Half a Rogue - Harold MacGrath (phonics books TXT) 📗

I ran into Bolles. ... Well, he uttered a vile insult, and I all but throttled him. Here's my hand, Dick."

The hand-grip that followed drew a gasp from Warrington.

"Not every man would be so good about it, John. What shall we do about McQuade?"

"I was about to say that I shall see McQuade within an hour," in a tone that did not promise well for McQuade.

"Wait a day or two, John. If you meet him now, I believe you will do him bodily harm, and he has caused enough trouble, God knows."

"But not to meet him! Not to cram this paper down his vile throat! I had not considered that sacrifice. And I can not touch him by law, either."

"But you can silence him effectually. This business will end right here."

"You are right," said John with reluctance. "If I met him in this rage. I should probably kill him."

"Let us go and pay him a visit together, John," Warrington suggested. "I can manage to keep in between you."

"That's better. We'll go together." And John went for his hat. Then he ran up stairs quickly. There was a loving heart up there that ached, and he alone could soothe it.

And then the two men left the house. As they strode down the street, side by side, step by step, their thoughts were as separate as the two poles. To the one his wife was still his wife, in all the word implied; to the other there was only a long stretch of years that he must pass through alone, alone,-not even the man at his side would ever be quite the same to him, nor his wife. There was a shadow; it would always walk between them.

"Remember, Dick, Patty must never know anything of this. Nothing must come between her and my wife."

"I shall say nothing to any one, John." Who had written to Patty?

It took them a quarter of an hour to reach McQuade's office. Unfortunately for that gentleman, he was still in his office and alone. The new typewriter and the two clerks had gone. He was still wondering why Osborne's niece had resigned so unexpectedly. Probably she was going to get married. They always did when they had saved a penny or two. He laughed. He had been careless now and then, but whatever she might have picked up in the way of business or political secrets could not profit her. Boss McQuade felt secure. Warrington was as good as beaten. He had had his long-delayed revenge on the man who had turned him out of doors.

It was dark outside by this time, and he turned on the drop-light over his desk. He heard the door open and shut, but this was not unusual; so he went on with his writing.

"Well, what's wanted?" he called, folding his letter, but not yet turning his head.

As no one answered, he sent his chair around with a push of his foot. He saw two men, but he did not recognize them at once. By and by his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Instantly he was on his feet, pressing the button connecting the wall-lights. There was no possible exit save by that door, and these two men stood between. To do McQuade justice, he was not a physical coward. His huge bulk and hardened muscles gave him a ready courage. He forced a smile to his lips. After all, he had expected one or the other of them sooner or later.

"Well, gentlemen, I am highly honored. What can I do for you?" There was a pretense of amiability.

"For the present," said Warrington, "you may sit down. We propose to do so." He drew out a chair from under the office table and placed it close to the door. "You sit there, John." For himself, he sat on the corner of the table.

McQuade did not hesitate, but reseated himself. His thoughts were not particularly lucid, however.

"McQuade, you're as fine a blackleg as ever graced a prison," said Warrington.

"I'll have to take your word for it," was the reply. "But how is it that I see you and Mr. Bennington together?" evilly.

"We'll come to that presently. I had always given you credit for being as astute as you were underhanded and treacherous."

"Thanks." McQuade took a cigar from his pocket and fumbled around in his vest for a match.

"But," Warrington added, "I am pained to reverse my opinion. You are a fool as well as a blackleg."

"How do you make that out?" coolly.

"Do you know where your man Bolles can be found?"

"Bolles? Ah, I begin to see. What do you want of him?"

"We want the esteemed honor of his company at this reunion," dryly.

Bolles? McQuade smiled. He was only too glad to accommodate them. If they wanted Bolles they should have him. Bolles would cut them in two. He reached for the telephone and began to call up the familiar haunts of his henchman. He located him at length in Martin's saloon. There was evidently some reluctance on the part of Bolles.

"Bolles, if you are not at my office inside of ten minutes, I'll break you, and you know what I mean." McQuade hung up the receiver. "He'll be right over. Now, what's all this mystery about?"

"It regards some literary compositions of yours to which I have taken exception."

"Compositions?"

"Yes. Two anonymous letters. But before we discuss them we'll wait for our friend Bolles."

McQuade signified that this was agreeable to him. All the same, he glanced uneasily at the man near the door. Bennington had not made the slightest sound after taking his chair. His arms were folded across his breast, which rose and fell with deep intakes. His face, in the shadow, was no more readable than that of the miniature sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade's desk. But Bolles was coming. So they waited. The end of McQuade's cigar waxed and waned according to his inhalations. These inhalations were not quickly made, as by a man whose heart is beating with excitement; they were slow and regular, it might be said, contemplative. John's gaze never left the end of that cigar.

