The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

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СКАЧАТЬ up a dozen men that’ll do it for a thousand. Don’t let me de­tain you.”

      “But see here, Vestine—”

      “Of course, the fact that after Coz­zens gets next to the throne he can clean up a million or two—of course that has no bearing on the case at all. Natu­rally, such being the prospect, you stick at fifty thousand. That’s quite charac­teristic of men of your stamp. Well, good evening, Mr. Bogan. Don’t slam the door as you go out.”

      “I might go twenty ‘thou,’ you bein’ such a big ketch.”

      “Rubles, you mean? Bolshevik money?”

      “Twenty thousand good hard seeds!”

      “Forty,” answered the gambler. “That’s my rock-bottom.”

      “Nothin’ doin’!” declared Bogan. “Be reasonable, can’t you? Make it twenty-five, an’ say no more?”

      “Twenty-five?” smiled Vestine. “See here, now. I know Coz­zens, all right. He’s a good sport and likes a fair gamble almost as much as I do myself. I’ve got a proposition according to his own heart.”

      “What’s that?” demanded Bogan leaning forward.

      “Doubles or quits.”

      “How d’you mean?”

      “Double that twenty-five thousand, or not a sou. Fifty thousand or noth­ing. We’ll stick the book for it.”

      “Gawd!” cried Bogan, and for a moment remained pondering. Into his thin-lidded eyes crept a gleam of craft, exceeding evil. Then he shot back the answer decisive:

      “I’ll go you!” Much agitated, he stood up.

      Calmly, as though about to pitch pen­nies, instead of gamble for infamy and nearly four years of his life, Vestine reached for a book on the table—The Arrow of Gold, for in his literary tastes the Dane was unimpeachable. He laid the book in front of Bogan and handed him a sharp steel paper cutter.

      “One stick, each,” said he. “Right-hand page, and high last number wins. After you, my clear Alphonse.”

      Bogan’s hand trembled as he made the first cut.

      “Two hundred and fifty-one,” he spat, with a curse. “I’m done!”

      “Never say die,” laughed Vestine. He took the knife and thrust it deep between the leaves.

      “Ninety-one,” he announced, without a quiver. He seemed but mildly interested. “Two ones. That’s an even break. Come again, Bogan. Here.” And he handed back the knife.

      “One forty-seven,” said Bogan, with an unsteady laugh. “That’s a seven-to-ten shot I’ve got you, or tied. Looks like you’re done!”

      “If I am, I’ll go through just the same,” answered the Dane, unmoved. “This is a trifle to some games I’ve gone against, and I’ve never welshed yet.”

      Again he knifed the book. Without the quiver of an eye he flung back the page.

      “Eighty-nine,” he approved. “That’s good. At four years and some months that makes a safe income of about twelve thousand dollars a year. A thou­sand a month for conducting some lit­tle classes in congenial studies—not too bad. And when am I to arrive in your illustrious city, for what you call the pinch?”

      Bogan’s lips were trembling so that he could hardly answer: “You stay right here, see? That’s half the game, lettin’ Brant nail you in New York. About ten days from now there’ll—”

      “And when do I get the excellent and desirable fifty thousand?”

      “Oh—let’s see—damn it all! Coz­zens will raise—”

      “That’s immaterial to me, my dear Bogan, so long as he raises the fifty—in legal tender, you understand. When is it to be?”

      “It’s Wednesday, today, ain’t it? I’ll be back with the stuff Saturday, sure.”

      “That’s perfectly all right for me. Well, then, there’s no more to be said. Must you be going so soon?”

      “I—I—yes. I better be gettin’ along.”

      “Good night, then. See you Satur­day.”

      “Good night,” said Bogan, and de­parted.

      On the stairway he kicked himself, groaning.

      “What a damn fool I was not to take him up at forty! Why, Cozzens was countin’ on fifty, anyhow. I could of knocked down ten for myself, easy as pie. If I hadn’t tried to grab the whole fifty— My Gawd, when will I learn that honesty’s the best policy, after all?”

      IV.

      The wedding was one of the most brilliant ever held at St. Simon Stylites Church. Brilliant, too, was the future of Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge Brant held to be. He, as the only son-in-law of so prominent a politician as old Dexter Cozzens; she, as the wife of a man destined in short order to erase the word “assistant” from his present title, received innumerable felicitations.

      The papers gave the ceremony bril­liant write-ups, and mentioned the bril­liancy with which young Brant had run down—from very slight clews—the forger responsible for the death of Markwood Hinman, for the assault on Henry Kitching, and for the theft of the forged check in Kitching’s pocket.

      The trial, everybody remembered, had been brilliant. Only for the unfor­tunate “hanging” of the jury, on account of circumstantial evidence, brilliant jus­tice would have been done. The crim­inal, however—a Norwegian named Aalborg, and rather a brilliant fellow—had got four years. So everybody agreed it had all been very brilliant, especially as the criminal would have remained quite undetected had it not been for young Brant’s exceptional legal ability. The general brilliancy made everybody happy, and the papers all pre­dicted a crushing campaign against the crime wave, a cleanup of municipal politics, and all sorts of lovely and de­sirable reforms.

      Not the least brilliant of all develop­ments from the case were those that be­fore very long began to smile down on the stanch old war horse and reformer, Dexter Cozzens. His fortunes soon be­gan to prosper, rapidly though quietly. For brilliancy of this kind is usually kept hidden under bushels—nay, even under pecks. And this, of course, is all as it should be.

      Another brilliant feature of the af­fair, likewise unknown to the public, was the kind of instruction given at the pen by Aalborg, now known only as No. 45327. He undertook to teach the tough idea not, indeed, to shoot, but to explore mathematics, penmanship, and foreign languages. His services were recognized as exceptionally brilliant. They were willing, too. No. 45327 was never “stood out,” got all kinds of good-conduct marks, became popular with everybody from the war­den down—or up, as you choose—and seemed to enjoy his work almost as if he were getting paid a thousand dollars a month for it. So brilliant a teacher he became, and so model a prisoner, that before long special privileges were extended to him; and, though confined, his punishment hung not too onerously upon his gray-clad shoulders.

      Thus everything turned out most bril­liantly for all hands, СКАЧАТЬ