Mr. Compton turned into the library as the former continued along across the hall to the entrance. He was putting on his overcoat when Elizabeth Compton emerged from the music-room and approached him.
“I overheard your conversation with father,” she said. “It seems to me that you are making a deliberate attempt to cause him worry and apprehension—you are taking advantage of his illness to frighten him into keeping you in his employ. I should think you would be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am sorry that you think that,” said Jimmy. “If it was not for your father and you I wouldn’t have urged the matter at all.”
“You are just doing it to hold your position,” retorted the girl, “and now, by threats of blackmail you prevent me from exposing you—you are a despicable cur.”
Jimmy felt the blood mounting to his face. He was mortified and angry, and yet he was helpless because his traducer was a woman. Unconsciously he drew himself to his full height.
“You will have to think about me as you please,” he said; “I cannot influence that, but I want you to understand that you are not to interfere with my work. I think we understand one another perfectly, Miss Compton. Good night.”
And as he closed the door behind him he left a very angry young lady biting her lower lip and almost upon the verge of angry tears.
“The boor,” she exclaimed; “he dared to order me about and threaten me.”
The telephone interrupted her unhappy train of thoughts. It was Bince.
“I am sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, “but I won’t be able to come up this evening. I have some important business to attend to. How is your father?”
“He seems very tired and despondent,” replied Elizabeth. “That efficiency person was here to dinner. He just left.”
She could not see the startled and angry expression of Bince’s face as he received this information. “Torrance was there?” he asked. “How did that happen?”
“Father asked him to dinner, and when he wanted to discharge the fellow Torrance told him something that upset father terribly, and urged that he be kept a little while longer, to which father agreed.”
“What did he tell him?” asked Bince.
“Oh, some alarmist tale about somebody robbing father. I didn’t quite make out what it was all about, but it had something to do with the pay-roll.”
Bince went white. “Don’t believe anything that fellow says,” he exclaimed excitedly: “he’s nothing but a crook. Elizabeth, can’t you make your father realize that he ought to get rid of the man, that he ought to leave things to me instead of trusting an absolute stranger?”
“I have,” replied the girl, “and he was on the point of doing it until Torrance told him this story.”
“Something will have to be done,” said Bince, “at once. I’ll be over to see your father in the morning. Good-by, dear,” and he hung up the receiver.
After Jimmy left the Compton home he started to walk down-town. It was too early to go to his dismal little room on Indiana Avenue. The Lizard was still away. He had seen nothing of him for weeks, and with his going he had come to realize that he had rather depended upon the Lizard for company. He was full of interesting stories of the underworld and his dry humor and strange philosophy amused and entertained Jimmy.
And now as he walked along the almost deserted drive after his recent unpleasant scene with Elizabeth Compton he felt more blue and lonely than he had for many weeks. He craved human companionship, and so strong was the urge that his thoughts naturally turned to the only person other than the Lizard who seemed to have taken any particularly kindly interest in him. Acting on the impulse he turned west at the first cross street until he came to a drugstore. Entering a telephone-booth he called a certain number and a moment later had his connection.
“Is that you, Edith?” he asked, and at the affirmative reply, “this is Jimmy Torrance. I’m feeling terribly lonesome. I was wondering if I couldn’t drag you out to listen to my troubles?”
“Surest thing you know,” cried the girl. “Where are you?” He told her. “Take a Clark Street car,” she told him, “and I’ll be at the corner of North Avenue by the time you get there.”
As the girl hung up the receiver and turned from the phone a slightly quizzical expression reflected some thought that was in her mind. “I wonder,” she said as she returned to her room, “if he is going to be like the rest?”
She seated herself before her mirror and critically examined her reflection in the glass. She knew she was good-looking. No need of a mirror to tell her that. Her youth and her good looks had been her stock in trade, and yet this evening she appraised her features most critically, and as with light fingers she touched her hair, now in one place and now in another, she found herself humming a gay little tune and she realized that she was very happy.
