CHAPTER V
THE EAVESDROPPERS
"I suppose you have heard something about the troubles of the MotorTrust? The other directors, you know, are trying to force me out."
Rodman Brainard, president of the big Motor Corporation, searched themagnetic depths of the big brown eyes of the woman beside his desk.Talking to Constance Dunlap was not like talking to other women he hadknown, either socially or in business.
"A friend of yours, and of mine," he added frankly, "has told me enoughabout you to convince me that you are more than an amateur at gettingpeople out of tight places. I asked you to call because I think you canhelp me."
There was a directness about Brainard which Constance liked.
"It's very kind of you to place such confidence in me--on such shortacquaintance," she returned pointedly, searching his face.
Brainard laughed.
"I don't need to tell you, Mrs. Dunlap, that anything I have said sofar is an open secret in Wall Street. They have threatened to drag inthe Sherman law, and in the reorganization that will follow theinvestigation, they plan to eliminate Rodman Brainard--perhaps set inmotion the criminal clauses of the law. It's nothing, Mrs. Dunlap, buta downright hypocritical pose. They reverse the usual process. It isdoing good that evil may result."
He watched her face intently. Something in her expression seemed toplease him. "By George," he thought to himself, "this is a man's woman.You can talk to her."
Brainard, accustomed to quick decisions, added aloud, "Just now theyare using Mrs. Brainard as a catspaw. They are spreading that scandalabout my acquaintance with Blanche Leblanc, the actress. You have seenher? A stunning woman--wonderful. But I long ago saw that such afriendship could lead to nothing but ruin." He met Constance's eyesquarely. There was nothing of the adventuress in it as there had beenin Blanche Leblanc. "And," he finished, almost biting off the words, "Idecided to cut it out."
"How does Blanche Leblanc figure in the Motor Trust trouble?" askedConstance keenly.
"They had been shadowing me a long time before I knew it, ferretingback into my past. Yesterday I learned that some one had broken intoMiss Leblanc's apartments and had stolen a package of letters which Iwrote to her. It can't hurt her. People expect that sort of thing of anactress. But it can hurt the president of the Motor Trust--just atpresent."
"Who has been doing the shadowing?"
"Worthington, the treasurer, is the guiding spirit of the 'insurgents'as they call themselves--it sounds popular, like reform. I understandthey have had a detective named Drummond working for them."
Constance raised her eyes quickly at the name. "Was Drummond always tocross her trail?
"This story of the letters," he went on, "puts on the finishing touch.They have me all right on that. I can tell by the way that Sybil--er,Mrs. Brainard--acts, that she has read and reread those letters. But,by God," he concluded, bringing down his fist on the desk, "I shallfight to the end, and when I go down,"--he emphasized each word with anadditional blow,--"the crash will bring down the whole damned structureon their own heads, too."
He was too earnest even to apologize to her. Constance studied the grimdetermination in the man's face. He was not one of those destined tofail.
"All is not lost that is in peril, Mr. Brainard," she remarked quietly."That's one of the maxims of your own Wall Street."
"What would you do?" he asked. It was not an appeal; rather it was aninvitation.
"I can't say, yet. Let me come into the office of the Trust. Can't I beyour private secretary?"
"Consider yourself engaged. Name your figure--after it is over. Myrecord on the Streets speaks for how I stand by those who stand by me.But I hate a quitter."
"So do I," exclaimed Constance, rising and giving him her hand in astraight-arm shake that made Brainard straighten himself and look downinto her face with unconcealed admiration.
The next morning Constance became private secretary to the president ofthe Motor Trust.
"You will be 'Miss' Dunlap," remarked Brainard. "It sounds moreplausible."
Quietly he arranged her duties so that she would seem to be very busywithout having anything which really interfered with the purpose of herpresence.
She had been thinking rapidly. Late in the forenoon she reached adecision. A little errand uptown kept her longer than she expected, butby the late afternoon she was back again at her desk, on which rested asmall package which had been delivered by messenger for her.
"I beg you won't think as badly of me as it seems on the surface, MissDunlap," remarked Brainard, stopping beside her desk.
"I don't think badly of you," she answered in a low voice. "You are notthe only man who has been caught with a crowd of crooks who plan toleave him holding the bag."
"Oh, it isn't that," he hastened, "I mean this Blanche Leblanc affair.May I be frank with you?"
It was not the first time Constance had been made a confidante of thetroubles of the heart, and yet there was something fascinating abouthaving a man like Brainard consider her worthy of being trusted withwhat meant so much to him.
