The Pawns Count Part 53

"I believe that Mr. Kaye, his secretary, has some information, sir,"

the man admitted. "Perhaps you would like to see him."

Fischer did not hesitate, and was conducted at once to the study in which Mr. Bookam was wont to indulge in various nefarious Stock Exchange adventures. The room was occupied on this occasion by a dejected-looking young man, with pasty face and gold spectacles. The apartment, as Fischer was quick to notice, showed signs of a strange disorder.

"Where's Mr. Bookam?" he asked quickly.

The young man walked to the door, shook it to be sure that it was closed, and came back again. His tone was ominous, almost dramatic.

"In the State Prison at----, sir," he announced.

"What for?" Fischer demanded, breathing a little thickly.

"I have no certain information," the secretary replied, with a noncommittal air. "All I know is that I had a long-distance telephone to burn certain doc.u.ments, but before I could do so the room and the house were searched by New York detectives, whose warrant it was useless to resist."

"But what's the charge against Mr. Bookam?"

"It's something to do with the disasters in----," the young man confided. "The Governor of the State, who is Mr. Bookam's cousin, is in the same trouble.... Better sit down a moment, sir. You're looking white."

Mr. Fischer threw himself into an easy-chair. He felt like a man who has built a mighty piece of machinery, has set it swinging through s.p.a.ce, and watches now its imminent collapse; watches some tiny but ghastly flaw, pregnant with disaster, growing wider and wider before his eyes.

"What papers did the police take away with them?" he asked.

"There wasn't very much for them," the secretary replied. "There was a list of the names of the proposed organisation which, owing to your very wise intervention, was never formed. There was a list of factories throughout the United States in which munitions are being made, with a black mark against those holding the most important contracts. And there was a letter from Governor Roughton."

"Mr. Bookam hasn't drawn any cheques lately for large amounts?" Fischer inquired eagerly.

"There are three in his private cheque-book, sir, the counterfoils of which are not filled in," was the somewhat dreary admission.

Fischer groaned as he received the news.

"Have you any idea about those cheques?" he demanded.

"I am afraid," the other acknowledged, "that Mr. Bookam was not very discreet. I reminded him of your advice--that the money should be pa.s.sed through Sullivan--but he didn't seem to think it worth while."

"Look here, let me know the worst at once," Fischer insisted. "Do you believe that any one of those cheques was made payable to any of the men who are under arrest?"

"I am afraid," the secretary declared sadly, "that the proceeds of one were found on the person of Ed. Swindles, intact."

Fischer sat for a moment with his head buried in his hands. "That any man could have been such a fool. An organisation would have been a thousand times safer. Max Bookam was only a very worthy and industrious clothing manufacturer, with an intense love for the Fatherland and a great veneration for all her inst.i.tutions. What he had done, he had done whole-heartedly but foolishly. He was a man who should never have been trusted for a moment in the game. After all, the p.a.w.ns count...."

Fischer took his leave and reached his hotel a little before midnight.

Already he had begun to look over his shoulder in the street. He found his rooms empty with a sense of relief, marred by one little disappointment. Nikasti was to have been there to bid him farewell-- Nikasti on his way back to j.a.pan. He ascertained from the office of the hotel that there had been no telephone message or caller. Then he turned to his correspondence, some presentiment already clutching at his strained nerves. There was a letter in a large envelope, near the bottom of the pile, addressed to him in Nikasti's fine handwriting. He tore open the envelope, and slow horror seized him as he realised its contents. A long photograph unrolled itself before his eyes. The first few words brought confusion and horror to his sense. His brain reeled.

This was defeat, indeed! It was a photograph of that other autograph letter. The one which he had given to Nikasti to carry to j.a.pan lay-- gross sacrilege!--about him in small pieces. There was no other line, no message, nothing but this d.a.m.ning proof of his duplicity.

A kind of mental torture seized him. He fought like a caged man for some way out. Every sort of explanation occurred to him only to be rejected, every sort of subterfuge, only to be cast aside with a kind of ghastly contempt. He felt suddenly stripped bare. His tongue could serve him no more. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the telephone receiver and rang up the number for which he searched eagerly through the book.

