Rich Crooks

Front matter

RICH CROOKS by GORDON YOUNG

A Complete Novelette

Author of “Born to be Hanged, But—,” “Bogus Gems,” etc.

Chapter 1

I

NOW and then people have got in my way, and bullets have been used. But it is another thing to kill a man in what is called cold blood. Every one of us has perhaps wondered that God has let certain people live and each of us has probably wished for the daring to do what God should—in our opinion. He knows all about everybody and that perhaps makes the difference, since circumstantial evidence has no influence on Him. That perhaps explains why He lets some people live on and on, though perhaps not why others die.

There came a time when I held the lives of two men in my hands and did not know which to throw away. One had killed a woman and the other had believed evil things of her. For a time I felt that the latter was even the more deserving of death and I was sure that both had lived too long, yet I hesitated to wink at the death of either. Contrary to the opinion that many people have of me, I am scrupulous about certain things.

“Don Everhard,” a wrathful, youthful cousin of mine had once said in a tone of disappointment and disgust, “you talk like a preacher!”

He had encountered certain scruples of mine and had angrily searched for the most crushing thing he could say to a professional gambler who was usually spoken of in the newspapers, as a “gun-fighter” and occasionally faintly damned by the police—who were, as frequently, wrong—for a “clever crook.”

This is essentially a complicated story because from first to last it covers many years and involves the motives and wickedness of more than one man. Sheer luck, if not accident, twice brought me into the plot; though I sometimes suspect Fate of being too thoughtful a dramatist to leave anything to mere chance.

In a way, what I have to tell come about because Jack Richmond, that same cousin, got himself engaged to Cora Cornwall. When I learned that her name was Cornwall and that she came from Utah, I had reason to meditate interestedly.

In my youth, our family, a rather large one, had been land-poor in southern California, but Jack came of age and into possession of an oil field all his own. He arrived with his pockets full of money to camp on my door-step. His imagination had been fired by what he had heard of me, in spite of the censorship which heads of our family had maintained. I was the “disgrace,” and he had ambitions to follows in my tracks. But, as I have said, he fell in love.

Ordinarily, I do not interfere with the folly of other people, not even of my own cousins, but I had dragged him almost by the ears from a card table and he was indignant. So he classed me with a preacher, which was not without its complimentary angle. I really could not blame him for gambling, since we had the same grandfather back of us and there was a strong undertow in our blood to do the things for which he had been famous.

Chapter 2

II

JACK, who was not a gay spendthrift and did not like the flashing luxury that usually attends the giddy young man of money, usually dined with me in a quiet restaurant that gave more attention to its cuisine than to potted plants and gilded frescoing. One evening he chanced to dine there alone, and a girl at a near-by table helplessly appealed to him.

She had lost her purse and her check came to one dollars and seventy cents. He did what anybody would have done, and what she intended a young fool would do also. Her explanations were plausible, and her personality seemed fascinating. He went home with her and was introduced to two old men, an uncle and a father, who, against Jack's protests, refunded the one dollar and seventy cents and gave him their thanks,

With the usual impudence he said of them to me:

“The old fellow with the glasses an' the twisted nose is the father. The other dyspeptic's her uncle.”

When he told me that their names were Joseph and Daniel Cornwall, I said nothing, though I had much to say.

I knew it was not by chance that he had been more or less artfully brought into their house. For a month in one way and another those same Cornwall brothers had been trying to get in touch with me. I did know nothing about the one called Joseph and not all that I wished to know about the one called Daniel—not all I would have liked to know in case our affairs were to be further entwined.

They had been “entwined”—if I may use so mild a word—some years before, but he didn't know it. That is, he did not know that Don Richmond, alias Everhard, was the same person that had entered his office, plundered his safe and later disposed very effectively of the person who tried to recover the little box of papers. Daniel Cornwall's suspicions centered on a man named Smithers, who was far from being innocent.

But I must continue with Jack's part for a few words more. He called on Cora again. He liked her, he loved her. I have often wondered why. There must be a benevolent destiny that occasionally takes young fools in hand. But Jack seemed to win the confidence of the two loose-jointed secretive old men by the very remark that any one would have thought most likely to get him thrown out of the house and have the door bolted behind him.

He was blindly led to discuss what relatives he had in the city and, with a little burst of pride, mentioned that I, Don Everhard, was his cousin. At that, he said, they became surprized and eager.