When Jimmy Torrance alighted from the Clark Street car he found Edith waiting for him.
“It was mighty good of you,” he said. “I don’t know when I have had such a fit of blues, but I feel better already.”
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“I just had a talk with Mr. Compton,” he replied. “He sent for me and I had to tell him something that I didn’t want to tell him, although he’s got to find it out sooner or later anyway.”
“Is there something wrong at the plant?” she asked.
“Wrong doesn’t describe it,” he exclaimed bitterly. “The man that he has done the most for and in whose loyalty he ought to have the right of implicit confidence, is robbing him blind.”
“Bince?” asked the girl. Jimmy nodded. “I didn’t like that pill,” she said, “from the moment I saw him.”
“Nor I,” said Jimmy, “but he is going to marry Miss Compton and inherit the business. He’s the last man in the place that Compton would suspect. It was just like suggesting to a man that his son was robbing him.”
“Have you got the goods on him?” asked Edith.
“I will have as soon as the C.P.A.’s get to digging into the pay-roll,” he replied, “and I just as good as got the information I need even without that. Well, let’s forget our troubles. What shall we do?”
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
He could not tell by either her tone or expression with what anxiety she awaited his reply. “Suppose we do something exciting, like going to the movies,” he suggested with a laugh.
“That suits me all right,” said the girl. “There is a dandy comedy down at the Castle.”
And so they went to the picture show, and when it was over he suggested that they have a bite to eat.
“I’ll tell you,” Edith suggested. “Suppose we go to Feinheimer’s restaurant and see if we can’t get that table that I used to eat at when you waited on me?” They both laughed.
“If old Feinheimer sees me he will have me poisoned,” said Jimmy.
“Not if you have any money to spend in his place.”
It was eleven thirty when they reached Feinheimer’s. The table they wanted was vacant, a little table in a corner of the room and furthest from the orchestra. The waiter, a new man, did not know them, and no one had recognized them as they entered.
Jimmy sat looking at the girl’s profile as she studied the menu-card. She was very pretty. He had always thought her that, but somehow to-night she seemed to be different, even more beautiful than in the past. He wished that he could forget what she had been. And he realized as he looked at her sweet girlish face upon which vice had left no slightest impression to mark her familiarity with vice, that it might be easy to forget her past. And then between him and the face of the girl before him arose the vision of another face, the face of the girl that he had set upon a pedestal and worshiped from afar. And with the recollection of her came a realization of the real cause of his sorrow and depression earlier in the evening.
He had attributed it to the unpleasant knowledge he had been forced to partially impart to her father and also in some measure to the regrettable interview he had had with her, but now he knew that these were only contributory causes, that the real reason was that during the months she had occupied his thoughts and in the few meetings he had had with her there had developed within him, unknown to himself, a sentiment for her that could be described by but one word—love.
Always, though he had realized that she was unattainable, there must have lingered within his breast a faint spark of hope that somehow, some time, there would be a chance, but after to-night he knew there could never be a chance. She had openly confessed her contempt for him, and how would she feel later when she realized that through his efforts her happiness was to be wrecked, and the man she loved and was to marry branded as a criminal?
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The girl opposite him looked up from the card before her. The lines of her face were softened by the suggestion of a contented smile. “My gracious!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter now? You look as though you had lost your last friend.”
Jimmy quickly forced a smile to his lips. “On the contrary,” he said, “I think I’ve found a regular friend—in you.”
It was easy to see that his words pleased her.
“No,” continued Jimmy; “I was thinking of what an awful mess I make of everything I tackle.”
“You’re not making any mess of this new job,” she said. “You’re making good. You see, my hunch was all right.”
“I wish you hadn’t had your hunch,” he said with a smile. “It’s going to bring a lot of trouble to several people, but now that I’m in it I’m going to stick to it to a finish.”
The girl’s eyes were wandering around the room, taking in the faces of the diners about them. Suddenly she extended her hand and laid it on Jimmy’s.
“For the love of Mike,” she exclaimed. “Look over there.”
