A BLUFF CALLED
Furniss, the oldest reporter on The Dispatch, in point of service, was the one man with whom Good would have liked to part company. But he was so distinctly capable, and there was such an utter absence of tangible reason for his dismissal that he remained in his place, a constant, though impalpable, source of irritation.
He was the only member of the staff whose distrust of Good's motives remained fixed and unconcealed. It was perhaps not wholly his fault. Temperamentally saturnine, years of service covering "police" had sapped his faith in human nature. To him there was no such thing as altruism. At best it was but a cloak to some subtle form of personal exploitation. Just what Good's "game" was, he did not know. But that he had no confidence in his superior was perfectly evident.
Good did everything he could to disarm this hostility, but the only result was to confirm Furniss in the belief that an effort was being made to blind him. Finally Good gave up the task, although he never ceased to regret his subordinate's unconquerable attitude. He was so completely without suspicion himself that distrust of himself in others was peculiarly painful.
He and Bassett were in conference one afternoon when Furniss came in.
"I've got a tip," he said directly to Bassett, pointedly ignoring Good. "Maybe a story."
"Shoot," said Bassett, moving his cigar to the other side of his mouth, which was his method of indicating interest.
"The railroads have brought their scrap on the constitutionality of the liability law up to the appellate court. Hennessy of the B. & F. got drunk down state the other night and shot off his face about what was going to happen. He said more than he meant to."
"Well." The cigar went back to its former corner. That signified as near excitement as Bassett ever got.
"According to him they've gotten one of the court, and they're going to get another—up here."
"Yes." Bassett's cigar was only half its former length and disappearing rapidly.
"Hennessy's in town to-day. So's Harper of the M. T., Lloyd, of the Western, and several others."
"Go on." Bassett had begun on a fresh cigar.
"They're all hanging out at the Wellesley—room 416. If anything stirs, it ought to be there."
"Yes."
"I sized up the place this morning when nobody was there. Also I hired the next room to it. There's a doorway that commands the whole room. It struck me that if we could put a camera covering 416, by way of that doorway, and have another fellow watching through a hole in the wall, the minute they start anything, we'd yank open the door and touch off the flash. I guess we'd have something, what?"
"You're not without brains, Furniss," said Bassett unemotionally.
"Thanks," said Furniss in a similar tone. Neither tone expressed the feelings of its owner.
Bassett never wasted time in praise or blame—until after the matter was concluded. Then he excelled in either capacity. But the present moment called for action, not words.
"You and Good with Sato for the pictures ought to cover it," he said crisply. A curious expression twisted Furniss' lips. It was not a smile. It might rather be called a premonition of one.
"If they pull off anything it'll be to-night," he said, as Bassett turned back from his insistent telephone. "Both Hennessy and Lloyd I happen to know are going South to-morrow."
"I'll save the first column for you," said Bassett with as near a chuckle as he ever permitted himself.
"It'll break early, if at all," said Furniss. Then he turned insolently to Good. "Pardon me," he said not at all pleasantly, "may I have a word with Bassett, Mister Good?"
There was nothing for it, but for Good to leave. But his face paled and his teeth clicked. As the door closed behind him, Bassett swung around in his chair.
"That was a hell of a thing to do," he snapped. "If he doesn't tie a can to you, I'll do it myself. Who the devil do you think you are, anyway?"
Furniss only laughed. "Better ask that four-flusher who he is. His game's going up in smoke to-night, or I miss my guess. I'll show him up—you watch."
Bassett took the cigar out of his mouth and laid it on the desk.
"What's the answer?"
Furniss' eyes narrowed. "Who's the only judge of the appellate court in this town?"
Bassett hummed softly. "The hell you say!"
"Exactly. Now you can figure it out. What do you think the virtuous Good will do when he finds out? Want a double-leaded three column head, won't he,—with pictures?" Furniss sneered and rolled a cigarette. Bassett looked out of the window and whistled thoughtfully.
"This is just an ordinary newspaper," said Furniss with significance, as he went out. Bassett did not turn around. He remained silent and motionless for a long time. The pile of papers on his desk grew higher and higher, but he paid no heed. The telephone rang and rang unanswered. He still sat staring into vacancy, the slow movement of his jaws as they chewed the cigar, the only sign of life.
One of the office boys expressed it perhaps as well as it could be expressed.
"Gee," he whispered to his companions, "the Old Man's awful tired." Then the buzzer rang, and the boy who answered it concluded that it was a short-lived weariness, or that he had been sadly misinformed.
In the meantime Good had gone to his own office. He was puzzled by the curious behaviour of Furniss and vaguely apprehensive. The atmosphere was tense: it bade fair to be a stormy night. He was not given to credence in signs and portents, but the sullen muttering of the thunder and the frequent flashes of lightning in the darkening sky filled him with inexplicable dread. He lit his pipe and tried to tell himself that it was merely a case of nerves, aggravated by the weather. But the attempt was a failure. Then the door opened and Roger Wynrod entered, his face such a picture of health and contentment that even the hardiest devils could tarry no longer in the room.
"I've been hunting you all day," he cried. "I've got news."
"A beat?"
"Hardly," he laughed. "All the papers have it. That ought to give you a clue. Can't you guess?"
"Not possibly."
"Well—she'll have me."
"Obviously you're imparting news of great moment," said Good severely. "I've seldom seen you look more completely idiotic. But I don't get you."
"Why, you wooden-head—Molly Wolcott—me—we're engaged!"
"Oh—I thought you had news. That's as stale as last year's election." Good laughed as he bantered, but the light shining in his eyes showed the tenderness of his feeling for the younger man.