My name is well known. Any time a hack writer, one of these fellows that fill what space is left over from the day's news and are paid by the inch, simply must pay his rent, he rehashes what somebody before him has written of my record, discusses my psychology and speculates on how a man with so many notches on his gun—I never notched a gun in my life—can move unmolested in a civilized community. Those old fellows began to ask interested questions. They wanted to meet me. Jack said that he would have me over the very next afternoon. He did.

Chapter 3

III

JACK had explained to me:

“Ugly old codgers—bet they're rich. Father's Joseph and uncle's Dan. How do I know? She called one Uncle Dan and he called the other Joseph. Think I was asleep? Not me. I was sittin' on the edge of my chair swattin' every question that came over the plate.”

We were met at the door by a servant who did not succeed in hiding the fact that he was surprized to see me. He had no way of knowing from my face or manner that I noticed his surprize, but I did. As there is not one face in a thousand that I can not place immediately, I was a little puzzled to find myself unable to remember one who showed such marked recognition of me.

He was a man somewhat above middle age, slightly bald, rather red of face and well fed. He looked like a hypocrite, as every able-bodied man does when he plays flunkey, bowing in those whom he really does not think are his betters or even his equals. Perhaps they wouldn't be if he did not choose the lap dog's way of keeping his stomach full. This fellow's jaw stiffened and his eyes popped; his hands were pretty unsteady, and I saw drops of sweat on his forehead.

We went through the hall into an old room with a high ceiling. The room appeared musty and full of shadows, though the curtains were up and the Autumnal sun was bright. We were greeted by the two old men.

I say they were old, though at a glance I saw they were aged by something besides years. Mr Daniel Cornwall I had met before—but then I had worn a mask. He was the elder, the larger, the more decisive, and I did not doubt at all but that he was the most criminal, though, excepting that his face was flabby rather than thin, both men looked somewhat alike.

Mr. Joseph Cornwall appeared almost consumptive. I heard him cough frequently. His face was thin, just-skin across bones, his nose prominent and a little twisted. He had a thin mustache that, like a ragged veil, fell over his loose mouth, and the large rimmed glasses accentuated the queerness of his face. His voice was harshly husky. I had not known him except remotely. He had in someway remained entirely outside of my circle of experience during the time I was in Utah. Daniel Cornwall was the dominant character.

Their intentions were something more than friendly. I could not imagine what kind of starling Jack had found in that nest of lean owls. Cora did not come into the room until we had been there for some time. I could not guess what those old fellows actually wanted, but I had known all along that they were after something protective from me.

I am continually having people after me for one reason or another—and not alone from those who think that my gun is for sale. It would not be easy to count the number of people who dislike me and, as the saying goes, have it in for me. I have enemies that I have never seen, never heard of, since some people hold a grudge against me because their own friends have been hurt—some of them buried.

After a few words Joseph mentioned that they too were from the West, as if that put a tribal relation upon us. They sat back with their eyes on me, and Jack imperviously rattled on. He said nothing worth repeating, and they were obviously waiting—for what I did not know, but for something probably that would give them opportunity to talk to me alone. Being a fine pair of old schemers, they had already prepared for that.

I had noticed the man, the footman who met us at the door, trying to attract Daniel Cornwall's attention, when we came into the room, but he had been ignored. Presently he returned and with an obvious effort kept his eyes from me while telling the old fellow, Daniel, that he would like to speak to him on “a matter of great importance, sir.”

Daniel looked at him as one might order away a well-trained dog, made a gesture and said—

“I'm busy, Quiller. I'm busy.”

“It might be important,” said Joseph a little nervously to his brother as Quiller reluctantly turned away, shooting a glance at me.

“His nerves are going,” Daniel growled. “This morning he was all excited over something he dreamed.”

“But Dan2” the other began, and it was plain that his nerves were also jangled

“Being frightened at every shadow isn't going to help matters,” said the more aggressive Daniel, a very hard expression coming into his face for a second. He spoke rather testily.

I knew that Daniel had a temper, a great amount of resolution, much cunning and no honor. I knew also—one who plays poker for a living knows many things by simply looking into a man's face—that Joseph was much like him.

Finally Cora came in, dressed in a plain, neat tailored suit of dark cloth. She was not at all as I had expected. Not at all. I looked at her very hard. She was of the same type, appearance and manner as a woman whom, some ten years before, I had gone out of my way to help. It was strange, indeed, but I rather liked her at once though I knew she had made a dupe of my cousin.

