CHAPTER II
Armstrong should have reached New York at nine o'clock on the Wednesday following Christmas, but his train was forty minutes late. Dorothy had remained in Evansville, to come East in a few days with her parents.
At precisely ten o'clock, Armstrong entered his own office. He sat down at his desk, shoved aside the waiting pile of mail, drew up the telephone and asked for Jimmy Wren. To his astonishment, he was informed that Wren was out of the city.
"Send Mr. Evarts here," he said curtly.
Evarts was sales manager of the Armstrong Company, under Wren—another of Armstrong's own men, devoted to him. Far from being the nervous, high-strung type of Wren, this Evarts was imperturbable, well poised, thoroughly alert and aggressive; a good man in all respects, and substantial.
The door opened and Evarts appeared.
"Where's Jimmy Wren?" demanded Armstrong.
Evarts closed the door behind him and stared blankly. Then Armstrong perceived that his face was haggard, seared with the brand of worry and of sleepless nights. Evarts came slowly forward, his eyes fastened upon Armstrong; that gaze betrayed a doubt, a wild anxiety, tormenting the inner man.
"Jimmy's gone,"' he said slowly.
"Where?"
Evarts waved his hand in vague fashion.
"My heavens, chief! Don't you know what's going on here? Everything's paralyzed. No one knows what to expect, when indictments will be—"
"Stop your drooling! Where's Wren?"
"In Tampa, by this time. On his way to Europe."
"Tampa? Europe?" Armstrong was astounded. "Why, in the devil's name?"
Evarts made a desperate effort, forced himself to comparative calmness.
"Skipped out ahead of the crash, that's all. We're expecting every minute to have the records seized. Two postal inspectors were here yesterday, going into things with Macgowan. The Wilmington office 'phoned in yesterday to Wren that we could look for a fraud order to-day, and also for indictments. Jimmy had a conference with Macgowan, and skipped out. Bangs has resigned and gone. I've been thinking of it myself, only—"
Armstrong sat back in his chair, and his eyes bit out like steel.
"Where do you fellows think you are—in Sing Sing already? What's all this foolery about indictments? You men ought to know better. I sent Wren back here ready to pull off his coat and fight. What's happened?"
Evarts hesitated, flushed, and then broke into impulsive speech.
"You weren't here—that's the main thing! There was ugly talk floating all around; one report was that you had skipped. Nothing definite has happened; the general idea seems to be that you're a crook, that you've floated Food Products on a false bottom, and that there's hell to pay on account of the way the stock's been handled by our men. If you think it's easy for a fellow to stick around and face indictments when the chief is gone, then think again!"
Armstrong sat motionless. The ghastly humor of all this brought a mirthless and angry smile to his lips. Poor Wren fled in blind, unreasoning panic for the second time; Evarts in a state of funk; Bangs gone, the heads of the organization shattered and reeling—and all because of false rumors! It seemed incredible. It was incredible. There was more in this than had appeared yet.
"What made you stick around, then?" demanded Armstrong.
"Blamed if I know," said Evarts bluntly. "Because I couldn't quite get you as a crook, I guess. Wired you twice yesterday—no answer. I've been working like hell, going over letters and records. Can't find a thing wrong. I don't know what the postal men have found wrong either. But Mac says things look pretty bad for us all."
"Mac?" Armstrong looked up. "Findlater, you mean. It was Findlater who got Jimmy Wren filled up with dope. It was Findlater who started this mess!"
Evarts lifted his brows.
"Maybe so. But it's Mac who has done the talking, and he's done a lot of it in the last day or two! That's what scared the guts out of us all. And it's Mac who sent Wren on to Tampa and is getting his passports to Europe."
Armstrong, bewildered and angry, held himself in check by an effort.
"I ordered Jimmy to call a directors' meeting for eleven to-day. Did he do it?"
"Yes. Findlater mentioned it last night. He and Mac were talking about it."
"Evarts, either you're crazy or I am. Your talk about Macgowan is past me." Armstrong reached for his telephone. "I'll get Mac over here and—"
"He's in Findlater's office now."
"Go get him, will you?"