Slowly Jimmy turned his eyes in the direction she indicated.
“What do you know about that?” he ejaculated. “Steve Murray and Bince!”
“And thick as thieves,” said the girl.
“Naturally,” commented Jimmy.
The two men left the restaurant before Edith and Jimmy had finished their supper, leaving the two hazarding various guesses as to the reason for their meeting.
“You can bet it’s for no good,” said the girl. “I’ve known Murray for a long while, and I never knew him to do a decent thing in his life.”
Their supper over, they walked to Clark Street and took a northbound car, but after alighting Jimmy walked with the girl to the entrance of her apartment.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said, “for giving me this evening. It is the only evening I have enjoyed since I struck this town last July.”
He unlocked the outer door for her and was holding it open.
“It is I who ought to thank you,” she said. Her voice was very low and filled with suppressed feeling. “I ought to thank you, for this has been the happiest evening of my life,” and as though she could not trust herself to say more, she entered the hallway and closed the door between them.
As Jimmy turned away to retrace his steps to the car-line he found his mind suddenly in a whirl of jumbled emotions, for he was not so stupid as to have failed to grasp something of the significance of the girl’s words and manner.
“Hell!” he muttered. “Look what I’ve done now!”
The girl hurried to her room and turned on the lights, and again she seated herself before her mirror, and for a moment sat staring at the countenance reflected before her. She saw lips parted to rapid breathing, lips that curved sweetly in a happy smile, and then as she sat there looking she saw the expression of the face before her change. The lips ceased to smile, the soft, brown eyes went wide and staring as though in sudden horror. For a moment she sat thus and then, throwing her body forward upon her dressing-table, she buried her face in her arms.
“My God!” she cried through choking sobs.
Mason Compton was at his office the next morning, contrary to the pleas of his daughter and the orders of his physician. Bince was feeling more cheerful. Murray had assured him that there was a way out. He would not tell Bince what the way was.
“Just leave it to me,” he said. “The less you know, the better off you’ll be. What you want is to get rid of this fresh guy and have all the papers in a certain vault destroyed. You see to it that only the papers you want destroyed are in that vault, and I’ll do the rest.”
All of which relieved Mr. Harold Bince’s elastic conscience of any feeling of responsibility in the matter. Whatever Murray did was no business of his. He was glad that Murray hadn’t told him.
He greeted Jimmy Torrance almost affably, but he lost something of his self-composure when Mason Compton arrived at the office, for Bince had been sure that his employer would be laid up for at least another week, during which time Murray would have completed his work.
The noon mail brought a letter from Murray.
“Show the enclosed to Compton,” it read. “Tell him you found it on your desk, and destroy this letter.” The enclosure was a crudely printed note on a piece of soiled wrapping-paper:
TREAT YOUR MEN RIGHT ORSUFFER THE CONSEQUENCESI. W. W.
Bince laid Murray’s letter face down upon the balance of the open mail, and sat for a long time looking at the ominous words of the enclosure. At first he was inclined to be frightened, but finally a crooked smile twisted his lips. “Murray’s not such a fool, after all,” he soliloquized.
“He’s framing an alibi before he starts.”
With the note in his hand, Bince entered Compton’s office, where he found the latter dictating to Edith Hudson. “Look at this thing!” exclaimed Bince, laying the note before Compton. “What do you suppose it means?”
Compton read it, and his brows knitted. “Have the men been complaining at all?” he asked.
“Recently I have heard a little grumbling,” replied Bince. “They haven’t taken very kindly to Torrance’s changes, and I guess some of them are afraid they are going to lose their jobs, as they know he is cutting down the force in order to cut costs.”
“He ought to know about this,” said Compton. “Wait; I’ll have him in,” and he pressed a button on his desk. A moment later Jimmy entered, and Compton showed him the note.
“What do you think of it?” asked Compton.
“I doubt if it amounts to much,” replied Jimmy. “The men have no grievance. It may be the work of some fellow who was afraid of his job, but I doubt if it really emanates from any organized scheme of intimidation. If I were you, sir, I would simply ignore it.”
