“Mr. Cayterer,” I made my first contribution to the discussion, “you did not, of course, write those letters, did you?”
“What?” His face was suddenly rosier than Papa’s and in his open mouth quite a bit of dental work was visible. “What the what,” he said, “do you think I am?”
“Behave yourself, Robin!” Papa ordered sharply.
“It is a point that should be covered,” I insisted, refusing to be cowed, “and I should like an answer.”
The promoter brushed his cigar off the desk, whither it had fallen when his mouth had so abruptly opened, and looked at me as if I were some not very prepossessing thing seen for the first time.
“You guessed it,” he complied with my request at last. “I didn’t of course write them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cayterer,” and I relapsed into observant silence again.
“What next?” Papa questioned the promoter while scowling sidewise at me.
“Another letter yesterday — this one.”
It too was in the same handwriting, signed Fitzmaurice Throgmorton, and postmarked Kobe, Japan; and it ordered that a draft for one hundred thousand dollars be sent to the familiar Randall, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.
“Fall for this one?”
“No!” Mr. Cayterer sat up very straight, shut his mouth hard so that the flesh which hid his jawbone bulged out, and, somewhat theatrically, slapped the top of his desk with one well-padded palm. “I’ve paid him enough. I’m paying you now. Get hold of these people. Tell ’em they’re welcome to what they’ve got, but that’s all. If he wants to blow up my game — all right! There’s prison in it for them!”
Papa was not one to be greatly impressed by eloquence or fervor or impassioned gestures.
“And suppose they laugh at me when I tell ’em that?” he inquired. “Will I have to admit I was only bluffing, or do you really want them thrown into the can?”
Mr. Cayterer wrinkled his pale forehead and rubbed his fleshy chin with the hand that had a moment ago so emphatically thumped the desk.
“Well, I don’t want to be throwing money around like confetti. If you can’t scare them off I suppose I’ll have to pay something. It hurts to be played for a sucker, but there’s too much money involved to let pride interfere. You find them and do what you can with them. You know how to handle those people, Thin. But, mind you, no fuss; no dragging in the Federal people!”
“Uh-huh. Now about the members of your syndicate — who are they?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes. I won’t work blindfolded.”
Mr. Cayterer looked at the top of his desk, cleared his throat, pouted complainingly at the desk, cleared his throat again, and said:
“All right. Tom Aston of the Golden Gate Trust Company, Captain Lucas of the Lucas-Born shipping concern, and Murray Tyler and Judge DeGraff of that law firm.”
“So. Now who besides you and them knows about the scheme?”
“No one else knows about the... the plan. My secretary, of course, and my nephew, but they—”
“What about this secretary? You mean the girl who was here when we came?”
“Yes, and you can disregard her in this matter. Miss Brenham has been in my employ for two years, which is not such a long time, maybe, but long enough for me to know that she is thoroughly trustworthy,”
“So.” The low value Papa placed on our client’s opinion almost flaunted itself in the accent he gave his favorite, monosyllable. “And the nephew?”
“Ford... Ford Nugent is his name — is my sister’s son. His parents are dead. He is a wild youngster, right enough, but I don’t think anybody ever questioned his honesty. He’s knocked around a lot, and knows Asia, so I got hold of him when this thing came up, intending to send him over there to keep an eye on things for me when the plan was put in operation.”
“And the rest of your employees?”
“They know nothing at all about it.”
“You mean you think they don’t. Who are they?”
“Well, there’s John Benedick, my chief clerk, who has been with me for ten years or more; and Carty, the bookkeeper, ten years; and Fraser and Ert, office men; and Ralph, the office boy, Miss Brenham’s brother; and Petrie, a draftsman; and Miss Zobel, stenographer and file clerk. There are others, but they are outside men, and none of them has been in the office since the Chinese plan came up. However, none of these people I have mentioned could possibly know anything about it.”
“We’ll want their addresses,” Papa said, quite as if Mr. Cayterer’s assurances had never been uttered, “and also your nephew’s. Now about your Chinese dark horse?”
“What about him?”
“Would he gyp you?”
“What for?” Mr. Cayterer was scornful. “I’m planning to hand him dollars where these blackmailers are getting pennies!”
“But how about his people?”
“There’s something in that. The leak must be on his end. But he can move there better than we, and we can trust him to take care of it. He’s nobody’s fool!”
“What did he say when you sent him word of the leak — if anything?”
“He sent back word to pay what was demanded and deduct it from his fund, and promised that if the trouble was on his end there wouldn’t be many demands.”
“So. Now about the two drafts you sent — have they come back to the bank yet?”
“No, they hadn’t at ten this morning.”
“Have you sent any of the syndicate’s money to the tuchun yet?”
“No. The first instalment was to have gone today, but I don’t like to let it go until I’ve got an idea how we’re going to come out on this business.”
“That’s just as well,” Papa decided. “If I were you, I’d hang on to it until we see what’s at the bottom of this. Is that nephew of yours around?”
“Not just now. He’ll be in this afternoon if you want to talk to him. But you might as well take my word for it that Ford is all right.”
“Does he know about these blackmail letters?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He advised me not to pay a nickel. But he’s young.”
“So. Let’s have the girl in.”
Mr. Cayterer put a finger on one of the battery of dark buttons on his desk, and almost immediately the door opened to admit the secretary, her blue eyes attentive on her employer, her pencil and notebook ready in her hands.
“No dictation, Miss Brenham. Mr. Thin wants to talk to you about that Chinese affair. I’ve engaged him to straighten it out for me.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Cayterer,” she said, and faced Papa and me.
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Brenham?” I offered her the chair from which I had risen.
“Oh, thank you!”
“What do you think of this Throgmorton business?” Papa asked her while I found another chair.
She looked interrogatively at her employer, who said, “I want you to answer Mr. Thin’s questions just as if they were my own, Miss Brenham.”
“I think it’s a shame,” she exclaimed, her singularly mild blue eyes bright on Papa’s face, “that Mr. Cayterer’s wonderful plans should have been interfered with in such a manner!”
I knew Papa would not like that, nor did he.
“Very regrettable,” he agreed in a tone that expressed perfect indifference to her opinion, “but that’s not exactly what I’m getting at. Where do you think the leak is?”
“Why Mr. Cayterer thinks that—”
“Just a moment. Mr. Cayterer’s ideas may be right or they may be wrong. Anyway I’ve heard them. What I want now are you own, if any. Do you think the leak was in this office?”
“Oh, no, sir! I think that the letters’ having come from Japan shows that the leak, as you call it, must have been over there.”
“The blackmailer could have an accomplice there,” Papa pointed out. “It’s a fact, you know, that the blackmail was to be paid in this country.”
The young woman looked at Mr. Cayterer, who stopped lighting a cigar to agree: “You’re right about that, Thin.”
“Oh, yes!” Miss Brenham’s gaze carried evident admiration from face to face. “I should never have thought of that!”