Chapter IX Peter Bolton
Peter Bolton’s office conformed to the first principles of art. It supplied an appropriate frame for Peter Bolton himself. The outer room presented to the eye of the visitor four bare and grimy walls that had once been white, a bare and worn board floor, two kitchen chairs and a rickety desk. There was, however, nothing shrinking or apologetic about this meager display of furnishing. It smacked not of poverty, but of an inclement disposition in its owner. In the inner room the walls and floor were as bare and grimy as those of the outer office, but the furnishing was a little less disregardful of personal comfort, for it held five solid chairs, a solid safe that made a show of bidding defiance to burglars, and a solid desk, behind which sat Peter Bolton himself.
The outer office was empty, save for the uninviting chairs and the rickety desk, and General Wilson, with a quick jerk, opened the inner door and bustled into the room.
“Ha-ha, Bolton!” he cried, “I catch you with your washee-washee man, eh? That’s right, that’s right. Cleanliness next to godliness, you know—though you can’t always be sure that the Chinese washman is to be recommended on either count. Hey, John, you trot along now. I want to talk to Mr. Bolton.”
Glancing over General Wilson’s head I saw the thin, sour face of Peter Bolton, and behind the mask of its dry expression I thought I recognized a passing flash of mental disturbance that suggested fear, or even consternation. Then a sardonic smile tightened and drew down the corners of the mouth, and his hard, nasal voice twanged out a grudging word of recognition.
At the same moment the “washee-washee” man stepped to the doorway, and I was startled to find myself looking into the face of Big Sam. He was dressed in the coarse blue jeans and trousers of the Chinese working-man, his hat was drawn down over his eyes, and his face was of a darker hue than I remembered it. But the man shone through his disguise as plainly as the sun shines through colored glass.
I recovered from my surprise in an instant, and halted him in the outer room.
“This is a lucky meeting,” I said. “I have been wondering whether I ought to report to you about your ward. She is badly hurt, but is now out of danger.”
The man glanced at me with expressionless eye.
“I no sabby you,” he said with the true coolie accent. “What you wan’?”
“Oh,” I returned, repressing my amusement at this preposterous attempt to deceive me, “if Kwan Sam Suey, sometimes known as Big Sam, doesn’t want to hear what I have to say, I am in no hurry to say it.”
“No sabby Big Sam,” said the Chinaman gruffly.
“And I should really like to know,” I said, lowering my voice, “what Big Sam is doing with Mr. Bolton.”
“I no sabby Missah Bolton,” growled the Oriental.
“You don’t ‘sabby’ the man you’ve just been talking with?”
“I no sabby him name. I no sabby you’ name. I sabby him one man—I sabby you ‘nothe’ man. I come sell him lotte’y ticket. You likee buy lotte’y ticket?”
This appeared to be an excellent chance to trap the wily Oriental. I replied that I would risk twenty-five cents on his game, and waited with a smile for the excuse that would be invented to put me off. But Big Sam had made up for his part with more attention to detail than I had supposed. At my word he calmly drew forth from his capacious sleeve a blank ticket and a marking brush.
“I make you good ticket,” he said gravely, marking ten of the squares. “You sabby Kwan Luey?”
“Yes, I sabby Kwan Luey.” He was one of the big merchants of Chinatown, and among other things did a brisk banking and lottery business among his countrymen.
“Dlawing to-mollow,” said the Chinaman. “You take ’em ticket Kwan Luey you get ’em heap big money.” And with a brusk nod he was gone.
I stared after him in perplexity. My eyes were never more certain of anything than of the identity of this man with Big Sam. And yet he had carried off his imposture with such assurance that, for a moment after he had disappeared, I was shaken in my conviction. But it was only for a moment. With a glance at the paper in my hand and with a recollection of his parting words, certainty returned, and I was convinced that the ticket was an order on Kwan Luey for money. Was Big Sam trying to bribe me, or was he attempting thus to provide for the expenses of the Chinese girl? Nothing had been said on the delicate point of meeting her charges for food, care and lodging. Possibly he had chosen this eccentric way of putting the money in my hands.
There was, however, another question more perplexing than that of money. What were the relations between Bolton and Big Sam? Here for the second time I had evidence that they were in secret alliance. The business of supplying coolie workmen was not of such disrepute that it had to be conducted in disguise. Could it be possible that Big Sam was one of Bolton’s agents in the plot to overthrow Wharton Kendrick? And if so, was the Chinese girl brought under the Kendrick roof as a part of Peter Bolton’s tortuous policy?
As there was no answer to my questions to be had by studying the ticket Big Sam had given me, I thrust it into my pocket and followed General Wilson into Peter Bolton’s private den.
There are certain natures whose approach brings an access of mental or physical repulsion. A man may conform to all the sanitary laws, and yet appeal quite as objectionably to the inner spirit as the Eskimo reeking of spoiled blubber appeals to the physical senses.