To Jimmy’s surprise, Bince agreed with him. It was the first time that Bince had agreed with anything Jimmy had suggested.
“Very well,” assented Compton, “but we’ll preserve this bit of evidence in case we may need it later,” and he handed the slip of paper to Edith Hudson. “File this, please, Miss Hudson,” he said; and then, turning to Bince:
“It may be nothing, but I don’t like the idea of it. There is apt to be something underlying this, or even if it is only a single individual and he happens to be a crank he could cause a lot of trouble. Suppose, for instance, one of these crack-brained foreigners in the shop got it into his head that Torrance here was grinding him down in order to increase our profits? Why, he might attack him at any time! I tell you, we have got to be prepared for such a contingency, especially now that we have concrete evidence that there is such a man in our employ. I think you ought to be armed, Mr. Torrance. Have you a pistol?”
Jimmy shook his head negatively.
“No, sir,” he said; “not here.”
Compton opened a desk drawer.
“Take this one,” he said, and handed Jimmy an automatic.
The latter smiled. “Really, Mr. Compton,” he said, “I don’t believe I need such an article.”
“I want you to take it,” insisted Compton. “I want you to be on the safe side.”
A moment later Bince and Jimmy left the office together. Jimmy still carried the pistol in his hand.
“You’d better put that thing in your pocket,” cautioned Bince.
They were in the small office on which Compton’s and Bince’s offices opened, and Jimmy had stopped beside the desk that had been placed there for him.
“I think I’ll leave it here,” he said. “The thing would be a nuisance in my pocket,” and he dropped it into one of the desk drawers, while Bince continued his way toward the shop.
Compton was looking through the papers and letters on his desk, evidently searching for something which he could not find, while the girl sat waiting for him to continue his dictation.
“That’s funny,” commented Compton.
“I was certain that that letter was here. Have you seen anything of a letter from Mosher?”
“No, sir,” replied Edith.
“Well, I wish you would step into Mr. Bince’s office, and see if it is on his desk.”
Upon the assistant general manager’s desk lay a small pile of papers, face down, which Edith proceeded to examine in search of the Mosher letter. She had turned them all over at once, commencing at what had previously been the bottom of the pile, so that she ran through them all without finding the Mosher letter before she came to Murray’s epistle.
As its import dawned upon her, her eyes widened at first in surprise and then narrowed as she realized the value of her discovery. At first she placed the letter back with the others just as she had found them, but on second thought she took it up quickly and, folding it, slipped it inside her waist. Then she returned to Compton’s office.
“I cannot find the Mosher letter,” she said.
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Harriet Holden was sitting in Elizabeth’s boudoir. “And he had the effrontery,” the latter was saying, “to tell me what I must do and must not do! The idea! A miserable little milk-wagon driver dictating to me!”
Miss Holden smiled.
“I should not call him very little,” she remarked.
“I didn’t mean physically,” retorted Elizabeth. “It is absolutely insufferable. I am going to demand that father discharge the man.”
“And suppose he asks you why?” asked Harriet. “You will tell him, of course, that you want this person discharged because he protected you from the insults and attacks of a ruffian while you were dining in Feinheimer’s at night—is that it?”
“You are utterly impossible, Harriet!” cried Elizabeth, stamping her foot. “You are as bad as that efficiency person. But, then, I might have expected it! You have always, it seems to me, shown a great deal more interest in the fellow than necessary, and probably the fact that Harold doesn’t like him is enough to make you partial toward him, for you have never tried to hide the fact that you don’t like Harold.”
“If you’re going to be cross,” said Harriet, “I think I shall go home.”
At about the same time the Lizard entered Feinheimer’s. In the far corner of the room Murray was seated at a table. The Lizard approached and sat down opposite him. “Here I am,” he said. “What do you want, and how did you know I was in town?”
“I didn’t know,” said Murray. “I got a swell job for you, and so I sent out word to get you.”
