CHAPTER I
Upon the Saturday after the triumphal return from Wilmington, Lawrence Macgowan sat in the office that had once belonged to Armstrong. A thin, malicious smile drew at his lips as he studied a typed document which lay on the desk before him. He leaned back and lighted a cigar, laughing silently and amusedly to himself.
The door opened, to admit Findlater.
"Good morning, Mr. President!" exclaimed Macgowan heartily. "I was just thinking about you! Come in and make yourself at home."
Findlater, looking well pleased with the world, lowered himself into a chair. Success had agreed with him. It had even given him a slightly superior air with Macgowan.
"Er—something I'd like to inquire about, Mac. How do you expect to meet these suits that have been brought by Armstrong's crowd?"
Macgowan waved his cigar genially. "Tut, tut, my boy! Never worry over little things like that."
"But it may become serious." Findlater frowned, as though displeased by this light response. "Everything's being done in my name, and I should have a clear idea of the program ahead of us."
"Oh, leave the legal affairs to me," and Macgowan's shoulders shook in a hearty laugh. "Haven't I taken care of them pretty well so far?"
Findlater reddened. He was ruffled, irritated by this evasion.
"Confound it, Mac, why can't you be talked to? Why, look at Armstrong! He'd let a man sit down and talk an hour. With all his cursed blue-law character, he'd listen to any proposition—he's big enough to do it. But not you. Why are you stalling about these suits?"
Macgowan's eyes narrowed, then a smile crept into them; not a nice smile. This unfavorable comparison with his enemy, particularly coming from Findlater, stung him unbearably.
"All right, have your way—and pay for it," he said, a rasp in his voice. "You want to know how I'm going to deal with that crowd, eh?"
"Exactly. But what do you mean by paying for it?"
Macgowan waved this query aside, ignored it temporarily.
"Armstrong's going to give up this fight," he said, mouthing his cigar and regarding Findlater with an air which appeared to cause that gentleman some uneasiness. "Our suits against Armstrong can be dismissed any time now. As for the suits against us, they can be postponed. All we want is delay. Armstrong will give up."
Findlater grunted. "Maybe—and maybe not. I know Armstrong as well as you do."
"Not quite as well. You don't know where he's vulnerable; I do." Macgowan chuckled. "He's the heart and soul of the crowd that's fighting us. If he quits, we'll have a clean sweep, eh?"
"Yes," admitted Findlater.
Macgowan smiled as he regarded his confederate.
"D'you know what's happened? Armstrong's wife has left him—gone home."
Findlater stared for a long moment, until gradual realization came to him. Something in the voice and eye of Macgowan wakened his comprehension, conveyed to his brain that these brief words not only constituted a statement of fact, but also held a note of triumphant boasting.
Even Findlater was stupefied by this admission. Bad though he was, Findlater had certain bounds which he disliked to cross.
"Lord!" he ejaculated. "You—Mac, you didn't do this?"
"I?" Macgowan's brows went up. "Certainly not, certainly not! I've not spoken a word to Mrs. Armstrong in months."
A momentary snarl lifted his lip, as the memory of that scene in the Waldorf smote into him. The snarl crept into his voice as he went on speaking.
"But I'll not say that I knew nothing about it. When I go after a man, Findlater, he's gone! I went after Armstrong, and I'll finish him. You thought during the campaign that I was taking wild chances in my attacks; perhaps I was, but haven't we won? Libel suits don't worry me. We'll not press our own suits. That Illinois indictment against Armstrong came too late to do us any good; let it be dismissed. But wait—just wait!"
He leaned back, deliberately checking himself, not wishing to reveal too much of his inner feeling to this confederate of his. His usual suave calmness returned to him.
Findlater nervously cleared his throat. He had not missed that quick, vindictive snarl. During the past few weeks he had become much better acquainted with Macgowan than ever before; and in his heart he had grown terribly afraid of the man, having learned with what reckless and even criminal audacity Macgowan could act. He now realized that he himself had been drawn slowly but surely into the meshes of a net, the drawstrings of which lay in the powerful grip of Macgowan.
Now, in his cowardice, he made an effort to change the subject—only to find that it drove back again upon him with new insistence.
"Something else I wanted to ask you, Mac. There's a check on my desk to be counter-signed—five thousand dollars to a man named Slosson. I can't locate the record of any transaction—"
Macgowan cut in blandly, with all his suave poise to the fore.
"It's quite correct, I assure you. The check goes to him for—shall we say, legal services?
"Slosson," went on Macgowan, "has executed a slight commission for which Consolidated can well afford to pay. He is a partner of our friend Ried Williams, by the way, and is waiting to get this check before returning to Indianapolis. If all goes as I expect, we shall issue checks in a similar amount both to Williams and Slosson, within a few more days. Perhaps at once."
This was all news to Findlater, and inwardly it infuriated him to perceive that Macgowan was handling funds and making plans without a word of consultation.
