VIII
Within an hour McWayne walked into the private office. His chief closed his jaws—a weaker man would have clenched his fists—in anticipation.
“Breese & Silliman, the real-estate men, say they rented 777 Fifth Avenue, furnished, to a Madam Calderon—an American woman, widow of a Peruvian nitrate king. She came up here and asked Breese about a suitable location. She has a daughter she wishes to marry in America. She talked quite freely about her affairs. The house was for sale, but she leased if, furnished, with privilege of purchase. Belongs to the Martin-Schwenk Construction Company. The daughter is about thirty, dark, Spanish-looking, and fleshy; rather—er—inclined to make googoo eyes, as Breese says, in a kind of foreign way.”
“Go on,” commanded E. H. Merriwether.
“Mrs. Calderon said point-blank that she wished her daughter to marry a nice young man of wealth and position, preferably a blond. I gather that the agents were rather anxious to let the house and probably encouraged her. She has paid quarterly in advance, and her banking references are O. K.; but nothing about her personally is known to any one. That's all I could get.”
“Very well. Thank you, McWayne.”
The private secretary stood beside the desk, hesitated, and presently walked out. Shortly afterward, the great and ruthless E. H. Merriwether, full of perplexity and regret—and some remorse over his neglect of his only son for so many years—went uptown. He desired to know what to expect, in order to be able to think intelligently, and, therefore, to fight efficiently. How could he fight—not knowing what or whom to fight?
He told the chauffeur to wait, and then rang the bell of 777.
One of the four footmen whose faces had impressed Tom as being distinctly too intelligent for menials, opened the door.
“I wish to see Madam Calderon.”
“I beg pardon, sir. Have you an appointment?”
“No. Say it is Mr. Merriwether.”
“Mr. who, sir?”
Mr. Merriwether took out a card. The footman received it on a very elaborate silver-gilt card-tray and, pointing to a particularly uncomfortable, high-backed Circassian-walnut chair in the foyer, left the great little multimillionaire under the watchful eye of footman Number Two. This annoyed Mr. Merriwether. Nobody is altogether invulnerable.
The footman returned, with the card and the tray.
“Madam is not at home, sir; but her brother would be glad to see you, if you wish, sir. He is madam's man of affairs.”
“Very well.”
“If you please, sir, this way.” And the footman led the way to the door of the library, where Tom had been received so often.
“Mr. Edward H. Merriwether!” The emphasis on the first name made the little czar of the Southwestern roads think it was done in order to differentiate him from Mr. Thomas Merriwether. Even great men are not above thinking themselves clever.
He entered the room and took in its character at one glance, just as Tom had done. He became cool, watchful, alert, and observing, as he always did when he went into a fight. He looked at the man who was said to be the brother of the woman who had leased the house—the woman who had a daughter she wished to marry to a blond with money and position.
The man had a square chin and, even in repose, suggested power and self-control. Mr. Merriwether met the remarkably steady, unblinking gaze of two extremely sharp eyes, and recognized without any particular motion that he confronted a man of strength and resource, who, moreover, had the double strategical advantage of being in his own house and of not having sought this interview.
“Be seated, sir,” said the man, in the calm voice of one who is accustomed to obedience, even in trifles.
Mr. E. H. Merriwether sat down. He noticed little things, as well as big. He noted, for instance, that he had begun by doing exactly what this man told him to do. The man intelligently waited for Mr. E. H. Merriwether to speak. Mr. E. H. Merriwether did so. He said:
“I called to see Madam Calderon.”
“About?” The man spoke coldly.
Mr. E. H. Merriwether raised his eyebrows. He did it in order not to frown. There is no wisdom in needless antagonisms. His only son was concerned.
“About my son,” he said.
“Tommy?”
The great railroad magnate, accustomed to the deference even of the self-appointed owners of the United States, flushed with anger. Had things gone so far that such intimacy existed?
“I understand,” he said, trying to speak emotionlessly, “that my son visits this house.”
“Of his own volition, sir.”
“I did not think there was physical coercion; but, of course, as his father—” He stopped in the middle of the sentence.
This never before had happened to this man, who always knew what to do and what to say, and always did it and said it with the least expenditure of time and words; but, as a matter of fact, what could he say, and how?
“That relationship,” the man said, calmly, “often interferes with the exercise of what people formerly called common sense. Will you please do me a very great favor, sir?”
“A favor?” Mr. Merriwether, skilful diplomatist though he could be at times, now frowned in advance.
“Yes, Mr. Merriwether—indeed, two favors; or rather, three. First: Will you please ask me no questions now? Second: Will you please return to this house at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning? And third: Will you promise not to speak to your son about your visit here until after you have paid your second call, to-morrow?”
It flashed through Mr. Merriwether's mind that to grant the favors might expedite Tom's appalling marriage. He said, decisively:
“I cannot promise any of the things you ask.”
“Very well,” said the man, composedly. “Then, I take it, there is nothing more to be said.”
He rose politely, and as he did so pressed a button on the table. The footman appeared and held the door open for Mr. Merriwether to pass out.
The autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, with unlimited credit in the money-markets of the world, was not accustomed to being treated like this: but, precisely because he felt hot anger rising in tidal waves to his brow, he instantly became cool.
He remained sitting, and said, very politely:
“If you will allow me, sir, to tell you that my reasons—”
The man, who was still standing, held up a hand and broke in:
“And if you will allow me to tell you that I am neither a criminal nor a jackass I shall then proceed to say that nobody in this house has any intention of entering into any argument or controversy with you. I am actuated much less by personal considerations of my own than by a desire to avert from you eternal regrets and—er—unseemly displays of temper.”
E. H. Merriwether knew exactly what he would like to do to this man. What he said—very mildly—was:
“You must admit, sir, that your requests might be interpreted—”
“Oh, I see!” And the man smiled very slightly. “Well, suppose you take Tom to your office with you to-morrow morning, and keep him there while you come here? Tell him to wait for you, because you wish to have luncheon with him. I do not care to discuss my reasons—for example—for not wishing you to speak to Tom about this visit. I do not wish to wound your feelings; but I am not sure that you know Tom as well as a father ought to know his only son. And there are times when a man must be more than a father, when he must be a tactful man of the world, and a psychologist.”
Mr. Merriwether realized the force of this so clearly that he winced, but said nothing, since he could not admit such a thing aloud. The man proceeded coldly:
“If you are both an intelligent man and a loving father, you will promise what I ask—not for my sake, for yours. There are many things, Mr. E. H. Merriwether, that money does not cure, and that not even time can heal. Ask me nothing now; come here at eleven to-morrow morning, and in the mean time do not speak to Tom about himself—or your fears.”
“If you were only not so—er—well, so damned mysterious—” And Mr. Merriwether forced himself to smile pleasantly.
“Ah—if!” exclaimed the man, nodding. “Do you promise?”
“Yes!” answered Mr. Merriwether.
He had made up his mind that Tom would not be abducted. As for worse things, if Tom had not already committed matrimony, he could not very well do it in his father's private office. It was wise to keep Tom virtually a prisoner without his knowledge. And parental opposition has so often served merely to add gasoline to the flame of love that one father would not even whisper his objections.
He bowed and left the room, angry that nothing had been accomplished, relieved that within twenty-four hours the matter would probably be settled, and not quite so confident of the power of money as he had been for many years.