"I'm not altogether to blame." he went on slowly. "The estrangementbetween my wife and myself came long before that little affair. Itbegan over--well--over what they call a serious difference intemperament. You know a man--an ambitious man--needs a partner, a womanwho can use the social position that money gives not alone for pleasurebut as a means of advancing the partnership. I never had that. The moreI advanced, the more I found her becoming a butterfly--and not asattractive as the other butterflies either. She went one way--I,another. Oh well--what's the use? I went too far--the wrong way. I mustpay. Only let me save what I can from the wreck."
It was not Constance, the woman, to whom he was talking. It wasConstance, the secretary. Yet it was the woman, not the secretary, wholistened.
Brainard stopped again beside her desk.
"All that is neither here nor there," he remarked, forcing a change inhis manner. "I am in for it. Now, the question is--what are we going todo about it!"
Constance had unwrapped the package on her desk, disclosing an oblongbox.
"What's that?" he asked curiously.
"Mr. Brainard," she answered tapping the box, "there's no limit to theuse of this little machine for our purposes. We can get at their mostvital secrets with it. We can discover every plan which they haveagainst us. We may even learn the hiding place of those letters Why,there is no limit. This is one of those new microphone detectives."
"A microphone?" he repeated as he opened the box, looked sharply at thetwo black little storage batteries inside, the coil of silk-coveredwire, a little black rubber receiver and a curious black disc whoseface was pierced by a circular row of holes.
"Yes. You must have heard of them. You hide that transmitter behind apicture or under a table or desk. Then you run the wire out of the roomand by listening in the receiver you can hear everything!"
"But that is what detectives use--"
"Well?" she interrupted coolly, "what of it? If it is good for them, isit not just as good for us?"
"Better!" he exclaimed. "By George, you ARE the goods."
It was late before Constance had a chance to do anything with themicrophone. It seemed as if Worthington were staying, perversely, laterthan usual. At last, however, he left with a curt nod to her.
The moment the door was closed she stopped the desultory clicking ofher typewriter with which she had been toying in the appearance ofbeing busy. With Brainard she entered the board room where she hadnoticed Worthington and Sheppard often during the day.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the most plainly furnished roomsshe had ever seen. A long mahogany table with eight large mahoganychairs, a half inch pile of velvety rug on the floor and a hugechandelier in the middle of the ceiling constituted the furniture. Nota picture, not a cabinet or filing case broke the blankness of thebrown painted walls.
For a moment she stopped to consider. Brainard waited and watched hernarrowly.
&
nbsp; "There isn't a place to put this transmitter except up above thatchandelier," she said at length.
He gave her his hand as she stepped on a chair and then on the table.There was a glimpse of a trim ankle. The warmth and softness of hertouch caused him to hold her hand just a moment longer than wasabsolutely necessary. A moment later he was standing on the tablebeside her.
"This is the place, all right," she said, looking at the thick scum ofdust on the top of the reflector.
Quickly she placed the little black disc close to the center on the topof the reflector. "Can you see that from the floor?" she asked.
"No," he answered, walking about the room, "not a sign of it."
"I'll sit here," she said in just a tremor of excitement over theadventure, "and listen while you talk in the board room."
Brainard entered. It seemed ridiculous for him to talk to himself.
"If the microphone works," he said at length, "rap on the desk twice."Then he added, half laughing to himself, "If it doesn't, raponce--Constance."
A single rap came in answer.
"If you couldn't hear," he smiled entering her office, "why did you raponce!"
"It didn't work smoothly on that last word."
"What--Constance?"
He thought there was a subtle change in their relations since themicrophone incident. At any rate she was not angry. Were they notpartners?
"I think it will be better if I turn that microphone around," sheremarked. "I placed it face downwards. Let me change it."
Again he helped her as she jumped up on the board room table. This timehis hand lingered a little longer in hers and she did not withdraw itso soon. When she did there was a quick twinkle in her eyes as shestraightened the microphone and offered her hand to him again.
"Jump!" he said, as if daring her.
A moment she paused. "I never could take a dare," she answered.
She leaped lightly to the floor. For just a moment she seemed about tolose her balance. Then she felt an arm steadying her. He had caught herand for an instant their eyes met.
"Well, Rodman--I scarcely thought it was as brazen as this!"
They turned in surprise.
Mrs. Brainard was standing in the doorway.
She was a petite blonde little woman of the deceptive age which thebeauty parlors convey to thousands of their assiduous patrons.