For one thing she wasn't pretty. And, having that blessing, of course did not think that every man was made to sigh for her, to flirt with her, to hover about her and be satisfied with smiles and artificial blushes. It is a great-day in the lives of blond flappers when they learn how to blush by holding their breath. Cora was a blonde but she did not blush. Her eyes were gray and serious. She had probably been matter of fact and serious in the restaurant and actually fascinated Jack where a more pretty and giddy young person would have aroused him to only a flirtation.

She was intelligent and direct. I have given my nights and much of my days to learning across green-topped tables, looking into the eyes of men. One plays most games of cards by watching the pips. One plays poker by watching faces. For a long time I watched her face with a hard scrutiny that must have made her uneasy. I did not care. I wondered if slight; blond, gray-eyed women were all alike.

She had her hat in her hand as if she were going out. After being introduced to me, she said:

“Uncle Dan, something seems wrong with Quiller. He looks ill.”

“Quiller's been drinking again,” Daniel Cornwall said gruffly. Then more personally—“You are going out, my dear?”

She looked at him with a touch of surprize. She was no adept at deception. It was her rôle to go out and take Jack with her. In a few minutes she did; and I was left alone with the two old men.

Chapter 4

IV

IT would be needless if not tedious to tell at length all that was said. The young people had no sooner left the room than Daniel got up and drew together the sliding-doors across the entrance from the hallway. Joseph, with an attempt at a confidential smile, moved his chair a little closer toward me. Daniel looked about cautiously and, seeming satisfied, also pulled his chair a little nearer to me.

“Mr. Everhard,” Daniel began, rubbing his hands together, “chance has at last brought us together.”

He said it with a grin, smugly. His grin was unpleasant. His smugness repugnant.

For a brief moment I wondered if he knew more than I gave him credit for knowing and if he thought that he had trapped me. But he was merely trying to make me think accident had taken the place of design.

“And, Mr. Everhard,” he went on, “as we have conveyed to you before, we are rich men.”

Joseph nodded and smiled encouragingly.

I did not say anything. I looked at them, from one to the other. My thoughts were scooting in and out. I knew that Daniel Cornwall had enemies; some of them—one at least—a very powerful man who thought himself more or less helpless so long as Daniel retained possession of a little black steel box, or rather of its contents. I knew too that he had another enemy said to be a wild, dangerous fellow who would have—had he known who I was—possibly have tried to make good certain and jealous threats.

“And we will be generous,” Daniel added impressively, as if I did not know that he had a reputation for being miserly.

The point to the fifteen minutes of fumbling speech was this:

They had previously tried to engage me as a sort of personal guard and they now asked me to state what terms I pleased. They were old, innocent men and in danger. Would I interest myself in their behalf? In looking about anxiously for some one to help them, they had thought no one else could do so well as I. They had written letters asking me to call on them. Those being coldly answered, they had sent a lawyer to engage my interest. They might have sent the devil with results. I dislike lawyers—all of them.

I mentioned the protective value of the police.

Daniel made a deprecating gesture and grinned. The police were all right for watching rat-holes. They could follow tracks. This was different.

I mentioned private agencies.

He came back flatteringly and said their need was for a man of high personal courage and resource. Steve Ellis, he said, could evade the police. Private detectives would not be likely to stand against him.

Daniel Cornwall himself was a crafty, vicious, enormously rich old rascal—the sort of a man of whom it was said that he never kept an inconvenient promise nor rewarded a friend.

I knew something of Steve Ellis. I had known his wife very well. I also knew something of the man who was then governor of Utah and Cornwall's most powerful enemy. Perhaps that was one—or maybe the—reason why Daniel Cornwall was out of the State, though in his little black box he had put evidence that could ruin and wreck the man.

It was a curious and complicated situation. The governor, whom I will call Walsh, though that in no way resembles his name, had in his younger days become involved, perhaps more or less innocently, in some profitable crooked work. Cornwall had stored the indubitable legal evidence of that in his little black box. Walsh knew much that was crooked, wicked, even dastardly, of Cornwall and longed to bring him to justice, to crush him, wipe him out; but to do so he would have to sacrifice his own career, for Cornwall would have retaliated by opening the little black box.

