The Turnbulls

  Mr. Regan laughed with loud and vast enjoyment, slapping thighs like pillars.

  ‘‘Bob, I’ll do a little guessing. You brought the patents to Gorth, and then secretly patented them in your own name, shortly after your return. Am I right, eh? Come on, Bob, what’re you up to? I’m an old friend. You can confide in me. Moreover, I have an idea your confidence will be profitable for me, and so I’ll bear you no malice. What do you want?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Regan,” said Mr. Wilkins, placidly, with a sweet smile. “Immediately. And two hundred thousand more, say, in about six months.”

  Mr. Regan emitted a long slow whistle of extreme admiration and surprise. He settled himself comfortably in a chair, as a man settles himself at a theatre. Then he said abruptly: “Let’s hear it, Bob.”

  Mr. Wilkins immediately assumed a grave and business-like expression, which did not deceive Mr. Regan.

  “I won’t take too much of your time, sir. I’m not one as is frivolous and without regard for a gentleman’s appointments. Don’t think it. To make a long story short, I’m done with Gorth.”

  Mr. Regan twinkled. “A better opportunity, eh?”

  Mr. Wilkins’ expression became even graver. He seemed to sink into melancholy contemplation. “When a bloke’s above-board, Mr. Regan, I’m the man for him. When he tries to do an honest chap out of his just deserts, then he’s got no worse enemy than Bob Wilkins.”

  “You don’t mean to say that Gorth cheated you?” cried Mr. Regan, diverted, and grinning. “Impossible!”

  Mr. Wilkins allowed himself a momentary grim smile. “There’s them that’s tried it, Mr. Regan, but they got up very early in the morning. And much good it did ’em. No, Mr. Gorth didn’t attempt to cheat me. It was my young friend, my protégé, like. A young gentleman of the best family and position, with brains, but too trusting. With patents for printing cloth right in this country, instead of sending our cotton to England, and buying the printed stuff back from ’em.”

  “Aha,” said Mr. Regan. “Where did he get the patents? Stole them from England?”

  “I takes exception to that remark, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, with dignity. “The young gentleman, himself, is from England. Only been here since Christmas. Got interested in the industry in the old country, and invented improvements. New processes. In the course of my business in England, I come across him, and was interested. I persuaded him to come to Ameriky, and being of a trusting natur myself, I takes him to Mr. Gorth. Of course,” he added, modestly, “the processes were patented in Ameriky. No use trusting too much. But Mr. Gorth doesn’t know it, as I said. He’s prepared, now, to manufacture the printed cloth in his own mills in New England, and has thought he ’as contrived to do it with our processes, and never pay us a penny for it. Then, in the meantime, he contemplates offering the English, for a nice sum, not to print the cloth in Ameriky. Blackmail, sir.

  “Now, if the English ain’t amenable, and the sum Mr. Gorth arsks is unbelievable, then Mr. Gorth is to use the processes in his own mills. In the meantime, as you know, Gorth’s stock’s fallen from $10 the share to $7. Mr. Gorth’s goin’ to depress the Market more, in order to buy it up later at about $3 or less the share. It’s a plot, sir, a scheme.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Regan, suddenly alert, and scowling. “I noticed that. Wondered what was up. He passed the last dividend, due in January. I was wondering. So that’s it, eh?”

  Mr. Wilkins sighed. “That’s it, sir.” Then he smiled radiantly, lifted his right hand, and shook his finger, coyly. “But if Mr. Gorth lifts a ’and, I’ve got ’im. I’ve got the patents!”

  But Mr. Regan was pursuing a thought of his own. “How do you know Gorth’s scheme? I’m not fool enough to believe he’s confided in you. How do you know he’s going to run the stock into the ground, in order to buy it up cheaply, and watch it skyrocket after the processes are being used? Eh? How did you get onto his private papers?”

  Mr. Wilkins coughed. “I have me methods, sir.”

  Mr. Regan studied him long and thoughtfully. Then he said suddenly: “This young friend of yours: where is he now? What has he been doing since he came to America?”

  Mr. Wilkins regarded him with simple bland honesty. “He’s been with Mr. Gorth as his secretary.”

  All at once Mr. Regan smiled broadly. “I see, I see,” he remarked, nodding gently. He began to laugh with great softness.

  Mr. Wilkins was not embarrassed. He joined Mr. Regan in his gentle laughter.