Evarts disappeared. Armstrong lighted a cigar and began to pace up and down the room, furiously disconcerted. He could not understand what had happened or who was his enemy. He was baffled. Then the door opened and he swung around.
On the threshold was Macgowan, debonair as ever, some papers in his hand. Evarts was about to enter when Macgowan dismissed him with a gesture. Armstrong promptly interfered.
"Hold on! Evarts, come along in. Now, Mac, what's been going on here?"
"Reese, this is something for private discussion—"
"Not by a damned sight! I've nothing to discuss in private," exploded Armstrong. "You come in, Evarts. Now, Mac, let's have the whole thing."
After momentary hesitation, Macgowan shrugged slightly and came forward to the desk. He calmly drew up a chair and seated himself, disposed his papers before him, and produced a cigar and lighted it. Then, casually looking up, he invited Armstrong to be seated.
In this instant, Armstrong beheld a new Lawrence Macgowan.
Gone was all the genial amiability of the man. Gone was the brilliant warmth from his eyes, now cold and hard and piercing, bitterly masterful. Out of those eyes there looked the real Macgowan—a predatory, merciless man of steel and iron, armed and ready for battle.
The sight of this face struck Armstrong like a blow. He sat down, wondering yet not suspecting.
"I thought, Mac, that you had attended to this Washington investigation?"
"I did. If you want it straight, I caused it."
As he spoke, Macgowan met the gaze of Armstrong with a cold, sneering challenge in his eyes. The deliberate cruelty of that regard, its insolent brutality, gave Armstrong a swift premonition of the truth, staggered him with its force. Macgowan went on smoothly.
"You know there's a meeting of the directors of Consolidated at eleven, Reese." His voice was level, unimpassioned, stinging. "Here are two papers which I wish to lay before the board for immediate action, if you'll kindly sign them."
Armstrong looked at the typed sheets which were slid over the desk to him. He read the words. Incredulity gripped him; he read them again, his brain whirling. Anger surged up in him, he was stupefied by a frightful bewilderment.
One of those papers was his resignation as a director of Consolidated. The other was a cancellation of the contract by which the Armstrong Company was handling Food Products stock.
He lifted an uncomprehending gaze to Macgowan.
"Mac—what sort of a joke is this?"
"No joke," came the inflexible answer. It was smoothly deliberate, that voice. But the eyes that met Armstrong—the eyes were terrible! "No joke at all, Reese. Unless you sign here and now, this letter goes out to-day. You had better read it carefully."
He placed a third paper in front of Armstrong. The latter mechanically picked it up, read it through with blundering senses. From the corner, Evarts looked on wide-eyed, not understanding, yet gripped by the scene.
The letter was signed by Macgowan and Findlater, as attorney and president of Consolidated Securities. It was addressed to the commissioner of securities of Ohio, related various complaints of the manner in which Food Products stock had been handled by the Armstrong Company, and charged misrepresentation and fraud on the part of that company. It went on to demand a full investigation, a withdrawal of the license granted Armstrong in Ohio, and full penalties.
"We have affidavits to back up these complaints," went on that deadly voice. "A Federal investigation is under way; I caused it, being satisfied that you were playing crooked. A fraud order will be issued against you to-day at my request."
He paused an instant, then proceeded slowly, giving full force to his words.
"To protect ourselves against you, Consolidated is forced to take this step. This letter and similar ones will go out to every state in which the Armstrong Company operates. We demand full publicity. The alternative is your resignation—now. Either resign, or we show you up to the whole country as a crook."
Armstrong stared at the letter. He was dazed, shocked into chaotic bewilderment.
"But this isn't true! It's damnably false!" Then he looked up into those brilliant, pitiless eyes that bored into him, and read the bitter truth. A hoarse cry broke from him. "You—Judas! Judas!"
The word died on his lips. Too late, he saw himself betrayed, lured to destruction by this man whom he had trusted. A spasm of fury seized him. He crushed the letter into his pocket, half rose from his chair; his hands darted out toward Macgowan, a madness of rage blinding him—
Barely in time, he mastered himself, controlled the impulse, sank back into his chair. Perhaps it was not wholly true, not so bad as he thought. Perhaps Macgowan was sincere.
