Books: The Lion and the Mouse

C >> Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse

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For a moment Ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. Then,
as he realized the significance of his son's words and their
application to himself he completely lost control of himself. His
face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a
force that shook the room.

"I will see him in hell first!" he cried. "Damn him! He has always
opposed me. He has always defied my power, and now his daughter
has entrapped my son. So it's her you want to go to, eh? Well, I
can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but I can prevent you
throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be
publicly disgraced, and, by God, I will."

"Poor old Rossmore," said Jefferson bitterly. "If the history of
every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would
escape public disgrace? Would you?" he cried.

Ryder, Sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. He made a
movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme
effort he controlled himself.

"No, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't
care. I think you'd be glad; on my soul, I do!" Then calming down
once more, he added: "Jefferson, give me your word of honour that
your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry
her unknown to me. I don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn
it, don't lose your head. Give me your hand on it."

Jefferson reluctantly held out his hand.

"If I thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, I'd have
Rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. Listen, boy.
This man is my enemy, and I show no mercy to my enemies. There are
more reasons than one why you cannot marry Miss Rossmore. If she
knew one of them she would not marry you."

"What reasons?" demanded Jefferson.

"The principal one," said Ryder, slowly and deliberately, and
eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words,
"the principal one is that it was through my agents that the
demand was made for her father's impeachment."

"Ah," cried Jefferson, "then I guessed aright! Oh, father, how
could you have done that? If you only knew him!"

Ryder, Sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke
calmly enough.

"Jefferson, I don't have to make any apologies to you for the way
I conduct my business. The facts contained in the charge were
brought to my attention. I did not see why I should spare him. He
never spared me. I shall not interfere, and the probabilities are
that he will be impeached. Senator Roberts said this afternoon
that it was a certainty. You see yourself how impossible a
marriage with Miss Rossmore would be, don't you?"

"Yes, father, I see now. I have nothing more to say."

"Do you still intend going away?"

"Yes," replied Jefferson bitterly. "Why not? You have taken away
the only reason why I should stay."

"Think it well over, lad. Marry Kate or not, as you please, but I
want you to stay here."

"It's no use. My mind is made up," answered Jefferson decisively.

The telephone rang, and Jefferson got up to go. Mr. Ryder took up
the receiver.

"Hallo! What's that? Sergeant Ellison? Yes, send him up."

Putting the telephone down, Ryder, Sr., rose, and crossing the
room accompanied his son to the door.

"Think it well over, Jeff. Don't be hasty."

"I have thought it over, sir, and I have decided to go."

A few moments later Jefferson left the house.

Ryder, Sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep
thought. For the first time in his life he was face to face with
defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as
his own. He who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments
now found himself powerless to rule his own son. At all costs, he
mused, the boy's infatuation for Judge Rossmore's daughter must be
checked, even if he had to blacken the girl's character as well as
the father's, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of
the country. He had not lost sight of his victim since the
carefully prepared crash in Wall Street, and the sale of the
Rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the Great Northwestern
Mining Company. His agents had reported their settlement in the
quiet little village on Long Island, and he had also learned of
Miss Rossmore's arrival from Europe, which coincided strangely
with the home-coming of his own son. He decided, therefore, to
keep a closer watch on Massapequa now than ever, and that is why
to-day's call of Sergeant Ellison, a noted sleuth in the
government service, found so ready a welcome.

The door opened, and Mr. Bagley entered, followed by a tall,
powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking
clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably
attired English secretary.

"Take a seat, Sergeant," said Mr. Ryder, cordially motioning his
visitor to a chair. The man sat down gingerly on one of the rich
leather-upholstered chairs. His manner was nervous and awkward, as
if intimidated in the presence of the financier.

"Are the Republican Committee still waiting?" demanded Mr. Ryder.

"Yes, sir," replied the secretary.

"I'll see them in a few minutes. Leave me with Sergeant Ellison."

Mr. Bagley bowed and retired.

"Well, Sergeant, what have you got to report?"

He opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out
to the detective.

"Take a cigar," he said amiably.

The man took a cigar, and also the match which Mr. Ryder held out.
The financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve
him.

