The White Desert Part 24
"That was. Plutocrat now, and member of society, you know. He came into his father's money, just after he went out of office, and bought into the East Coast Machinery Company when it was on its last legs.
His money was like new blood. They've got a good big plant. He's president," again the smile, "and I know he'd be glad to have your order."
Houston continued the sarcasm.
"I'd be overjoyed to give it to him. In fact, I think I'd refuse to buy any machinery if I couldn't get it from such a dear friend as Worthington was. It wasn't his fault that I wasn't sent to the penitentiary."
"No, that's right, boy." Old Lawyer Mason was quietly reminiscent.
"He tried his best. It seemed to me in those days he was more of a persecutor than prosecutor."
"Let's forget it." Houston laughed uneasily.
"Now, to go back to the bankers--"
"There isn't much for us to do but to try them, one after another. I guess we might as well start now as any time."
Late that afternoon they were again in the office, the features of Mason wrinkled with thought, those of Barry Houston plainly discouraged. They had failed. The refusals had been courteous, fraught with many apologies for a tight market, and effusive regrets that it would be impossible to loan money on such a gilt-edged proposition as the contract seemed to hold forth, but-- There had always been that one word, that stumbling-block against which they had run time after time, shielded and padded by courtesy, but present nevertheless. Nor were Houston and Mason unaware of the real fact which lay behind it all; that the bankers did not care to trust their money in the hands of a man who had been accused of murder and who had escaped the penalty of such a charge by a margin, which to Boston, at least, had seemed exceedingly slight. One after another, there in the office, Mason went over the list of his business acquaintances, seeking for some name that might mean magic to them. But no such inspiration came.
"Drop back to-morrow, boy," he said at last. "I'll think over the thing to-night, and I may be able to get a bright idea. It's going to be tough sledding--too tough, I'm afraid. If only we didn't have to buck up against that trial, and the ideas people seem to have gotten of it, we'd be all right. But--"
There it was again, that one word, that immutable obstacle which seemed to arise always. Houston reached for his hat.
"I'm going to keep on trying, anyway, Mr. Mason. I'll be back to-morrow. I'm going to get that money if I have to make a canva.s.s of Boston, if I have to go out and sell shares at a dollar apiece and if I go broke paying dividends. I've made my promise to go through--and I'm going!"
"Good. I'll be looking for you."
But half an hour later, following a wandering, aimless journey through the crooked streets, Barry Houston suddenly straightened with an inspiration. He whirled, he dived for a cigar store and for a telephone.
"h.e.l.lo!" he called, after the long wait for connections. "Mr. Mason?
Don't look for me tomorrow--I believe I'll not be there."
"But you haven't given it up?"
"Given up?" Houston laughed with sudden enthusiasm. "No--I've just started. Put the date off a day or two until I can try something that's buzzing around in my head. It's a wild idea--but it may work.
If it doesn't, I'll see you Thursday."
Then he turned from the telephone and toward the railroad station.
"One, to New York," he ordered hurriedly through the ticket window.
"I've got time to make that seven-forty, if you rush it."
And the next morning, Barry Houston was in New York, swirling along Seventh Avenue toward Bellstrand Hospital. There he sought the executive offices and told his story. "Five minutes later he was looking at the books of the inst.i.tution, searching, searching,--at last to stifle a cry of excitement and bend closer to a closely written page.
"August second," he read. "Kilbane Worthington, district attorney, Boston, Ma.s.s. Acc by Drs. Horton, Mayer and Brensteam. Investigations into effect of blows on skull. Eight cadavers."
With fingers that were almost frenzied, Houston copied the notation, closed the book, and hurried again for a taxicab. It yet was only nine o'clock. It the traffic were not too thick, if the driver were skilful--
He raced through the gate at Grand Central just as it was closing. He made the train in unison with the last drawling cry of the conductor.
Then for hours, in the Pullman chair car, he fidgeted, counting the telegraph posts, checking off the stations as they flipped past the windows, through a day of eagerness, of excited, racking antic.i.p.ation.
It was night when he reached Boston, but Houston did not hesitate. A glance at a telephone book, another rocking ride in a taxicab, and Barry stood on the veranda of a large house, awaiting the answer to his ring at the bell. Finally it came.
"Mr. Worthington," he demanded. The butler arched his eyebrows.
"Sorry, but Mr. Worthington has left orders not to be--"
"Tell him that it is a matter of urgent business. That it is something of the utmost importance to him."
A wait. The butler returned.
"Sorry, sir. But Mr. Worthington is just ready to retire."
"You tell Mr. Worthington," answered Houston in a crisp voice, "that he either will see me or regret it. Tell him that I am very sorry, but that just now, I am forced to use his own methods--and that if he doesn't see me within five minutes, there will be something in the morning papers that will be, to say the least, extremely distasteful to him."
"The name, please?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Are you from a newspaper?"
"I'm not saying. Whether I go to one directly from here, depends entirely upon Mr. Worthington. Will you please take my message?"
"I'm afraid--"
"Take my message!"
"Directly, sir!"
Another wait. Then:
"Mr. Worthington will see you in the library, sir."
"Thanks." Houston almost bounded into the hall. A moment later, in the dimness of the heavily furnished, somewhat mysterious appearing library, Barry Houston again faced the man whom, at one time, he had hoped never again to see. Kilbane Worthington was seated at the large table, much in the manner which he had affected in court, elbows on the surface, chin cupped in his thin, nervous hands. The light was not good for recognizing faces; without realizing it, the former district attorney had placed himself at a disadvantage. Squinting, he sought to make out the features of the man who had hurried into the room, and failing, rose.
"Well," he asked somewhat brusquely, "may I inquire--"
"Certainly. My name's Houston."
"Houston--Houston--it seems to me--"
"Maybe your memory needs refreshing. Such little things as I figured in probably slipped your mind the minute you were through with them.
To be explicit, my name is Barry Houston, son of the late William K.
Houston. You and I met--in the courtroom. You once did me the very high honor to accuse me of murder and then tried your level best to send me to the penitentiary for life when you knew, absolutely and thoroughly, that I was an innocent man!"
CHAPTER XVII
The former district attorney started slightly. Then, coming still closer, he peered into the tense, angry features of Barry Houston.