"You're a lucky kid."
"Rather. But I earned it. She's had me over the hurdles more than once. I never had a swelled head with Molly in the neighbourhood. She always swore I'd never do."
"What made her change?"
"No idea. Woman's way, I guess."
Good put his hand on Roger's shoulder, and his voice softened. "Poppycock," he said slowly. "She never changed. She was only waiting—"
"What for?"
"For you to grow up. You've been growing fast of late, my boy. The way you've taken hold here—it's been splendid. It's tickled your sister beyond words. And I guess—it's tickled someone else, eh?"
"I guess you're about right," he said seriously. "I never was much of a fellow. But I never realised what a useless ass I was until I tried being useful. I came in here more on a lark than anything else. I never dreamed what a mess I could make of things. I thought I was pretty much of a man. I was going to look the ship over and then take up quarters on the bridge. I was going to give you and sis orders in no time. But it didn't take long to wake up. Why, I'm not even a decently capable boy. I tell you, Good, this thing has taught me—lots. It's been mighty hard—harder than you have any idea of. I've wanted to lie down and quit lots of times. Why, I—"
"Why didn't you?" asked Good quietly.
"Well—there was Molly. I knew it was good-bye Roger if I did. If there's one thing she hates, it's a yellow streak. Why, she—"
"That wasn't the only reason, was it?" Good's eyes were very bright and keen. For a moment Roger looked puzzled. Then he hung his head and smiled.
"No—it wasn't. I—oh, hang it—I don't want to seem a conceited ass—but—well—I'm not much for the yellow myself. I've never been a quitter in useless things—and—and—well, I just couldn't quit on this job. I just had to go through with it. Don't you understand?"
"Yes—I understand." Good smiled, very tenderly.
"There's one thing more. I...." Roger hesitated, and reddened slightly. "I don't know just how to put it into words, but I want to tell you that I feel I owe Molly and oh—everything—to you. I—oh, hang it—I—I...." He stammered and was silent, but he gripped Good's hand again and held it fast.
The older man's eyes winked with suspicious rapidity, and he swallowed several times before he spoke. When he did there was a little tremble in his voice.
"We Anglo-Saxons," he began. Then his voice broke, and he added in a hurried whisper, "We can't talk—such fools...."
But as they held each other's hands and looked into each other's eyes, both knew that the other understood.
Then Furniss and the Japanese photographer came in, and the tension snapped. Roger, who shared Good's dislike for the reporter, having even in private characterised him as a "buzzard," quickly withdrew, and Good was left to complete the details of the evening's work.
Furniss plunged into the business at hand, without preliminaries.
"There are two doors between our room and 416. I'll keep watch through the keyhole of one, and when I see anything and give the word, you pull open the other and Sato snaps the flash—"
"But," interposed Good, "suppose something happens—and happens in another part of the room. The camera will have to be far enough away to give clearance for the door, and then it won't cover much—"
"Perhaps you'd like to have them stage the show outdoors and let us film it for the movies," said Furniss sarcastically. The photographer laughed furtively but Good affected not to hear him.
The reporter seemed to regret his insolence a little. "It's only a hundred to one shot, of course," he explained more amicably. "Nothing may happen. It may happen where we can't get it. We can only hope for the best. But there's a table in the centre, and the light's in the centre, and if anything happens that's the most likely place for it. If we get it, we get it, and if we don't, we don't, that's all."
"I see," said Good, admiring, in spite of himself, the undeniable ability of the man, however displeasing his personality.
"One thing more," continued Furniss. "The minute they hear the flash they'll break for it. Most of 'em will run for the hall, because they're cowards and fools. But Hennessy's neither one nor the other, and he'll make straight for us. He's a big guy and ready for rough work. Furthermore he's keen. He'll see our game right off. Now while Sato and I make a getaway, it'll be up to you to stop Hennessy. I say you, because you're bigger than I am. Can you use your hands—fight?"
"I have."
"I thought so. Well, I'd suggest your pasting him if you can, before he pastes you, and then beating it, too."
"How will you leave the hotel?"
"Glad you asked that. When you leave, don't go for the elevators, but take the stairs. On the third floor you'll find the freight elevator waiting for you. Now, is there anything else?"
The photographer had a few questions to ask, and Good studied Furniss while he answered them. The little reporter was like an animal on the trail of its prey. His thin nostrils contracted and expanded as he talked, and there was a lithe, nervous tenseness about every feature of his face. Good thought with half a shudder that he would not care to have Furniss on his trail. And yet, even as the thought struck him, he was conscious of the little man's eyes upon him, boring him through, as if that were precisely what he was about. He tried to rid himself of the absurd notion, but it persisted. One of the characteristics of Furniss was his complete impersonality. He might, almost unaided, devote months of single-handed, implacable effort, as in the famous Varney case, to tracking down and placing a whole company of men in the penitentiary; but never with the slightest hint of vindictiveness. He sought out corruption and punished its authors always for the solitary reason that thereby he made news. He was like the bloodhound, which pursues its quarry as long as it has breath in its body—only to overwhelm it with caresses.
But now, Good fancied, the impersonal note was gone. It seemed to him, why, he could not say, that Furniss had a purpose other than to unearth news. There seemed more mastiff than bloodhound in him, more lust for blood than love of the chase. Again and again he told himself how silly it was, but he could not rid himself of the suggestion that he was the goal at which the reporter aimed.
By eight o'clock the three had begun their vigil. At intervals Furniss fixed his eye to the keyhole, turning to stare, with what Good thought a very slightly concealed malevolence, at himself. The air was surcharged with expectancy.
