II
“I beg your pardon, sir, if I seem to intrude,” said the policeman, beginning to recede. “I came to see Mr. Beamish. I should have made an appointment.”
“Hey! Don’t go.” Said Mr. Waddington.
The policeman paused doubtfully at the door.
“But as Mr. Beamish is not at home. …”
“Come right in and have a chat. Sit down and take the weight off your feet. My name is Waddington.”
“Mine is Garroway,” replied the officer, bowing courteously.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Happy to meet you, sir.”
“Have a good cigar.”
“I should enjoy it above all things.”
“I wonder where Mr. Beamish keeps them,” said Sigsbee H., rising and routing about the room. “Ah, here we are. Match?”
“I have a match, thank you.”
“Capital!”
Sigsbee H. Waddington resumed his seat and regarded the other affectionately. An instant before, he had been bemoaning the fact that he did not know where to lay his hands on a crook, and here, sent from heaven, was a man who was probably a walking directory of malefactors.
“I like policemen,” said Mr. Waddington affably.
“That is very gratifying, sir.”
“Always have. Shows how honest I am, ha ha! If I were a crook, I suppose I’d be scared stiff, sitting here talking to you.” Mr. Waddington drew bluffly at his cigar. “I guess you come across a lot of criminals, eh?”
“It is the great drawback to the policeman’s life,” assented Officer Garroway, sighing. “One meets them on all sides. Only last night, when I was searching for a vital adjective, I was called upon to arrest an uncouth person who had been drinking home-brewed hootch. He soaked me on the jaw, and inspiration left me.”
“Wouldn’t that give you a soft-pine finish!” said Mr. Waddington sympathetically. “But what I was referring to was real crooks. Fellows who get into houses and steal pearl necklaces. Ever met any of them?”
“I meet a great number. In pursuance of his duty, a policeman is forced against his will to mix with all sorts of questionable people. It may be that my profession biases me, but I have a hearty dislike for thieves.”
“Still, if there were no thieves, there would be no policemen.”
“Very true, sir.”
“Supply and demand.”
“Precisely.”
Mr. Waddington blew a cloud of smoke.
“I’m kind of interested in crooks,” he said. “I’d like to meet a few.”
“I assure you that you would not find the experience enjoyable,” said Officer Garroway, shaking his head. “They are unpleasant, illiterate men with little or no desire to develop their souls. I make an exception, I should mention, however, in the case of Mr. Mullett, who seemed a nice sort of fellow. I wish I could have seen more of him.”
“Mullett? Who’s he?”
“He is an ex-convict, sir, who works for Mr. Finch in the apartment upstairs.”
“You don’t say! An ex-convict and works for Mr. Finch? What was his line?”
“Inside burglary jobs, sir. I understand, however, that he has reformed and is now a respectable member of society.”
“Still, he was a burglar once?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, well!”
There was a silence. Officer Garroway, who was trying to find a good synonym for one of the adjectives in the poem on which he was occupied, stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Mr. Waddington chewed his cigar intensely.
“Say, listen!” said Mr. Waddington.
“Sir?” said the policeman, coming out of his reverie with a start.
“Suppose,” said Mr. Waddington, “suppose, just for the sake of argument, that a wicked person wanted a crook to do a horrible, nefarious job for him, would he have to pay him?”
“Undoubtedly, sir. These men are very mercenary.”
“Pay him much?”
“I imagine a few hundred dollars. It would depend on the magnitude of the crime contemplated, no doubt.”
“A few hundred dollars!”
“Two, perhaps, or three.”
Silence fell once more. Officer Garroway resumed his inspection of the ceiling. What he wanted was something signifying the aspect of the streets of New York, and he had used “sordid” in line two. “Scabrous!” That was the word. He was rolling it over his tongue when he became aware that his companion was addressing him.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Mr. Waddington’s eyes were glittering in a peculiar way. He leaned forward and tapped Officer Garroway on the knee.
