Rope Part 2

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a cigar. "Why, nothing's the matter with it."

"What's the matter with Ziegler and Company? Aren't they solvent?"

The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. "Well it ain't any of _my_ funeral, but Ziegler he says if you don't settle by the fifteenth, he'll give it to his attorney."

For the third time in a week, an attorney had been lugged into the conversation; more than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters from two different collection agencies. "In the words of the Good Book," he said soothingly, "have patience and I will pay thee all."

"What say? Will I come in next week sometime?"

"Now, that," said Mr. Mix, with a rush of approval, "is a first-rate idea. That's first-rate. Come in next week some time."

"Right-o. Only Ziegler, he's pretty hard-boiled, Mr. Mix.... Say, why don't you gimme a check now, and save me from gettin' flat-footed? Two ninety two sixty? Why for _you_ that's chicken-feed."

"Bill hasn't been audited yet," said Mr. Mix, with all the grandeur of an industrial chieftain. "Come in next week."

The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled at the bill, threatened to tear it, and finally put it away in a drawer where it had plenty of companionship. To think that after his lifetime as an important citizen--generally supposed to be well-to-do if not actually rich--he couldn't pay a trifling account of less than three hundred dollars because he didn't have three hundred dollars in the bank. Collection agencies and the warning of suits--and impertinence from young ruffians who were hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, and then gave his shoulders an upward movement of rancour and disgust.

And yet--the lines receded from his forehead--and yet there was always John Starkweather, and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose, and went out to the corridor, and down it to a door which was lettered with Mr. Starkweather's name, followed by the inscription: Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. And as he entered, and remembered that thirty years ago he and John Starkweather had occupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, and broken their back over the same drudgery, and at the same wage, he was filled with an emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side by side, only thirty years ago, and separated now by the Lord knew what, and the Lord knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier than John Starkweather; he admitted it. Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit, and more polished. But Starkweather's office handled the bulk of local realty transactions; it wrote more insurance than all of its compet.i.tors in a ma.s.s; it loaned almost as much money, on mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr. Mix, Broker, was on the verge of bankruptcy. Luck! No question about it.

At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk who smiled up at him, flirtatiously. "Want to see the boss? He's busy for a coupla minutes."

"All right," said Mr. Mix in an undertone. "I'll stay here and talk to you."

"The nerve of some folks! Think I'm paid to listen to your line of hot air? Not 'till they double my salary. You go sit down and have a thought. Exercise's what you need."

Mr. Mix rolled his eyes heavenward. "So young, and so heartless!" he murmured, and went sedately forward to the reception room.

The door of the private office was not quite closed; so that the voices of two men were faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made sure that he was un.o.bserved, and dignifiedly changed his seat--nearer that door.

"Yes," said a voice which at first he couldn't recognize. "The deed's recorded. So legally, Henry owns the property now." Mr. Mix nodded triumphantly; the voice belonged to Mr. Archer, a leading lawyer and Mr. Starkweather's closest friend.

"That's the idea." This was in Mr. Starkweather's familiar ba.s.s. "Now how'd you fix the will?"

"Why, it was very simple. Your point was that you didn't want everybody to know what was going on. So--"

"No. And if I put a lot o' conditions like that in a will, why just as soon as it was probated, Henry and Mirabelle'd both get an awful lot o' b.u.m publicity. They'd both be sore, and I'd look like a nut....

Naturally, I don't plan to die off as soon as all this, but better be safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry'll get the same deal no matter what happens."

"Very wise, very wise,... Well, here's what I've done. I've changed the will so that the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust for your sister and nephew to be administered according to the trust-deed we're executing today. They can probate that until they're black in the face, but n.o.body's going to find out any more than we want them to."

"Sounds all right so far, but don't you have to take a trust agreement like that into Court, too?"

"Sooner or later, yes. But you'll notice that I've covered it so that unless Henry or Miss Starkweather says something, n.o.body's going to know until the year's out, and I make the accounting. Now for the trust agreement itself--if Henry demonstrates to me that within a year--"

"A year from August first. The lease don't expire 'till then, and Henry won't be home 'till then. August to August's what I'm goin' to put up to him."

"Correct. If he demonstrates to me that within the calendar year he's made a net profit of ten thousand dollars from the property--by the way, isn't that rather steep?"

"No. Man's in there now's made three thousand and manhandled it. Just horse-sense and some alterations and advertising'll bring it up to ten."

"You're the doctor. If Henry makes ten out of it, then he receives from me, as trustee, the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to your sister. And during that trial year, she gets the whole income from it, anyway."

Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat.

"That's right."

"Well, then, if you'll just read these over and make sure I've got your meaning, and then get a couple of witnesses in here, we can clear the whole thing up and have it out of the way."

Mr. Mix heard the sc.r.a.pe of chair-legs against the floor, and hastily, on tiptoe, he crossed the room to his original seat, and in pa.s.sing the centre table he helped himself to a magazine which he was reading with much concentration when the door of the private office opened.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, Mix," said Mr. Starkweather. "Been waitin' long? Be with you in half a second."

"Just got here," said Mr. Mix, as though startled. He returned the magazine to the table, and was still standing when his friend came back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Standish, his chief a.s.sistant.

"Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a will."

"Anything to oblige," said Mr. Mix, with alacrity.

He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish and in another moment, to the lawyer. With due solemnity he carried out the function which was a.s.signed to him; he would have loved a peep at the body of the doc.u.ments, but already he was possessed of some very interesting information, and he kept his eyes religiously in the boat. Mr. Mix believed that in business and society, as well as in war, advance information is the basis of victory; and even while he was blotting his second signature, he was wondering how to capitalize what he had overheard. No inspiration came to him; so that methodically he stowed away the facts for reference.

"Stay right here, Mix. That's all, ain't it, Mr. Archer?"

"That's all." The lawyer was packing up his papers. "Good-morning, gentlemen." He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished.

Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. "Hot, ain't it?"

"You aren't looking so very fit," said Mr. Mix, critically. "Feel all right, do you?"

Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. "Sure," he said, but his voice lacked its usual heartiness. "I feel fine. Well, what can I do for you?"

Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched) began with a foreword which was followed by a preface and then by a prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr.

Starkweather put up his hand. "To make a long story short, Mix--how much do you want?"

Mr. Mix looked pained. "Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I need--let's see--" He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the ante. "About five thousand."

Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. "Any security!"

Mr. Mix smiled blandly. "What's security between friends? I'll give you a demand note."

At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. "Mix, I don't quite get you.... You've had a good business; you must have made considerable money. You oughtn't be borrowin' from me; that's what your bank's for.

You oughtn't be borrowin' money any way. You been too big a man to get in a hole like this. What's wrong--business rotten?"

"_Too_ good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's taking all my capital to carry my customers. And you know how tight money is."

"Oh, yes. Well--I guess your credit's good for five, all right. When do you have to have it? Now?"

"Any time that suits you, suits me."

Mr. Starkweather shook his head. "No, it don't, either. When a man wants money, he _wants_ it. Wants it some particular day. When is it?"