Maxwell Grant
The Golden Quest
CHAPTER I. THE HEIR RETURNS
REX BRODFORD smiled as he stared from the window of his cab. Broadway lights were glimmering with early evening brilliance. Times Square presented a kaleidoscopic luster of ever-changing illumination.
Hurrying throngs beneath the vari-hued glow. Raucous horns; shrill whistles; the surflike roar of traffic — all formed a symphony that symbolized New York. The medley was music to Rex Brodford. He was back in the metropolis after years of absence.
Broadway’s glare showed Rex Brodford as a young man of less than thirty. His features were large, yet well molded. His heavy eyebrows were set beneath a broad forehead that was matched by the squareness of his chin. Smooth-shaven, his cheeks were dark with tropical tan.
Rex Brodford looked like a man who had returned from some foreign clime. The maturity of his sun-dyed face was evidence of the ten years that he had spent in Central America. Even his smile betokened him as a man who had overcome hazards. For Rex Brodford’s lips bore only the slightest upward curve.
Ten years in the tropics. Rex Brodford was reviewing the past decade as the cab shot away from the thickness of the Times Square traffic. While he watched the approaching glimmer of Columbus Circle, the young man found himself unconsciously thinking of his own affairs.
He had not expected to come back to New York. Not until he had received that cablegram from Cyrus Witherby, his uncle’s lawyer. Ten days ago, Rex had found the message awaiting him at the American Club in Tegucigalpa. It had announced the death of old Ezra Brodford, and had added that Rex was the sole heir to his uncle’s estate.
Uncle Ezra. To Rex, the old man had been no more than a name. He had never met his father’s eldest brother. He had never expected to be remembered in Uncle Ezra’s will. Thus the news had come from an unclouded sky. Chance — fate — whatever it might be — had decreed that Rex Brodford should return to New York.
The cab had passed Columbus Circle. It was veering left, twisting through a puzzling maze of byways.
The glitter of an avenue; then the darkness of a side street. Another avenue; a short run down a narrow thoroughfare that was lined with old brownstone buildings. The cab came to a stop.
Rex Brodford alighted. He looked up toward a dully lighted transom above a heavy door at the top of brownstone steps. He saw the number that he had given the driver. He had arrived at the home of his deceased uncle.
TAXI paid, Rex ascended the steps and rang a bell. A faraway clang answered. The door popped open; Rex Brodford faced a dry-faced servant, who viewed him with an air of semi-suspicion. Rex announced his name.
“Ah! Mr. Brodford!” The servant bowed in menial fashion, as he stepped back into the vestibule. “Step right in, sir. I had not expected you so soon.”
“Your name is Firth?” questioned Rex, as he stepped into the house.
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the servant, his voice a trifle wheezy. “Your uncle’s servant, Mr. Brodford.”
“So I understand,” stated Rex. He extended his hand. “I am glad to meet you, Firth. Tell me, is Mr. Witherby here?”
“Yes, sir,” wheezed Firth, “and also Mr. Laspar. Mr. Cortland Laspar, an old friend of your uncle’s. Step right this way, Mr. Brodford.”
Firth conducted Rex toward the rear of a long hall. They came to a doorway where light glimmered from beyond heavy curtains. Firth drew one drapery aside.
Rex Brodford entered the room. He found himself in a book-walled library, where two men were engaged in conversation.
Both rose to greet the newcomer. One man stalked forward. Tall, stoop-shouldered, he thrust forward a long, clawlike hand and displayed a smile upon a lean face that was topped by a glistening bald head.
Rex Brodford knew that this must be Cyrus Witherby, his uncle’s lawyer.
Witherby cackled his own introduction. Then the lawyer turned to indicate the other man. Rex Brodford shook hands with a round-faced, gray-haired gentleman who wore a quiet, friendly smile.
“This is Mr. Laspar,” introduced Witherby. “Mr. Cortland Laspar, who has lumber interests in Michigan. An old friend of your Uncle Ezra. One of the last to see your uncle before he died.”
Witherby’s tone had struck a note of solemnity. The lawyer motioned Rex to a chair. The young man sat down and the others followed suit. Witherby reached beside his chair and drew up a portfolio.
“Let us come to business first,” decided the lawyer. “Mr. Laspar is leaving New York tonight; and I want him to know the details of your uncle’s will before his departure. You see” — Witherby paused to adjust a pair of pince-nez spectacles to his nose — “your uncle named administrators in case you did not claim the estate. Mr. Laspar is one of them.”
“One of those who will not be called upon,” inserted Laspar, with a genial chuckle. “Your arrival, Rex, lets half a dozen of your uncle’s friends avoid the duty of giving funds to charity. As the will now stands, all of your uncle’s estate goes to you.”
“Unless Rex should refuse it,” added Witherby. “That is why Mr. Laspar and the other administrators should know the details of the legacy.”
“I understand,” declared Rex, with a smile. “But since the estate was intended for me, I choose to accept it.”
“Quite naturally,” agreed Witherby. He was referring to the papers that he had taken from the portfolio.
“Here is everything for your inspection. If you wish, I can give you a brief resume of the items concerned.”
“All right,” nodded Rex.
“CONSERVATIVELY totaled,” obliged Witherby, in a dry cackle, “the estate will bring a trifle upward of fifty thousand dollars. That includes real estate and salable securities. Less mortgages and inheritance tax.”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” mused Rex. “Quite a considerable sum, Mr. Witherby. Less, though, than I supposed my uncle’s estate would be.”
“Quite right,” agreed Witherby. “And this sheet explains the answer. Your uncle, Rex, was very unfortunate in his investments. He tossed away nearly half a million dollars in worthless projects.
“For instance” — the lawyer leaned over and pointed to items on the list — “he invested fifty thousand dollars in Montana Shale. That company went bankrupt. Here is an item of forty thousand dollars. Calgary Oil. Another defunct corporation.
“These stock certificates, you understand, will be delivered to you. But I have investigated all of them and I can assure you that they are worthless. Here” — the lawyer ran his finger down the list — “is the most unfortunate of the lot. An item of two hundred thousand dollars. The controlling interest in the Quest Gold Mine.”
“Another dead company?” inquired Rex.
“Yes,” replied Witherby. “Just one more of your uncle’s unfortunate mistakes. Of course, Rex, I shall expect you to look into these investments for yourself. It is only right that you should assure yourself of their worthlessness. I hope that you will not be too critical of your uncle’s mistakes.”
“Why should I be?” returned Rex promptly. “It was Uncle Ezra’s money. He had the right to invest it as he chose. I always understood, though, that my uncle was a keen old chap. This one item, in particular, interests me: the Quest Gold Mine. Even the name savors of adventure: You say that this company also failed?”
“Not exactly,” replied Witherby. “It still exists — on paper. But I can assure you that the Quest Gold Mine offers no possibilities, despite the fact that your uncle had hopes for it up until the very day of his death.”
Rex Brodford raised his eyebrows questioningly. Before Cyrus Witherby could reply, Cortland Laspar leaned forward in his chair.