"Thanks. This is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the
weed. "We don't often get a chance at such as these."

"It ought to be good," laughed Ryder. "They cost two dollars
apiece."

The detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance
that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. It was
like burning money.

Ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business.

"Well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded.
"Have you found the author of 'The American Octopus'?"

"No, sir, I have not. I confess I'm baffled. The secret has been
well kept. The publishers have shut up like a clam. There's only
one thing that I'm pretty well sure of."

"What's that?" demanded Ryder, interested.

"That no such person as Shirley Green exists."

"Oh," exclaimed, the financier, "then you think it is a mere nom
de plume?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what do you think was the reason for preserving the
anonymity?"

"Well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. It gives
some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid
about launching it under his or her real name. At least that's my
theory, sir."

"And a good one, no doubt," said Mr. Ryder. Then he added: "That
makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is. I would
willingly give this moment a check for $5,000 to know who wrote
it. Whoever it is, knows me as well as I know myself. We must find
the author."

The sleuth was silent for a moment. Then he said:

"There might be one way to reach the author, but it will be
successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and
come out into the open. Suppose you write to her in care of the
publishers. They would certainly forward the letter to wherever
she may be. If she does not want you to know who she is she will
ignore your letter and remain in the background. If, on the
contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she
will answer the letter."

"Ah, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Ryder. "It's a good idea.
I'll write such a letter at once. It shall go to-night."

He unhooked the telephone and asked Mr. Bagley to come up. A few
seconds later the secretary entered the room.

"Bagley," said Mr. Ryder, "I want you to write a letter for me to
Miss Shirley Green, author of that book 'The American Octopus. We
will address it care of her publishers, Littleton & Co. Just say
that if convenient I should like a personal interview with her at
my office, No. 36 Broadway, in relation to her book, 'The American
Octopus.' See that it is mailed to-night. That's all."

Mr. Bagley bowed and retired. Mr. Ryder turned to the secret
service agent.

"There, that's settled. We'll see how it works. And now, Sergeant,
I have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my
interests you will not find me unappreciative. Do you know a
little place on Long Island called Massapequa?"

"Yes," grinned the detective, "I know it. They've got some fine
specimens of 'skeeters' there."

Paying no attention to this jocularity, Mr. Ryder continued:

"Judge Rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case
in the Senate. His daughter has just arrived from Europe. My son
Jefferson came home on the same ship. They are a little more
friendly than I care to have them. You understand. I want to know
if my son visits the Rossmores, and if he does I wish to be kept
informed of all that's going on. You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir. You shall know everything."

Mr. Ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill
it up. Then handing it to the detective, he said:

"Here is $500 for you. Spare neither trouble or expense."

"Thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "Leave it
to me."

"That's about all, I think. Regarding the other matter, we'll see
how the letter works."

He touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that
the interview was at an end. Mr. Bagley entered.

"Sergeant Ellison is going," said Mr. Ryder. "Have him shown out,
and send the Republican Committee up."

CHAPTER X

"What!" exclaimed Shirley, changing colour, "you believe that John
Burkett Ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against
father?"

It was the day following her arrival at Massapequa, and Shirley,
the judge and Stott were all three sitting on the porch. Until
now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings
had been avoided by everyone. The previous afternoon and evening
had been spent listening to an account of Shirley's experiences in
Europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn
face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the
picturesque Paris student with their long hair and peg-top
trousers, while Stott simply roared with laughter. Ah, it was good
to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! But while
Shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was
consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of
enlisting the aid of John Burkett Ryder. The great financier was
certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son
Jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? So, to-day,
after Mrs. Rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to
make some purchases Shirley timidly broached the matter. She asked
Stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing.
She wanted to hear the worst.

Stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the
beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as Judge of
the Supreme Court had to render decisions, several of which were
adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and
how since that time these powerful interests had used all their
influence to get him put off the Bench. He told her about the
Transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously
tangled up in the Great Northern Mining Company, and of the
scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the
Congressional inquiry. Then he told her about the panic in Wall
Street, the sale of the house on Madison Avenue and the removal to
Long Island.