To approach Peter Bolton was like putting your hand on the spider to which current metaphor compared him. If you liked spiders, he was doubtless a pleasant enough companion. But as for me, I share the popular prejudice against the arachnidæ, and found myself at once in mental antagonism to Mr. Bolton.
General Wilson had plunged into a brisk but one-sided conversation with his curmudgeon. The first words I had missed in the encounter with Big Sam, but as I crossed the threshold he was holding forth in his most coruscating style.
“By George, Bolton, I wish I had time to show you how it ought to be done, but I’ve got to think of getting back to New York toward the end of the month. Why, this is my vacation time, and I’m carrying on five trades that count up to three or four million dollars. Of course, I couldn’t afford to touch ’em under ordinary circumstances, but one has to do these little things for one’s friends. I took a run down to New York just before I came out here, and we had a little dinner at the club—oh, there were only a dozen of us, or so—but big men all of them. Why, the men around that table could have signed a joint note for three hundred million—and got it discounted, too, if there was a bank big enough to do the business. Young Vanderbilt was there—I suppose we must call him Old Van, now the Commodore is gone—Astor, Belmont, and the rest of that crowd. Jay Gould couldn’t come, because he and Vanderbilt don’t speak. I was telling them that I was going to make a flying trip out here, when Vanderbilt pipes up, and says, ‘General Wilson, you’re just the man we want. There are good bargains to be picked up out there, and you must keep your eye out for them.’ And the others chimed in and said, ‘Yes, you must do some business for us while you are out there.’ ‘Hold on, gentlemen,’ I said; ‘I’m going out for a vacation, and I can’t burden my mind with business.’ But it was no use. The more I protested, the warmer they got over it—insisted that I could get lots more fun out of the trip if I did business than I could if I didn’t—said it was like a man going for a walk—if he’s just out for exercise it’s confounded stupid work, and he gets tired in no time; but put a gun on his shoulder and turn him out to look for deer and he will tramp all day and think he’s had no end of fun. Well, at last I had to give in. What can you do when you’ve got three hundred million against you? So I said, ‘Gentlemen, let’s have everything regular. Get up a syndicate—make it a blind pool—and I’ll guarantee to bring you back something worth while.’ Well, they jumped at that idea like cats at a mouse, and in ten minutes they had made up a five-million-dollar pool. So I expect to put in at least three million before I leave. I closed one big trade with Governor Stanford last night, and I’ve got three or four others on the books now.”
Peter Bolton’s gaunt sallow face, with its projecting jaw, lost none of its sourness, but a sardonic smile tightened his thin lips and drew down the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” he drawled in his cracked nasal tone, “you can have that tract of mine for six hundred thousand.”
“Couldn’t think of it,” said General Wilson bruskly. “Two hundred thousand would be a fancy figure for it. I don’t want it, anyhow, unless I can get that piece of Kendrick’s just above it.”
Bolton’s thin lips tightened once more, and a slight flush passed over his sallow face.
“Kendrick’s place?” he said, the sarcastic drawl quickening a little. “I shouldn’t think you’d want to show yourself again in New York if you’d ‘a’ bought that swamp. What’d he ask you for it?”
“A stiff figure, a stiff figure,” said General Wilson with a wave of his arm, as if Bolton’s question were a missile that he was fending aside. “It’s swampy enough, and needs any quantity of leveeing and draining. But it’s rich land. I’ve been over it all. I don’t say I’ll buy it, but I might, if I can get it at a reasonable price.”
“You can get My Land at My Price,” drawled the sarcastic voice of Peter Bolton, audibly putting capital letters to his words and making the possessive pronoun appear very large. “I said six hundred thousand, didn’t I? Well, it’s had a raise since then. It’s seven hundred thousand now. I shouldn’t be surprised if it went to eight hundred thousand before you got out.”
General Wilson appeared to regard this as an excellent piece of pleasantry.
“It looks to a man up a tree,” he said good-humoredly, “as though you didn’t want me to buy Kendrick’s land.”
Bolton’s lips drew into a sneer.
“I don’t know why I should want you to buy Kendrick’s land,” he said. “You can have My Land at My Price,” he repeated, the sneer deepening on his face. “My price is nine hundred thousand now.”
“Well,” said General Wilson with a chuckle, “I’ve been in Chicago through some pretty exciting times, and I’ve had real-estate deals in nearly every part of the country, but I never saw property go up so fast as that piece of yours out in the San Joaquin swamps.” Then, changing his tone suddenly, he asked: “Why do you want to stop the trade on Kendrick’s tract? I see that you’re nobody’s fool, and you know as well as I do that we’ve got to have your place if we take his. Now, what’s your game?”
A look of malevolent shrewdness came over Bolton’s face, and he pursed up his mouth as though he was afraid his thoughts were going to escape.
“If you would like to know,” he drawled at last, “you might ask Kendrick’s young man standing over there by the door.”
I was startled at this sudden attack. Peter Bolton had to this minute given no sign that he was aware of my existence, and I was filled with wonder to know how he had discovered that I was in Kendrick’s employ. There was nothing to do but to put up a bold front on the matter, and I said:
“The only thing I could tell about the trouble is that the Council of Nine has plenty of money and is spending it like water.”