"Is that the office of the American Steams.h.i.+p Company?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What time will the _New York_ sail?"

"In three-quarters of an hour. Who's speaking?"

"Mr. Oscar Fischer. Keep anything you have for me."

He threw down the receiver for fear of a refusal, packed a few things feverishly in a dressing bag, dashed the rest of his correspondence into his pocket, and with the bag in one hand, and an overcoat over the other arm, he hastened out into the street. He was obliged at first to board a street car. Afterwards he found a taxicab, and drove under the great wooden shed as the last siren was blowing. He hurried up the gangway, a grim, remorseful figure, a sense of defeat gnawing at his heart, a bitter, haunting fear still with him even when, with a shriek of the tugs, the great steamer swung into the river. He was leaving forever the work to which he had given so much of his life, leaving it a fugitive and dishonoured. The blaze of lights, the screaming of the great ferry-boats, all the triumphant, brazen noises of the mighty city, sounded like a requiem to him as in the darkest part of the promenade deck he leaned over the railing and nursed his agony, the supreme agony of an ambitious man--failure.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

"What has become," Mrs. Theodore Hastings asked her niece one afternoon about a month later, "of your delightful friend, Mr. Lutchester?"

Pamela laid down her book and looked across at her aunt with wide-open eyes.

"Why, I thought you didn't like him, aunt?"

"I cannot remember saying so, my dear," Mrs. Hastings replied. "I had nothing against the man himself. It was simply his att.i.tude with regard to some of your uncle's plans, of which we disapproved."

Pamela nodded. They were seated on the piazza of the Hastings' country house at Manchester.

"I see!... And uncle's plans," she went on reflectively, "have become a little changed, haven't they?"

Mrs. Hastings coughed.

"There is no doubt," she admitted, "that your Uncle Theodore was inveigled into supporting, to a certain extent, a party whose leaders have shown themselves utterly irresponsible. The moment these horrible things began to come out, however, your uncle finally cut himself loose from them."

"Very wise of him," Pamela murmured.

"Who could have believed," Mrs. Hastings demanded, "that men like Oscar Fischer, Max Bookam and a dozen other well-known and prominent millionaires, would have stooped to encourage the destruction of American property and lives, simply through blind devotion to the country of their birth. I could understand," she went on, "both your uncle and I perfectly understood that their sympathies were German rather than English, but we shared a common belief that notwithstanding this they were Americans first and foremost. It was in this belief that your uncle was led into temporary a.s.sociation with them."

"Bad luck," Pamela sighed. "I am afraid it hasn't done Uncle Theodore any good."

Mrs. Hastings went on with her knitting for a moment.

"My child," she said, "it has probably imperilled, if it has not completely ruined, one of the great hopes which your uncle and I have sometimes entertained. We are both of us, however, quite philosophical about it. Even at this moment I am convinced that if these men had acted with discretion, and been content to wield political influence rather than to have resorted to such fanatical means, they would have represented a great power at the next election. As things are, I admit that their cause is lost for the time. I believe that your uncle is contemplating an early visit to England. He is of the opinion that perhaps he has misunderstood the Allied point of view, and he is going to study matters at first hand."

Pamela nodded.

"I think he is very wise, aunt," she declared. "I quite expect that he will come back a warm advocate of the Allies. No one would have a ghost of a chance who went to the country here on the other ticket."

"I believe that that is your uncle's point of view," Mrs. Hastings a.s.sented.... "Why don't you ask Mr. Lutchester down for a couple of days?"

"If you mean it, I certainly will," Pamela agreed.

"Quite incidentally," her aunt continued, "I heard the nicest possible things about him in Was.h.i.+ngton. Lady Ridlingshawe told me that the Lutchesters are one of the oldest families in England. He is a cousin of the Duke of Worcester, and is extraordinarily well connected in other directions. I must say he has a most distinguished appearance.