“You’re in luck then,” said the Lizard. “I just blew in this morning. What kind of a job you got?”
Murray explained at length.
“They got a watchman,” he concluded, “but I’ve got a guy on de inside that’ll fix him.”
“When do I pull this off?” asked the Lizard.
“In about a week. I’ll let you know the night later. Dey ordinarily draw the payroll money Monday, the same day dey pay, but dis week they’ll draw it Saturday and leave it in the safe. It’ll be layin’ on top of a bunch of books and papers. Dey’re de t’ings you’re to destroy. As I told you, it will all be fixed from de inside. Dere’s no danger of a pinch. All you gotta do is crack de safe, put about a four or five t’ousand dollar roll in your pocket, and as you cross de river drop a handful of books and papers in. Nothin’ to it—it’s the easiest graft you ever had.”
“You’re sure dat’s all?” asked the Lizard.
“Sure thing!” replied Murray.
“Where’s de place?”
“Dat I can’t tell you until the day we’re ready to pull off de job.”
At four o’clock that afternoon Jimmy Torrance collapsed at his desk. The flu had struck him as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had attacked many of its victims. Edith Hudson found him, and immediately notified Mr. Compton, with the result that half an hour later Jimmy Torrance was in a small private hospital in Park Avenue.
That night Bince got Murray over the phone. He told him of Jimmy’s sickness.
“He’s balled up the whole plan,” he complained. “We’ve either got to wait until he croaks or is out again before we can go ahead, unless something else arises to make it necessary to act before. I think I can hold things off, though, at this end, all right.”
For four or five days Jimmy was a pretty sick man. He was allowed to see no one, but even if Jimmy had been in condition to give the matter any thought he would not have expected to see any one, for who was there to visit him in the hospital, who was there who knew of his illness, to care whether he was sick or well, alive or dead? It was on the fifth day that Jimmy commenced to take notice of anything. At Compton’s orders he had been placed in a private room and given a special nurse, and to-day for the first time he learned of Mr. Compton’s kindness and the fact that the nurse was instructed to call Jimmy’s employer twice a day and report the patient’s condition.
“Mighty nice of him,” thought Jimmy, and then to the nurse: “And the flowers, too? Does he send those?”
The young woman shook her head negatively.
“No,” she said; “a young lady comes every evening about six and leaves the flowers. She always asks about your condition and when she may see you.”
Jimmy was silent for some time. “She comes every evening?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the nurse.
“May I see her this evening?” asked Jimmy.
“We’ll ask the doctor,” she replied; and the doctor must have given consent, for at six o’clock that evening the nurse brought Edith Hudson to his bedside.
The girl came every evening thereafter and sat with Jimmy as long as the nurse would permit her to remain. Jimmy discovered during those periods a new side to her character, a mothering tenderness that filled him with a feeling of content and happiness the moment that she entered the room, and which doubtless aided materially in his rapid convalescence, for until she had been permitted to see him Jimmy had suffered as much from mental depression as from any other of the symptoms of his disease.
He had felt utterly alone and uncared for, and in this mental state he had brooded over his failures to such an extent that he had reached a point where he felt that death would be something of a relief. Militating against his recovery had been the parting words of Elizabeth Compton the evening that he had dined at her father’s home, but now all that was very nearly forgotten—at least crowded into the dim vistas of recollection by the unselfish friendship of this girl of the streets.
Jimmy’s nurse quite fell in love with Edith.
“She is such a sweet girl,” she said, “and always so cheerful. She is going to make some one a mighty good wife,” and she smiled knowingly at Jimmy.
The suggestion which her words implied came to Jimmy as a distinct shock. He had never thought of Edith Hudson in the light of this suggestion, and now he wondered if there could be any such sentiment as it implied in Edith’s heart, but finally he put the idea away with a shrug.
“Impossible,” he thought. “She thinks of me as I think of her, only as a good friend.”