  “Bob,” said Mr. Regan, “you are a damned, stinking rascal. An utterly conscienceless thief and liar. I’ve seen some scoundrels during the past twenty-five years, but you, Bob, are stupendous. Why, damn you, you are postively artistic. I’ve admired ruthlessness and chicanery on a bold large scale. But now I see they’re very crude, compared with your methods. Bob, it’s too bad you weren’t born in America. You could be President. I only wonder why you haven’t gone in for politics.”

  Mr. Wilkins blushed at all this praise, and cast down his eyes. “I’ve done my bit in politics, Mr. Regan, though I’m one as likes to keep in the background. There’s many a senator as owes much to me. I could write a book.”

  “I should imagine you could,” said Mr. Regan, with passing grimness. He smoothed his mustache with his hand and stared at the other man with the pinpoints glittering under his brows. “For instance, I’ve heard of slave-running. You wouldn’t have had your hand in that, would you, Bob? A nasty business.”

  Mr. Wilkins hesitated. Then, seeing something unusual in Mr. Regan’s eyes, he shook his head sadly and virtuously. “Not I, sir. I don’t help them as buys and sells human flesh, even if it’s black. Freedom for everybody, I allus ’as said, and I says it again. Not that the Southern planters ain’t got a side to their arguments. ’Ow they going to survive, and plant cotton and sell it, without slave labour? Can’t afford to hire men for that. Besides, it’s a plot against fine gentlemen, sir, and I’m against plots. These Northern chaps, these industrialists, can’t compete with slave-labour, and they knows it. Let all the cotton mills get down there, and the Northern chaps is done for. It’s a struggle, sir, for industry. If a war comes out of it, it won’t be to free the blackamoor. It will be to see who gets the swag. But that’s allus behind wars. Swag.”

  “Um,” said Mr. Regan.

  “Wot’ll happen to the Market if slave-labour keeps growin’?” asked Mr. Wilkins. “We’ve got to think of that, sir. Wot’ll happen to our mills, and our commerce? It’s frightful to think of. I’ve had it in mind. That’s why I didn’t go in for slave-runnin’, not that it wasn’t offered to me.”

  But Mr. Regan was not impressed. “I’ve heard of that packet, the Black Maria. You had something invested in it, didn’t you, Bob?”

  Mr. Wilkins was momentarily nonplussed. Then he said sadly: “I did, sir. I admits it. But not now! Sold out months ago.”

  “Just after the Black Maria was sunk, wasn’t it, Bob? You got the news before any one else? In the devil’s own fashion.”

  Mr. Wilkins perceived that things were not going too well in this change of conversation. He coughed delicately. “I took care, though, sir, to inform you immediately that the packet was sunk off the coast of Africa. You remember that. You and I was the first to know. Not that you had anything invested in it, of course. It was just a bit of news I thought might interest you in a way.”

  Mr. Regan said nothing. His face was impassive. Then he moved in his chair. “Well, let’s get down to business. You mentioned considerable money. You have a scheme. Out with it, then.”

  Then Mr. Wilkins outlined the plan he had earlier proposed to Mr. Livingston. Mr. Regan, beyond one or two noncommittal exclamations, listened intently.

  “The first investment,” concluded Mr. Wilkins, happy that his old friend appeared impressed despite a cynical and resistive expression, “would be just enough for installation of new machinery for the ney processes. We will need ready cash to get into operation, pay our
workers, overhead, and raw material.”

  Mr. Regan was silent for a long time. Then he asked curiously: “I don’t see how you got around old Livingston, who’s the soul of honour. How did you do it, Bob?”

  Mr. Wilkins replied with great nobility: “Mr. Livingston’s a gentleman of character, sir. He was proper indignant when I told him as ’ow Mr. Gorth contemplates robbin’ my young friend. I confessed to him, too, that at first I ’ad a ’and in it, too, and that I wanted to make amends and do the right thing by everybody.”

  “So, that’s how you did it!” marvelled Mr. Regan, laughing visibly but silently. “Rescuing old Livingston from bankruptcy and complete ruin, and giving him at the same time an opportunity to make a new fortune! Excellent! What if he finds out the truth?”

  Mr. Wilkins smiled gently. “Gentlemen as makes fortunes by doing good and honourable things never finds out the truth, sir. They don’t let themselves.”

