IN WHICH THE WOLF IS BITTEN BY THE LAMB
John Boland was a very capable business man. He possessed the combination of shrewdness, ability to grasp and marshal details, and that utter selfishness which the world from time immemorial has rewarded with huge accumulations of money. He had one of those minds which find their recreation in intrigue. Unembarrassed by a conscience and unhampered by scruples he drove directly to his goal—success.
As head of the Electric Trust Boland was compelled to be at once a financier and a politician. The faculties for success in both fields are closely allied; in both Boland was eminently triumphant. Sitting in his office day after day, unmoved by events that might have disturbed other men and unstirred by emotions that might have turned other men from their paths, he looked out over the city and “played his game” with all the cold impassiveness of a gambler operating an infallible system in roulette. No detail was too small to escape his notice, no agent too ignoble to serve his purpose.
These facts are mentioned to explain the relationship that existed between John Boland and Martin Druce. In these two men, the social extremes of the city met—Boland, the financial power and leading citizen; Druce, the dive keeper and social outcast. They met because Boland wished it. Druce was one of the creatures that he could and often did use in his business.
Although ostensibly ignorant of the very existence of Druce, Boland in reality had the man often in his thoughts. He kept these thoughts hidden in that inner chamber of his mind from which, from time to time, emerged those inspirations that had made his name a by-word on La Salle street for supernatural astuteness. Not even the most intimate of his coworkers guessed them.
For nearly a month now Druce had been calling at Boland’s offices intent on obtaining a renewal of his lease to the Cafe Sinister. During that entire month he had never been able to obtain even a word with the master financier. Boland had purposely refused to grant the interview so frequently requested by Druce not because he had any repugnance against doing business with the dive keeper but because to his mind there had never appeared any good reason why he should grant that interview. He played the waiting game with Druce because he had found by profitable experience that the waiting game paid John Boland best. The time might come when he would be able to use so excellent a tool as Druce to its best advantage. Boland was waiting calmly for that time. If Druce suffered in the interim John Boland was unable to see how that was any of his concern. In fact, Boland figured, the more Druce suffered, the keener a tool he would be for his purposes.
Druce guessed something of this. He too possessed a mind adapted to intrigue. Therefore every rebuff from Boland found him undaunted. He knew that his time must come. He called at Boland’s offices again and again, smiling always in the face of denial.
Of late a new incentive for calling at the Electric Trust’s offices had developed for Druce. This was furnished by Miss Masters. The girl’s charming looks had aroused the man’s curiosity and cunning. Her air of worldly wisdom, her alternate repulses and advances, had stirred him as he had rarely been stirred before. In his eagerness to possess her he almost lost sight of the main object of his visits.
But whether by accident or design Druce was never able to get a word with the girl alone. She was always, save on the sole occasion of his last visit, either engaged with Harry Boland’s dictation, or, if in the outer office, chaperoned by Harry Boland’s red-headed office boy. One day Druce met Red in the lower corridor of the Electric Trust building. The boy grinned knowingly at him and yelled as he hurried by.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” answered Druce, but at the moment it came to him that Red’s chaperonage of Miss Masters might not be entirely accidental.
Druce stepped into the elevator and was let out at the Electric Trust’s offices. He entered and found the offices empty.
“Hang the little fool,” he said, “she doesn’t know which side her bread is—”
“Meaning whom?” inquired Miss Masters’ saccharine voice.
Druce turned quickly and saw Miss Masters coming from the inner office. He was impressed by the attractiveness of her dress.
“Where does she get all the glad rags?” he demanded of himself. “Maybe old Boland—”
“Who’s a little fool?” persisted Miss Masters.
“Nobody,” returned Druce. “Just talking to myself. Mr. Boland’s out or busy, I suppose?”
“Yes, Mr. Boland’s out,” replied Miss Masters. She sat down at a typewriter and inserted a sheet of paper in the machine. “He left a message for you, however. He told me this morning that if you called I should ask you to ’phone him about twelve o’clock. He’ll try to see you then for a moment.”
“All right,” said Druce, “thanks.” But he made no move to go. He watched the girl as she hammered the typewriter keys. Presently she looked up at him inquiringly.
This to Druce appeared to be a direct offer to open a conversation. He hastened to take advantage of it.
“Yes,” he replied in his most ingratiating manner, drawing near her. “I want to talk to you. I have been dying to speak to you alone, girlie—”
The girl rose from her chair and picked up her notebook.
“Oh, Mr. Druce,” she said.
“Yes, girlie.”
Miss Masters opened the notebook and took a lead pencil from the shining rolls of her hair.
“I have to keep a record of all callers,” said the girl unexpectedly. “Mr. Boland is very particular about it. Let me see, your name is Martin Druce?”
She wrote the name into her book and showed it to him.
“I have the name correctly, haven’t I, Mr. Druce?” she went on.
“Rather tardy with your duties, aren’t you?” inquired Druce with a smile. “I’ve been coming here for some days now and you haven’t wanted to put me into your book before.”
“Perhaps,” replied the girl, “I haven’t noticed you.”
Druce was sure now that he was beginning a flirtation with her.
“And your business?” continued the girl.
“Oh, Boland knows my business,” replied Druce, with an air of carelessness.
“No doubt he does, but I don’t. And how can I keep my records properly if I don’t know? I can’t bother Mr. Boland with these details. What is your business?”
“Why—ah—” hesitated Druce. “Live stock.”
“What kind of live stock?” persisted Miss Masters, preparing to write down his answer.
“Eh!” Druce began to feel that he was being badgered.
“What kind of live stock do you deal in?”
“See here,” snarled Druce, “what are you trying to do?”
Miss Masters’ answer was perfectly calm. “I am trying,” she said, “to find out what kind of live stock you deal in, Mr. Druce.”
“Forget it!”
“Are you ashamed to tell me?”
Druce turned on the girl as though stung.
“Why should I be ashamed?” he blustered. He moved toward the door.
“I’ll know that,” replied Miss Masters, “when you tell me what kind of live stock you deal in.”
There was a stern quality in Miss Masters’ voice that Druce had noticed in the voice of a district attorney with whom he had once had an unpleasant interview. The man was a coward. He wanted to be off.
“Every kind,” he blurted. “Good day.”
A moment later he found himself in the hallway. “Red,” the office boy, had just come from the elevator.
“What’s the trouble, Druce?” demanded the boy. “You look pale around the gills.”
“You go to hell, you little rat,” retorted Druce, and without waiting for the elevator vanished down the steps, with the jeering laughter of the boy ringing in his ears.