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At the office of the International Machine Company the work of the C.P.A.’s was drawing to a close. Their report would soon be ready to submit to Mr. Compton, and as the time approached Bince’s nervousness and irritability increased. Edith noticed that he inquired each day with growing solicitude as to the reports from the hospital relative to Jimmy’s condition. She knew that Bince disliked Jimmy, and yet the man seemed strangely anxious for his recovery and return to work.
In accordance with Jimmy’s plan, the C.P.A.’s were to give out no information to any one, even to Mr. Compton, until their investigation and report were entirely completed. This plan had been approved by Mr. Compton, although he professed to be at considerable loss to understand why it was necessary. It was, however, in accordance with Jimmy’s plan to prevent, if possible, any interference with the work of the auditors until every available fact in the case had been ascertained and recorded.
In the investigation of the pay-roll Bince had worked diligently with the accountants. As a matter of fact, he had never left them a moment while the pay-roll records were in their hands, and had gone to much pain to explain in detail every question arising therefrom.
Although the investigators seemed to accept his statements at their face value, the assistant general manager was far from being assured that their final report would redound to his credit.
On a Thursday they informed him that they had completed their investigation, and the report would be submitted to Mr. Compton on Saturday.
When Edith reached the hospital that evening she found Jimmy in high spirits. He was dressed for the first time, and assured her that he was quite able to return to work if the doctor would let him, but the nurse shook her head. “You ought to stay here for another week or ten days,” she admonished him.
“Nothing doing,”’ cried Jimmy. “I’ll be out of here Monday at the latest.” But when Edith told him that the C.P.A.’s had finished, and that their report would be handed in Saturday, Jimmy announced that he would leave the hospital the following day.
“But you can’t do it,” said the nurse.
“Why not?” asked Jimmy.
“The doctor won’t permit it.”
Edith tried to dissuade him, but he insisted that it was absolutely necessary for him to be at the office when the C.P.A.’s report was made.
“I’ll be over there Friday evening or Saturday morning at the latest,” he said as she bid him good-bye.
And so it was that, despite the pleas of his nurse and the orders of his physician, Jimmy appeared at the plant Friday afternoon. Bince greeted him almost effusively, and Mr. Compton seemed glad to see him out again.
That evening Harold Bince met Murray at Feinheimer’s, and still later the Lizard received word that Murray wanted to see him.
“Everything’s ready,” the boss explained to the Lizard. “The whole thing’s framed for to-morrow night. The watchman was discharged to-day. Another man is supposed to have been hired to take the job, but of course he won’t show up. You meet me here at seven thirty to-morrow night, and I’ll give you your final instructions and tell you how to get to the plant.” The C.P.A.’s were slow in completing their report. At noon on Saturday it looked very much to Bince that there would be no report ready before Monday. He had spent most of the forenoon pacing his office, and at last, unable longer to stand the strain, he had announced that he was going out to his country club for a game of golf.
He returned to his down-town club about dinner-time, and at eight o’clock he called up Elizabeth Compton.
“Come on up,” said the girl. “I’m all alone this evening. Father went back to the office to examine some reports that were just finished up late this afternoon.”
“I’ll be over,” said Bince, “as soon as I dress.” If there was any trace of surprise or shock in his tones the girl failed to notice it.
At ten o’clock that night a figure moved silently through the dark shadows of an alleyway in the area of the International Machine Company’s plant on West Superior Street. As he moved along he counted the basement windows silently, and at the fifth window he halted. Just a casual glance he cast up and down the alley, and then, kneeling, he raised the sash and slipped quietly into the darkness of the basement.
At about the same time Jimmy’s landlady called him to the telephone, where a man’s voice asked if “this was Mr. Torrance?” Assured that such was the fact, the voice continued: “I am the new watchman at the plant. There’s something wrong here. I can’t get hold of Mr. Compton. I think you better come down. I’ll be in Mr. Compton’s office—” The message ceased as though central had disconnected them.
“Funny,” thought Jimmy, “that he should call me up. I wonder what the trouble can be.” But he lost no time in getting his hat and starting for the works.
