Profit

by H. A. Lamb

Profit

by

H. A. Lamb

I.

“WE'VE landed him!”

Albert Cawston, senior member and mainstay of the firm of Cawston & Heim, leaned back in his revolving chair, thumbs under a plaid vest, and smiled serenely. At his exclamation the bulky figure of Malcolm Heim thrust through the partition door which divided the sanctum of the senior member from the main office—so-called.

“Landed who, Al?” he wanted to know. Heim's rotund form was elaborately draped in the best creation of a Broadway tailor, from soft, green hat to brown spats. His mild blue eyes and clean-shaven cheeks bore out the stamp of prosperity reflected in his garments. Which was Heim's intention.

“The guy from Flint, Michigan.” Cawston waved a typewritten letter in a lean hand. His close-set eyes focused on his partner exultantly. “He's coming to New York—to see us. I thought that third letter would get action from him.”

Cawston spoke rapidly, clipping off his words with the precision of those whose minds work swiftly. That was his business—to think quickly, for the agility of the senior partner's brain enabled the firm of Cawston & Heim to keep one jump ahead of the law courts. And incidentally brought prosperity to the two.

“How much has he?” inquired Heim, whose wits—also sharpened by adversity—ran along more matter-of-fact lines.

“Enough. Martin Wilbur”—Cawston glanced at another letter on his desk—“owns a small manufacturing plant in Flint. Has several years' profits salted away. Proud of it. And it must be a fair wad, because he manufactures copper fixtures. Wants to invest it all in something safe and profitable.”

“Sure he's a real come-along guy—not a wise one?” Heim asked indifferently. He trusted Cawston's judgment implicitly.

“Yep.” A rare smile twitched at the senior partner's thin mouth. “Can't you see him, Mac? One of the prominent citizens of Flint—owns and operates a Henry Ford, f.o.b. Detroit; passes the plate in the church on Main Street; don't know beans about stocks and bonds; but he's interested in our offer of a safe and conservative investment that gives him a hundred per cent a year profit.”

“I get you,” grinned Heim. “And you ain't never seen him! Well, chief, what's the works?”

Cawston selected and lit a cigar without offering one to Heim. He cast a precautionary glance at the top of the private partition. In the office, however, was no visitor, only Miss Farley, the stenographer; Riggs, the clerk-of-all-work, and Blum, the lad of postage stamps and filing cabinets. These persons constituted the accessory members of the firm. Cawston and Heim were the firm.

“Well,” he ruminated, for business was slack, and Martin Wilbur was an attractive prospect, “he gets in to New York t'morrow morning. Comes down here—see? When he shoves his face in the door, the people out there are all busy.”

“Old stuff!” grunted Heim. “Anything new?”

“I'm telling you!” snapped Cawston, chewing at his cigar. “You pay attention. Where'd you be, if it wasn't for me—huh? The officers of the Department of Justice ain't as blind as you think they are, Mac. Well, Wilbur is shown in here. I'm busy as hell—see? Phone working overtime; Miss Farley will see to that. All right. Wilbur's impressed. Begins to see my time's valuable. Asks about the Silver Phœnix mine we're selling stock for. Well, I ain't so keen to sell it to him.”

“Oh, no,” muttered Heim, with what he considered wit.

“You weary me,” said Cawston fretfully. “I'm director of this little money-maker in one reel.”

He glanced again at Wilbur's letter, with the abstracted stare of a master worker planning a chef-d'œuvre.

“Here's how she goes, Mac. I tip Wilbur off that the Phœnix stock has gone up five points while he was hitting the ties getting here. All right. He's anxious about it now. More movie stuff—cut-in of me refusing a wealthy investor a five-hundred-share block over the wire, Miss Farley being the investor.”

“Don't I figure in this, Al?”

“Then you enter. You're my broker—see? By the way, cut out that knowin' air. You're a busy man. You've just bought a four-hundred-share block in the stock market, and you give me the certificate. I tell Wilbur I ought to let my wealthy client have the stock; it's going up all the time. But as a favor I let him take it at eleven and a half. That's forty-six hundred and twenty dollars.”

“But I thought Wilbur had five thousand to salt away?”

Cawston laughed shortly.

“You're right, Mac. But wrong on human nature. Wilbur'll figure he's saving three hundred and eighty. That'll go big with him.”

“I got to hand it to you, Al!” Heim yawned and glanced at his watch. “After the show is over, I suppose I take Wilbur out, tuck a high-class feed into him, and see him back to his hotel.”

