CHAPTER XX
THE COPELAND-FARLEY CELLAR
AT twelve o’clock on the night of Nan’s prolonged struggle, Jerry, having walked to the station with a traveling man of his acquaintance, paused at the door of Copeland-Farley, hesitated a moment, and then let himself in. He whistled a warning to the watchman, as was his habit when making night visits to the establishment. Hearing no response, he assumed that the man was off on his rounds and would reach the lower floor shortly.
He opened his desk and busied himself with some memoranda he had made from the books that afternoon. There was no denying that the house was in a bad way; the one hundred thousand dollars of notes carried by the Western National matured the next day, and in addition to these obligations the Company was seriously behind in its merchandise accounts.
A quarter of an hour passed, and the watchman made no sign. Jerry closed his desk, walked back to the elevator-shaft, and shouted the man’s name. From the dark recesses of the cellar came sounds as of some one running, followed by a stumble and fall. He called again, more loudly, but receiving no response, he ran to the stairway, flashed on the lights, and hurried down.
His suspicions were aroused at once by a heap of refuse, surmounted by half a dozen empty boxes, piled about the wooden framework of the elevator-shaft.
The room where oils, paints, ethers, acids and other highly inflammable or explosive stock was stored was shut off from the remainder of the cellar by an iron door that had been pushed open. As he darted in and turned on the lights, he heard some one stealthily moving in the farther end of the room.
Seizing a fire-extinguisher he bawled the watchman’s name again and plunged in among the barrels. A trail of straw indicated that the same hand that had piled the combustibles against the shaft had carried similar materials into the dangerous precincts of the oil room. In a moment he came upon a barrel of benzine surrounded with kindling.
He decided against calling for help. No harm had yet been done, and it was best to capture the guilty person and deal with him quietly if possible. He kicked the litter away from the barrel and waited. In a moment a slight noise attracted his attention, and at the same instant a shadow vanished behind an upright cask. He waited for the shadow to reappear, advancing cautiously down the aisle with his eyes on the cask.
“Come out o’ that!” he called.
A foot scraped on the cement floor and definitely marked the cask as the incendiary’s hiding-place. He jumped upon a barrel, leaped from it to the cask, and flung himself upon a man crouched behind it. They went down together with Jerry’s hand clutching the captive’s throat.
“Good God!” he gasped, as he found himself gazing into Copeland’s eyes.
The breath had been knocked out of Billy and he lay still, panting hard. His right hand clenched a revolver.
“Give me that thing!”
Jerry wrenched it from Copeland’s convulsive clutch, thrust it into his coat pocket, and stood erect.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said.
“Damn’ near shootin’ you, Jerry,” drawled Copeland, sitting up and passing his hand slowly across his face; “damn’ near! Gimme your hand.”
Jerry drew him to his feet. Copeland rested heavily on the cask and looked his employee over with a slow, bewildered stare.
“Might ’a’ known I couldn’t pull ’er off! Always some damn’ fool like you buttin’ into my blizness. ’S my blizness! Goin’ do what I damn’ please with my blizness. Burn whole damn’ thing down ’f want to. I’m incenjy—what you call ’m?—incenjyary,—what you call ’m—pyromaniac. Go to jail and pen’tenshary firs’ thing I know.”
“Not this time,” said Jerry sternly. “I’m going to take you home.”
“Home? Whersh that?” asked Copeland, grinning foolishly.
“Well, I guess a Turkish bath would be better. Where’s Galloway?”
“Gall’way’s good fellow; reli’ble watchman. Wife’s sick; sent him home with my comp’ments. Told ’im I’d take full reshponshibility.”
“You didn’t expect to collect the insurance on that story, did you? You must have a low opinion of the adjusters. I’ll fire Galloway to-morrow for leaving you here in this shape.”
“Not on yer life y’ won’t! Silly old man didn’t know I wuz loaded. Came on me sud’ly—very sud’ly. Only had slix slocktails—no; thass wrong; thass all wrong. You know what I mean. Effect unusual—mos’ unusual. Just a few small drinks at club. Guess I can’t carry liquor’s graceful-ly as I used to. Billy Copeland’s no good any more. Want lie down. Good place on floor. Nice bed right here, Jerry. Lemme go t’ sleep.”
He grasped the edge of the cask more firmly and bent his head to look down at the heap of straw he had been planting round it when Amidon interrupted him.
“Not much I won’t! But before we skip I’ve got to clean up this trash. Steady, now; come along!”
He seized Copeland’s arm and forced him to the stairway, where he left him huddled on the bottom step.
