Hearts of Three 62

Hearts of Three 62

“Just the same, you’ll note that Tampico Pet is tumbling at the same

time it’s being snapped up, which is a very curious phenomenon,” Regan

urged.

 

“In a bear market all sorts of curious phenomena occur,” Francis bluffed

with a mature show of wisdom. “And when they’ve swallowed enough of my

dumpings they’ll be ripe to roll on a barrel. Somebody will pay

something to get my dumpings out of their system. I fancy they’ll pay

through the nose before I’m done with them.”

 

“But you’re all in, boy. I’ve been watching your fight, even before your

return. Tampico Pet is your last.”

 

Francis shook his head.

 

“I’d scarcely say that,” he lied. “I’ve got assets my market enemies

never dream of. I’m luring them on, that’s all, just luring them on. Of

course, Regan, I’m telling you this in confidence. You were my father’s

friend. Mine is going to be some clean up, and, if you’ll take my tip,

in this short market you start buying. You’ll be sure to settle with the

sellers long in the end.”

 

“What are your other assets?”

 

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

 

“That’s what they’re going to find out when they’re full up with my

stuff.”

 

“It’s a bluff!” Regan admired explosively. “You’ve got the old man’s

nerve, all right. But you’ve got to show me it isn’t bluff.”

 

Regan waited, and Francis was suddenly inspired.

 

“It is,” he muttered. “You’ve named it. I’m drowning over my back-teeth

now, and they’re the highest out of the wash. But I won’t drown if you

will help me. All you’ve got to do is to remember my father and put out

your hand to save his son. If you’ll back me up, we’ll make them all

sick....”

 

And right there the Wolf of Wall Street showed his teeth. He pointed to

Richard Henry Morgan’s picture.

 

“Why do you think I kept that hanging on the wall all these years?” he

demanded.

 

Francis nodded as if the one accepted explanation was their tried and

ancient friendship.

 

“Guess again,” Regan sneered grimly.

 

Francis shook his head in perplexity.

 

“So I shouldn’t ever forget him,” the Wolf went on. “And never a waking

moment have I forgotten him.——Remember the Conmopolitan Railways Merger?

Well, old R.H.M. double-crossed me in that deal. And it was some

double-cross, believe me. But he was too cunning ever to let me get a

come-back on him. So there his picture has hung, and here I’ve sat and

waited. And now the time has come.”

 

“You mean?” Francis queried quietly.

 

“Just that,” Regan snarled. “I’ve waited and worked for this day, and

the day has come. I’ve got the whelp where I want him at any rate.” He

glanced up maliciously at the picture. “And if that don’t make the old

gent turn in his grave....”

 

Francis rose to his feet and regarded his enemy curiously.

 

“No,” he said, as if in soliloquy, “it isn’t worth it.”

 

“What isn’t worth what?” the other demanded with swift suspicion.

 

“Beating you up,” was the cool answer. “I could kill you with my hands

in five minutes. You’re no Wolf. You’re just mere yellow dog, the part

of you that isn’t plain skunk. They told me to expect this of you; but I

didn’t believe, and I came to see. They were right. You were all that

they said. Well, I must get along out of this. It smells like a den of

foxes. It stinks.”

 

He paused with his hand on the door knob and looked back. He had not

succeeded in making Regan lose his temper.

 

“And what are you going to do about it?” the latter jeered.

 

“If you’ll permit me to get my broker on your ‘phone maybe you’ll

learn,” Francis replied.

 

“Go to it, my laddy buck,” Regan conceded, then, with a wave of

suspicion, “—I’ll get him for you myself.”

 

And, having ascertained that Bascom was really at the other end of the

line, he turned the receiver over to Francis.

 

“You were right,” the latter assured Bascom. “Regan’s all you said and

worse. Go right on with your plan of campaign. We’ve got him where we

want him, though the old fox won’t believe it for a moment. He thinks

he’s going to strip me, clean me out.” Francis paused to think up the

strongest way of carrying on his bluff, then continued. “I’ll tell you

something you don’t know. He’s the one who manœuvred the raid from the

beginning. So now you know who we’re going to bury.”