“Yep. Steer him away from this part of the city. He might have a friend somewhere who'd tip him off that he'd been stung. Hold on, though.” Cawston smiled thoughtfully. “Show him a stock-exchange ticker in the restaurant you go to. Let's see. Penn Steel is selling around twelve. The abbreviation for it on the ticker is Pen—that would pass for Phœnix.”

“And he'd see two hundred dollars' profit in the stock in a half-hour. Fine work, chief.”

“I guess that's all,” meditated Cawston. “I'll look after the selling end. Hang around Durlan's Café after nine o'clock—Miss Farley'll give you a buzz when it's time to butt in.”

“O.K.” nodded Heim. “I'll get the certificate from Riggs as I go out. Say, Al, what d'ye guess these suckers do with the certificates after they find out they've been given the work. Frame 'em?”'

“I'd say,” responded Cawston, “that they burn 'em. Not one in a hundred raises a howl when he's been milked. Why? It's human nature. Especially a man from a small town—and ginks are thick in New York, too—he hates to let the neighbors know he's been speculating and lost his money.”

“Well, handle Wilbur right, Al. I can use my two-fifths of that five thousand bucks. Can you slip me a century to-day, Al? I want to date up Miss Farley. She's a queen where the lilies grow.”

Heim took the bills Cawston handed him, after noting the transaction in a memorandum. He strolled out to the office, where Riggs was drawing a tentative schedule of bets on the morrow's races in the cash ledger, and the stenographer was using a well-worn chamois cloth on her immaculate nails.

He stepped inside the railing and leaned over Miss Farley's desk. The girl raised cool, brown eyes in questioning appraisal. She was a grand looker, Heim thought, with her shining, chestnut hair and clear skin. She wore a modish dark skirt with a simple white waist, copied from one she had seen in the window of a Fifth Avenue modiste's.

“You're through for the day, ain't you, Miss Farley?” Heim wondered why he still felt a trifle ill at ease in the presence of the stately brunette. “You ain't got nothin' on for to-night, have you? Well, suppose we hitch up for dinner at a swell place and the best show in town.”

Geraldine Farley regarded the chamois cloth pensively. She liked shows. And her salary rarely permitted more than movies. But she did not like Mr. Heim, and her opinion once formed, was positive.

“I guess not, Mr. Heim,” she said coolly. “I got a date with a fellow that's taking me to—to see 'When Roses Are Dead.'”

“Call him up and tell him it's off, then, Miss Farley,” he persisted.

Riggs glanced up curiously from his ledger, and Blum forsook the sporting page, for the more interested spectacle of the junior partner “buzzing” the stenographer. Heim was a trifle flushed. He was accustomed to having his own way, especially when he was in funds.

The cool, brown eyes flickered a bit regretfully. It had been long since she had been a guest of Broadway for an evening. Not that she did not relish entertainment. But friends of the kind she sought were few.

“I guess I'd better not, Mr. Heim,” she said quietly. “He'd be mad.”

The junior partner scowled, fingering the money in his pocket.

“Oh, all right,” he said, “all right.” And slammed out of the door.

After an interval Miss Farley went to the coat-room and donned a smart fur coat and military hat, modeled after a French design. She sighed momentarily. The atmosphere of the office of Cawston & Heim was not inspiring. And—she had no engagement for that evening.

II.

Cawston's telephone jingled, and he picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Martin Wilbur to see you, sir,” Miss Farley's cool voice came to him.

“Bring him in in a minute—three minutes.” Cawston reflected that it would be well to let the man from Flint wait, but not too long. “And Miss Farley—keep calling me every now and then. Don't forget the rich-investor stuff when I push the buzzer. When I give you two buzzes, call Heim quick—see? Keep Blum busy and camouflage some dictation yourself. Get it? All right.”

He leaned back, stroking his chin gently. A glance around the sanctum satisfied him. An orderly pile of correspondence on the desk; a filing cabinet labeled “orders”; an enlarged photograph of the Phœnix mine on the wall; a pin-pricked map of the State of Texas. Everything was as it should be.

Outside, Riggs would be scribbling busily in the ledger. And Blum would be running in and out with stamps. The scene setting should satisfy Mr. Martin Wilbur.

Came a tap on the door and Blum ushered in the visitor. Cawston frowned momentarily. Miss Farley should have attended to that. It was not for nothing he had picked a pretty stenographer.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilbur.” He glanced up from a letter. “Have a seat.”