"You can't mean this, Mac!" That hurt and stricken voice made the other man wince for an instant. "You know how false all these charges are. If that letter went out—why, it'd mean ruin for me, no matter how it ended! That letter, sent out by my own company, would finish me! You haven't betrayed me, Mac? You're not trying to chuck me out—"
"You poor hick!" Macgowan took this appeal for weakness. His voice seared like acid. "We're tired of your altruistic vaporings. We've endured your bombastic dreams long enough. We're going to take over this concern on a business basis. Here's another paper you may also sign; an agreement to turn over your Consolidated stock to us. The best thing you can do is to fade out quietly. This meeting at eleven will blow you up if you don't."
Armstrong quivered under the scornful words. Then, raging, he came to his feet.
"All right! Let's have the meeting—"
Macgowan's cold smile froze the speech on his lips.
"Reese, I'll vote your stock in the best interest of the company. I have Jimmy Wren's resignation as secretary. He has empowered me to assume his interest in the voting trust, though I don't need it, since I'll vote with Findlater."
The voting trust! Armstrong sank back into his chair, doubting no longer; and the will to fight broke asunder within him. Macgowan had betrayed him, with deliberate cold-blooded planning. Armstrong could not vote his own stock. Though Macgowan and Findlater together could control the voting trust. Jimmy Wren was safely out of the way—got rid of! Armstrong had been stripped of every helper, every aid.
From this instant, Reese Armstrong felt himself lost beyond recovery. He had been lured into a trap from which there was no escape, no possible rescue. A frightful despair overwhelmed him—it was Macgowan who had done this thing. Macgowan! There was the paralyzing factor.
Not the lies, not the hatred and intrigue, not the threats and falsity around him, could prevail—but the treachery of his friend. A profound melancholy gripped him, and he could not fight it away. Oblivious of those cruelly exultant eyes across the desk, oblivious of the wondering stare of Evarts, he lowered his head and stared at the papers before him, with eyes that saw not.
He was absolutely in the power of Macgowan; there was no hope, for he had depended upon nobody else. Macgowan, joined to Findlater, held him powerless. Trusted and given authority, Macgowan could ruin him—had already done so! Swung against him, the voting trust would smash him, and that letter from the directors would make his ruin public.
It was the deliberate treachery which struck Armstrong as no other blow could have done. It reached into his very soul like a hot brand, burning everything in its course. His brain was in chaos. He could think of nothing coherent, could plan nothing, could find no evasion. He sat broken, his senses reeling, his ability numbed and stupefied. And Macgowan, watching with the cruel eyes of a hawk, smiled upon the ruin of the man whose friend he had been, and knew the moment had come to strike.
"Sign!" said the inflexible voice. "Sign—or take your medicine! Time's up."
Armstrong lifted his head. Sign! He could do nothing else. He was lost. Everything was in the grip of Macgowan. Out of his own soul all the fight had been crushed. With fumbling hands, he groped at the papers. Anguish blinded him, a bitter surge of despair held him fettered. He had no heart left to struggle, or even to evade; he could do nothing, for his spirit was broken. He felt a pen thrust into his fingers, and blindly scrawled his name across the papers. Then he relaxed and sat with chin fallen on breast.
Macgowan, smiling thinly, gathered up the papers and left the room.
Armstrong did not see the man go. He sat as in a daze, seeing nothing. Somewhere in the back of his brain was throbbing that warning which Dorothy had tried to impress upon him; the memory only served to make worse the hurt.
Then, suddenly, he was aware of a hand that clutched his arm, a voice ringing in his ear. He looked up, dully, to see Evarts standing over him in a blaze of excitement.
"Armstrong! I see the whole thing now—it can't end like this, it can't!" Evarts cried out the words in frantic tones. "Wake up, man! Do something—don't sit there like a fool! Oh, why the devil did you sign those papers! Wake up, chief, I'm with you! I'll stick till hell freezes over! Wake up and tell me what to do."
Armstrong struggled to his feet. He swayed, caught at the desk, gathered himself together.
"Nothing to do, Evarts," he said, mumbling the words miserably. "Nothing to do. I'm sick. Let me get out of here—"
Somehow he took his hat and coat and got out of the room, which had suddenly become hateful to him.