None But Lucifer

Chapter XIX

For a while Hale behaved like any creative artist whose work is just beginning to arouse interest. He demanded hourly reports from Titus, Farnsworth and Quinn, and bought every edition of every newspaper in the city. Though outwardly he tried to be casual and businesslike, like Johnson, he got the most intense pleasure out of watching each step follow the last.

It wasn't first-page stuff, of course, but it had its results. Hale began to understand Johnson's reliance on human nature to carry through the plans he started. Hale didn't have to nurse his stock up; there were plenty of men, with little personal interest in it, to do that for him. The reason was that tungsten was one of the few metals American had to import. It wasn't as important as manganese or nickel; but the financial reporters felt that an American tungsten mine was something to be encouraged, and succeeded in making the investors feel the same way.

The mechanics of the transaction interested him less. His brokers had privately bought shares from the large holders for twenty cents to a dollar ten. From there the stock bloomed to 53 1/8, but Hale and his brokers had slid out at 47. Nor, still following Johnson's thought processes, was he much interested in the eventual collapse of the stock back to nothing, or in the fact that he had incidentally doubled his fortune. What was important was that the economy lobby had sold out its holdings near the top, and now could make itself felt in Congress. T. Sloan Blackett, the pump-priming advocate, was busily kicking himself for his nose-thumbing gesture at the lobby, which had given it all the money it needed.

Which meant that Hale was finally a full-fledged partner! By hard work and self-confidence he could — almost — forget the degrading terms of his marriage. It did occur to him, to his mild annoyance, that Johnson wouldn't spend all his time watching one plan develop, but would go on to another. So Hale tried to concoct another.

The press empire of old Bispham had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for some time, and the publisher had been liquidating his fantastic collection of art treasures to keep solvent. Hale knew that, unless he got a good-sized piece of cash within a few weeks, at least half his papers would disappear or be lost to his control. Hale knew that Johnson had a professional fondness for Bispham. Besides his papers' editorial policy of appealing to their readers' most primitive and irrational prejudices, they carried the magnificent Sunday magazine sections full of cabalistic lore, astrology, numerology, and superstition generally. Superstition, as Johnson had explained, was something to be encouraged. The more irrationally people acted, the more often and surely they would be disappointed, and hence the more efficiently Johnson and Hale would have done their jobs.

So Hale tackled the problem of keeping Bispham afloat. He mustn't do it too successfully; just enough to keep the old scoundrel hanging on in eternal fear of the dissolution of his carefully constructed empire. That would make him unhappy, you see, while affording him the opportunity of contributing to the unhappiness of millions of others.

Among the art treasures, according to Johnson's files, was an alleged Titian that was, unbeknownst to its owner, a phony. Now, if Hale could only find some newly rich and ostentatious person to take it off Bispham's hands at a good round price — say $500,000 — and present it to some museum — Bispham would be tided over, the museum would have the exquisite disappointment of looking its gift horse in the mouth, and the rich person would suffer the mortification of being publicly proclaimed a Grade A sucker. Thus everybody would be made suitably unhappy.

But where would Hale find his sucker, and how would he insinuate the idea into his skull? While he pondered these questions, he amused himself by wandering among his subjects in the manner ascribed to Haroun the Blessed, but actually practiced, not by that cautious caliph, but by Balibars the Tartar, Sultan of Egypt. As he was not compelled to walk, he enjoyed walking; nor could Gloria stop him. He refused to give up this small pleasure, and of course, she had to go along.

He could even enjoy walking in the spring warmth along Sixth Avenue. He could still pity the unemployed, shuffling like wraiths past the employment agencies. But in his buoyant mood his pity was more remote than it had formerly been; the sort of impersonal sympathy you feel when you read of earthquakes in Japan or ancient disasters.

Gloria's grip on his arm tightened; she urged him at least ten feet around a hairy vagrant who had been stumbling toward them. "Aren't they filthy?" she whispered in horror. "You'd think they'd at least wash themselves. Soap's cheap enough. They ought to be kept off the avenue. They make it look so depressing!"

Hale thought of the flophouse with its one cake of caustic soap, its one faucet, and its five towels for sixty men.

She stared, fascinated, at the clumps of human wreckage. "Look, Billie-willie, we've passed dozens of places. Those things printed on the cards are jobs, aren't they?"

Hale nodded.

"Well," she pursued, "if they're really looking for work, why don't they go inside and get those jobs?"

Hale explained that they didn't have the advance commission. He knew that they walked along Sixth Avenue, stopping at signs, as he had, because it was better to have a hopeless hope than no hope at all.

Johnson would have enjoyed watching them; he regarded hope as one of his more satisfying torments. Hale didn't let himself think much about it. He had another idea in mind. "Let's not go down to the office today," he suggested.

She smiled brightly. "Oh, Billie-willie! Let's see the movie at the Capitol! All the girls were crazy about it —"

"Nope. We've seen enough movies. You don't mind, darling?"

"No, Billie-willie," she sighed fatalistically. "As long as —"

"— as long as we're together," he finished for her. He was pleased to note that he no longer minded so much knowing what she was going to say before she said it.

He took her into a cigar store and called his secretary at the office. "Miss Kay," he said, "look up Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Burke for me. They're the ones who inherited Nicholas Perry's estate, Superior, Wisconsin. We handled the case."

"Just a moment, Mr. Hale." He heard her walk away from the telephone, and listened interestedly to the clattering sounds of the office force. He had often wondered whether they behaved so efficiently when neither he nor Johnson was there. They did; at least, he didn't hear the chattering of a normal staff. Johnson must have —

"Mr. Hale? Central Park West, sir. We have a complete record of their activities since they inherited the estate. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"No thanks. Central Park West, eh? Pretty high class. I won't be down to the office today, Miss Kay. If anything important turns up, leave word at my apartment."

He took a taxi up. Gloria wanted to know all about the Burkes; she hadn't known he had friends, and why hadn't he seen them until then? But Hale decided against telling her the spectacular story of his rise. She was a snob, as she couldn't very well help being. It would be better for her to meet the Burkes casually, without knowing their backgrounds.

The Burkes' apartment house was tall, modern, and impressive. "Pretty swanky," said Hale. "I think it'd be sort of nice living here next to the Park. When we look out, all we see is roof-tops."

"Oh, I wouldn't like it at all," Gloria replied, as if he had suggested a slum neighborhood. "Nobody worth while lives here, just climbers and rich criminals."

He shrugged and entered. The doorman followed. "Whom do you wish to see, sir?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Burke. My name is Hale, William Hale."

The doorman called the apartment on the house telephone and gave the message. He turned to Hale. "Would you mind speaking to him, sir?"

"Hello," said Hale cheerfully. "Mind if I come up?"

Delightedly he heard the wheezing adenoidal voice: "Which Hale are you? I can't place you, mister."

"Remember the sick guy in the rooming house — the one who wouldn't go to the hospital? That's me."

"Say! Sure, I remember you! Come on up. The apartment's 6K.

Entering the huge, ornate lobby, Hale gloated. The simple Burkes certainly ought to be happy, living here with an independent income. And he was responsible for the whole thing. It made him feel godlike to know that he could cause joy as well as misery.

He half expected the door of 6K to be open, with the Burkes waiting for him. Instead it was closed. An eye stared coldly through the peephole. Then the door opened slightly, held with a chain, and a maid asked: "You folks selling anything? We ain't buying —"

"Not a thing." Hale grinned, though he didn't feel at all amused. "This is just a personal call." He was less certain of himself. Had wealth debased the Burkes? They never used to be suspicious.