Hearts of Three 63

Hearts of Three 63

“Tell him!” Henry shouted, accepting her suggestion. “I’ll do better

than that. I’ll show him.—Here, come on, you.” He strode into the

library, swung the suit-case on the reading table, and began opening it.

“Listen to me, Mr. Confidential Valet. Our business is the real

business. We’re going to save Francis Morgan. We’re going to pull him

out of the hole. We’ve got millions for him, right here inside of this

thing——”

 

Parker, who had been looking on with cold, disapproving eyes, recoiled

in alarm at the last words. Either the strange callers were lunatics, or

cunning criminals. Even at that moment, while they held him here with

their talk of millions, confederates might be ransacking the upper parts

of the house. As for the suit-case, for all he knew it might be filled

with dynamite.

 

“Here!”

 

With a quick reach Henry had caught him by the collar as he turned to

flee. With his other hand, Henry lifted the cover, exposing a bushel of

uncut gems. Parker showed plainly that he was overcome, although Henry

failed to guess the nature of his agitation.

 

“Thought I’d convince you,” Henry exulted. “Now be a good dog and give

me his number.”

 

“Be seated, sir ... and madame,” Parker murmured, with polite bows and a

successful effort to control himself. “Be seated, please. I have left

the private number in Mr. Morgan’s bedroom, which he gave to me this

morning when I helped him dress. I shall be gone but a moment to get it.

In the meantime please be seated.”

 

Once outside the library, Parker became a most active, clear-thinking

person. Stationing the second footman at the front door, he placed the

first one to watch at the library door. Several other servants he sent

scouting into the upper regions on the chance of surprising possible

confederates at their nefarious work. Himself he addressed, via the

butler’s telephone, to the nearest police station.

 

“Yes, sir,” he repeated to the desk sergeant. “They are either a couple

of lunatics or criminals. Send a patrol wagon at once, please, sir. Even

now I do not know what horrible crimes are being committed under this

roof ...”

 

In the meantime, in response at the front door, the second footman, with

visible relief, admitted Charley Tippery, clad in evening dress at that

early hour, as a known and tried friend of the master. The first butler,

with similar relief, to which he added sundry winks and warnings,

admitted him into the library.

 

Expecting he knew not what nor whom, Charley Tippery advanced across the

large room to the strange man and woman. Unlike Parker, their sunburn

and travel-stain caught his eye, not as insignia suspicious, but as

tokens worthy of wider consideration than average New York accords its

more or less average visitors. Leoncia’s beauty was like a blow between

the eyes, and he knew she was a lady. Henry’s bronze, brazed upon

features unmistakably reminiscent of Francis and of R.H.M., drew his

admiration and respect.

 

“Good morning,” he addressed Henry, although he subtly embraced Leoncia

with his greeting. “Friends of Francis?”

 

“Oh, sir,” Leoncia cried out. “We are more than friends. We are here to

save him. I have read the morning papers. If only it weren’t for the

stupidity of the servants ...”

 

And Charley Tippery was immediately unaware of any slightest doubt. He

extended his hand to Henry.

 

“I am Charley Tippery,” he said.

 

“And my name’s Morgan, Henry Morgan,” Henry met him warmly, like a

drowning man clutching at a life preserver. “And this is Miss Solano—the

Senorita Solano—Mr. Tippery. In fact, Miss Solano is my sister.”

 

“I came on the same errand,” Charley Tippery announced, introductions

over. “The saving of Francis, as I understand it, must consist of hard

cash or of securities indisputably negotiable. I have brought with me

what I have hustled all night to get, and what I am confident is not

sufficient——”

 

“How much have you brought?” Henry asked bluntly.

 

“Eighteen hundred thousand—what have you brought?”

 

“Piffle,” said Henry, pointing to the open suit-case, unaware that he

talked to a three-generations’ gem expert.

 

A quick examination of a dozen of the gems picked at random, and an even

quicker eye-estimate of the quantity, put wonder and excitement into

Charley Tippery’s face.

 

“They’re worth millions! millions!” he exclaimed. “What are you going to

do with them?”

 

“Negotiate them, so as to help Francis out,” Henry answered. “They’re

security for any amount, aren’t they?”

 

“Close up the suit-case,” Charley Tippery cried, “while I telephone!—I

want to catch my father before he leaves the house,” he explained over

his shoulder, while waiting for his switch. “It’s only five minutes’ run

from here.”

 

Just as he concluded the brief words with his father, Parker, followed

by a police lieutenant and two policemen, entered.

 

“There’s the gang, lieutenant—arrest them,” Parker said.—“Oh, sir, I beg

your pardon, Mr. Tippery. Not you, of course.—Only the other two,

lieutenant. I don’t know what the charge will be—crazy, anyway, if not

worse, which is more likely.”

 

“How do you do, Mr. Tippery,” the lieutenant greeted familiarly.

 

“You’ll arrest nobody, Lieutenant Burns,” Charley Tippery smiled to him.

“You can send the wagon back to the station. I’ll square it with the

Inspector. For you’re coming along with me, and this suit-case, and

these suspicious characters, to my house. You’ll have to be

bodyguard—oh, not for me, but for this suit-case. There are millions in

it, cold millions, hard millions, beautiful millions. When I open it

before my father, you’ll see a sight given to few men in this world to

see.—And now, come on everybody. We’re wasting time.”

 

He made a grab at the suit-case simultaneously with Henry, and, as both

their hands clutched it, Lieutenant Burns sprang to interfere.

 

“I fancy I’ll carry it until it’s negotiated,” Henry asserted.

 

“Surely, surely,” Charley Tippery conceded, “as long as we don’t lose

any more precious time. It will take time to do the negotiating. Come

on! Hustle!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX

 

 

Helped tremendously by the moratorium, the sagging market had ceased

sagging, and some stocks were even beginning to recover. This was true

for practically every line save those lines in which Francis owned and

which Regan was bearing. He continued bearing and making them

reluctantly fall, and he noted with joy the huge blocks of Tampico

Petroleum which were being dumped obviously by no other person than

Francis.

 

“Now’s the time,” Regan informed his bear conspirators. “Play her coming

and going. It’s a double ruff. Remember the list I gave you. Sell these,

and sell short. For them there is no bottom. As for all the rest, buy

and buy now, and deliver all that you sold. You can’t lose, you see, and

by continuing to hammer the list you’ll make a double killing.”

 

“How about yourself?” one of his bear crowd queried.

 

“I’ve nothing to buy,” came the answer. “That will show you how square I

have been in my tip, and how confident I am. I haven’t sold a share

outside the list, so I have nothing to deliver. I am still selling short

and hammering down the list, and the list only. There’s my killing, and

you can share in it by as much as you continue to sell short.”

 

* * * * *

 

“There you are!” Bascom, in despair in his private office, cried to

Francis at ten-thirty. “Here’s the whole market rising, except your

lines. Regan’s out for blood. I never dreamed he could show such

strength. We can’t stand this. We’re finished. We’re smashed now——you,

me, all of us——everything.”

 

Never had Francis been cooler. Since all was lost, why worry?—was his

attitude; and, a mere layman in the game, he caught a glimpse of

possibilities that were veiled to Bascom who too thoroughly knew too

much about the game.

 

“Take it easy,” Francis counseled, his new vision assuming form and

substance with each tick of a second. “Let’s have a smoke and talk it

over for a few minutes.”

 

Bascom made a gesture of infinite impatience.

 

“But wait,” Francis urged. “Stop! Look! Listen! I’m finished, you say?”

 

His broker nodded.

 

“You’re finished?”

 

Again the nod.