“Say, listen! I like your face, Larrabee.”
“My name is Garroway.”
“Never mind about your name. It’s your face I like. Say, listen, do you want to make a pile of money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m going to do something for you that I wouldn’t do for many people. Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal.?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s the wonderful thing,” said Mr. Waddington in a sort of ecstasy. “Nobody’s ever heard of it. It isn’t one of those worn-out propositions like the Famous Players that everybody’s sick and tired of. It’s new. And do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to let you have a block of stock in it for a quite nominal figure. It would be insulting you to give it to you for nothing, which is what I’d like to do, of course. But it amounts to the same thing. This stock here is worth thousands and thousands of dollars, and you shall have it for three hundred. Have you got three hundred?” asked Mr. Waddington, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, I have that sum, but. …”
Mr. Waddington waved his cigar.
“Don’t use that word ‘but’! I know what you’re trying to say. You’re trying to tell me, I’m robbing myself. I know I am, and what of it? What’s money to me? The way I look at it is that, when a man has made his pile, like me, and has got enough to keep his wife and family in luxury, the least he can do as a lover of humanity is to let the rest go to folks who’ll appreciate it. Now you probably need money as much as the rest of them, eh?”
“I certainly do, sir.”
“Then here you are,” said Mr. Waddington, brandishing the bundle of stock-certificates. “This is where you get it. You can take it from me that the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company is the biggest thing since Marconi invented the victrola.”
Officer Garroway took the stock and fondled it thoughtfully.
“It’s certainly very nicely engraved,” he said.
“You bet it is! And look at those dollar-signs on the back. Look at that seal. Cast your eye over those signatures. Those mean something. And you know what the motion-pictures are. A bigger industry than the beef business. And the Finer and Better is the greatest proposition of them all. It isn’t like other companies. For one thing, it hasn’t been paying out all its money in dividends.”
“No?”
“No, sir! Not wasted a cent that way.”
“It’s all still there?”
“All still there. And, what’s more, it hasn’t released a single picture.”
“All still there?”
“All still there. Lying on the shelves—dozens of them. And then take the matter of overhead expenses—the thing that cripples all these other film-companies. Big studios … expensive directors … high-salaried stars. …”
“All still there?”
“No, sir! That’s the point. They’re not there. The Finer and Better Motion Picture Company hasn’t any of these D. W. Griffiths and Gloria Swansons eating away its capital. It hasn’t even a studio.”
“Not even a studio?”
“No, sir. Nothing but a company. I tell you it’s big!”
Officer Garroway’s mild blue eyes widened.
“It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime,” he agreed.
“The opportunity of a dozen lifetimes,” said Mr. Waddington. “And that’s the way to get on in the world—by grabbing your opportunities. Why, what’s Big Ben but a wristwatch that saw its chance and made good?” Mr. Waddington paused. His forehead wrinkled. He snatched the bundle of stock from his companion’s grasp and made a movement towards his pocket. “No!” he said, “No! I can’t do it. I can’t let you have it, after all!”
“Oh, sir!”
“No. It’s too big.”
“Oh, but, Mr. Waddington. …”
Sigsbee H. Waddington seemed to come out of a trance. He shook himself and stared at the policeman as if he were saying “Where am I?” He heaved a deep, remorseful sigh.
“Isn’t money the devil!” he said. “Isn’t it terrible the way it saps all a fellow’s principles and good resolutions! Sheer greed, that was what was the matter with me, when I said I wouldn’t let you have this stock. Sheer, grasping greed. Here am I, with millions in the bank, and the first thing you know I’m trying to resist a generous impulse to do a fellow human-being, whose face I like, a kindly act. It’s horrible!” He wrenched the bundle from his pocket and threw it to the policeman. “Here, take it before I weaken again. Give me the three hundred quick and let me get away.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, don’t thank me. One—two—three,” said Mr. Waddington, counting the bills. “Don’t thank me at all. It’s a pleasure.”