Cornwall, for his part, would have liked to exterminate Walsh, but if he attacked Walsh then the Governor would probably, in the midst of his own ruin, land Cornwall in prison, if not on to the scaffold—supposing that a multimillionaire can ever be hanged, which is doubtful in a country that leaves justice in the hands of lawyers.

So it was that they were like two powerful giants, deadly in their enmity but aware that it would be mutually ruinous if they made an open fight. Let Walsh once get his hands on that black box, and Cornwall was doomed. Nor did I doubt at all that Cornwall hesitated at thoughts of assassination in trying to figure out how he could dispose of Walsh.

The immediate concern of the Cornwall's however, was not with Walsh. It was with Steve Ellis. The situation was made more peculiar and complicated by Ellis.

Whereas Cornwall and Walsh were continually bluffing each other, and neither wanted or dared to come actually to a crisis, Ellis was thought to be implacable in his hatred of Daniel Cornwall.

The Cornwalls thought, as many people have, that I was a sort of cutthroat, for sale to a high bidder and with cunning enough to evade punishment. I have evaded punishment largely because I never deserved it. Even the police, East and West, certainly no friends of mine, were not without a kind of—hum—let me say a kind of gratitude for the way I had come out of corners into which I had occasionally been crowded.

Law-abiding citizens, whom the police feel it their duty to protect and to avenge, do not shoot at people from the rear or from shadows, do not pick quarrels and lay traps. Moreover, I never bothered the police with complaints. The police and courts everywhere more or less respect the ruling of Western juries to the effect that the man who draws last and shoots first is innocent.

So those two old fellows, wholly unaware that I knew a great deal about the cause of their fears, with a kind of grotesque eagerness, in which both became excited, tried to tell me the history of their haunting terrors. It was a long story and Daniel lied a great deal.

I won't repeat their story, for it was largely false and when I have said that Daniel claimed Steve Ellis' hate was inspired over certain mining claims, I have told enough. That part may or may not have been true. I did not know. Anyway, perhaps money had originally been at the bottom of the trouble, but Ellis seemed to have been the sort of man who looked for trouble. He had—so I heard—repeatedly said that he would kill me. He did not know my name. He knew merely the name I happened to be using at the time, and then he was in a position to make threats with impunity, for he was in the penitentiary. He believed, or pretended to believe, that my presence under the roof of his wife's house was injurious to his honor, and, since he was in prison, he was dependent on the tales that other men carried to him.

Chapter 5

V

IT chanced that some years before I had been in Utah, in various parts of Utah, and had not taken the trouble to introduce myself to anybody—that is, by the name which was perhaps known to some of the people there, even then.

I was patiently waiting until the police of San Francisco had—as they eventually did do—assured themselves that I had had nothing to do with a certain little affair in which numerous liars conspired together to get me out of the way, legally. There had been enough perjured witnesses to hang a saint.

I may mention, though it has nothing to do with this story, that, at last impatient, I returned quietly to San Francisco, made a midnight call upon the ring-leader of the frame-up and impressed on him that I was weary of waiting for his conscience to get the better of his prejudice against me. I suggested that he confess the next morning. He did. So it was that during the time I had been in Utah under the name of Smith or some such nonentity, I had minded-my own business and got into trouble.

It came about through a woman, Mrs Ellis. Her husband was in prison and for some reason or other she wanted him out. I was staying quietly in her home, paying board and rent. I liked her because she asked no questions. She was a little, blond, gray-eyed woman and told me some things about herself—not with the idea of arousing sympathy, but because it is the nature of her sex to talk.

Among other things, she loved this husband, Steve Ellis, who was in prison. She said that he was innocent—most wives do say that sort of thing about their convicted husbands. She said the trouble had originated over a copper-mine claim and that Daniel Cornwall—one of many “copper kings” of the West—had railroaded Steve Ellis because he wouldn't do some of the Cornwall dirty work.

I asked questions in one direction and another and as I loafed a good deal over poker tables I had plenty of chance to hear all manner of reports. As nearly as I could tell, Daniel Cornwall was a scoundrel and Steve Ellis was dangerous man with numerous friends. I heard that Ellis had formerly been a gunman in Cornwall's employ. I heard many things, and some of them were no doubt true.

Mrs. Ellis maintained, however, that he was innocent. She said that Steve had told her that if she, or any of his friends, could get hold of a little black box in Cornwall's private safe, Cornwall himself would pull wires and bribe officials to get him out. Mrs. Ellis said that Steve was a “good man in his way,” but it seemed that he was always in trouble through no fault of his own.

