University of Virginia Library

19. XIX.
PAULINE GOES INTO POLITICS.

Larkin decided that the state convention should be held at Saint X because his machine was most perfect there. The National Woolens Company, the Consolidated Pipe and Wire Company and the Indiana Oil and Gas Corporation—the three principal political corporations in the state—had their main plants there and were in complete political control. While Larkin had no fear of the Scarborough movement, regarding it as a sentimental outburst in the rank and file of the party that would die away when its fomenter had been “read out of the party” at the convention by the regular organization, still he had been in the game too long to take unnecessary chances. He felt that it would be wise to have the delegates assemble where all the surroundings would be favorable and where his ablest and confidential men could do their work in peace and quiet.

The convention was to, meet on the last Thursday in September. On the preceding Monday morning, Culver—Dumont's small, thin, stealthy

private secretary—arrived at Saint X and, after making an appointment with Merriweather for half-past twelve, went out to the Eyrie to go through a lot of accumulated domestic business with Mrs. Dumont. When she in a most formal and unencouraging manner invited him to stop there, he eagerly accepted. “Thank you so much,” he said effusively. “To be perfectly frank, I've been tempted to invite myself. I have some valuables with me that I don't feel at all easy about. If I should be robbed, it would be a very serious matter. Would it be asking too much of you to ask you to put a package in your jewel safe?”

“I'll be glad to do it for you,” replied Pauline. “There's plenty of room—the safe's almost empty and it's ridiculously large.”

“My package isn't small,” said Culver. “And on my mind it weighs tons.” He reached into his large bag—at sight of it Pauline had wondered why he had brought such a bag up from the hotel when his papers for her inspection were so few. He lifted out an oblong, bulky package.

“If you'll just touch that button,” said she, “James will come and show you how to get to the safe.”

Culver hesitated nervously. Finally he said: “I'm making a nuisance of myself, Mrs. Dumont, but would you mind going to the safe with me? I'd much rather none of the servants knew about this.”

Pauline smiled and bade him follow her. They went to her private sitting-room and she showed him the safe, in a small closet built into the lower part of the book-case. “You have the combination?” asked Culver, as he put the package away.

“I see that you don't lock this door often.”

“How fortunate you spoke of it!” said she.

“The combination is on a bit of paper in one of the little drawers.”

Culver found it in the first drawer he opened, and handed it to her without looking at it.

“You mustn't let me know it,” said he. “I'll just fix the time lock so that it won't interfere.” And when he had done so, he closed the safe. As he left, he said, “I shall only bother you to let me sleep in the house. I'll be very busy all day each day I'm here.” When she thought he had gone he returned to add: “Perhaps I'd better explain to you that there's forty-five thousand dollars in cash in the package. That's why I was so anxious for no one to know.”

“I'll say nothing about it,” Pauline assured him.

Larkin came down from Indianapolis the next day and registered at the Palace Hotel. As soon as he could escape from the politicians and newspaper correspondents in the hotel office, he went by a devious route to a room on the floor below his own and, knocking, was admitted to Culver and Merriweather. He nodded to Dumont's political agent, then said to Culver: “You've got the dough?”

“Yes,” Culver answered, in his best imitation of the tone of the man of large affairs. “In twenties, fifties and hundreds.”

“I hope, mighty few hundreds,” said Larkin. “The boys are kind o' shy about changing hundred-dollar bills. It seems to attract attention to them.” He had large, dreamy, almost sentimental, brown eyes that absurdly misrepresented his character, or, at least, his dominant characteristics. His long, slightly bent nose and sharp chin and thin, tight mouth were more truthful.

“How do things look, Joe?” asked Merriweather.

“Yes, Mr. Dumont asked me to telegraph him after I'd talked with you,” said Culver. “Has Scarborough made much headway?”

“I must say, he's raised a darn sight more hell than I thought he would,” Larkin answered.

“The people seem to be in a nasty mood about corruption. Darn their fool souls, as if they wouldn't be in the rottenest kind of a fix, with no property and no jobs, if we didn't keep the ignorant vote under control and head off such firebrands as this fellow Scarborough.”

“Got any figgers?” demanded Merriweather, who had listened to this tirade with an expression suggesting cynicism. He thought, and he knew Joe Larkin thought, politics a mere game of chance—you won or you didn't win; and principles and oratory and likes and dislikes and resentments were so much “hot air.” If the “oil can” had been with Scarborough, Merriweather would have served him as cheerfully and as loyally as—well, as would Joe Larkin in those circumstances.

Larkin wrenched a big bunch of letters and papers from the sagged inside pocket of his slouchy sack coat; after some fumbling and sorting, he paused upon the back of a dirty envelope.

“Here's how the convention stands, to a man,” he said. “Sure, two hundred and sixty-seven-by `sure' I mean the fellows we own outright.