“No respec’ for head of house; no respec’ whatever,” Copeland muttered.
Jerry bade him remain quiet, and began carrying the straw and boxes back to the packing-room. He swept the floor clean, and when he was satisfied that no telltale trace remained he got Copeland to the counting-room and telephoned for a taxi.
“Goin’ to be busted to-morrow; clean smash. You made awful mistake, Jeremiah, in not lessing—no, not lesting me burn ’er up. Insurance’d help out consid’ble. Need new building, anyhow.”
“I guess we don’t need it that bad,” remarked Jerry, rolling a cigarette. He called the police station and asked for the loan of an officer to do watchman duty for the remainder of the night; and this accomplished he considered his further duty to his befuddled employer.
Now that the calamity had been averted, his anger abated. Copeland’s condition mitigated somewhat the hideousness of the crime he was about to commit. Only his desperate financial situation could have prompted him to attempt to fire the building. Jerry’s silence and unusual gravity seemed to trouble Copeland.
“Guess you’re dis’pointed in your boss, Jeremiah. Don’ blame you. Drunken fool—damn’ fool—incenjy-ary; no end bad lot.”
“Put your hat on straight and forget it,” remarked Jerry.
He telephoned to Gaylord, an athletic trainer who conducted a Turkish bath, and told him to prepare for a customer. He knew Gaylord well, and when they reached his place Jerry bade him stew the gin out of Copeland and be sure to have him ready for business in the morning. While Copeland was in the bath, Jerry tried all the apparatus in the gymnasium and relieved his feelings by putting on the gloves with Gaylord’s assistant. After all the arts of the establishment had been exercised upon Copeland and he was disposed of for the night, Jerry went to bed....
In the morning Gaylord put the finishing touches on his patient and turned him out as good as new. It had occurred to Amidon that Copeland might decide to avoid the store that day. He was relieved when he announced, after they had shared Gaylord’s breakfast, that he would walk to the office with him.
“Guess I’ll give the boys a jar by showing up early,” he remarked.
It was a clear, bracing morning, and Copeland set a brisk pace. He was stubbornly silent and made no reference to the night’s affair until they reached the heart of the city. Then he stopped suddenly and laid his hand on Jerry’s arm.
“Jerry, I never meant to do that; for God’s sake, don’t believe I did!” he broke out hoarsely. “I was troubled about the business, and some other things had worried me lately. I took too many drinks—and I’d never meant to drink again! I wouldn’t have tried that sober—I wouldn’t have had the nerve!”
“It was the drink, of course,” Jerry assented. “It’s all over now. You’d better forget it; I’m going to!”
“I wish to God I could forget it!”
Copeland shrugged his shoulders impatiently, then drew himself erect and walked on more quickly. Jerry cheerfully changed the subject, and when they were near the store dived into an alley that led to the rear door of Copeland-Farley to avoid appearing before the clerks in Copeland’s company.
Copeland remained in his room all morning, summoning the auditor from time to time to ask for various data. He called Jerry once and bade him make every effort to find Kinney by telephone. Kinney was in New York; had been there for a week. Copeland smiled sardonically at this news.
“All right. I knew he’d been away, but the fool said he’d be back to-day,” he said spitefully. “That’s all!”
At two o’clock he put a bundle of papers into his pocket and walked toward the Western National. The bookkeepers exchanged meaningful glances and Jerry imagined that even the truckmen loading freight appeared depressed. Copeland’s desperation had been expressed vividly enough in his drunken attempt to burn the store. And now, if the Western National refused to extend his loans, Copeland-Farley might cease to exist. Jerry’s usual nonchalance left him. He failed to seize a chance to “land” on a drummer from a New York perfumery house who was teasing him for the latest news of Main Street....
At three o’clock Eaton called Jerry on the telephone.
“I want to see Copeland; please call me the minute he comes in,” said the lawyer.
Shortly before four Copeland came back and walked directly to his office. There was another exchange of glances along the accountants’ desks, where the clerks bent with affected diligence over their books.
The auditor was summoned again, carried a book into Copeland’s room, and reappeared instantly. The air was tense. It was a source of relief to Jerry to hear Eaton’s voice as he reported Copeland’s return.
“Watch him,” said the lawyer, with his usual calmness; “and don’t let him leave the store.”
As Jerry nervously watched the door for Eaton’s appearance, Louis M. Eichberg, of Corbin & Eichberg, entered and asked for Copeland. The bookkeepers exchanged glances again and bent over their ledgers with renewed zeal. The door of the private office closed upon Eichberg. It snapped shut sharply—ominously, Jerry thought.