“On Monday morning, Cyrus MacDuff or his agents will be trying to buy shares in the Hudson Ohio Railroad. They will be urgent. They’ll bid up the price of the shares. But there will be scarcely any shares to be bought.
“In fact, my agents will sell them a few of my own shares, to keep things lively. But not nearly as many as they will need. The market will see. The market will become excited. And then the market will remember something else. It will remember because my agents will be pointing it out. ‘If Gabriel Love gets control of the Hudson Ohio,’ they’ll say, ‘then he’ll join the Niagara to it, and the value of the Niagara Railroad will multiply many times.’ While MacDuff’s men are scouring the market for Hudson Ohio shares, the share price of Niagara will go up like a rocket. It’s a good bet, after all. And during that time, I shall sell my Niagara shares. By day’s end, I expect to be out of it.”
“And during this time, you want me to do nothing?” said Master.
“You will not be here, you will know nothing. But following our previous meeting, you have already left secret instructions with your broker.”
“If the price of Hudson Ohio ever passes one twenty, he’s to sell half of them for the best price he can get.”
“Reasonable instructions, such as any investor might leave. And I think they’ll go much higher. By that time the whole market will be after those shares. Nobody’s going to know what’s going on. I shall be selling my own shares too. We’ll both have a handsome profit, Mr. Master. Very handsome indeed.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Sean.
“Its beauty,” said Mr. Love benevolently, “is that everybody gets what he wants. I shall be out of the market with a big profit. Mr. Master here will have a profit too, with no risk. Even the people who bought Niagara will do well. Because once he discovers I’m out of it, Mr. MacDuff will have no reason not to do the obvious thing, and join the Niagara to the Hudson Ohio, giving value to their shares. Even MacDuff will have what he wants, because he will surely end the day with an absolute controlling interest in the Hudson Ohio.” And here Mr. Love’s watery blue eyes not only grew hard, but seemed miraculously to narrow, until his whole face, instead of resembling Santa Claus, reminded you of a large, white rat. “But,” he whispered, “he will have paid me through the nose to get it.”
A brief silence followed. Then three waiters appeared, bearing three plates of lobster Newburg. Delmonico’s was famous for it.
“I shall say grace,” said Gabriel Love. And putting his fingers together, he gently prayed: “Oh Lord, we thank Thee for this Thy gift of lobster Newburg. And grant us also, if it be Thy will, control of the Hudson Ohio Railroad.”
“But we ain’t wanting control of the Hudson Ohio,” Sean softly objected.
“True,” said Gabriel Love, “but the Almighty doesn’t need to know that yet.”
Was it all right? It seemed to be. Frank glanced at Sean for reassurance. Sean smiled at him.
“What I like,” said Sean, “is that it’s all perfectly legal. You buy shares, MacDuff panics, the market gets excited, you and Master sell at a profit. Nothing wrong with any of that. And it’ll work. So long as MacDuff doesn’t smell a rat.”
“That’s why I waited until he was away,” said Gabriel Love. “If he could walk into Master’s office and confront him face to face, if he could even reach him by telegraph, my plan falls to the ground. But if he can’t, then he must be uncertain, and uncertainty breeds fear. He will be off balance as well. It’s his favorite granddaughter that’s getting married and MacDuff is an emotional man.” He sighed. “Human nature, gentlemen. It is original sin that leads men to misfortune, every time.” He gazed at them both, serenely. “I am a speculator in the market, gentlemen, and that is part of God’s plan. Men only learn through suffering. So I punish human weakness, and God rewards me.”
“Amen,” said Sean O’Donnell with a grin.
They had finished their lobster. Charlotte russe was proposed, and accepted, to be followed by brandied pears. The conversation turned to the theater, and from there to horse racing. A French dessert wine was served. Frank felt a little unwell; his brow was clammy. He decided he was eating too much, and held back when an extra portion of the charlotte russe was offered.
“So,” Sean was saying to Gabriel Love, “after this trick, what are you going to do next?”