Safe, two hundred and forty-five-by `safe' I mean those that'll stand by the organization, thick and thin. Insurgents, two hundred and ninety-five—those are the chaps that've gone clean crazy with Scarborough. Doubtful, three hundred and eighty-six-some of 'em can be bought; most of 'em are waiting to see which way the cat jumps, so as to jump with her.”

“Then we've got five hundred and twelve, and it takes five hundred and ninety-seven to elect,” said Merriweather, the instant the last word was out of Larkin's mouth. Merriweather was a mite of a man, could hardly have weighed more than a hundred pounds, had a bulging forehead, was bald and gray at the temples, eyes brown as walnut juice and quick and keen as a rat-terrier's. His expression was the gambler's—calm, watchful, indifferent, pallid, as from years of nights under the gas-light in close, hot rooms, with the cards sliding from the faro box hour after hour.

“Eighty-five short—that's right,” assented Larkin. Then, with a look at Culver: “And some of 'em'll come mighty high.”

“Where are you going to do business with them?” inquired Merriweather. “Here?”

“Right here in this room, where I've done it

many's the time before,” replied Larkin. “To-morrow night Conkey Sedgwick and my boy Tom'll begin steerin' 'em in one at a time about eight o'clock.”

“Then I'll turn the money over to you at seven to-morrow night,” said Culver. “I've got it in a safe place.”

“Not one of the banks, I hope,” said Merriweather.

“We noted your suggestions on that point, and on all the others,” Culver answered with gracious condescension. “That's why I brought cash in small denominations and didn't go near anybody with it.”

Larkin rose. “I've got to get to work. See you here to-morrow night at seven, Mr. Culver— seven sharp. I guess it'll be Judge Graney on the third ballot. On the first ballot the organization'll vote solid for Graney, and my fellows'll vote for John Frankfort. On the second ballot half my Frankfort crowd'll switch over to Graney. On the third I'll put the rest of 'em over, and that'll be enough to elect—probably the Scarborough crowd'll see it's no use and let us make it unanimous. The losers are always hot for harmony.”

“That sounds well,” said Merriweather—his was a voice that left his hearers doubtful whether he meant what his words said or the reverse.

Culver looked with secret admiration from one man to the other, and continued to think of them and to admire, after they had gone. He felt important, sitting in and by proxy directing the councils of these powerful men, these holders and manipulators of the secret strings whereto were attached puppet peoples and puppet politicians. Seven years behind the scenes with Dumont's most private affairs had given him a thoroughgoing contempt for the mass of mankind. Did he not sit beside the master, at the innermost wheels, deep at the very heart of the intricate mechanism? Did not that position make him a sort of master, at any rate far superior to the princeliest puppet?

At five the next afternoon—the afternoon of the day before the convention—he was at the Eyrie, and sent a servant to say to Mrs. Dumont that he would like to see her. She came down to him in the library.

“I'm only troubling you for a moment,” he said.

“I'll relieve you of my package.”

“Very well,” said Pauline. “I haven't thought

of it since day before yesterday. I'll bring it down to you.”

She left him in the library and went up the stairs—she had been reading everything that was published about the coming convention, and the evident surprise of all the politicians at the strength Scarborough was mustering for ex-Governor Bowen had put her in high good humor. She cautioned herself that he could not carry the convention; but his showing was a moral victory —and what a superb personal triumph! With everything against him—money and the machine and the skilful confusing of the issues by his crafty opponents—he had rallied about him almost all that was really intelligent in his party; and he had demonstrated that he had on his side a mass of the voters large out of all proportion to the number of delegates he had wrested away from the machine—nearly three hundred, when everybody had supposed the machine would retain all but a handful.

Money! Her lips curled scornfully—out here, in her own home, among these simple people, the brutal power of money was master just as in New York, among a people crazed by the passion for luxury and display.

She was kneeling before the safe, was working the combination, paper in hand. The knob clicked as the rings fell into place; she turned the bolt and swung the door open. She reached into the safe. Suddenly she drew her hand back and sat up on the floor, looking at the package. “Why, it's for use in the convention!” she exclaimed.

She did not move for several minutes; when she did, it was to examine the time lock, to reset it, to close the door and bolt it and throw the lock off the combination. Then she rose and slowly descended to the library. As she reappeared, empty-handed, Culver started violently and scrutinized her face. Its expression put him in a panic. “Mrs. Dumont!” he exclaimed wildly.

“Has it been stolen?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It's there.”

Trembling from weakness in the reaction, he leaned against the table, wiping his sweating brow with sweating hands.

“But,” she went on, “it must stay there.”

He looked open-mouthed at her.

“You have brought the money out here for use in the convention,” she went on with perfect calmness. “You have tried to make me a partner in

that vile business. And—I refuse to play the part assigned me. I shall keep the money until the convention is over.”

He looked round like a terror-stricken drowning man, about to sink for the last time.