For a moment she looked coldly from one to the other.
"To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this unexpected visit,Sybil?" asked Brainard with sarcastic emphasis. "I shall finish thoseletters to-morrow, Miss Dunlap. You need not wait for them."
He held the door to his own office open for Mrs. Brainard.
Sybil Brainard shot a quick glance at Constance. "Well, young lady,"she said haughtily, "do you realize what you are doing and with whomyou are?"
"It isn't necessary, Sybil, to bother about Miss Dunlap. The lightswere out of order and I found Miss Dunlap standing on the table tryingto fix them. You came just in time to see her jump down. By the way,Worthington seems to be another who works late. He left only a fewminutes ago."
Constance passed a restless night. To have got wrong at the very startworried her. Over and over she thought of what had happened. And alwaysshe came back to one question. What had Brainard meant by thatreference to Worthington?
He came in late the next day, however. Still, there was no change inhis manner as he greeted her. The incident had not affected him, as ithad her. Neither of them said anything about it.
A young man had been waiting to see Brainard and as he entered he askedhim in.
Just then Sheppard walked casually through the reception room and intothe board room.
Constance quickly closed her door. She heard the young man leaveBrainard's office but she was too engrossed to pay attention toanything but the voices that were coming through the microphone. Shewas writing feverishly what she heard.
"Yes, Sheppard, I saw her again last night."
"Where?"
"She was to meet me here, but he stayed later than usual with that newsecretary of his. So I cut out and met her at the street entrance."
"And?"
"I told her of the new secretary. She did just what I wanted--came uphere--and, say Sheppard--what do you think? They were in this room andhe had his arms about her!"
"The letters are all right, are they? How much did you have to pay theLeblanc girl?"
"Twenty thousand. That's all charged up against the pool. Say, Leblancis--well--give you my word, Sheppard--I can hardly blame Brainard afterall."
"You ARE the last word in woman haters, Lee."
Both men laughed.
"And the letters?"
"Don't worry. They are where they'll do the most good. Sybil has themherself. Now, what have you to report? You saw the district attorney?"
"Yes. He is ready to promise us all immunity if we will go on the standfor the state. The criminal business will come later. Only, you have toplay him carefully. He's on the level. A breath of what we really wantand it will be all off."
"Then we'll have to hold the stock up, as though nothing was going tohappen."
They had left the board room.
Constance hurried into Brainard's office. He was sunk deep in his chairreading some papers.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"She has entered a suit for divorce. That young man was a processserver."
"Yes."
"You are named as co-respondent along with Blanche Leblanc."
"I?"
"Yes. It must have been an afterthought. Everything is going--fortune,reputation--even your friendship, now, Constance--"
"Going? Not yet."
She read hastily what she had overheard.
"Devil take Worthington," ground out Brainard, gripping the arms of hischair. "For weeks I have suspected him. They have been too clever forme. Constance, while I have been going around laying myself open todiscovery, Sybil has played a cool and careful game."
He was pacing the floor.
"So--that's the plan. Hold back, keep the stock up until they getstarted. Then let it go down until I'm forced to sell out at a loss,buy it back cheap, and control the reorganization. Well, I haven'tcontrol now, alone. I wish I did have. But neither have they. Thepublic owns the stock now. I need it. Who'll get it first--that's thequestion!"
He was thinking rapidly.
"If you could do a little bear manipulation yourself," she suggested."That might get the public scared. You could get enough to control,perhaps, then. They wouldn't dare sell--or if they did they wouldweaken their own control. Either way, you get them, going or coming."
"Exactly what I was thinking. Play their own game--ahead ofthem--accelerate it."
It was just after the lunch hour that Constance resumed her place ather desk with the receiver at her ear.
There were voices again in the board room.
"My God, Sheppard, what do you think? Someone is selling Motors--fivepoints off and still going down."
"Who is it? What shall we do?"
"Who! Brainard, of course. Some one has peached. What are you going todo?"
"Wait. Let's call up the News Agency. Hello--yes--what? Unofficialrumor of prosecution of Motors by the government--large selling ordersplaced in advance. The deuce--say, we'll have to meet this or--"
"Meet nothing. It's Brainard. He's going down in a big crash. We pourour money into his pockets now and let him sell at the top and grabback control with OUR money? Not much. I sell, too."
