CHAPTER X
From the moment when Lawrence Macgowan, as secretary of Consolidated Securities, called the annual meeting to order, a sense of impending drama filled the auditorium. The Gayety Theater! What irony in the name! Here was a struggle for more than life and death, a titanic combat between looters and looted.
Every one knew that the issue lay between Armstrong and Macgowan; the batteries of lawyers and advisers and experts and friends were but incidentals of the stage setting. The life of Consolidated was at stake—now this outward and visible symbol of sixteen thousand investors would either be saved to its owners, or would be despoiled and bled white.
From the start, Macgowan let himself go full sweep, in all his real nature. Arbitrary, domineering, a sneering viciousness in eyes and voice, he ruled the meeting with a hand of iron. Save for his own little group, the hundreds of people around were enemies; they hated, feared, distrusted him—and were helpless before him.
Macgowan, knowing that these people had gathered to watch his power stripped away, took savage pleasure in making them feel that power, in making them feel their own impotence before him, in making them realize that he, and he alone, was the master of Consolidated Securities.
And people had gathered to watch. Several hundred were here, the majority from near-by points, others from a distance. These, almost to a man, were behind Armstrong and his committee. Before and during the meeting they were thronging about the hotel rooms, shaking hands, encouraging, pouring their enthusiasm and confidence into the men who were fighting for them.
While that long roll of the thousands of investors was being called they sat silent, tense, listening and checking off proxies. Never was the magnificent audacity of Macgowan more manifest than now, as he sat there snarling at those who had come to pull him from his position of power.
This arrogant, confident manner of Macgowan's was causing Armstrong worry; he sought for the reason perpetually, and found none. Hour after hour went by. The first day dragged out its length, the second followed. Somewhere in the crowd Armstrong caught a glimpse of a sallow, saturnine visage, lost it again instantly; after a time he remembered that darkly vulpine countenance as the face of Ried Williams. Williams! What was the man doing here? No matter.
And now the third day of the meeting. That afternoon would be finished the long roll of the sixteen thousand and more investors.
With each name that was called, during these two days and a half, the Protective Association showed its power more clearly. The proxies held by Macgowan's satellites were clearly in the minority. As the totals mounted up, victory became more and more assured to Armstrong. And ever Mansfield sat aloof in thoughtful silence, scrutinizing every word and act of the opposition with that lightning brain of his ready to pounce; and Macgowan, realizing his peril, stepped cautiously.
Noon came—noon of the third day.
It was an exultant noontide. Sessions was holding the newspaper and financial writers at bay; Judge Holcomb and Doctor Bruton rested. Armstrong and Mansfield lunched with Robert Dorns, who had come down to enjoy the triumph. Calling up Aircastle Point, Armstrong was told that Dorothy was asleep, and left word for her of the victory.
The afternoon session opened with a growing tension. The finish was in sight. The last of the T's was called, and the end would now come soon. Armstrong heard the droning rasp of Macgowan's voice, heard the responses, mechanically checked off his own list. He swiftly computed his figures. Close—but certain!
"We've beaten the voting trust!" he thought exultantly. "Beaten it!"
True. Of the thirty-five thousand shares of common outstanding, the Association would vote a full nineteen thousand. Macgowan, despite his control of the voting trust, would lose by fifteen hundred votes. The illegal attachment had not availed him—
Suddenly Armstrong's head shot up. He was conscious of the electrified thrill that passed through the entire audience. He was conscious of a new name, not on his list, which had passed the lips of Macgowan.
It was the name of Ried Williams.
A dead, tense hush fell upon all, through which pierced the voice of Williams in its response. The wondering surprise passed into a low gasp of incredulity. Macgowan sat sneering, defiant, his gaze sweeping about in exultant challenge. The faces that stared up at him had lost their glow of confidence and triumph; consternation was in every eye, a dismayed stupefaction, despair!
Armstrong was dumbfounded, staggered. For Ried Williams answered for ten thousand shares!
A low mutter passed through the crowd; it swelled and swelled into a vibrant, angry roar of protest. The supercilious smile vanished from the lips of Findlater. Macgowan, furious, bellowed for silence. At last, unable to get it, he held out his hand toward the standing figure of Mansfield in tacit permission. The uproar quieted.
As Mansfield voiced objection, Armstrong's attention was suddenly dragged away. He found Jimmy Wren at his elbow, gripping his arm, agitated and tense.
"Come to the telephone—long distance—French at Chicago wants you—"
"Damn the telephone!" Armstrong was trying to catch Mansfield's voice. "Tell 'em—"
"You've got to come! It's the Chicago office—come and hear for yourself! It's more important than anything here—"
One look into the eyes of Wren, and Armstrong obeyed. He rose, suffered Wren to pilot him out, wondering what new stroke of fate was to fall upon him. Ten thousand shares that did not exist! This was more than audacity; it was insolence. Macgowan could never get away with such action as this. He had passed the limit at last. His effrontery had now over-reached itself—
"Hello!" Armstrong spoke into the telephone. "Armstrong speaking. Who is it?"
He listened for a moment; his face changed. A start escaped him, as though from some invisible blow.
"What's that again?" he demanded vibrantly. "Repeat it!"
Then, after a moment: "All right, French. Don't lose any sleep over it. Much obliged to you."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Jimmy Wren. He was laughing, but his eyes were dancing with the cold flame of sun-smitten ice.
"You heard, Jimmy? Want to start for Europe?"
Jimmy Wren gaped at him, then grinned and swung palm to palm with a hearty grip.
"Damn Europe! I'm with you till hell freezes over, and you know it!"
"All right. Let's get back—"
He was too late. He found that the meeting had been adjourned until next morning. Cursing, angry men were pouring from the place. He encountered Mansfield and Dorns in company; the lawyer was white with suppressed fury. Dorns regarded Armstrong grimly and bit hard at a cigar.
"Well?" demanded Armstrong, as they got clear of the crowd. "Did you stop him?"
Mansfield shook his head.
"There was a directors' meeting a week ago—a secret one," he said crisply. "Ten thousand shares of stock were issued to Ried Williams. His note for five thousand dollars was issued in payment. Then the transfer books were closed."
Armstrong froze.
"Note—five thousand!" he said, unbelieving. "For stock worth two hundred thousand on the market? Impossible!"
"It is illegal, but it's not impossible," said Mansfield. "It is a fact. All Macgowan wants is to remain in power. This gives him a clear voting majority, of course."
Armstrong pulled himself together.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait! There's something else you don't know—"
The two men looked at him, startled by his manner. He met the gaze of Dorns, and laughed bitterly.
"Good thing you're here, Dorns," he said. "I just had a long distance call from our Chicago manager. He had some information for me. I've been indicted in Springfield, Illinois, for perjury in connection with the sale of Food Products stock. Macgowan wanted the indictment for use during the campaign, of course—well, he has it now."