That instantaneous glance revealed his visitor to the promoter. Wilbur was a powerful, plainly dressed man, in the early thirties, with a heavy lined face. A trifle embarrassed and excited by his surroundings. He carried an umbrella, and his number eleven shoes were cased in rubbers.

“Good morning, sir,” Wilbur's deep voice responded. “I reckon I'm intruding.”

“Not at all, sir, not at all,” smiled Cawston reassuringly. “It's true we're rather busy now. But we always make time for a customer. Excuse me—just a minute.” The telephone had buzzed. It was only Miss Farley. Cawston hung up after a few brief phrases calculated to impress his visitor and swung around to face Wilbur, offering him cigars. The manufacturer accepted one.

“Let's see, Mr. Wilbur, you're interested in our Phœnix mine. We'll be glad to do all we can for you. Since we last wrote to you, the stock has gone up two points. I've asked my broker to try to get a block of it for you, but he says it's in heavy demand; he'll do the best he can.”

Wilbur's wide-set eyes registered regret.

“Say, now, that's too bad,” he rumbled. “I figured on getting it at the price you said. You think you can still get it, don't you?”

Cawston stroked his chin thoughtfully. Yes, Wilbur was nearly landed. Still, the man was not altogether a fool; would require careful handling. The promoter's brain worked swiftly.

“I want you to understand this, Mr. Wilbur. Our firm has none of the stock. It has all been sold. I don't want you to class us with the get-rich-quick gang that sells a lot of worthless paper just off the printing press. In the Phœnix mine we have a bona fide investment, and we have to buy the stock in the market when we want to get it for a customer. And it's going up all the time.”

He pressed the silent buzzer under the surface of the desk with his knee—once.

In response Miss Farley, from the sound-proof telephone-booth in the outer office, called him. There ensued an interesting conversation, of which Wilbur heard Cawston's end, and was convinced that a certain wealthy customer wanted Phœnix stock badly, and that Cawston had none to give him.

“Phœnix is up another quarter point, Mr. Wilbur,” exclaimed the senior partner. “You see, people are getting wise to what a good thing it is, and we can't pick up enough of it to satisfy 'em. Those that have it aren't selling. I don't need to tell a business man like you what this heavy demand means—when nobody's selling. Phœnix will be at twelve before the market closes.”

Wilbur nodded, and Cawston pressed the soundless buzzer twice. Then he showed Wilbur specifications and reports. They were artfully drawn up. Wilbur seemed convinced that the Phœnix was a money-maker. He himself knew copper. He saw the enlarged photograph and was impressed.

“Don't you reckon you can get some of the stock for me—before it goes up?” he asked anxiously.

He needed no diagram to see that if Cawston & Heim had to go into the open market to buy his stock, he would get it at a fair price, and that price rising all the time. If there was such a demand for it it would not be hard to sell the stock—at a good price—if he wanted to. He had come armed against the wiles of the city sharper.

The five-thousand-dollar check in his wallet represented hard-earned profits of several years. He could not afford to lose it. But Cawston had convinced him of the merits of Phœnix stock. Still, Wilbur had planned a further test.

“Just as a matter of form, Mr. Cawston,” he said hesitatingly—the other appeared so busy—“suppose you take me around to your bank and have them vouch for you. It don't matter much”—he coughed, embarrassed—“but that's the way we do at home.”

Cawston stared for half a second; then smiled readily. The firm of Cawston and Reim had no banker—since the money they took in went into their own pockets.

Heim entered in haste and spoke excitedly.

“We're in luck, Cawston,” he cried, waving a green certificate of stock. “I had the hell of a time getting this! Got orders to buy Phœnix from a dozen others. I got this for you, hot off the bat, at—at——”

“Eleven and a half, I hope,” cut in Cawston swiftly.

“Sure,” beamed Heim. “You said it. Eleven and a half. It's gone up a——”

“Quarter point in the last ten minutes.”

“Sure, that's right. Say, you're lucky. Going to give the stock to Mr.——”

“Hennessy,” Cawston named the mythical wealthy buyer of Phœnix. “Well, I don't know. I may save it for Mr. Wilbur here. Mr. Wilbur, meet Mr. Heim.”

The two shook hands, Heim effusively.

“As a favor, Mr. Wilbur,” continued Cawston severely, “we'll let you have this block of Phœnix at eleven and a half; that's forty-six hundred and twenty dollars. A bargain. We'll waive the commission.”

Wilbur nodded excitedly. Things moved swiftly in the big city, but he had his wits about him. There was his wife to think of, he said.

“And now about calling at the bank,” he began.