 

And, after a little more of similar talk, he hung up.

 

“You see,” he explained, again from the door, “you were so crafty that

we couldn’t make out who it was. Why hell, Regan, we were prepared to

give a walloping to some unknown that had several times your strength.

And now that it’s you, it’s easy. We were prepared to strain. But with

you it will be a walk-over. To-morrow, around this time, there’s going

to be a funeral right here in your office and you’re not going to be one

of the mourners. You’re going to be the corpse——and a not-nice looking

financial corpse you’ll be when we get done with you.”

 

“The dead spit of R.H.M.,” the Wolf grinned. “Lord, how he could pull

off a bluff!”

 

“It’s a pity he didn’t bury you and save me all the trouble,” was

Francis’ parting shot.

 

“And all the expense,” Regan flung after him. “It’s going to be pretty

expensive for you, and there isn’t going to be any funeral from this

place.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Well, to-morrow’s the day,” Francis delivered to Bascom, as they parted

that evening. “This time to-morrow I’ll be a perfectly nice scalped and

skinned and sun-dried and smoke-cured specimen for Regan’s private

collection. But who’d have believed the old skunk had it in for me! I

never harmed him. On the contrary, I always considered him father’s best

friend.——If Charley Tippery could only come through with some of the

Tippery surplus coin....”

 

“Or if the United States would only declare a moratorium,” Bascom hoped

equally hopelessly.

 

And Regan, at that moment, was saying to his assembled agents and

rumor-factory specialists:

 

“Sell! Sell! Sell all you’ve got and then sell short. I see no bottom to

this market!”

 

And Francis, on his way up town, buying the last extra, scanned the

five-inch-lettered headline:

 

“I SEE NO BOTTOM TO THIS MARKET.—THOMAS REGAN.”

 

But Francis was not at his house at eight next morning to meet Charley

Tippery. It had been a night in which official Washington had not slept,

and the night-wires had carried the news out over the land that the

United States, though not at war, had declared its moratorium. Wakened

out of his bed at seven by Bascom in person, who brought the news,

Francis had accompanied him down town. The moratorium had given them

hope, and there was much to do.

 

Charles Tippery, however, was not the first to arrive at the Riverside

Drive palace. A few minutes before eight, Parker was very much disturbed

and perturbed when Henry and Leoncia, much the worse for sunburn and

travel-stain, brushed past the second butler who had opened the door.

 

“It’s no use you’re coming in this way,” Parker assured them. “Mr.

Morgan is not at home.”

 

“Where’s he gone?” Henry demanded, shifting the suit-case he carried to

the other hand. “We’ve got to see him _pronto_, and I’ll have you know

that _pronto_ means quick. And who in hell are you?”

 

“I am Mr. Morgan’s confidential valet,” Parker answered solemnly. “And

who are you?”

 

“My name’s Morgan,” Henry answered shortly, looking about in quest of

something, striding to the library, glancing in, and discovering the

telephones. “Where’s Francis? With what number can I call him up?”

 

“Mr. Morgan left express instructions that nobody was to telephone him

except on important business.”

 

“Well, my business is important. What’s the number?”

 

“Mr. Morgan is very busy to-day,” Parker reiterated stubbornly.

 

“He’s in a pretty bad way, eh?” Henry quizzed.

 

The valet’s face remained __EXPRESSION__less.

 

“Looks as though he was going to be cleaned out to-day, eh?”

 

Parker’s face betrayed neither emotion nor intelligence.

 

“For a second time I tell you he is very busy——” he began.

 

“Hell’s bells!” Henry interrupted. “It’s no secret. The market’s got him

where the hair is short. Everybody knows that. A lot of it was in the

morning papers. Now come across, Mr. Confidential Valet. I want his

number. I’ve got important business with him myself.”

 

But Parker remained obdurate.