Setting the Trap
Her next two days were given up to the study of the treasurer's books—and the financial system of government in Roma. The process necessitated looking up many details regarding salaries and other expenses, which took time and careful scrutiny on the part of both her and her office assistants. What the Mayor found out the first day led her to send for a trained accountant, whom she set quietly at work on the second morning. That night she sent for Armstrong to come to her house.
"I am beginning to realize what it means to a business man to have a good home," she said to her cousin as she drew her pet easy chair up to the open fire in her library,—for although it was May the nights were chilly. "I never appreciated fully what it means to have a comfortable house well-kept;—to draw up after a hard day's work before one's own fire—to let the world go by while I 'take mine ease in mine inn.' I tell you, Jessie, if women all realized what this means, there would be more happy homes and fewer divorces."
"I suppose so," replied her cousin. "Yet there is something to be said on the other side. I get so tired of staying in the house all day, struggling with the problems of housekeeping and the vagaries of servants that I rather sympathize with the women who demand the company of their husbands at night, to the theaters and dinners and whatever social functions come handy."
"Wrong," said Gertrude sententiously. "When a man gets home at night, weary in body and mind with the grind of his business, he wants a good dinner, an easy chair, his newspaper or magazine, his pipe. I can understand how like heaven a woman can make his home—a woman with tact;—or how like the other place it might become with her discontented grumbling or her determination to get him into evening clothes and drag him into the outside world again,—to be harried and worried and kept uncomfortable for several hours more."
"But the wives—what are they going to do?" asked Miss Craig. "Are they never to have any outside pleasures?"
"With all the clubs and bridge-parties and afternoon teas, they have going in the day-time," said Gertrude, "let them be content. But at night, if she values domestic happiness, let the wife not dare deprive her husband of the delights of a good well-kept home," and she snuggled closer into her big chair.
"Goodness, Gertie!" laughed her cousin. "One would think you contemplated a husband. Or are you getting up a speech on Public Life for Women as a Training for Matrimony. But here's Bailey. I suppose you want to talk over City Hall matters—the last thing I want to listen to. So you'll excuse me. But, do you think the ideal domestic menage would allow business after hours? O, Bailey, I suspect she'll be taking up cigarettes next;" and with that she went away to make a call at the nearest neighbor's.
"Sit down, Bailey," said Gertrude, reaching up to greet him. "I'm so comfortable—and lazy, here; I'm sure you won't mind if we just sit by this fire and talk things over. Well—do you know that Mr. Henry,—the accountant,—has been going over the books today?"
"Probably a good thing," was Bailey's comment. "Find anything out of the way?"
"He thinks the salary bills, some of them, larger than they should be. O, there is so much to do! So many ways in which things should be improved!—so many ends to be looked after and gathered up," she cried.
"Not getting tired, Gertie—already?" asked Bailey, in a surprised tone.
Gertrude sat up straight in her chair. "There are two sides to me, Bailey," she answered. "I suppose there are two to most people. There is the Gertrude Van Deusen who has been shielded and cared for all her life, who has never known hardship or difficulty—or even work; and sometimes—as tonight here in the shelter of my father's fine library, she comes to the surface with her cry for luxury and the easy sheltered path she has always known. But there is another Gertrude Van Deusen, who having laid her hand to the plough, would deem it a disgrace to turn back before her furrow is ploughed. She is the one who stands ready to face anything, to dare the city rogues, to root out corruption if it exists—and I think it does."
"Not much doubt of that," returned Bailey. "And good for you. You're the same girl I used to drive into a corner of the snow-fort, just to see you fight."
"Not very ladylike, was I?" smiled Gertrude. "But if I had been of the ladylike kind,—well, Roma would have had Burke in as mayor now. And Bailey, I believe Burke is deep in that Boulevard business. How shall we find out?"
They talked for a long time over the glowing coals; then Mary Snow came in and Jessie Craig again, and there was music and a quiet game of whist, after which Bailey escorted Mary away with his most gallantly protective air.
"Gertrude, do you think Bailey is just a trifle interested there,—in Mary Snow, I mean?" asked Miss Craig when they had gone.
"Bailey? O, no," answered Gertrude. He had been devoted to her so many years, she felt an almost proprietary interest in him. She felt that she might have married Armstrong any time within the last ten years. "Bailey is always interested in people I like," she went on. "And I certainly do like Mary. I don't know what I could do without her. The work brings the two in close consultation often, you know." She did not see the lifting of Jessica's dainty eye-brows as she turned to say good-night. And it was well she did not see Bailey when he said good-bye to Mary a little later.
The next morning Vickery came to see her again.
"Weren't expecting to see me so soon, perhaps?" he asked as he drew close to her desk. "But I thought I'd drop in and see what you've decided on,—or if you've decided on anything. How is it? Coming in with us?"
"There are still some points I want to question you about," said the Mayor. "Minnie, will you give us the room, free from interruption a few minutes? Thank you. Now, Mr. Vickery, will you go over your proposition again?"
The man did so, explaining the advantages and necessities of the desired franchise with many words. She asked an occasional question, cautiously and with apparent lack of intelligence, and even at the close of their talk he doubted if she understood half of what he had been saying.