“Mr. Wilbur wants to have us vouched for, Mac,” cut in Cawston, looking at his “broker” steadily. “At the—the American Trust Company.” He named a famous institution, situated near by. “Will you call up Mr. Johnson and ask him to meet us, for a moment. We'll go right over now.”

Heim stared, then grinned. Johnson he knew to be a fellow crook who had often been of service to them.

“Sure,” he muttered. “I get you.”

He accompanied Cawston out to the coat-room where the latter spoke a few swift, well-chosen words. Miss Farley they sent into the private office to see that Wilbur did not become curious about the papers scattered over the desk in their absence.

The stenographer entered the sanctum with a petulant toss of her dark head. She disliked being ordered about by the two partners. She disliked the partners. Wherefore, she flushed, making a pretty picture for the eyes of Mr. Wilbur.

The gentleman from Flint stared. As the girl bent over the desk with a soft, agile movement, Wilbur clutched his umbrella and whistled to himself.

Cawston had instructed Miss Farley to remain where she was until he returned. She stood by the desk irresolutely, and she glanced at Wilbur. Their eyes met.

Wilbur had a handsome and honest face. It was not strange that the girl's glance lingered for just a second. She had seen many victims of Cawston; but she felt suddenly sorry for Wilbur. On his wife's account, she told herself.

Cawston returned. When the men left the office Miss Farley looked after them meditatively. When the outer door snapped shut, she drew a quick breath. Her eyes sparkled as she skipped out of the office to her desk.

“She's a grand looker,” said Blum to Riggs.

III.

At two o'clock that afternoon Miss Farley slipped from her small chair into the sanctum of Cawston. The flush that had been in her cheeks that morning still remained, and her fine eyes were alight.

Cawston, who had his feet on his desk, and his cigar aglow, paid no heed to these feminine storm signals. He considered the girl merely an ornament of the outer office, useful at times because quick-witted. He rather regretted, if he thought of her at all, that she must hear so much of what went on in the sanctum, over the partition.

“Is Mr. Wilbur coming in this afternoon, Mr. Cawston?” she asked politely.

“Rather!” grunted the sharper. “Oh, yes; I'd say he was coming in, with nearly five thousand in cash. Pretty soon, too.”

“Then Mr. Heim is with him?” the girl wanted to know.

“No. Heim's through for to-day. Wilbur's coming straight here from the bank where he's cashed his check. We like cash here, Miss Farley. Heim took him to lunch and steered him this way. Nothing more for you to do, I guess.”

He wondered momentarily why the girl asked her question. Miss Farley's next query explained the matter.

“Then can I go out for an hour, Mr. Cawston? I got a friend I'd like to meet.”

“Sure, sure, Miss Farley.”

He smiled amiably, thinking of the forty-six hundred in cash Wilbur was bringing. A good haul. The sucker-list of Cawston & Heim showed no better haul. A few more of that sort and it would be time to close the office and flit—somewhere else. Names were plentiful—and Miss Farley, Riggs, and Blum could get other jobs. This, however, did not concern him much.

The girl donned hat and coat and made her way out of the office. In the lobby of the office building, on the street floor, she hesitated. There were two entrances, and the man she wanted to meet might come by either. She took up a position by the wall facing the elevators. In this way she would be sure to see him.

Moments passed, while the girl chewed coolly at her gum. Men entered and left. She scanned them all with an alert eye.

Then she ran forward and caught a powerful individual by the arm.

“Oh, Mr. Wilbur,” she cried, “I got a message for you.”

The manufacturer from Flint swung around, recognition flashing into his glance. He took off his hat politely.

“I'm Miss Farley,” hurried on the girl, “from Cawston & Heim. You remember me, don't you? I got something to tell you.”

She hesitated, looking around. They were in a crowd. Men jostled Wilbur, who stood in front of an elevator.

“Let's go out in the street, Mr. Wilbur,” smiled Miss Farley, who had rid herself of the chewing gum by some sleight-of-hand. “We can talk better.”

Wilbur buttoned together his overcoat with a heavy hand.

“I—I'd better go on up, Miss Farley,” he rumbled anxiously.

The girl's smile grew colder.

“Oh, I know you got a load of coin, Wilbur,” she said sharply. “I ain't going to lighten it any. Say, just get wise to this earfull: Hang on to those iron boys. Don't trade 'em for Phœnix stock. It's a fake. Get that? Keep the dough and let Cawston keep his stock. Beat it! This ain't the game you're able to swing. Back to Flint for yours!”