A covering of gray ashes appeared to spread over the sallow face of Peter Bolton, and caused General Wilson to spring to his feet with the exclamation:
“Good God, what’s the matter?”
Peter Bolton waved him back to his seat, and with an effort gasped out:
“The Council of Nine! What do you mean by that nonsense? I never heard of such damned foolery before!”
“Oh, yes,” said I, pressing my advantage. “Waldorf was up here night before last, you remember, and got thirty thousand dollars. I thought you would like to know that your contribution was being spent with a liberal hand.”
Peter Bolton’s face assumed a gray-green tint, and he cried out:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve gone crazy—” Then, as if he feared that I would take offense at the words, he fell from the attitude of protest to one of cringing obsequiousness. “No, I don’t mean that—I mean that I want you to do some business for me.”
The man appeared carried away with fright; his claw-like hands worked convulsively, and a perspiration started on his forehead. I saw in his eyes a foretaste of the terrors of unsuccessful crime, and that as he remembered the purposes that lay behind those rifles in the Council’s armory, his conscience conjured up the vision of the police and the hangman stretching forth their hands to seize him.
“Good God, Bolton!” cried General Wilson again. “What have you been doing? You couldn’t look more upset if you had murdered your grandmother and Hampden had uncovered the corpse.”
“It’s nothing—nothing,” gasped Bolton, recovering himself with an effort; “just a little joke we have—just a little joke.” And he framed his thin lips into the semblance of a ghastly smile.
General Wilson’s red face grew redder yet as an angry color swept over it.
“Well, you’ve got too many jokes to suit me, and a damned queer taste in humor—that’s all I’ve got to say about it. I came to talk business, and you’ve been wasting my time with your tomfoolery.” And with an angry wave of his hand he got to his feet and strode out.
Almost before General Wilson had reached the hall, Bolton had turned eagerly to me.
“Come in and shut the door,” he said with a quavering voice. “That gilded ass may stop to listen.”
He was silent a minute as I obeyed him, and I surmised that he was turning over in his mind the possible plans by which I might be gagged. And as he motioned me to a seat his calculating eye was taking my measure with all the coolness of a butcher estimating the value of a steer.
“You are a young man,” he began with an insinuating drawl.
I admitted the charge, but offered him the consolation to be drawn from the theory that I should probably get over it in time. He paid no attention to my flippant suggestion, but continued in a slow tone of ironic emphasis:
“You are old enough, though, to know that you have got to look out for your own Interests. That’s what every Man must do, if he wants to keep in Business.” Peter Bolton’s sarcastic drawl punctuated his important words with capitals. “If you don’t think enough of your Interests to look out for Yourself, nobody is going to look out for them for you.”
“If you want to do me a good turn,” I said with strategic frankness, “you might tell me what your business is with Big Sam.”
He was not to be caught off his guard again. He paid no attention to my words, but continued with more of propitiation in his voice than I had considered possible.
“Now, you’re a Man of the World—young as you are—and you have seen something of Business. You have seen the man who has given his best years to making money for the other fellow turned adrift as soon as the other fellow finds somebody who can make more money for him. That’s the Gratitude of Business, young man—the Gratitude of Business. I’ve seen a man who made fifty thousand dollars for his employer in a trade turned out inside of six months because somebody offered to work for twenty-five dollars less a month. That’s what you get when you look out for your Employer’s interests instead of your Own.” The depth of sarcasm in Peter Bolton’s drawl was portentous.
I did not know whether to be amused or indignant at this attempt to teach me the folly of loyalty and the essential respectability of treachery. So I gave a nod of comprehension, which he took for encouragement, and he continued:
“Now, I’m a plain-speaking old fellow, and I won’t talk nonsense to you about Gratitude or Friendship. I won’t say a word about the things I’ll do for you Some day. I’ll just talk Cash in Hand to you, with no back bills to be paid with promises on either side.”
“Very good,” I replied, “but I’d rather you would answer the questions about Big Sam and the Council of Nine.”
Bolton gave me a cunning look.
“I want you to take up some private business for me,” he said slowly, “and I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for sixty days’ work.”
“What work?” I asked sharply, my indignation getting the better of my amusement.
“Confidential work,” said Bolton deliberately. “I want a representative in Kendrick’s office, and you’re the best man I know for the job.”
My repressed indignation broke forth at this brazen proffer of a bribe, and I jumped to my feet and shook my fist in Peter Bolton’s face.
“You old scoundrel!” I cried. “If you were a younger man, I’d thump the breath out of you!”
“You are a bigger Fool than I thought,” said Bolton in his most sarcastic voice. And he threw back his head and opened his mouth in silent laughter.
“I give you warning,” I continued, “that I shall tell Colonel Kendrick of your offer.”
The unabashed Bolton drew down the corners of his mouth in a sarcastic smile, and his sarcastic voice followed me as I opened the door:
“If Kendrick offers you eleven thousand, come back and I’ll see if I can do better.”