  There was another silence in the room, while Mr. Regan chewed a corner of his mustache and stared unseeingly at Mr. Wilkins. Behind those rapidly twinkling pinpoints of eyes his formidable brain was working with incredible swiftness.

  Then he said: “Livingston will issue additional stock, at $1 a share, and I’ll handle the transaction through my own offices. There’ll be mortgage details, of course, which must be worked out adequately. That will take a little time.”

  Mr. Wilkins beamed like the sun at midday. He listened intently as Mr. Regan rapidly wrote figures on a sheet of foolscap, and explained them in an abstracted voice. An hour passed in this ineffable occupation and discussion.

  At the conclusion, the gentlemen relaxed. Mr. Regan, quite in high humour, poured another drink for Mr. Wilkins.

  “Where do you come in on this transaction, Bob? For, of course, you aren’t solely interested in Christian justice.”

  “A man must live,” replied Mr. Wilkins. “I will arrange it with Mr. Livingston. A fee of $5,000 for arranging this loan with you, sir, and 5,000 shares of the 100,000 which will be issued at $1 a share. And,” he coughed, delicately, “a little fee of $5,000 from you, sir, for giving you this remarkable opportunity.”

  Mr. Regan laughed uproariously. “The devil, Bob! Well, I can’t help but admire you! Excellent! When the time comes, of course, you’ll have my check.”

  He felt quite a strong affection for Mr. Wilkins. They drank again, while railroad tycoons and mine owners chaffed impatiently in the ante-rooms outside. They would bring greater profits than this to Mr. Regan, but that gentleman, who admired skillful skullduggery, at times, more than he admired large profits, regaled himself in illuminating conversation with his old friend. Moreover, he well knew that some of those tycoons and owners now stamping up and down outside owed much to Mr. Wilkins. Mr. Regan learned much about human nature, listening to the bland remarks of Mr. Wilkins, and his acute and gentle observations. For Mr. Regan had his own personal reasons for detesting humanity, and he enjoyed the conversation of an artist in subtle revenge and seduction. Like many men of his kind, he always had a sharp ear for gossip and the revelations of shameful secrets.

  Just before they bade each other an amiable au revoir, Mr. Regan, relaxed and amused, asked: “Bob, I’ve often wondered why you haven’t married. A man of your talents and personality ought to have persuaded some fine lady to cast in her lot with you, and you have, no doubt, had many excellent opportunities.”

  Mr. Wilkins smiled musingly. “Well, Mr. Regan, I’ve been a busy man, goin’ about the world fast, like. Not much time for lally-dally with the ladies. Not that I haven’t ’ad my fancies, at times. But they was passing.”

  “You didn’t learn much about females, then, eh?”

  Mr. Wilkins was silent a moment. The gentle musing on his round pink countenance increased. But that strange and baleful glimmer appeared in his round hazel eyes. “I learned a great deal, Mr. Regan,” he replied, in a very soft and meditative tone, oddly at variance with his malefic look, “a very great deal. Human natures, sir, is very bad. It’s especially bad in females. Comes out clear, like, though the dears don’t know it. I’ve ’ad me fancies, like I said. But later, I says to meself: ‘Bob, why get entangled with a female, for all her pretty flesh and ways and her bright curls and coy glances? Look under ’em, Bob, under all the smiles and the fans and the killing looks. Wot do you see, Bob? You sees vultures, Bob, damn man-eating vultures. You sees vampires. Wot’ve you got to do with bitches?’ For, Mr. Regan, all females is bitches. A man’ll ’ave some honour left in him, even at the last, even though ’e’s been a blackguard and a murderer in his life. But females is born without honour. They lives to eat. Pitiless and ragin’ creatures, under all the softness. I’ve ’ad me dealings with ’em, and I’ve never yet met a man as could hold a candle to a female when it comes to dirtiness and cruelty and real brutishness. They’ve got evil minds under their curls, Mr. Regan, and black hearts under their modest bodices. And treacherous as serpints. That’s females, sir. I got this from me observations. Filthy they are, and relentless. No pity in their whole bodies, not a farthing’s worth. Vicious to their daughters, slobbery with their sons. Drive their lasses to destruction, and rob their husbands to put loose money in their sons’ pockets. There’s material for speculation there, sir, for some honest philosopher and thinker. It would make rum reading, very rum.”

  A shadow of repugnance passed over Mr. Regan’s large ambushed face. He coughed.