“Next?” Mr. Love surveyed the table placidly. “Nothing, Mr. O’Donnell. I shall do nothing.”
“That’s not like you,” said Sean.
“I am retiring,” announced Gabriel Love. “I am devoting myself wholly to good works.”
“Lost your taste for the market?”
“Too many regulations, Mr. O’Donnell. Too many bankers like Morgan. They’re too mighty for me. And besides,” he shook his head sadly, “they are taking the life, and sweetness, out of the business.”
There was a pause, while the two men contemplated the former sweetness of life.
“The sixties,” said Sean O’Donnell. “Those were the days.”
“True,” said Gabriel Love.
“You had things wrapped up,” said Sean. “You and Boss Tweed.”
“Our system, back then,” said Love, “approached perfection.”
Frank listened. Of course, everyone knew about the years after the Civil War. If the railroad men of today were like feudal barons, the Wall Street of the late sixties had been like the Dark Ages—when New York City corruption had come to the markets. To hear the story told by one of the operators was an opportunity not to be missed.
“I always said that your friend Fernando Wood could have done even better for himself,” said Gabriel Love to Sean, “if he’d stayed closer to Tammany Hall.”
“Probably right,” acknowledged O’Donnell.
“Tammany Hall is the answer to everything in this city, and Boss Tweed understood that. You can make money in a small way without politics. But to make the big money, you need to buy the legislature. Can’t be done otherwise.”
“City contracts,” said O’Donnell, with affection.
“City contracts, certainly,” Love echoed. “By all means, there’s fortunes in city contracts. But that’s only a beginning for a man with vision. And Boss Tweed had vision. You want your railroad to go a certain way, and the city or the state has to grant you the permission? Then you need to pay the legislators. Put some of them on your board. Your company is being sued? Then you need to buy a judge. Tammany arranged all that. Boss Tweed was your man.” He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the memory. “The police were all good Tammany boys. The judges, the legislators, even the governor of New York State, he’d bribed them. On Wall Street, we made hay. You could water stock, short-sell your shareholders, anything was possible. And if a judge ruled against you, why, he’d get another one to give you a counter-judgment that would keep the game in play for years.
“Those were the days for men of vision. Jay Gould—and he, in my opinion, was the greatest speculator of them all—he almost persuaded the President of the United States, Ulysses Grant himself, to hold back the bullion reserves so that Gould could corner the gold market. For Ulysses Grant, great man though he was, did not understand such high matters. Yes, sir, he made use of the president himself. And if some interfering villain hadn’t told Grant what Mr. Gould was up to, he would have pulled it off. That would have been sweet.” He sighed. “But the Stock Exchange, and the damn Bar Association, and Mr. Morgan and his like, they’re closing all that down.” He shook his head at the folly of the thing. “The joy is leaving the market, gentlemen. The odds cannot be properly stacked. And Gabriel Love is leaving too.”
“But the game’s not over,” said Sean. “There’s plenty that can still be done on Wall Street—look at what you’re doing now.”
For just an instant, so quick you hardly saw it, Mr. Love shot O’Donnell a warning glance.
“Why, even Mr. Morgan could do what we’re doing,” he said reprovingly. Then he sighed again. “I’ve retired, O’
Donnell,” he said. “For me, the game is over.”
During all this conversation, Frank had been listening with a horrified fascination. Not that a bit of corruption had ever worried him—that was part of city life. But to hear these two men, with whom he was doing business, describe the whole vast machine of fraud and corruption so lovingly, and with such familiarity, was making him nervous. This deal seemed legitimate, but was there something about it he didn’t know? If Jay Gould would cheerfully use the President of the United States as his stooge, he thought, then is Gabriel Love making a fool of me? And the words of his son Tom came back to him with a terrible urgency: “Stay away from Gabriel Love.”
The clammy feeling on his brow returned.
“Are you absolutely sure this business is legal?” he suddenly blurted out.
“It’s fine,” said Sean with a smile. “Trust me.”