“I'm ruined! I'm ruined!” he almost screamed.

“No,” she said, still calm. “You will not be ruined, though you deserve to be. But I understand why you have become callous to the commonplace decencies of life, and I shall see to it that no harm comes to you.”

“Mr. Dumont will—destroy me! You don't realize, Mrs. Dumont. Vast property interests are at stake on the result of this convention— that's our cause. And you are imperiling it!”

“Imperiling a cause that needs lies and bribes to save it?” she said ironically. “Please calm yourself, Mr. Culver. You certainly can't be blamed for putting your money in a safe place. I take the responsibility for the rest. And when you tell Mr. Dumont exactly what happened, you will not be blamed or injured in any way.”

“I shall telegraph him at once,” he warned her.

“Certainly,” said Pauline. “He might blame you severely for failing to do that.”

He paused in his pacing up and down the room.

He flung his arms toward her, his eyes blazing.

“I will have it!” he exclaimed. “Do you hear me, I will! I'll bring men from down-town and have the safe blown open. The money is not yours—it is—”

She advanced to the bell.

“Another word, Mr. Culver, and I'll have the servants show you the door. Yours is a strange courage—to dare to speak thus to me when your head should be hanging in shame for trying to make such base use of me and my courtesy and friendliness.”

His arms dropped, and he lowered his head.

“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. “I'm not myself. I think I'm going insane. Pity me!”

Pauline looked at him sadly. “I wish I had the right to. But—I sympathize, and I'm sorry— so sorry—to have to do this.” A pause, then— “Good afternoon, Mr. Culver.” And she moved toward the door. At the threshold she turned. “I must say one thing further—the convention must not be put off. If it is adjourned to-morrow without making nominations, I shall understand that you are getting the money elsewhere. And—I shall be compelled to put such facts as I know in the possession of—of those you came to injure.” And she was gone.

Culver went to Merriweather's office and sent out for him and Larkin. When they arrived he shut the doors and told them what had happened— and in his manner there was not left a trace of the New Yorker and ambassador condescending to westerners and underlings. Larkin cursed; Merriweather gave no outward sign. Presently Merriweather said: “Larkin, you must adjourn the convention over to-morrow. Culver can go to Chicago and get back with the money by to-morrow night.”

“No use,” groaned Culver. And he told them the last part of his talk with Mrs. Dumont.

“She thought of that!” said Merriweather, and he looked the impartial admiration of the connoisseur of cleverness.

“But she'd never carry out her threat—never in the world!” persisted Larkin.

“If you had seen her when she said it, and if you'd known her as long as I have, you wouldn't say that,” replied Culver. “We must try to get the money here, right away—at the banks.”

“All shut,” said Merriweather “I wonder how much cash there is at the Woolens and the Oil and Steel offices? We must get together as much as we can—quietly.” And he rapidly outlined a

program that put all three at work within fifteen minutes. They met again at seven. Culver had twenty-six hundred dollars, Larkin thirty-one hundred, Merriweather, who had kept for himself the most difficult task, had only twelve hundred.

“Sixty-nine hundred,” said Merriweather, eying the heap, of paper in packages and silver in bags.

“Better than nothing,” suggested Culver, with a pitiful attempt to be hopeful.

Merriweather shrugged his shoulders. “Let's get some supper,” he said to Culver. Then to Larkin: “Well, Joe, you'll have to try promises. Will you keep this cash or shall I?”

“You might as well keep it,” replied Larkin, with a string of oaths. “It'd be ruination to pay one without paying all. Perhaps you can use some of it between ballots to-morrow.” Then, sharply to Culver: “You've telegraphed Mr. Dumont?”

“Of course,” said Culver. “And it took some time as I had to put the whole story into cipher.”

As Culver and Merriweather were seated, with the dinner before them which Culver did not touch, and which Merriweather ate placidly, Culver asked him whether there was “any hope at all.”

“There's always hope,” replied Merriweather. “Promises, especially from Joe Larkin, will go a long way, though they don't rouse the white hot enthusiasm that cold cash in the pocket does. We'll pull through all right.” He ate for a while in silence. Then: “This Mrs. Dumont must be an uncommon woman.” A few more mouthfuls and with his small, icy, mirthless laugh, he added: “I've got one something like her at home. I keep her there.”

Culver decided to spend the night at the hotel. He hung round the hotel office until two in the morning, expecting and dreading Dumont's reply to his telegram. But nothing came either for him or for Merriweather. “ Queer we don't get word of some sort, isn't it?” said he to Merriweather the next morning, as the latter was leaving for the convention.

Merriweather made no reply beyond a smile so faint that Culver barely saw it.

“She was right, after all,” thought Culver, less despondent. “I'll get the money just before I leave and take it back. And I'll not open this subject with Dumont. Maybe he'll never speak of it to me.”

And Dumont never did.