"You want to remember," he concluded, "that we have good men behind the scheme. There is plenty of money, and we are prepared to put some of it where it will do the most good."
He waited significantly, but she did not seem to understand. What could be expected of a woman, in matters of this kind.
"As I said the other day, there will be a nice little slice of stock for you,—and $20,000 besides for you, or for your pet charity," he urged, to put the thing more plainly before her.
"But if we were to get found out?" she asked. "If it were to be known—might we not get into trouble?"
"Huh! no danger of that," laughed Vickery. "The aldermen are all in it—we can manage the common council—that is, if you come with us. And Armstrong will be sure to come in, if you do."
"Hadn't I better talk this over with the chairman of the board of aldermen?" asked Gertrude.
"You might," assented Vickery. "Still,—in matters of this kind, it is better to do as little talking as possible."
"But how am I to be sure they are in it?" The Mayor seemed to hesitate. "I do not want to do any unnecessary talking—but how do I know this is not all a trap, to catch me?"
"More astute than I gave her credit for being," said Vickery to himself. Then aloud:
"My dear lady!—but I realize your position—yes, and I respect it. If I give you proof, actual figures,—will you believe me then?"
"Yes, I'll believe you then," said Gertrude.
"Then suppose I come again this afternoon," urged the man. "I'll have the memoranda of the figures with me."
"Very well. Come at three," answered Gertrude. "I will have the way clear by then."
And Vickery departed, well satisfied with his half-hour's work. But when he had gone, Gertrude sent for Mary Snow, and they had a long talk together.
At three, promptly as the clocks were chiming out the hour, Orlando Vickery presented himself, and was ushered into the Mayor's private office.
"Well, I'm here," he said. "We are alone, of course?" He walked over to a curtained doorway, and drew aside the draperies. The stenographer's office was disclosed—empty. He remembered having seen her in the outer office as he came through.
"Pardon me," he apologized. "I just wanted to make sure—for your own sake, of course. For while these little arrangements are always being made, we prefer to have no witnesses, you know. Again, pardon me, but where does that door lead to?" He pointed towards the corner, just behind the desk.
"Only into a private closet," answered Gertrude. "You can look in if you insist upon it." But she quaked a little inwardly as she said it.
"O, no," answered Vickery. "I thought it might lead into one of the other offices. We don't want to be disturbed. Now, for business. Here's my private memorandum. Look it over. Anything you can't understand, just ask me."
Gertrude took the book—a small leather-covered memorandum—and began turning its leaves. But somehow she seemed dull of comprehension.
"What is this?" she asked. "'Paid in 1907,—Royalties.' What are royalties?"
"Well, I preferred to put them that way. I should put you, when we perfect our little transaction, under that head."
"O, I see," answered Gertrude. "Here is John O'Brien, $12,000; is that a royalty as you call it?—because he is pledged to the franchise?"
"That's what," answered Vickery. "He's already had that much. He was chairman last year, you know."
"And Mr. Mann,—our present chairman," asked Gertrude. "Is he here?"
"Later on you'll find him," was the reply.
Gertrude read on, in a low distinct voice, the various items, showing "royalties" paid various officials, running from $500 up to thousands, finally coming down to Mann's.
"Is this right—Otis R. Mann, $13,500?" she asked.
"And that means that Mr. Mann has already taken $13,500—and pledged himself to get the franchise through?" she asked in her low clear tone.
"That's what. All we need now is your signature and to go through the form of getting it passed through the council again, and we are all done," answered Vickery. "You have a queer charter in this town."
"And if I sign the proposed bill?" she asked.
"You get $20,000 cold cash and a thousand shares of preferred stock," urged Vickery.
"Why not give me a certified check right now?" asked the Mayor.
"Now if that isn't just like a woman!—a charming feminine trait, too," returned Vickery. "No man would think of asking for a check in these little transactions. Good, solid money is all right, isn't it?"
"I suppose so," she returned.
"Well?" he asked, after a slight pause.
"Well?" she returned.
"You're going to sign the bill?" he asked, wondering just what she would do next.
"Mr. Vickery,—it's against all my principles, you know,—taking money or its equivalent for my signature," said the Mayor.
"Oh,—I thought we had gone all over that," he retorted.
"Yes, I know. I haven't said I won't," she went on. "But I want just one day—or rather, one night more to think this over—I wonder what my father would do in my case."
"Your father was a good politician," answered Vickery confidently. "He would have known at once what to do."
"I believe he would," answered Gertrude in her most inscrutable manner. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take tonight—only just tonight, to settle this with my conscience—and I will see you in the morning—early, if you say so."
"I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that," answered Vickery, tucking the little memorandum book safely away in an inner pocket. "But I would like your promise now."
"Oh,—Mr. Vickery, tomorrow morning, please." She smiled and held out her hand. He took it and bade her good afternoon. He was not quite sure, when he went down stairs this time whether he ought to congratulate himself or not.
"These women," he said to himself, as he sought the aldermen's room, "are not to be depended on. You think you have 'em one minute, but when you go to put your finger on 'em, they are not there."
But upstairs, Gertrude was telephoning for the district attorney.