But Gabriel Love wasn’t smiling. He was giving him a very strange look, one that Master didn’t like at all.
“You’re not going to let me down, are you?” he asked.
“No,” said Frank, unwillingly.
“Don’t ever let me down,” said old Gabriel Love.
“He won’t let you down,” said Sean, quickly.
Gabriel gave Sean a look. Then his face broke into a smile.
The brandied pears arrived.
The next morning, Frank Master ate his breakfast quickly. Then he went into the yard behind the house. The weather was still surprisingly warm, well into the fifties. An article in the newspaper had mentioned a storm afflicting the Midwest, but the forecast for the weekend was warm weather, turning cloudy with a few showers. At present the sky was blue. The little clumps of crocuses in the garden had all opened out days ago into a pleasing array of mauve and white and yellow.
After pacing about in the garden for a little while, Frank decided to go down to Wall Street.
This time, he took a cab—a mistake, as it happened. For as they reached the Lower East Side, they encountered a great fleet of laden wagons entering the city. The Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson circus was arriving in town. He should have remembered. He must make sure he and Hetty took the grandchildren before it left. But the circus was blocking the streets, and it was some time before the cab could get through.
Saturday mornings were usually quiet on Wall Street. But the market didn’t close until the middle of the day, and there were plenty of people about. Master walked into the Stock Exchange. A quick look at the floor told him that shares were trading moderately. He went up to a broker.
“Anything happening?” he inquired.
“Not much. Some Hudson Ohio stock was just bought. Nothing dramatic though.”
“It’s a good stock,” said Master with a shrug.
So Gabriel Love had made his trades. The trap was set. Master waited about for a while. The market seemed ready to end the week without excitement.
What should he do? He’d been thinking about it ever since he awoke. His son’s advice had undoubtedly been sound: If in doubt, do nothing. He just needed to give his broker a different instruction before he left. Tell him not to sell at any price. Simple as that.
On the other hand, if Gabriel Love’s deal was legal, the profit on his stock would be substantial. At one twenty, he’d have doubled his money. And it might easily go higher. It was tempting, no question.
Was there really any reason to worry? Had he let his imagination run away with him at the dinner last night? For another twenty minutes, he hung around, unable to make up his mind. Then he cursed himself for a coward and a fool. The hell with it, he told himself. Be a man.
He was going upriver tomorrow with Donna Clipp. No one was going to know where he was, and he was going to have a good time. And if Gabriel Love stirred up the market while he was gone, so much the better. His broker would sell, and he’d arrive back in the city a damn sight richer. Why the hell not?
This was Wall Street. This was New York. And he was a Master, for God’s sake. He was big enough to play the game. With a feeling of manly triumph, he walked out of the New York Stock Exchange.
He’d gone a hundred yards when he saw J. P. Morgan.
The banker was standing on a street corner. With his tall top hat and his tailcoat, his unsmiling face and his barrel chest, he made you think of a cross between a Roman emperor and a prizefighter. He wasn’t fifty-two years old, but already he seemed to belong to the immortals. If J. P. Morgan wanted a cab, he didn’t hail one. He just stood in the street and, like a lighthouse, turned his eyes upon the traffic.
And the great banker was directly in his path. He walked toward him. As he drew close, Morgan turned.
“Mr. Morgan.” He bowed politely.
He thought Morgan would acknowledge him—it would have been rude not to—but you couldn’t expect much, for Morgan was a man of notoriously few words.
The banker gave him a nod. It was hard to be sure, but under his bushy mustache there might even have been a faint smile.
Then, just for a moment, Frank Master had a foolish impulse. If only he could reveal the plan to J. P. Morgan. If only he could step into a saloon with the great man for a moment or two, sit down, tell him fair and square about it and say: “Mr. Morgan, without presuming upon our acquaintance, sir, how do you think I should handle this affair?” Of course, he couldn’t do it. Unthinkable. He passed by respectfully.
