But she was not going to be contented with his “Umm.” He saw that at a glance.
Mrs. Hudson smiled—a bit roguishly.
“There was one man you had to look up to; is it not so?”
Her syntax was unfortunately under continental influence. It made the query difficult to evade … My eye!—was this innocent child with the wide blue eyes leading Detroit’s most resourceful side-stepper into a trap? … Well, he’d follow along, and see what came of it. Of a sudden he remembered; he brightened; he tossed up an outspread hand.
“Rather! … Uncommonly tall! … Your cousin, I think.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Hudson.
T. P. took a long breath, exhaled it luxuriously, and felt relieved.
“Must be six feet three, isn’t he?”
“About my height,” said Mrs. Hudson. “But—he is my cousin.”
“Oh—of course!” T. P. laughed, boisterously. “Of course! You knew I was jesting, of course!”
She did not join in his merriment.
“Odd that you should have forgotten!” she said meaningly.
When in doubt about what next to do, T. P. always fell back on the didactic style. He could stun and bewilder with his voluminous vocabulary of technical terms relating to the upper ether of large finance. He settled sternly to it, ignoring their brief exchange of exploratory thrusts, and discoursed of stocks. Most industrials were good now; motors especially; Axion most assuredly. She could be confident that her money was prudently placed. Moreover, she could sleep soundly o’ nights while the Fourth National looked out for her interests … And—by the way—he wanted to show her about through this fine new building before she left, if there was time … Not quite satisfied with her expression, he launched upon an oration of some length, rumbling wisely of economic trends, cycles, the periodicity of financial mutations now happily stabilized by the Federal Reserve. At the first full stop, she said:
“I would like to see my stock certificates.”
“To be sure, Mrs. Hudson! Of course!”
T. P.’s tone was paternal. Inwardly he chuckled. If this amazingly good looking young widow had hopes of learning how she had become possessed of her Axion Motors by inspecting her stock certificates, she was about to be disappointed. She had caught him napping in respect to his relations with her ne’er-do-well cousin, and it was up to him to take the next trick in this little game. Well—she would discover nothing new, bearing on the question, from these certificates. Hadn’t he told Riley to hustle those shares of Doctor Merrick’s back to the Axion office to be reissued in the name of Mrs. Hudson? Of course!
However—just to make doubly sure. He quite distinctly remembered having written to Blair, the transfer agent of the Axion Motor Corporation, notifying him that, beginning at once, all future dividends on that block of stock were to be forwarded to the address of Mrs. Hudson, who now owned them, and that the certificates would be brought over to him for re-issuance. Surely he had remembered to tell Riley about that. To be on the safe side, he’d inquire.
“I’ll send for them,” continued T. P., beaming amiably. “Excuse me, please.”
He was detained in the adjoining office for fully five minutes, and when he returned he was mopping his expansive brow with a large, monogrammed handkerchief. Resuming his chair, he smiled, not very happily, and said:
“It may take quite a little time. Had we known you would want to see them, they would have been ready for you. We have such things pretty carefully stowed away, you know.”
“Yes,” said Helen, comprehendingly, “you would have, of course.”
“It’s rather a pity to keep you waiting so long,” regretted T. P. Why the devil couldn’t the woman say, “Oh—never mind about them, then.”
“I can wait,” she replied, settling comfortably in her big chair.
T. P. drummed on the desk with anxious fingers.
“You know we have them, of course, or you wouldn’t be getting your dividends.”
“Oh—certainly.”
“They’re just like any other … You’ve seen stock certificates, haven’t you?” He was still amiable, but he was growing desperate.
“Yes … and I would like to see these!” She glanced at her watch.
There was nothing more that T. P. could do about it. He pushed a button, gave an order, tried to be cheerful, tried to be nonchalant; but the conversation was unsatisfactory. Neither of them had the slightest interest in it.
At length the certificates arrived, and he pushed them across the desk.
She slipped the top one from under the broad rubber band, spread it out, turned it over, and noted the endorsement whereby it had been transferred from Robert Merrick to Helen Hudson.
“Thank you!” she said, rising. “That will be all, I think. I shall be in again tomorrow to talk further with you.”
T. P. did not waste time, immediately his client had left. He took up the telephone, and in his best bank manner told the switchboard to get him Doctor Merrick at Brightwood Hospital. The contact was no sooner made than T. P. went off the deep end, without ceremony, and reported what had happened. The answer he received consisted of a few words not properly used over the telephone, which really has to draw the line somewhere.
“Now—Doc—you’ve got to keep your shirt on! I tell you it absolutely couldn’t be avoided! It was either that—or tell her we didn’t have the stuff at all! Would that have improved the situation any? … Hell! … She’s suspected all along. You might ’a’ known she would! That woman’s no ninny! … What say? … Why—damned if I know, Doc. She left here—pronto—shot out of a gun—a bit flustered, maybe … No—I don’t know, I tell you. Perhaps she was. If so, I suppose you’ll soon find it out! … Well, I’m sorry as you are, Doc; but you might ’a’ …”
There was a metallic click that made T. P. wince. He laid the