Already boys were on the street with extras crying the great crash inMotors. It was only a matter of minutes before all the news readingpublic were thoroughly scared at the apparently bursting bubble. Shareswere dug up in small lots, in huge blocks and slammed on the market forwhat they would bring. All day the pounding went on. Thousands ofshares were poured out until Motors which had been climbing toward parin the neighborhood of 79 had declined forty points. Brainard hadjumped in first and had realized the top pric
e for his holdings.
Yet during all the wild scenes when the telephone was ringinginsistently for him, Brainard, having set the machinery in motion andhaving been ostentatiously in the office when it started in order toavert suspicion, could not now be found.
The market had closed and Constance was reading the account of thecollapse as it was interpreted in the Wall Street editions of thepapers, when the door opened and Brainard entered.
"This has been a good day's work, Constance," he said, flinging himselfinto a chair.
"Yes, I was just reading of it in the papers. The little microphone hasput an entirely new twist on affairs. And the best of it is that thefinancial writers all seem to think it was planned by Worthington andthe rest."
"Oh, hang Worthington--hang Motors. THAT is what I meant."
He slapped down a packet of letters on the desk.
"You--you found them?" gasped Constance. She looked at him keenly. Itwas evident that a great weight had been taken off his mind.
"Yes indeed. I knew there was only one place where she would putthem--in her safe with her jewels. She would think I would neversuspect that she had them and, besides, she had the combinationchanged. I went up to the house this afternoon when she was out. I hadan expert with me. He worked two hours, steady,--but he opened it. Herethey are. Now for the real game."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I noticed the name of the manufacturer on your microphone.I have had one installed in the room which she uses most of all. Thewires run to the next house where I've hired an apartment. I intend to'listen in' there. I'll get this Worthington--yet!"
That night Constance and Brainard sat for hours in the empty apartmentpatiently waiting for word over the microphone.
At last there was a noise as of a door opening.
"Show them in here."
"Sybil," whispered Brainard as if perhaps she might even hear.
Then came more voices.
"Worthington and Drummond," he added. "They suspect nothing yet."
"Drummond knows this Dunlap woman," said Worthington.
The detective launched forth in a tirade against Constance.
"But she is clever, Drummond. You admit that."
"Clever as they make 'em."
"You will have her shadowed?"
"Every moment, Mrs. Brainard."
"What's all this about the panic in Motors, Lee?"
"Some other time, Sybil, not now. Drummond, what do people say?"
Drummond hesitated.
"Out with it, man."
"Well, Mr. Worthington, it is said you started it."
"The deuce I did. But I guess Sheppard and I helped it along. We'll gothe limit, too. After all, it had to come. We'll load up after itreaches the bottom."
The voices trailed off.
"Good night, Mrs. Brainard."
"Good night, Mr. Drummond. That was what I wanted to know." A pause.
"Lee, how can I ever thank you?"
A sound suspiciously like a kiss came over the wire. Brainard clenchedhis fist.
"Good night, Sybil. I must go now--" Again the voices trailed off.
It was several minutes before Brainard spoke. Then it was that heshowed his wonderful power of concentration.
"I have a conference in half an hour, Constance," he remarked, lookingat his watch. "It is very important. It means getting money to supportMotors on the opening to-morrow after I have gathered in again what Ineed. I think I can come pretty near doubling my holdings if I play itright. That's important. But so is this."
"I will listen," put in Constance. "Trust me. If anything else occurs Iwill tell you."
She was at the office early the next day, but not before Brainard who,bright and fresh, even though he had been up all night, was primed forthe battle of his life at the opening of the market.
Brainard had swung in at the turn and had quietly accumulated the stockcontrol which he needed. He was now bulling the market by matchingorders, pyramiding stock which he owned, using every device that wasknown to his astute brain.
On up went Motors, recovering the forty points, gradually, and evengoing beyond in the reaction. Worthington and Sheppard had beensqueezed out. Not for a moment did he let up.
As the clock on Trinity church struck three, the closing hour, Brainardwheeled suddenly in his chair.
"Miss Dunlap," he said quietly. "I wish that you would tell Worthingtonand Sheppard that I should like to see them in the board room at four."
Constance looked at her watch. There was time also to execute a littlescheme of her own.
Four o'clock came. Brainard lounged casually across to the board room.Instantly Constance had the receiver of the microphone at her ear,straining to catch every word, and to make notes of the stormy scene,if necessary.
Her door opened. It was Sybil Brainard.
The two women looked at each other coldly.
Constance was the first to speak.
"Mrs. Brainard," she began, "I asked you to come down here--not Mr.Worthington. More than that, I asked the office boy to direct you hereinstead of to his office. Do you see that machine?"
