III
Gibbs, never sure that the police would keep their word with him, rose earlier than usual the next morning, ate his breakfast, called a cab—he had an eccentric fondness for riding about in hansom-cabs—and was driven rapidly to the corner of High and Franklin Streets, the busiest, most distracting corner in the city. There the enormous department store of James E. Bills and Company occupied an entire building five stories high. The store was already filled with shoppers, mostly women, who crowded about the counters, on which all kinds of trinkets were huddled, labeled with cards declaring that the price had just been reduced. The girls behind the counters, all of whom were dressed in a certain extravagant imitation of the women who came every day to look these articles over, were already tired; their eyes lay in dark circles that were the more pronounced because their cheeks were covered with powder, and now and then they lifted their hands, their highly polished finger-nails gleaming, to the enormous pompadours in which they had arranged their hair. Many of the women in the store, clerks and shoppers, wore peevish, discontented expressions, and spoke in high ugly voices; the noise of their haggling filled the whole room and added to the din made by the little metal money-boxes that whizzed by on overhead wires, and increased the sense of confusion produced by the cheap and useless things which, with their untruthful placards, were piled about everywhere. The air in the store was foul and unwholesome; here and there pale little girls who carried bundles in baskets ran about on their little thin legs, piping out shrill numbers.
Gibbs was wearied the moment he entered, and irritably waved aside the sleek, foppish floor-walker. The only person to whom he spoke as he passed along was a private detective leaning against one of the counters; Gibbs had already had dealings with him and had got back for him articles that had been stolen by certain women thieves who were adept in the art of shoplifting. Gibbs went straight back to the elevator and was lifted out of all this din and confusion into the comparative quiet of the second floor, where the offices of the establishment occupied a cramped space behind thin wooden partitions. Gibbs entered the offices and glanced about at the clerks, who worked in silence; on each of them had been impressed a subdued, obedient demeanor; they glanced at Gibbs surreptitiously. It was plain that all spirit had been drilled out of them; they were afraid of something, and, driven by their necessities, they toiled like machines. Gibbs felt a contempt for them as great as the contempt he felt for the floor-walkers below, a contempt almost as great as that he had for Bills himself. A timid man of about forty-five, with a black beard sprouting out of the pallor of his skin, came up, and lifted his brows with amazement when Gibbs, ignoring him, made plainly for the door that was lettered: “Mr. Bills.”
“Mr. Bills is engaged just now,” the man said in a hushed tone.
“Well, tell him Mr. Gibbs is here.”
“But he’s engaged just now, sir; he’s dictating.” The man leaned forward and whispered the word “dictating” impressively.
But Gibbs kept on toward the door; then the man blocked his way.
“Tell him if you want to,” said Gibbs, “if not, I will.”
It seemed that Gibbs might walk directly through the man, who retreated from him, and, having no other egress, went through Mr. Bills’s door. A moment more and he held it open for Gibbs.
Bills was sitting at an enormous desk which was set in perfect order; on either side of him were baskets containing the letters he was methodically answering. Bills’s head showed over the top of the desk; it was a round head covered with short black hair, smoothly combed and shining. His black side-whiskers were likewise short and smooth. His neck was bound by a white collar and a little pious, black cravat, and he wore black clothes. His smoothly-shaven lips were pursed in a self-satisfied way; he was brisk and unctuous, very clean and proper, and looked as if he devoutly anointed himself with oil after his bath. In a word, he bore himself as became a prominent business man, who, besides his own large enterprise, managed a popular Sunday-school, and gave Sunday afternoon “talks” on “Success,” for the instruction of certain young men of the city, too mild and acquiescent to succeed as anything but conformers.
“Ah, Mr. Gibbs,” he said. “You will excuse me a moment.”
Bills turned and resumed the dictation of his stereotyped phrases of business. He dictated several letters, then dismissed his stenographer and, turning about, said with a smile:
“Now, Mr. Gibbs.”
Gibbs drew his chair close to Bills’s desk, and, taking a package from his pocket, laid out the stamps.
“One hundred sheets of twos, fifty of ones,” he said.
Bills had taken off his gold glasses and slowly lowered them to the end of their fine gold chain; he rubbed the little red marks the glasses left on the bridge of his nose, and in his manner there was an uncertainty that seemed unexpected by Gibbs.
“I was about to suggest, Mr. Gibbs,” said Bills, placing his fingers tip to tip, “that you see our Mr. Wilson; he manages the mail-order department, now.”
“Not for mine,” said Gibbs decisively. “I’ve always done business with you. I don’t know this fellow Wilson.”
Bills, choosing to take it as a tribute, smiled and went on:
“I think we’re fully stocked just now, but—how would a sixty per cent. proposition strike you?”
“No,” said Gibbs, as decisively as before.
“No?” repeated Bills.
“No,” Gibbs went on, “seventy-five.”
Bills thought a moment, absently lifting the rustling sheets.
“How many did you say there were?”
“They come to one-fifty,” said Gibbs; “count ’em.”
Bills did count them, and when he had done, he said:
“That would make it one-twelve-fifty?”
“That’s it.”
“Very well. Shall I pass the amount to your credit?”
“No; I’ll take the cash.”
“I thought perhaps Mrs. Gibbs would be wanting some things in the summer line,” said Bills.
Gibbs shook his head.
“We pay cash,” said he.
Bills smiled, got up, walked briskly with a little spring to each step and left the room. He returned presently, closed the door, sat down, counted the bills out on the leaf of his desk, laid a silver half-dollar on top and said:
“There you are.”
Gibbs counted the money carefully, rolled it up deliberately and stuffed it into his trousers pocket.
Gibbs had one more errand that morning, and he drove in his hansom-cab to the private bank Amos Hunter conducted as a department of his trust company. Gibbs deposited his money, and then went into Hunter’s private office. Hunter was an old man, thin and spare, with white hair, and a gray face. He sat with his chair turned away from his desk, which he seldom used except when it became necessary for him to sign his name, and then he did this according to the direction of a clerk, who would lay a paper before him, dip a pen in ink, hand it to Hunter, and point to the space for the signature. Hunter was as economical of his energy in signing his name as in everything else; he wrote it “A. Hunter.” He sat there every day without moving, as it seemed, apparently determined to eke out his life to the utmost. His coachman drove him down town at ten each morning, at four in the afternoon he came and drove him home again. It was only through the windows of the carriage and through the windows of his private office that Hunter looked out on a world with which for forty years he had never come in personal contact. His inert manner gave the impression of great age and senility; but the eyes under the thick white brows were alert, keen, virile. He was referred to generally as “old Amos.”
Gibbs went in, a parcel in his hand.
“Just a little matter of some mutilated currency,” he said.
Old Amos’s thin lips seemed to smile.
“You may leave it and we’ll be glad to forward it to Washington for you, Mr. Gibbs,” he said, without moving.
Gibbs laid the bundle on old Amos’s desk, and, taking up a bit of paper, wrote on it and handed it to Hunter.
“Have you a memorandum there?” asked Hunter. He glanced at the paper and wrote on the slip:
“A. H.”
Then he resumed the attitude that had scarcely been altered, laid his white hands in his lap and sat there with his thin habitual smile.
Gibbs thanked him and went away. His morning’s work among the business men of the city was done.