Part 22 (1/2)

”Well, say, Grant,” returned Mr. Brotherton, pondering on the subject of the lost pen. ”Sometimes I think Tom is just a little too oleaginous--a little too oleaginous,” repeated Mr. Brotherton, pleased with his big word.

That June night Henry Fenn pa.s.sed from Congress Street and walked with a steady purpose manifest in his clicking heels. It was not a night's bat that guided his feet, no festive orgy, but the hard, firm footfall of a man who has been drunk a long time--terribly mean drunk. And terribly mean drunk he was. His eyes were blazing, and he mumbled as he walked.

Down Market Street he turned and strode to the corner where the Traders'

National Bank sign shone under the electrics. He looked up, saw a light burning in the office above, and suddenly changed his gait to a tip-toe.

Up the stairs he crept to a door, under which a light was gleaming. He got a firm hold of the k.n.o.b, then turned it quickly, thrust open the door and stepped quietly into the room. He grinned meanly at Tom Van Dorn who, glancing up over his shoulder from his book, saw the white face of Fenn leering at him. Van Dorn knew that this was the time when he must use all the wits he had.

”Why, h.e.l.lo--Henry--h.e.l.lo,” said Van Dorn cheerfully. He coughed, in an attempt to swallow the saliva that came rus.h.i.+ng into his mouth. Fenn did not answer, but stood and then began to walk around Van Dorn's desk, eyeing him with glowing-red eyes as he walked. Van Dorn tipped back his chair easily, put his feet on the desk before him, and spoke, ”Sit down, Henry--make yourself at home.” He cleared his throat nervously.

”Anything gone wrong, Henry?” he asked as the man stood over him glaring at him.

”No,” replied Fenn. ”No, nothing's gone wrong. I've just got some exhibits here in a law suit. That's all.”

He stood over Van Dorn, peering steadfastly at him. First he laid down a torn letter. Van Dorn shuddered almost imperceptibly as he recognized in the crumpled, wrenched paper his writing, but smiled suavely and said, ”Well?”

”Well,” croaked Fenn pa.s.sionately. ”That's exhibit 'A'. I had to fight a h.e.l.l-cat for it; and this,” he added as he lay down the silver-mounted pen, ”this is exhibit 'B'. I found that in the porch swing this morning when I went out to get my drink hidden under the house.” He cackled and Van Dorn's Adam's apple bobbed like a cork upon a wave.

”And this,” cried Fenn, as he pulled a revolver, ”G.o.d d.a.m.n you, is exhibit 'C'. Now, don't you budge, or I'll blow you to h.e.l.l--and,” he added, ”I guess I'll do it anyway.”

He stood with the revolver at Van Dorn's temple--stood over his victim growling like a raging beast. His finger trembled upon the trigger, and he laughed. ”So you were going to have a convenient, inexpensive lady friend, were you, Tom!” Fenn cuffed the powerless man's jaw with an open hand.

”Private snap?” he sneered. ”Well, d.a.m.n your soul--here's a lady friend of mine,” he poked the cold barrel harder against the trembling man's temple and cried: ”Don't wiggle, don't you move.” Then he went on: ”Kiss her, you d.a.m.ned egg-sucking pup--when you've done flirting with this, I'm going to kill you.”

He emphasized the ”you,” and prodded the man's face with the barrel.

”Henry,” whispered Van Dorn, ”Henry, for G.o.d's sake, let me talk--give me a show, won't you?”

Fenn moved the barrel of the revolver over between the man's eyes and cried pa.s.sionately: ”Oh, yes, I'll give you a show, Tom--the same show you gave me.”

He s.h.i.+fted the revolver suddenly and pulled the trigger; the bullet bored a hole through the book on ”Anglo-Saxon Supremacy” on the desk.

Fenn drew in a deep breath. With the shot he had spilled some vial of wrath within him, though Van Dorn could not see the change that was creeping into Fenn's haggard face.

”You see she'll shoot, Tom,” said Fenn.

Holding the smoking revolver to the man's head, Fenn reached for a chair and sat down. His rage was ebbing, and his mind was clear. He withdrew the weapon a few inches, and cried:

”Don't you budge an inch.”

His hand was limp and shaking, but Van Dorn could not see it. ”Tom, Tom,” he cried. ”G.o.d help me--help me.” He repeated twice the word ”me,”

then he went on:

”For being what I am--only what I am--” he emphasized the ”I.”

”For giving in to your devil as I give into mine--for falling as I have fallen--on another road--I was going to kill you.”

The revolver slipped from his hands. He picked it up by the barrel. He rose crying in a weak voice,