Sybil looked at it without a sign of recognition.
"It is a microphone detective. It was the installing of that machine inthe board room which you interrupted the other night."
"Was it necessary that Mr. Brainard should put his arm around you forthat?" inquired Mrs. Brainard with biting sarcasm.
"I had just jumped down from the table and had almost lost mybalance--that was all," pursued Constance imperturbably.
"Another of these microphone eavesdroppers told me of a conversationlast night in your own apartment, Mrs. Brainard."
Her face blanched. "You--have one--there?"
"Yes. Mr. Brainard heard the first conversation, when Drummond and Mr.Worthington were there. After they left he had to attend a conferencehimself. I alone heard what passed when Mr. Worthington returned."
"You are at liberty to--"
"Mrs. Brainard. You do not understand. I have no reason to want to makeyou--"
An office boy tapped on the door and entered. "Mr. Brainard wants you,Miss Dunlap."
"I cannot explain now," resumed Constance. "Won't you sit here at mydesk and listen over the microphone to what happens!"
She was gone before Mrs. Brainard could reply. What did it all mean?Sybil put the black disc receiver to her ear as she had seen Constancedo. Her hand trembled. "Why did she tell me that?" she murmured.
"You can't prove it," shouted a voice through the black disc at herear. She was startled. It was the voice of Worthington.
"Miss Dunlap--have you that notebook?" came the deep tones of herhusband.
Constance read from her first notes that part relating to theconspiracy to control Motors, carefully omitting the part about theLeblanc letters.
"It's a lie--a lie."
"No, it is not a lie. It is all good legal evidence, the record takenover the new microphone detective. Look up there over the chandelier,Worthington. The other end is in the top drawer of Miss Dunlap's desk."
"I'll fight that to a finish, Brainard. You are clever but there areother things besides Motors that you have to answer for."
"No. Those letters--that is what you mean--are in my possession now.You didn't know that? All the eavesdropping, if you choose to call itthat, was not done here, either, by a long shot, Worthington. I had oneof these machines in my wife's reception room. I have all sorts oflittle scraps of conversation," he boasted. "I also have an account ofa visit there from two--er--scoundrels--"
"Mrs. Brainard to see you, sir," announced a boy at the door.
Constance had risen. Her face was flushed and her breast rose and fellwith excitement.
"Mr. Brainard," she interrupted. "I must explain--confess. Mrs.Brainard has been sitting in my office listening to us over themicrophone. I arranged it. I asked her to come down, using another nameas a pretext. But I didn't think she would interrupt so soon. Beforeyou see her--let
me read this. It was a conversation I got after youhad left last night and so far I have had no chance to tell you of it.Some one," she laid particular stress on the word, "came back afterthat first interview. Listen."
"No, Lee," Constance read rapidly from her notes, "no. Don't think I amungrateful. You have been one friend in a thousand through all this. Ishall have my decree-soon, now. Don't spoil it-"
"But Sybil, think of Mm. What did he ever care for you! He has made youfree already."
"He is still my husband."
"Take this latest escapade with this Miss Dunlap."
"Well, what do I really know about that?"
"You saw him."
"Yes, but maybe it was as he said."
The door was flung open, interrupting Constance's reading, and SybilBrainard entered. The artificiality of the beauty parlor was all gone.She was a woman, who had been wronged and deceived.
"Next friend--a true next friend--fiend would be better, LeeWorthington," she scorned. "How can you stand there and look me in theface, how could you tell me of your love for me, when all the time youcared no more for me or for any other woman than for that--thatLeblanc! You knew that I, who was as jealous as I could be of Rodman,had heard a little--you added more. Yet when you had played on myfeelings, you would have cast me off, too--I know it; I know your kind."
She paused for breath, then turned slowly to Brainard with a note ofpathos in her voice.
"Our temperaments may have been different, Rodman. They were not whenwe were poor. Perhaps I have not developed with you, the way you wantof me. But, Rodman, did you ever stop to think that perhaps, perhaps ifI had ever had the chance to be taken into your confidence more often--"
"Will you--forgive me?" Brainard managed to blurt out.
"Will you forgive me?" she returned frankly.
"I--forgive? I have nothing to forgive."
"I could have understood, Rodman, if it had been Miss Dunlap. She isclever, wonderful. But that Leblanc--never!"
Sybil Brainard turned to Constance.
"Miss Dunlap--Mrs. Dunlap," she sobbed, "forgive me. You--you are abetter woman than I am."