Although the Lizard knew that there was no danger of detection, yet from long habit he moved through the plant of the International Machine Company with the noiselessness of a disembodied spirit. Occasionally, and just for the briefest instant, he flashed his lamp ahead of him, but though he had never been in the place before he found it scarcely necessary, so minute had been his instructions for reaching the office from the fifth basement window.
The room he sought was on the second floor, and the Lizard had mounted the steps from the basement to the first floor when he was brought to a sudden stop by a noise from the floor above him. The Lizard listened intently. No, he could not be mistaken. Too often had he heard a similar sound.
Some one was tiptoeing across the floor above. The Lizard was in the hallway close beside the stairs when he realized the footsteps were coming toward the stairway, and a moment later that they were cautiously descending. The Lizard flattened himself against the wall, and if he breathed his lungs gave forth no sound.
If one may interpret footsteps—and the Lizard, from the fund of a great experience, felt that he could—those descending the stairway from above him might have been described as nervous and repressed; for at least they gave the Lizard the impression of one who desired to flee in haste and yet dared not do so, for fear of attracting attention by the increased noise that greater speed might entail.
At least the Lizard knew that those were the footsteps of no watchman, but whether it be guardian of the law or fellow criminal the Lizard had no wish to be discovered. He wondered what had gone wrong with Murray’s plans, and, suddenly imbued with the natural suspicion of the criminal, it occurred to him that the whole thing might be a frame-up to get him; and yet why Murray should wish to get him he could not imagine. He ran over in his mind a list of all those who might feel enmity toward him, but among them all the Lizard could cast upon none who might have sufficient against him to warrant such an elaborate scheme of revenge.
The footsteps passed him and continued on toward the foot of the stairs where was the main entrance which opened upon the street. At the door the footsteps halted, and as the Lizard’s eyes bored through the darkness in the direction of the other prowler the latter struck a match upon the panel of the door and lighted a cigarette, revealing his features momentarily but distinctly to the watcher in the shadow of the stairway. Then he opened the door and passed out into the night.
The Lizard, listening intently for a few moments to assure himself that there was no one else above, and that the man who had just departed was not returning, at last continued his way to the foot of the stairs, which he ascended to the second floor. Passing through the outer office, he paused a moment before the door to Compton’s private office, and then silently turning the knob he gently pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
Beyond the threshold he halted and pressed the button of his flash-lamp. For just an instant its faint rays illumined the interior of the room, and then darkness blotted out the scene. But whatever it was that the little flash-lamp had revealed was evidently in the nature of a surprise, and perhaps something of a shock, to the Lizard, for he drew back with a muttered oath, backed quietly out of the room, closed the door after him, and, moving much more swiftly than he had entered, retraced his steps to the fifth window on the alley, and was gone from the scene with whatever job he had contemplated unexecuted.
A half-hour later detective headquarters at the Central Station received an anonymous tip: “Send some one to the office of the International Machine Company, on the second floor of West Superior Street.”
It was ten thirty when Jimmy reached the plant. He entered the front door with his own latchkey, pressed the button which lighted the stairway and the landing above, and, ascending, went straight to Mr. Compton’s office, turned the knob, and opened the door, to find that the interior was dark.
“Strange,” he thought, “that after sending for me the fellow didn’t wait.” As these thoughts passed through his mind he fumbled on the wall for the switch, and, finding it, flooded the office with light.
As he turned again toward the room he voiced a sudden exclamation of horror, for on the floor beside his desk lay the body of Mason Compton! As Jimmy stepped quickly toward Compton’s body and kneeled beside it a man tiptoed quietly up the front stairway, while another, having ascended from the rear, was crossing the outer office with equal stealth.
Jimmy felt of Compton’s face and hands. They were warm. And then he placed his ear close against the man’s breast, in order to see if he could detect the beating of the heart. He was in this position when he was startled by a gruff voice behind him.
“Put ‘em up!” it admonished curtly, and Jimmy turned to see two men standing in the doorway with pistols leveled at him.