“Why,” she said, “his own child scarcely knows him!”

The child was in a boarding-school where Mrs Ellis, by dint of scrimping and gathering money from the Lord knows where, kept her under the illusion that a girl's life would be easier and happier if secluded and educated.

I had had nothing in particular to do and, having assured myself that Daniel Cornwall was a mean rich old devil, and looking the ground over carefully, I took certain precautions by way of disguise and paid him a visit. As nearly as he could tell I looked like a rough miner. The ends of a mustache poked from beyond my mask. My clothes were of the sort a miner would be likely to wear when he thought he was passing for a city fellow. It was necessary, of course, to dispose of a servant or two before I reached him. I made the visit late in the evening and I tied the servants comfortably in a corner and left them there to meditate.

Daniel Cornwall was a bachelor, so his establishment was easily raided. I found him in bed. I got him out and made him open the safe. Not finding what I wanted, I induced him to put on his clothes and go with me to his office. I succeeded in convincing him that he would be shot if he tried to give an alarm and also that something of the kind would happen if he looked around at me during the time I had the mask off—for obviously I could not go parading through even nearly deserted streets at 11 P.M. with a mask on.

I have found that rich men are easily bluffed by threats of violence. Anyway, we went to his office and he opened the safe there. He nearly dropped when he saw me remove the little black steel box. He offered money—he offered almost everything imaginable.

I took the key away from him and opened the box. I read enough of the papers to see what they were about. Walsh at that time was attorney general, or something of the kind.

In a kind of disgust I threw the key toward an open window. It went out. I replaced the papers and slammed the lid down, not noticing that a corner of one of the papers had stuck out.

“I'll never get that box open,” he cried. “It's a special lock2”

“You won't need to open it for some time,” I told him. “This is what I came after, but there is a good chance that you may get it back.”

He had thought that I was looking into the box in the hope of finding money or jewels, and he was tremendously wrought up when he saw that I intended to carry it off.

I let him bite on a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth and tied his arms and legs to a chair.

Then I went out and into a cheap rooming-house where I had changed clothes earlier in the evening. It was one of those houses that did not have running water, but a pitcher and large bowl for washing purposes was in the room. I put the bowl near the window so as to carry out the odor of smoke and burned a few little things I wanted to get rid of, my mustache among them.

The next day a messenger delivered a package to Mrs. Ellis. It came “from one of Steve's friends,” so a scrap of paper with it said.”

She was a wise woman and did not take me into her confidence; that is, she said nothing about the “open sesame” having mysteriously arrived. Maybe she wondered what it contained, but there was no way of getting into it without going to a locksmith, and it was a solid little affair. Besides, for her purpose she did not need to get into it. She must have notified Cornwall that he had better use his influence or it would be turned over to Walsh, who would be glad to use his influence.

The same scrap of paper that told her it was “from one of Steve's friends” advised her to take the matter up with Walsh in case Cornwall did not show sufficient interest. I had realized—perhaps a little too late—that Walsh would probably think she had cheated him if she did call this attention to the box, for I had tampered a little with the contents.

USUALLY I spent my evenings down in Commercial Alley, over a poker table, just idly playing and having a little secret sport in making wonder why their plans went awry. One hot, sultry night I left early, went home and, having a down-stairs bedroom, left the hall door open to get a little more air.

I shot the man who threw the glare of a dark lantern into my face from the doorway. I had an impression that there were two men—that is, I was sure I heard the rush and clatter of a man running. It wasn't the one I shot at. He was buried, after being identified as a shyster lawyer. Perhaps he thought it better to go direct after loot than more safely to take it second-hand from his larcenous clients.

Mrs. Ellis vaguely told me and the police that the thieves must have been after “some papers.” She kept her own counsel as far as I knew, and I asked no questions. I left Salt Lake almost at once, since I did not care for the attention that was coming my way, though, of course, the coroner did not hold me in the least responsible. I went back to San Francisco.

I did not know what had happened in the case after I left, for I was kept rather busy with personal affairs of my own.

But now the Cornwall brothers, after having told me about Steve Ellis, sat up as if jerked by wires when I inquired—

“What ever became of Mrs. Ellis?”

For a moment or two, bony, loose-jointed Daniel looked as if I had hit him with a club, and the emaciated Joseph upset his glasses from off his nose in a quick dash to adjust them so as to peer the harder at me.