"I'd like to know more about this," he said aggressively.
"Of course! Did you ever hear of a gentleman named Windsor?"
Findlater shook his head. "Who is he?"
"Assistant attorney general of Indiana," said Macgowan smoothly. "At present he is a special investigator, appointed to probe into something connected with the Food Products stock that Armstrong marketed. Somehow, word of something rotten about this stock issue reached him—unfortunately, I can't explain the entire matter just now. I assure you, however, that the checks going to Slosson and Williams have been well earned."
Findlater made an angry, irritated gesture.
"This pouring out money by the thousands is sheer waste," he exclaimed heatedly. "You've admitted that the Illinois indictment amounts to nothing, that we'll not press any of the suits we've filed. Then why the devil are you spending all this money to get an Indiana indictment on the same grounds?"
"Ah, but I'm not!" Macgowan chuckled amusedly. "On materially different grounds, my dear chap. This Mr. Windsor is a man who cannot be bribed or coerced, a man whose acumen is keen, whose integrity is as Cæsar's wife."
He paused and surveyed Findlater blandly.
"Such a man becomes an invaluable tool in the proper hand. I may inform you that he will not only indict Armstrong, but will convict him. He is now collecting the proofs, and upon his return to Indiana, he will send Armstrong to prison."
"What have you found against Armstrong, anyway?"
"That remains a secret in which I have no concern," responded Macgowan cheerfully. "A secret which is supposedly locked within the breast of Mr. Windsor and one or two—"
"Damn it, why can't you come into the open with me?" exploded Findlater.
"I shall, presently." For an instant the gleam in Macgowan's eyes was wolfish. "Since you have demanded my program, I am presenting it. Armstrong will be indicted, tried, and convicted; this is certain. He is already ruined in his home, with his wife departed. He will be a broken man. The Armstrong Company will go to pieces with him. The fight being waged against us will die of inertia. This is inevitable."
Macgowan puffed his cigar alight, then went on.
"You see, then, why I am not concerned over these legal affairs? The suits against us will hardly be pressed, with Armstrong a convict. Our own suits we calmly dismiss."
"But are you sure of convicting him?" asked Findlater, a glow of hope in his eyes.
Macgowan smiled cynically. "I prepared the evidence myself. Need I say more?"
Findlater leaned back and drew a long breath. At this moment, however, Macgowan changed the subject. He regarded Findlater with latent cruelty, a steady appraisal which showed how absolutely he held the other man in his power.
"There is a little matter which you and I must settle," he said. His tone made the other man jerk around. "Suppose you affix your signature to this."
He held out the typed document which lay before him.
Findlater took it, adjusted his glasses and glanced at the paper. He looked more attentively. Slowly the color faded out of his cheeks, and the paper shook in his hand. He looked up, caught his breath.
"I—I don't understand!" he began. The challenging gaze of Macgowan seemed to sap the man's vitality. His voice failed.
"Can't you read?" asked Macgowan coldly. "Your resignation as president of Consolidated, undated; also, an agreement empowering me to vote your control in the voting trust. It seems very simple."
Findlater rallied. His countenance purpled with a rush of anger.
"Damn you, Mac, you can't force me out—I'm not to be bullied into walking out of here like Armstrong did! If you think you'll stab me in the back, you can guess again. I know too much about you and how you've run things—"
"You'll tell it, will you?" cut in Macgowan, chuckling.
Findlater glared at him, trembling with rage and fright. Like a rat backed into a corner, one touch would either lend him a devastating fury to fight at all costs, or would send him scurrying away in blind panic.
Macgowan, watching him, applied the touch very deftly.
"I don't want to use that resignation now; it may never be used. As to talking, everything in the campaign has been done over your name, as president, so talk all you like, and I'll leave you to settle matters with the other crowd. And I will leave you, unless you sign. Why shouldn't I? What about that proposition you made Armstrong over in Wilmington? All ready to sell me out, weren't you! And you thought I'd never know it."
At this, Findlater turned white again. Macgowan laughed thinly.
"I'll take no more chances on you, Henry C. Findlater! From now on, you'll be in my pocket, under my hand—or else I'll walk out of here and give a statement to the press that will wake things up! Who issued those ten thousand shares to Williams? You did."
"At your orders!" cried Findlater wildly. "It was you who did everything!"
"Prove it." Macgowan, abruptly, flamed with arrogance and tumultuous violence. His fist crashed on the desk as he leaned forward and transfixed Findlater with his wolfish, menacing stare.
"Sign that paper and get out of here!" he roared. "Throw me over, will you? I'll show you where you get off, you dirty hound! We'll have this paper signed and witnessed, and if you ever again try to knife me—Lord help you! Get busy!"
Findlater, his brow streaming with perspiration, laid the paper on the desk and reached out trembling fingers for a pen.