  Mr. Wilkins continued to smile dreamily, but the evil glare in his eyes mounted to a blaze.

  “Show me a female, sir, as ’as a heart with a little pity and goodness, and I’m ’er slave. There’s nothin’ she can arsk from Bob Wilkins that wouldn’t be laid at her feet. Show me a female with honour and kindness and justice in her soul, and I’ll fall down and worship ’er. Show me a female as ain’t a born liar and monster, and Bob Wilkins will rise up and sing her praises.” He tapped his oaken chest, and added, in a strange voice: “It’d do Bob Wilkins good, sir. It’d do a lot for Bob Wilkins.”

  Mr. Regan gazed at him steadfastly. He did not smile.

  CHAPTER 23

  Like many evil and malignant people, Mr. Wilkins loved animals, just as many of those who have dedicated their lives to their fellow men in all charity and heroism abominate the lesser beasts. Being what he was, he knew all this very well. In truth, he had often struck upon a very profitable partnership with a stranger on watching his tenderness with cats and dogs and birds. One instance was very close to his mind. He remembered that while strolling in a quiet little park he had come upon a tall emaciated gentleman who was absorbed in feeding pigeons. The creatures were floating about the gentleman like a veritable cloud of wings, alighting on his hat, shoulders, arms, feet and hands, and he was laughing softly and deeply in his throat as he stroked satin breast and small head. Mr. Wilkins was so struck by that look of passionate sweetness and love on the long gaunt face that he had stopped in his tracks. He had struck up a most genial acquaintanceship with the gentleman on the basis of their mutual love for animals, and a few hours later Mr. Wilkins had invested quite heavily in the Black Maria of infamous memory. For this was the owner and the captain, one of the foulest and most vicious of men, famous for his cruelty and lethal fury, a torturer and a murderer and a malefactor of the most hideous kind.

  Mr. Wilkins, who knew his mankind too well, was not given to the sentimentalism of believing that “in every man there is some goodness,” because of evil men’s penchant for the lower animals. He found some mysterious but irrefutable connection between the fondness of men for those animals and their own fatal hatred for their own kind. He had come to the tenuous conclusion that evil men were drawn to beasts because the latter exhibited, unashamedly, the primordial and murderous impulses which animated themselves.

  So Mr. Wilkins had a large assortment of cats and dogs and birds in his small but comfortable house on East Fifth Street. It was a pretty house of white stone with green shutters and squat red chimneys, an old house of var
ious levels within, good fireplaces and thick pleasant rugs, presided over by an ancient crone whose malevolent society greatly amused and delighted Mr. Wilkins. There was a garden, too, all hollyhocks and lilacs, roses and tangled primroses, marigolds and pansies, and a delicate willow or two like fountains of fragile green cooling off the hot days. Like the house, it was old, also, and filled with sweet light and shadow. In this paradise of quiet and peace, Mr. Wilkins kept his beasts, romped with them for hours, and received and returned their abject adoration. For there was no doubt that the creatures loved him, doted on him, waited patiently for him. Seeing this from their back windows, his neighbours had come to the maudlin conclusion that he was a most excellent sweet gentleman, and, as they were wealthy enough, and scheming and greedy enough to be of past, present or future use to Mr. Wilkins, he was not displeased at their opinion. The few who did not exhibit affection for animals were sedulously avoided by Mr. Wilkins. They were not likely to advance his fortunes, nor, by pitiless exploitation and viciousness, their own.

  This Sabbath morning, he was feeling some doubt and uneasiness, for his visitor was John Turnbull, and John was sitting on a marble bench under the willows with an expression of undisguised aversion for Mr. Wilkins’ beasts. He was watching Mr. Wilkins romp with assorted dogs and cats, and his dark and violently sullen face was both disgusted and indifferent. Just as he had not taken to the creatures, the creatures had not taken to him, and dogs paused in their play to glance at him and growl deeply in their throats. The cats, subtly recognizing one who had none of their black and feline nature, avoided him with that ineffable delicacy and comprehension for which they are justly famed. All this rendered Mr. Wilkins uneasy. He suspected, then, that John was not entirely in his power, that perhaps at some dangerous moment he would revolt at some villainy and leave Mr. Wilkins, and himself, in a very precarious position. John had obeyed all his suggestions implicitly during the past few months, but it had been with dark and twisted smiles and sombreness.