"That is the situation," said Stott when he had finished. "We are
waiting now to see what the Senate will do. We hope for the best.
It seems impossible that the Senate will condemn a man whose whole
life is like an open book, but unfortunately the Senate is
strongly Republican and the big interests are in complete control.
Unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be
prepared for anything."

Support from some unexpected quarter! Stott's closing words rang
in Shirley's head. Was that not just what she had to offer? Unable
to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from
suppressed emotion, she cried:

"We'll have that support! We'll have it! I've got it already! I
wanted to surprise you! Father, the most powerful man in the
United States will save you from being dishonoured!"

The two men leaned forward in eager interest. What could the girl
mean? Was she serious or merely jesting?

But Shirley was never more serious in her life. She was jubilant
at the thought that she had arrived home in time to invoke the aid
of this powerful ally. She repeated enthusiastically:

"We need not worry any more. He has but to say a word and these
proceedings will be instantly dropped. They would not dare act
against his veto. Did you hear, father, your case is as good as
won!"

"What do you mean, child? Who is this unknown friend?"

"Surely you can guess when I say the most powerful man in the
United States? None other than John Burkett Ryder!"

She stopped short to watch the effect which this name would have
on her hearers. But to her surprise neither her father nor Stott
displayed the slightest emotion or even interest. Puzzled at this
cold reception, she repeated:

"Did you hear, father--John Burkett Ryder will come to your
assistance. I came home on the same ship as his son and he
promised to secure his father's aid."

The judge puffed heavily at his pipe and merely shook his head,
making no reply. Stott explained:

"We can't look for help from that quarter, Shirley. You don't
expect a man to cut loose his own kite, do you?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Shirley, mystified.

"Simply this--that John Burkett Ryder is the very man who is
responsible for all your father's misfortunes."

The girl sank back in her seat pale and motionless, as if she had
received a blow. Was it possible? Could Jefferson's father have
done them such a wrong as this? She well knew that Ryder, Sr., was
a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his purpose--this
she had demonstrated conclusively in her book--but she had never
dreamed that his hand would ever be directed against her own flesh
and blood. Decidedly some fatality was causing Jefferson and
herself to drift further and further apart. First, her father's
trouble. That alone would naturally have separated them. And now
this discovery that Jefferson's father had done hers this wrong.
All idea of marriage was henceforth out of the question. That was
irrevocable. Of course, she could not hold Jefferson to blame for
methods which he himself abhorred. She would always think as much
of him as ever, but whether her father emerged safely from the
trial in the Senate or not--no matter what the outcome of the
impeachment proceedings might be, Jefferson could never be
anything else than a Ryder and from now on there would be an
impassable gulf between the Rossmores and the Ryders. The dove
does not mate with the hawk.

"Do you really believe this, that John Ryder deliberately
concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my
father?" demanded Shirley when she had somewhat recovered.

"There is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered
Stott. "The Trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in
a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. Ryder was the man
who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. Ryder
was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his
Transcontinental Railroad. Ryder, I am convinced, is the chief
conspirator."

"But can such things be in a civilized community?" cried Shirley
indignantly. "Cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the
matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?"

"It sounds easy, but it isn't," replied Stott. "I have had a heap
of experience with the law, my child, and I know what I'm talking
about. They're too clever to be caught tripping. They've covered
their tracks well, be sure of that. As to the newspapers--when did
you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?"

"And you, father--do you believe Ryder did this?"

"I have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "I think
John Ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to
help me. His answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that
he was the arch plotter."

"What letters do you refer to?" demanded Shirley.

"The letters I wrote to him in regard to my making an investment.
He advised the purchase of certain stock. I wrote him two letters
at the time, which letters if I had them now would go a long way
to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed
that I regarded the transaction as a bona fide investment. Since
this trouble began I wrote to Ryder asking him to return me these
letters so I might use them in my defence. The only reply I got
was an insolent note from his secretary saying that Mr. Ryder had
forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the
letters I referred to."

"Couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked Shirley.

"We could never get at him," interrupted Stott. "The man is
guarded as carefully as the Czar."

"Still," objected Shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost
the letters or even never received them."

