“Billy,” said Steele rather seriously, “we will now burn all your figuring, if you don’t mind, and then I wish you to obliterate this from your memory. I cannot tell until after Thursday whether it is important or not. I think, however, if you keep mum, this will be worth an extra two hundred dollars to you.”
“You can depend on me, John. We’re not all making money as fast as you are. Of course, I know that financial ciphers are usually important. Here’s the débris; burn it on the oilcloth, near the register.”
Steele’s investigation of the Grand Pacific Hotel floor occupied by room one hundred and fifty showed him that this apartment was well chosen, for neither of the rooms on either side had a communicating door. However, he engaged room one hundred and forty-nine, on the opposite side of the hall, and before ten o’clock on the twenty-seventh he took up his position inside that apartment. When eleven o’clock approached, he locked his door, shoved the table against it, stood thereon, and looked through the transom into the hall. He darkened his own window so that he could not be observed by anyone glancing up outside. He heard the first knock, then cautiously peered down and recognised William Metcalfe standing there, facing the opposite door, with a bundle under his arm. After the third knock, Metcalfe entered, but opened the door so slightly that Steele could see nothing within, nor did he hear any greeting voice. A full hour passed with not a sound from the closed room, then Metcalfe came out again, with the bundle still under his arm, and walked quietly away, leaving his partner on watch at the transom. Time goes slowly for a man on tip-toe with eyes strained, but at last his patience was rewarded. The door opposite opened, and the head of Nicholson appeared. He glanced quickly up and down the hall, and as the way was apparently clear, stepped out and vanished. John Steele came down from the table, drew aside the curtains, and let the light into the darkened room. He poured some water from the carafe into a tumbler, swallowed the liquid at a gulp, then sank into the arm-chair beside the bed. He gave utterance to an uneasy laugh, then muttered a sentence which might be called unexpected: “Billy Brooks, my boy, you’ll get your two hundred dollars!”
Drawing a deep breath, he then concentrated his mind on the crisis with which he was confronted. Metcalfe was probably the owner of the sugar factories, and was, as he had said, a well-known business man in Michigan; but, nevertheless, here was undoubted proof that he was a minion of Amalgamated Soap, a mere pawn in the hands of Peter Berrington and his strong colleague, Nicholson. Every penny John Steele possessed was sunk in Consolidated Sugar, and that these men meant to ruin him he had not the slightest doubt. The question was, How could they do it? Even if Metcalfe’s books had been false, even if a hundred per cent, too much had been paid for the factories, there would still be something left for him out of the wreck. Yet from the moment he saw the face of Nicholson at that door, he knew Amalgamated Soap had determined to strip him of every sou he possessed. The first obvious suggestion that occurred to him was that here was the occasion for consulting a first-class lawyer, yet what could a lawyer do for him? He had no money to fight. The more he thought of the situation, the worse it appeared. No doubt Farwell Brothers were employees of Amalgamated Soap. No doubt the bank in which his funds were deposited belonged to the same all-embracing combination. There were a hundred perfectly legal methods by which the amount lodged there could be tied up, while, if he appealed to the law, the expense would be tremendous, and he might be dragged from court to court; new trial could follow new trial, and appeal tread on the heels of appeal until his millions had vanished into thin air. He was as entirely in the hands of Amalgamated Soap as if he had been tied in a bundle and presented to that celebrated company. Terror was imported into the situation by his uncertainty as to what method these financial buccaneers would adopt. Yet at that distressful moment his mind wandered to the comic opera of the “Mikado,” and a smile came to his lips. Would it be long and lingering, with boiling oil at the end of it, or would it be the short, sharp shock of the executioner’s stroke? His resentment turned more against the apparently honest Metcalfe than toward even Nicholson or Peter Berrington. He would have liked to throttle that man, but he knew that, whatever the outcome, he must retain his grip on himself and present an impassive exterior to his colleague and the world.
Next morning John Steele met his partner as usual with a smile on his face.
“Well, Metcalfe, how are things going?”
“Oh, everything’s coming our way,” said Metcalfe. “This trick will be done so easily that you’ll wonder you ever doubted its success.”
“Well, I hope so, I hope so,” replied Steele, the possible double meaning of his partner’s phrase striking him like a blow in the face; but the smile never wavered.
Technically the company had already been formed—that is to say, a number of clerks in Steele’s office, together with the brothers Farwell, had constituted themselves the Consolidated Sugar Beet Company, with various powers duly set forth, organised under the laws of the State of New Jersey, and when officers were selected, the beet sugar factories were bought by this company at just double the price Steele and Metcalfe had paid for them. Then the officials resigned in a body, when cheques had been passed and everything done with beautiful legality, while Steele and Metcalfe and their nominees took their places on the board. It was arranged that there should be seven directors. Steele was to nominate two, and Metcalfe was to nominate two, while they were to agree mutually on the chairman. Metcalfe had proposed that the elder Farwell should be chairman, and he nominated the younger as his colleague on the board. Farwell, who knew every intricacy of company law, was accepted by Steele, and there was still one nomination open to Metcalfe, which name he excused himself at this time from proposing, as he was not well enough acquainted with business men in Chicago to fill the place at the moment. He even intimated that he was willing to accept a nominee of Steele’s, and this seemingly friendly suggestion had prevented any suspicion of the board being packed against him, arising in Jack Steele’s mind. He remembered this now with bitterness, when it was too late for remedy. Steele and his two colleagues could tie the vote of Metcalfe and his colleagues, but the chairman would have the casting vote. Since he had seen the determined face of Nicholson in the corridor of the Grand Pacific, he had no doubt that the Farwell brothers were the minions of Peter Berrington.
At last the trap laid for the public was sprung, and the public, as usual, was nipped. The success of the flotation was immediate, although applications did not come within a million of the sum asked for. After the flotation, Metcalfe’s manner changed perceptibly. Steele watched him as a cat watches a mouse, and saw that he was now perturbed and apparently dissatisfied.