Wilbur fingered the umbrella and stared.

“I don't understand, Miss Farley. If the Phœnix stock wasn't good, I wouldn't buy it, would I? It'll pay me a hundred per cent a year.”

“Not it. Cawston's planning to close the coop. The whole thing's a frame-up. You're being played for a sucker!”

“Really, Miss Farley! I know what I'm buying. Why, Cawston had to buy it for me on the stock exchange. I saw it quoted on the—the ticker-tape.”

His mild, gray eyes were troubled. The girl sighed impatiently.

“I didn't know they made 'em this way any more,” she observed plaintively. “Say, what's your first name?”

“Martin.”

“Well, Martin, your middle name in Gink. That stock came outer Cawston's desk-drawer. He has a pile of it a foot high. That broker feller's Heim—Cawston's partner. The quot you lamped on the ticker is Pen Steel, not Phœnix mine.”

The manufacturer still stared at her.

Miss Farley wondered why she took so much trouble to enlighten him. She decided it was his eyes—he had nice, friendly eyes.

“Say, Martin,” she continued forcibly, “you ain't a Simon-pure simp, even if you do look like one of the fifty-seven varieties. Don't you get he idea? Cawston's a fraud. He's selling you a piece of paper—the Germans would call it a scrap of paper.”

“But a man vouched for him at the American Trust company,” pondered Wilbur heavily.

“Sure—Art Johnson, the bucket-shop prince. He went in and waited for you by the enclosure where the bank officers are. Shot the bull that he was going out to lunch, didn't he? Said he'd known Cawston five years, didn't he? They worked that once before. Standin' room in the American Trust lobby is free. Sure, Art knows Cawston. They had a suite of two rooms without bath in cold storage up the river once.”

Wilbur shook his head perplexedly.

“I reckon I know what I'm doing, Miss Farley. A hundred per cent profit a year ain't to be sneezed at.” His gaze focused slowly on the angry girl. “Say, sister, you got a grudge against Cawston, ain't you?”

“Oh, I'm through, Martin. I've seen enough suckers skinned without a bleat. I ain't going back. I never liked Cawston and his kind. Say, Martin,” her sharp voice took on a pleading note, “lay off Phœnix stock. You got a wife and kids. Keep the dough for them.”

Wilbur smiled broadly, to the girl's surprise.

“My mind's kind of set to buy that there stock, miss,” he said firmly. “I'm going to take the money right up to Mr. Cawston.” He lowered his voice. “It's marked, girly.”

Geraldine Farley blinked. Her brown eyes widened. Marked! How was that?

“Wha—what d'ye mean—marked?” she asked, wondering if she had heard aright. Wilbur still smiled. His gray eyes were still honest and mild. But one eyelid drooped significantly. Moreover, his words came, not drawling and nasal, but quick and alert—in the girl's own manner.

“With a tiny red-ink cross, under the claw of the eagle on the century bills, girly. Cawston won't see it. You're all right, girly. It's good dope to skip this joint. You got the idea. The coop'll be closed—tight—this afternoon. I'll see to that. I, and them guys.” He jerked his thumb at two thick-set individuals loitering near them. “You stay away, and you won't be none the worse.”

The wits of Geraldine Farley were not exactly sluggish, but the changed aspect of Wilbur was not to be grasped in a second.

“How d'ye get this way?” she wondered. “Say, what's the mystery? You ain't a gink. Say, you're a wise one. You've got the plain-clothes bulls to pinch Cawston!”

“And Heim,” grinned Wilbur, his smile broadening. “Likewise the guy Art Johnson you tipped me off to. Illegal use of the mails, girly.” He pulled back his overcoat enough to show the glitter of a badge. “The Department of Justice wants to see 'em.”

The girl's dark eyes sparkled, and she giggled.

“Is that right? And—pinch me, somebody—you ain't from Flint, and married?”

“Not yet, Miss Farley. But I'm not a member of the I.B.W.'s, either—Independent Bachelors of the World—see?” He beckoned to his companions, as an elevator appeared in front of them. He leaned closer to the girl.

“You was asking me for a bit of chatter, Miss Farley,” he said quickly. Then, dropping into the drawl of Martin Wilbur, of Flint, Michigan, “I reckon, miss, I've got my mind set on taking you to the theater to-night, to 'When Roses Are Dead.' D'you think you could meet me in the lobby?”

“Well, of all——” gasped Geraldine Farley. “Well,” the elevator door was closing, “maybe,” she concluded.

But the smile that accompanied the word meant more than that.