The lights in the tall building opposite began to twinkle from window to window. Warrington slipped off the table and pulled down the curtains. McQuade knocked the ashes from his cigar, contemplated the coal, and returned it to the corner of his mouth.

Ah! The three men heard steps in the hall. The door to the outer office opened and banged. But the man who squeezed past Bennington was not Bolles.

"Morrissy?" cried Warrington. "Fine! Have a chair, Mr. Morrissy, have a chair." Warrington was delighted.

Morrissy's glance, somewhat bewildered, traveled from face to face. On entering he had seen only McQuade's tranquil visage. He sat down, disturbed and mystified.

"What's this?" Morrissy demanded to know.

"Hanged if I know!" said McQuade. "These two gentlemen presented themselves a few moments ago and requested me to send for Bolles. Have a cigar."

Morrissy took the proffered weed, but he did not light it. He turned it round and round in his teeth and chewed it. Well, so long as the boss did not seem alarmed, the trouble could not be serious. Yet he was not over-confident of Bennington's lowering face.

"Been a fine day," said Morrissy, at haphazard.

"Yes, but there's going to be a storm to-night." Warrington resumed his position on the table.

Conversation died. And then Bolles came in. At the sight of Bennington he recoiled.

"Come in, come in!" said McQuade. "Mr. Warrington will offer you a chair," facetiously.

"Yes, Bolles, sit down."

"Well, gentlemen, here's a quorum;" and McQuade began to rock in his chair. Three against two; that would do very well.

"I will go at once at the matter in hand. Those letters, John." Warrington held out his hand. "I'll read one to you, McQuade." He read slowly and distinctly.

"What the hell is this?" said Morrissy.

"It's up to Mr. Warrington to explain." McQuade grinned. That grin, however, nearly cost him his life.

"John, remember your promise!" cried Warrington.

John sat down, seized with a species of vertigo.

"McQuade, you wrote that."

"Me? You're crazy!"

"Not at all. Let me advise you. The next time you put your hand to anonymous letters, examine the type of your machine. There may be some bad letter."

"I don't know what you're driving at," McQuade declared.

"I see that I must read this, then, to convince you." Warrington stood up, his back toward Bennington. He unfolded the carbon sheet and began to read.

McQuade saw Medusa's head, little versed as he was in mythology. He lowered his cigar. The blood in his face gradually receded.

"'In two sums of five hundred each,'" Warrington went on.

Morrissy, who suddenly saw visions of bars and stripes, made a quick, desperate spring. Warrington struck him with full force on the side of the head. Morrissy reeled, stumbled to the floor and lay there. The others were on their feet instantly.

"Stay where you are, John; I don't need any assistance. Now, McQuade, I've got you where I want you." Warrington spoke with deadly calm now. "This carbon was found in your waste-basket and brought to me. The girl is where you can not find her. There are two courses open to you."

"What are they?" There was murder in McQuade's heart, but there was reason in his head. He saw exactly where he stood. They had him.

"One is state's prison; the other is a full retraction of this base calumny. Take your choice."

"Bolles?"

"It's true, every damn word of it," said Bolles venomously. "Your janitor in New York told me the facts. You know they're true."

"Bolles, I nearly killed you one night. So help me, if you do not withdraw that, I'll kill you here and now!" It was the first time Bennington had spoken.

"Bolles," said McQuade, "did you sell a lie to me?"

Bolles eyed Bennington, who had pushed Warrington out of the way and was moving toward him. He saw death on Bennington's face. Warrington again interposed, but John swept him aside with ease.

"Well, there was a doctor and a nurse there all night with them. But she was in Warrington's rooms all night. That seemed enough for me." Bolles put the table between him and Bennington. He was genuinely afraid.

Morrissy turned over and sat up, rubbing his head. Presently he pulled himself to his feet. He was dazed. Recollection of what had happened returned to him. This dude had knocked him out.

"You'll pay well for that," he said.

"Sit down. It's only a marker for what I'll do to you if you make another move. Now, McQuade, which is it?"

"Go ahead and write your letter," McQuade snarled.

Warrington proceeded.

"Now sign it," he said. "Here, John, take care of this carbon. Bolles, your signature." Bolles scrawled a shaking hand. Warrington put the paper in his pocket. "Bite, both of you now, if you dare."

"I'll trouble you for that carbon," said McQuade.

"Hardly. But you have my word of honor that it shall not be used against you unless you force me. It will repose in my deposit box at the bank. But as for you, Morrissy, this climate doesn't suit your abilities. The field is too small. Take