J. P. Morgan stepped into a cab, and was gone.
And no sooner was he gone than, with a terrible sense of horror, Master realized the profound stupidity of the impulse. Who, Morgan would have asked, was proposing the deal? Gabriel Love, he would have had to answer. He’d have had to tell J. P. Morgan that he was in business with Daddy Love.
However great his ill-gotten wealth, however venerable his white beard, however much he gave to charity, Mr. Gabriel Love would never cross the threshold of the House of Morgan. Mr. Morgan did not speak to a man like Gabriel Love; wouldn’t even look up from his desk at him. Some might call it Morgan’s proudness. Some might call it snobbery. But the fact was, Morgan was right.
He was doing business with a dreadful old criminal, and he could only pray it turned out all right. Swiftly, Frank Master walked out of Wall Street and made his way home.
It was already dusk when Mary left the house in Gramercy Park. The afternoon had passed quietly enough. Frank Master had seemed a little depressed when he returned from Wall Street, but after a nap he had brightened up again and busied himself with preparations for the trip he was making upriver to Albany the following day.
From Gramercy Park, Mary took a cab, which soon brought her down Fifth Avenue to her brother’s house. After spending some time with his family, she asked to see him alone.
“I need a favor, Sean,” she said.
“Tell me.”
She took out a letter. It was just a small note, in a sealed envelope. On the front was written the name of Donna Clipp, and her address. She handed it to her brother, and he looked at it.
“That’s Frank Master’s hand,” he remarked.
Mary smiled. In fact, the envelope, and the brief note inside, had been carefully written a few days ago by Hetty Master, who had plenty of examples of Frank’s writing to copy. But Sean didn’t need to know that.
“It has to be delivered tomorrow, about the middle of the morning, into the lady’s hand. I have to know for definite that she has it. Could you arrange that?”
“I’ve got a boy that can deliver it, certainly.”
“If he’s asked, the boy must say you gave it to him.”
“All right.”
“And most of all—I didn’t give it to you, Sean. You never got this until tomorrow morning. A gentleman you assumed to be Frank Master left it in a hurry with a servant at your door, with urgent instructions that it be delivered at once.”
“This is the favor?”
“That’s it. Just remember that it wasn’t me that gave it to you.”
Sean nodded. “Why?”
??
?You don’t want to know.”
“If you say so.”
“I’ll tell you this,” she said. “It’s for his own good.”
He slipped the letter into his breast pocket. “Consider it done.”
As Mary returned home later that evening, the cab driver told her: “There was a big circus parade downtown this evening. You’d think summer was starting already.”
The ferry was due to leave at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon. By five, it was still at the pier. The problem was the engine. The captain of the vessel apologized for the delay, but assured his passengers that it would be dealt with shortly.
Small comfort to Frank Master.
Where the devil was Donna Clipp? Not a sign of her. She was supposed to be there by three. Twenty minutes after that hour, he’d gone himself in a cab to her house. But she wasn’t there, and her landlady said she’d gone out more than an hour before, telling her she wouldn’t be back for a few days. He’d hurried back to the pier, but the ticket taker and the steward both assured him that no lady of her description had appeared while he was gone. It was almost four by then, so he’d gone aboard.
Had she had an accident? Possibly. But the alternative, he supposed, was more likely. She’d gone off elsewhere, left him in the lurch, and looking like a fool. Gone off, it could only be, with another man. A younger man, no doubt. He’d experienced a sickening feeling that he hadn’t known since he was a young man, before he’d met Hetty.
He’d gone into the saloon on the boat and had a brandy. He was feeling foolish, and lonely. Every so often he’d go to the door and look along the pier, in case she’d turned up. But there was no sign of her. Just the empty jetty, and a couple of men in oilskins, and an unlit lamp, swinging in the wind.
And the rain.
The rain made everything worse. Much worse. It had started quite early that morning, and despite the weather forecast, it had not cleared at all. A steady downpour churned the Hudson’s waters and drummed gloomily above the saloon, while from time to time men would appear from the engine room, report to the captain, and then disappear again.