"Oh, he has them safe enough," replied Stott. "A man like Ryder
keeps every scrap of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful
some day. The letters are lying somewhere in his desk. Besides,
after the Transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd
have Judge Rossmore off the Bench inside of a year."

"And it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge.

Shirley relapsed into silence. Her brain was in a whirl. It was
true then. This merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic
corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely
because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business
deals! Ah, why had she spared him in her book? She felt now that
she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently
pitiless. Such a man was entitled to no mercy. Yes, it was all
clear enough now. John Burkett Ryder, the head of "the System,"
the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control
over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power
greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared
attack the Judiciary, the corner stone of the Constitution, the
one safeguard of the people's liberty. Where would it end? How
long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under
the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? The capitalists,
banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had
already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. The appalling
degradation of the working classes, the sordidness and
demoralizing squalor in which they passed their lives, the curse
of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--
all which evils in our social system she had seen as a Settlement
worker, were directly traceable to Centralized Wealth. The labor
unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to
control the prices of the necessaries of life. The Trusts could at
pleasure create famine or plenty. They usually willed to make it
famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which
to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and
expensive establishments at Newport. Food was ever dearer and of
poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher.
She thought of the horrors in the packing houses at Chicago
recently made the subject of a sensational government report--
putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of
unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the
expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in
unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every
conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and
indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they
could make more money. And while our public gasped in disgust at
the sickening revelations of the Beef scandal and foreign
countries quickly cancelled their contracts for American prepared
meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of
wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in
public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-
satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame.

These and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the
nation had ended by exasperating the people. There must be a limit
somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate class of nouveaux
riches. The day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters
and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be
the Colossus. But while waiting for the people to rise in their
righteous wrath, Ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that
he had instituted these impeachment proceedings her father had
little chance. What could be done? They could not sit and wait, as
Stott had said, for the action of the Senate. If it were true that
Ryder controlled the Senate as he controlled everything else her
father was doomed. No, they must find some other way.

And long after the judge and Stott had left for the city Shirley
sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to
find some way out of the darkness. And when presently her mother
and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and
preoccupied. If they only had those two letters, she thought. They
alone might save her father. But how could they be got at? Mr.
Ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. He would not give them
up. She wondered how it would be to go boldly to him and appeal to
whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent
within him. No, such a man would not know what the terms "honour,"
"fairness" meant. She pondered upon it all day and at night when
she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off
to sleep.

The following morning broke clear and fine. It was one of those
glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during
the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing,
champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when Nature dons
her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the grass
greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in
more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. Days that
make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the
selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect
and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of God.

Shirley went out for a long walk. She preferred to go alone so she
would not have to talk. Hers was one of those lonely,
introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter
when preoccupied with serious thoughts. Long Island was unknown
territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting,
but she loved the country, and found keen delight in the fresh,
pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay waited from the
surrounding fields. In her soft, loosefitting linen dress, her
white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace
parasol, she made an attractive picture and every passer-by--with
the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to
look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and
whose stylish appearance suggested Fifth Avenue rather than the
commonplace purlieus of Massapequa.

Every now and then Shirley espied in the distance the figure of a
man which she thought she recognized as that of Jefferson. Had he
come, after all? The blood went coursing tumultuously through her
veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the
man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. She wondered what
he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his
father and what the latter had said. She could realize now what
Mr. Ryder's reply had been. Then she wondered what her future life
would be. She could do nothing, of course, until the Senate had
passed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get
to work. In a day or two, she would call on her publishers and
learn how her book was selling. She might get other commissions.
If she could not make enough money in literary work she would have
to teach. It was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she
thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. All the
brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father
disgraced, Jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work
remained.

As she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of
the letter carrier approaching the gate. Instantly she thought of
Jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man. Perhaps he had
written instead of coming.

"Miss Shirley Rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively.

"That's I," said Shirley.

The postman handed her a letter and passed on. Shirley glanced
quickly at the superscription. No, it was not from Jefferson; she
knew his handwriting too well. The envelope, moreover, bore the
firm name of her publishers. She tore it open and found that it
merely contained another letter which the publishers had
forwarded. This was addressed to Miss Shirley Green and ran as
follows:

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