Port O' Gold Part 55

Francisco stopped at Robert's office on his way home. Windham had moved into one of the new buildings, with an elevator, on Kearney street. In his private office was a telephone, one of those new instruments for talking over a wire which still excited curiosity, though they were being rapidly installed by the Pacific Bell Company. Hotels, newspapers, the police and fire departments were equipped with them, but private subscribers were few, Francisco had noticed one of the instruments in Buckley's saloon.

Robert had not returned from court, but was momentarily expected. His amanuensis ushered Francisco into the private office. He sat down and picked up a newspaper, glancing idly over the news.

A bell tinkled somewhere close at hand. It must be the telephone. Rather gingerly, for he had never handled one before, Francisco picked up the receiver, put it to his ear. It was a man's voice insisting that a probate case be settled. Francisco tried to make him understand that Robert was out. But the voice went on. Apparently the transmitting apparatus was defective. Francisco could not interrupt the flow of words.

"See Buckley.... He has all the judges under his thumb. Pay him what he asks. We must have a settlement at once."

Francisco put back the receiver. So Buckley controlled the courts as well. He would be difficult to expose. The little plan for getting evidence with Robert's aid did not appear so simple now.

Francisco waited half an hour longer, fidgeting about the office. Then he decided that Robert had gone for the day and went out. At the corner of Powell street he b.u.mped rather unceremoniously into a tall figure, top-hatted, long-coated, carrying a stick.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "Oh--why it's Mr. Pickering."

"Where are you bound so--impetuously?"

"Home," smiled Stanley. "Jeanne and I are going to the show tonight." He was about to pa.s.s on when a thought struck him. "Got a minute to spare, Mr. Pickering?"

"Always to you, my boy," returned the editor of the Bulletin, with his old-fashioned courtesy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "My boy ... you're wasting your time as a reporter.

Listen," he laid a hand upon Francisco's knee. "I've a job for you....

The new Mayor will need a secretary."]

"Then, come into the Baldwin Cafe.... I want to tell you something."

In an unoccupied corner, over a couple of gla.s.ses, Francisco unfolded his plan. He was somewhat abashed by Pickering's expression. "Very clever, Stanley ... but quite useless. It's been tried before. You'd better have taken the job, acc.u.mulated evidence; then turned it over to us. That would be the way to trap him ... but it's probably too late.

Ten to one his sleuth has seen us together. Buckley's very--bright, you know."

He put a hand kindly on the crestfallen young man's shoulder.... "Go back tomorrow and see if he'll make you secretary to the Mayor. Then get all the 'extras' you can. Label each and bring it to me. I'll see that you're not misunderstood." He rose. "But I fear Buckley will withdraw his offer ... if so, we'll print the story of his Platt's Hall gambling house."

CHAPTER LXXII

FATE TAKES A HAND

Francisco found that Pickering's prophecy had been a true one. On a subsequent visit to the Bush street saloon he found the Blind Boss unapproachable. After waiting almost an hour and seeing several men who had come after him, led to the rear room for a conference, word was brought him by the little, keen-eyed man that the position of Mayor's secretary was already filled. He was exceedingly polite, expressing "Mr.

Buckley's deep regret," about the matter. But there was in his eye a furtive mockery, in his tight-lipped mouth a covert sneer.

Francisco went directly to the office of The Bulletin, relating his experience to the veteran editor. "I supposed as much," said Pickering.

He tapped speculatively on the desk with his pencil. "What's more, I think there's little to be done at present. Printing the story of Platt's Hall will only be construed as a bit of political recrimination.

San Francisco rather fancies gambling palaces."

"Jack!" he called to a reporter. "See if you can locate Jerry Lynch." He turned to Stanley. "There's the fellow for you: Senator Jeremiah Lynch.

Know him? Good. You get evidence on Buckley. Consult with Lynch concerning politics. He'll tell you ways to checkmate Chris you wouldn't dream of...."

Pickering smiled and picked up a sheet of ma.n.u.script. Francisco took the hint. From that day he camped on Buckley's trail. Bit by bit he gathered proofs, some doc.u.mentary, some testimonial. No single item was of great importance. But, as a whole, Robert had a.s.sured him, it was weaving a net in which the blind boss might one day find himself entrapped.

Perhaps he felt its meshes now and then. For overtures were made to Stanley. He was offered the position of secretary to Mayor Pond, but he declined it. Word reached him of other opportunities; tips on the stock market, the races; he ignored them and went on.

One night his house was broken into and his desk ransacked most thoroughly. Twice he was set upon at night, his pockets rifled. Threats came to him of personal violence. Finally the blind boss sent for him.

"Is there anything you want--that I can give you?" Buckley minced no words.

Stanley shook his head. Then, remembering Buckley's blindness, he said "No."

Buckley took a few short paces up and down the room, then added: "I'll talk plain to you, my friend--because you're smart; too smart to be a catspaw for an editor and a politician who hate me. Let me tell you this, you'll do no good by keeping on." He spun about suddenly, threateningly, "You've a wife, haven't you?"

"We'll not discuss that, Mr. Buckley," said Francisco stiffly.

"Nevertheless it's true ... and children?"

"N-not yet," said Francisco in spite of himself.

"Oh, I see. Well, that's to be considered.... It's not what you'd call a time for taking chances, brother."

"What d'ye mean?" Francisco was a trifle startled.

"Nothing; nothing!" said the blind boss unctuously. "Think it over....

And remember, I'm your friend. If there's anything you wish, come to me for it. Otherwise--"

Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak. Nor did Buckley close his sentence. It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.

Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days. He was rather silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.

Francisco usually went down town for lunch. There was a smart club called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers. Among them were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue; Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words; and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the Columbia Theater. Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne and went out. It was a bright, scintillant day. He strode along whistling.

At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room. Instead of answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him. Presently Stoddard advanced, looking very uncomfortable.

"Let's go over there and have a drink," he indicated a secluded corner.

"I want a chat with you."

"Oh, all right," said Francisco. He followed Stoddard, still softly whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy. They sat down, Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.

"Well, my boy," Francisco spoke, "what's troubling you?"

"Oh--ah--" said the other, "heard from your folks lately, Francisco?"

"Yes, they're homeward bound. Ought to be off Newfoundland by now."

The drinks came. Stanley raised his gla.s.s, drank, smiling. Stoddard followed, but he did not smile. "Can you bear a shock, old chap?" He blurted. "I--they--dammit man--the ship's been wrecked."

Francisco set his gla.s.s down quickly. He was white. "The--The Raratonga?"

Stoddard nodded. There was silence. Then, "Was any-body--drowned?"

Stanley did not need an answer. It was written large in Stoddard's grief-wrung face. He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door. A page came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently.