The Financier

T >> Theodore Dreiser >> The Financier


Old Butler looked at her narrowly, solemnly. He was not deceived to any
extent by her bravado. If she were really innocent, he knew she would
have jumped to her feet in her defiant way. Protest would have been
written all over her. As it was, she only stared haughtily. He read
through her eager defiance to the guilty truth.

"How do ye know, daughter, that I haven't had the house watched?" he
said, quizzically. "How do ye know that ye haven't been seen goin' in
there?"

Only Aileen's solemn promise to her lover could have saved her from
this subtle thrust. As it was, she paled nervously; but she saw Frank
Cowperwood, solemn and distinguished, asking her what she would say if
she were caught.

"It's a lie!" she said, catching her breath. "I wasn't at any house at
that number, and no one saw me going in there. How can you ask me that,
father?"

In spite of his mixed feelings of uncertainty and yet unshakable
belief that his daughter was guilty, he could not help admiring
her courage--she was so defiant, as she sat there, so set in her
determination to lie and thus defend herself. Her beauty helped her in
his mood, raised her in his esteem. After all, what could you do with
a woman of this kind? She was not a ten-year-old girl any more, as in a
way he sometimes continued to fancy her.

"Ye oughtn't to say that if it isn't true, Aileen," he said. "Ye
oughtn't to lie. It's against your faith. Why would anybody write a
letter like that if it wasn't so?"

"But it's not so," insisted Aileen, pretending anger and outraged
feeling, "and I don't think you have any right to sit there and say
that to me. I haven't been there, and I'm not running around with Mr.
Cowperwood. Why, I hardly know the man except in a social way."

Butler shook his head solemnly.

"It's a great blow to me, daughter. It's a great blow to me," he said.
"I'm willing to take your word if ye say so; but I can't help thinkin'
what a sad thing it would be if ye were lyin' to me. I haven't had the
house watched. I only got this this mornin'. And what's written here may
not be so. I hope it isn't. But we'll not say any more about that now.
If there is anythin' in it, and ye haven't gone too far yet to save
yourself, I want ye to think of your mother and your sister and your
brothers, and be a good girl. Think of the church ye was raised in, and
the name we've got to stand up for in the world. Why, if ye were doin'
anything wrong, and the people of Philadelphy got a hold of it, the
city, big as it is, wouldn't be big enough to hold us. Your brothers
have got a reputation to make, their work to do here. You and your
sister want to get married sometime. How could ye expect to look the
world in the face and do anythin' at all if ye are doin' what this
letter says ye are, and it was told about ye?"

The old man's voice was thick with a strange, sad, alien emotion. He did
not want to believe that his daughter was guilty, even though he knew
she was. He did not want to face what he considered in his vigorous,
religious way to be his duty, that of reproaching her sternly. There
were some fathers who would have turned her out, he fancied. There were
others who might possibly kill Cowperwood after a subtle investigation.
That course was not for him. If vengeance he was to have, it must be
through politics and finance--he must drive him out. But as for doing
anything desperate in connection with Aileen, he could not think of it.

"Oh, father," returned Aileen, with considerable histrionic ability in
her assumption of pettishness, "how can you talk like this when you know
I'm not guilty? When I tell you so?"

The old Irishman saw through her make-believe with profound sadness--the
feeling that one of his dearest hopes had been shattered. He had
expected so much of her socially and matrimonially. Why, any one of a
dozen remarkable young men might have married her, and she would have
had lovely children to comfort him in his old age.

"Well, we'll not talk any more about it now, daughter," he said,
wearily. "Ye've been so much to me during all these years that I can
scarcely belave anythin' wrong of ye. I don't want to, God knows. Ye're
a grown woman, though, now; and if ye are doin' anythin' wrong I don't
suppose I could do so much to stop ye. I might turn ye out, of course,
as many a father would; but I wouldn't like to do anythin' like that.
But if ye are doin' anythin' wrong"--and he put up his hand to stop a
proposed protest on the part of Aileen--"remember, I'm certain to find
it out in the long run, and Philadelphy won't be big enough to hold
me and the man that's done this thing to me. I'll get him," he said,
getting up dramatically. "I'll get him, and when I do--" He turned
a livid face to the wall, and Aileen saw clearly that Cowperwood, in
addition to any other troubles which might beset him, had her father
to deal with. Was this why Frank had looked so sternly at her the night
before?

"Why, your mother would die of a broken heart if she thought there
was anybody could say the least word against ye," pursued Butler, in a
shaken voice. "This man has a family--a wife and children, Ye oughtn't
to want to do anythin' to hurt them. They'll have trouble enough, if I'm
not mistaken--facin' what's comin' to them in the future," and Butler's
jaw hardened just a little. "Ye're a beautiful girl. Ye're young. Ye
have money. There's dozens of young men'd be proud to make ye their
wife. Whatever ye may be thinkin' or doin', don't throw away your life.
Don't destroy your immortal soul. Don't break my heart entirely."

Aileen, not ungenerous--fool of mingled affection and passion--could now
have cried. She pitied her father from her heart; but her allegiance
was to Cowperwood, her loyalty unshaken. She wanted to say something,
to protest much more; but she knew that it was useless. Her father knew
that she was lying.

"Well, there's no use of my saying anything more, father," she said,
getting up. The light of day was fading in the windows. The downstairs
door closed with a light slam, indicating that one of the boys had come
in. Her proposed trip to the library was now without interest to her.
"You won't believe me, anyhow. I tell you, though, that I'm innocent
just the same."

Butler lifted his big, brown hand to command silence. She saw that this
shameful relationship, as far as her father was concerned, had been
made quite clear, and that this trying conference was now at an end. She
turned and walked shamefacedly out. He waited until he heard her steps
fading into faint nothings down the hall toward her room. Then he arose.
Once more he clinched his big fists.

"The scoundrel!" he said. "The scoundrel! I'll drive him out of
Philadelphy, if it takes the last dollar I have in the world."





Chapter XXVII


For the first time in his life Cowperwood felt conscious of having been
in the presence of that interesting social phenomenon--the outraged
sentiment of a parent. While he had no absolute knowledge as to why
Butler had been so enraged, he felt that Aileen was the contributing
cause. He himself was a father. His boy, Frank, Jr., was to him not so
remarkable. But little Lillian, with her dainty little slip of a body
and bright-aureoled head, had always appealed to him. She was going to
be a charming woman one day, he thought, and he was going to do much
to establish her safely. He used to tell her that she had "eyes like
buttons," "feet like a pussy-cat," and hands that were "just five cents'
worth," they were so little. The child admired her father and would
often stand by his chair in the library or the sitting-room, or his
desk in his private office, or by his seat at the table, asking him
questions.

This attitude toward his own daughter made him see clearly how Butler
might feel toward Aileen. He wondered how he would feel if it were his
own little Lillian, and still he did not believe he would make much fuss
over the matter, either with himself or with her, if she were as old as
Aileen. Children and their lives were more or less above the willing
of parents, anyhow, and it would be a difficult thing for any parent
to control any child, unless the child were naturally docile-minded and
willing to be controlled.

It also made him smile, in a grim way, to see how fate was raining
difficulties on him. The Chicago fire, Stener's early absence, Butler,
Mollenhauer, and Simpson's indifference to Stener's fate and his. And
now this probable revelation in connection with Aileen. He could not
be sure as yet, but his intuitive instincts told him that it must be
something like this.

Now he was distressed as to what Aileen would do, say if suddenly she
were confronted by her father. If he could only get to her! But if he
was to meet Butler's call for his loan, and the others which would come
yet to-day or on the morrow, there was not a moment to lose. If he did
not pay he must assign at once. Butler's rage, Aileen, his own danger,
were brushed aside for the moment. His mind concentrated wholly on how
to save himself financially.

He hurried to visit George Waterman; David Wiggin, his wife's brother,
who was now fairly well to do; Joseph Zimmerman, the wealthy dry-goods
dealer who had dealt with him in the past; Judge Kitchen, a private
manipulator of considerable wealth; Frederick Van Nostrand, the State
treasurer, who was interested in local street-railway stocks, and
others. Of all those to whom he appealed one was actually not in
a position to do anything for him; another was afraid; a third
was calculating eagerly to drive a hard bargain; a fourth was too
deliberate, anxious to have much time. All scented the true value of his
situation, all wanted time to consider, and he had no time to consider.
Judge Kitchen did agree to lend him thirty thousand dollars--a paltry
sum. Joseph Zimmerman would only risk twenty-five thousand dollars. He
could see where, all told, he might raise seventy-five thousand dollars
by hypothecating double the amount in shares; but this was ridiculously
insufficient. He had figured again, to a dollar, and he must have at
least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars above all his present
holdings, or he must close his doors. To-morrow at two o'clock he would
know. If he didn't he would be written down as "failed" on a score of
ledgers in Philadelphia.

What a pretty pass for one to come to whose hopes had so recently run so
high! There was a loan of one hundred thousand dollars from the Girard
National Bank which he was particularly anxious to clear off. This bank
was the most important in the city, and if he retained its good will
by meeting this loan promptly he might hope for favors in the future
whatever happened. Yet, at the moment, he did not see how he could do
it. He decided, however, after some reflection, that he would deliver
the stocks which Judge Kitchen, Zimmerman, and others had agreed to
take and get their checks or cash yet this night. Then he would persuade
Stener to let him have a check for the sixty thousand dollars' worth of
city loan he had purchased this morning on 'change. Out of it he could
take twenty-five thousand dollars to make up the balance due the bank,
and still have thirty-five thousand for himself.

The one unfortunate thing about such an arrangement was that by doing
it he was building up a rather complicated situation in regard to these
same certificates. Since their purchase in the morning, he had not
deposited them in the sinking-fund, where they belonged (they had been
delivered to his office by half past one in the afternoon), but, on the
contrary, had immediately hypothecated them to cover another loan. It
was a risky thing to have done, considering that he was in danger of
failing and that he was not absolutely sure of being able to take them
up in time.

But, he reasoned, he had a working agreement with the city treasurer
(illegal of course), which would make such a transaction rather
plausible, and almost all right, even if he failed, and that was that
none of his accounts were supposed necessarily to be put straight until
the end of the month. If he failed, and the certificates were not in the
sinking-fund, he could say, as was the truth, that he was in the habit
of taking his time, and had forgotten. This collecting of a check,
therefore, for these as yet undeposited certificates would be
technically, if not legally and morally, plausible. The city would be
out only an additional sixty thousand dollars--making five hundred and
sixty thousand dollars all told, which in view of its probable loss of
five hundred thousand did not make so much difference. But his caution
clashed with his need on this occasion, and he decided that he would not
call for the check unless Stener finally refused to aid him with three
hundred thousand more, in which case he would claim it as his right. In
all likelihood Stener would not think to ask whether the certificates
were in the sinking-fund or not. If he did, he would have to lie--that
was all.

He drove rapidly back to his office, and, finding Butler's note, as
he expected, wrote a check on his father's bank for the one hundred
thousand dollars which had been placed to his credit by his loving
parent, and sent it around to Butler's office. There was another note,
from Albert Stires, Stener's secretary, advising him not to buy or sell
any more city loan--that until further notice such transactions would
not be honored. Cowperwood immediately sensed the source of this
warning. Stener had been in conference with Butler or Mollenhauer, and
had been warned and frightened. Nevertheless, he got in his buggy again
and drove directly to the city treasurer's office.

Since Cowperwood's visit Stener had talked still more with Sengstack,
Strobik, and others, all sent to see that a proper fear of things
financial had been put in his heart. The result was decidedly one which
spelled opposition to Cowperwood.

Strobik was considerably disturbed himself. He and Wycroft and Harmon
had also been using money out of the treasury--much smaller sums, of
course, for they had not Cowperwood's financial imagination--and were
disturbed as to how they would return what they owed before the storm
broke. If Cowperwood failed, and Stener was short in his accounts,
the whole budget might be investigated, and then their loans would be
brought to light. The thing to do was to return what they owed, and
then, at least, no charge of malfeasance would lie against them.

"Go to Mollenhauer," Strobik had advised Stener, shortly after
Cowperwood had left the latter's office, "and tell him the whole story.
He put you here. He was strong for your nomination. Tell him just where
you stand and ask him what to do. He'll probably be able to tell you.
Offer him your holdings to help you out. You have to. You can't help
yourself. Don't loan Cowperwood another damned dollar, whatever you
do. He's got you in so deep now you can hardly hope to get out. Ask
Mollenhauer if he won't help you to get Cowperwood to put that money
back. He may be able to influence him."

There was more in this conversation to the same effect, and then Stener
hurried as fast as his legs could carry him to Mollenhauer's office. He
was so frightened that he could scarcely breathe, and he was quite ready
to throw himself on his knees before the big German-American financier
and leader. Oh, if Mr. Mollenhauer would only help him! If he could just
get out of this without going to jail!

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he repeated, over and over to himself,
as he walked. "What shall I do?"

The attitude of Henry A. Mollenhauer, grim, political boss that he
was--trained in a hard school--was precisely the attitude of every such
man in all such trying circumstances.

He was wondering, in view of what Butler had told him, just how much he
could advantage himself in this situation. If he could, he wanted to get
control of whatever street-railway stock Stener now had, without in any
way compromising himself. Stener's shares could easily be transferred on
'change through Mollenhauer's brokers to a dummy, who would eventually
transfer them to himself (Mollenhauer). Stener must be squeezed
thoroughly, though, this afternoon, and as for his five hundred thousand
dollars' indebtedness to the treasury, Mollenhauer did not see what
could be done about that. If Cowperwood could not pay it, the city would
have to lose it; but the scandal must be hushed up until after election.
Stener, unless the various party leaders had more generosity than
Mollenhauer imagined, would have to suffer exposure, arrest, trial,
confiscation of his property, and possibly sentence to the penitentiary,
though this might easily be commuted by the governor, once public
excitement died down. He did not trouble to think whether Cowperwood was
criminally involved or not. A hundred to one he was not. Trust a shrewd
man like that to take care of himself. But if there was any way to
shoulder the blame on to Cowperwood, and so clear the treasurer and the
skirts of the party, he would not object to that. He wanted to hear the
full story of Stener's relations with the broker first. Meanwhile, the
thing to do was to seize what Stener had to yield.

The troubled city treasurer, on being shown in Mr. Mollenhauer's
presence, at once sank feebly in a chair and collapsed. He was entirely
done for mentally. His nerve was gone, his courage exhausted like a
breath.

"Well, Mr. Stener?" queried Mr. Mollenhauer, impressively, pretending
not to know what brought him.

"I came about this matter of my loans to Mr. Cowperwood."

"Well, what about them?"

"Well, he owes me, or the city treasury rather, five hundred thousand
dollars, and I understand that he is going to fail and that he can't pay
it back."

"Who told you that?"

"Mr. Sengstack, and since then Mr. Cowperwood has been to see me. He
tells me he must have more money or he will fail and he wants to borrow
three hundred thousand dollars more. He says he must have it."

"So!" said Mr. Mollenhauer, impressively, and with an air of
astonishment which he did not feel. "You would not think of doing that,
of course. You're too badly involved as it is. If he wants to know why,
refer him to me. Don't advance him another dollar. If you do, and this
case comes to trial, no court would have any mercy on you. It's going
to be difficult enough to do anything for you as it is. However, if you
don't advance him any more--we will see. It may be possible, I can't
say, but at any rate, no more money must leave the treasury to bolster
up this bad business. It's much too difficult as it now is." He stared
at Stener warningly. And he, shaken and sick, yet because of the faint
suggestion of mercy involved somewhere in Mollenhauer's remarks, now
slipped from his chair to his knees and folded his hands in the uplifted
attitude of a devotee before a sacred image.

"Oh, Mr. Mollenhauer," he choked, beginning to cry, "I didn't mean to do
anything wrong. Strobik and Wycroft told me it was all right. You sent
me to Cowperwood in the first place. I only did what I thought the
others had been doing. Mr. Bode did it, just like I have been doing.
He dealt with Tighe and Company. I have a wife and four children, Mr.
Mollenhauer. My youngest boy is only seven years old. Think of them, Mr.
Mollenhauer! Think of what my arrest will mean to them! I don't want to
go to jail. I didn't think I was doing anything very wrong--honestly I
didn't. I'll give up all I've got. You can have all my stocks and houses
and lots--anything--if you'll only get me out of this. You won't let 'em
send me to jail, will you?"

His fat, white lips were trembling--wabbling nervously--and big hot
tears were coursing down his previously pale but now flushed cheeks.
He presented one of those almost unbelievable pictures which are yet so
intensely human and so true. If only the great financial and political
giants would for once accurately reveal the details of their lives!

Mollenhauer looked at him calmly, meditatively. How often had he seen
weaklings no more dishonest than himself, but without his courage and
subtlety, pleading to him in this fashion, not on their knees exactly,
but intellectually so! Life to him, as to every other man of large
practical knowledge and insight, was an inexplicable tangle. What were
you going to do about the so-called morals and precepts of the world?
This man Stener fancied that he was dishonest, and that he, Mollenhauer,
was honest. He was here, self-convicted of sin, pleading to him,
Mollenhauer, as he would to a righteous, unstained saint. As a matter
of fact, Mollenhauer knew that he was simply shrewder, more far-seeing,
more calculating, not less dishonest. Stener was lacking in force and
brains--not morals. This lack was his principal crime. There were people
who believed in some esoteric standard of right--some ideal of conduct
absolutely and very far removed from practical life; but he had never
seen them practice it save to their own financial (not moral--he would
not say that) destruction. They were never significant, practical men
who clung to these fatuous ideals. They were always poor, nondescript,
negligible dreamers. He could not have made Stener understand all this
if he had wanted to, and he certainly did not want to. It was too bad
about Mrs. Stener and the little Steners. No doubt she had worked hard,
as had Stener, to get up in the world and be something--just a little
more than miserably poor; and now this unfortunate complication had to
arise to undo them--this Chicago fire. What a curious thing that was!
If any one thing more than another made him doubt the existence of a
kindly, overruling Providence, it was the unheralded storms out of clear
skies--financial, social, anything you choose--that so often brought
ruin and disaster to so many.

"Get Up, Stener," he said, calmly, after a few moments. "You mustn't
give way to your feelings like this. You must not cry. These troubles
are never unraveled by tears. You must do a little thinking for
yourself. Perhaps your situation isn't so bad."

As he was saying this Stener was putting himself back in his chair,
getting out his handkerchief, and sobbing hopelessly in it.

"I'll do what I can, Stener. I won't promise anything. I can't tell you
what the result will be. There are many peculiar political forces in
this city. I may not be able to save you, but I am perfectly willing to
try. You must put yourself absolutely under my direction. You must not
say or do anything without first consulting with me. I will send my
secretary to you from time to time. He will tell you what to do. You
must not come to me unless I send for you. Do you understand that
thoroughly?"

"Yes, Mr. Mollenhauer."

"Well, now, dry your eyes. I don't want you to go out of this office
crying. Go back to your office, and I will send Sengstack to see you.
He will tell you what to do. Follow him exactly. And whenever I send for
you come at once."

He got up, large, self-confident, reserved. Stener, buoyed up by the
subtle reassurance of his remarks, recovered to a degree his equanimity.
Mr. Mollenhauer, the great, powerful Mr. Mollenhauer was going to help
him out of his scrape. He might not have to go to jail after all.
He left after a few moments, his face a little red from weeping, but
otherwise free of telltale marks, and returned to his office.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Sengstack called on him for the second
time that day--Abner Sengstack, small, dark-faced, club-footed, a great
sole of leather three inches thick under his short, withered right leg,
his slightly Slavic, highly intelligent countenance burning with a pair
of keen, piercing, inscrutable black eyes. Sengstack was a fit secretary
for Mollenhauer. You could see at one glance that he would make Stener
do exactly what Mollenhauer suggested. His business was to induce Stener
to part with his street-railway holdings at once through Tighe & Co.,
Butler's brokers, to the political sub-agent who would eventually
transfer them to Mollenhauer. What little Stener received for them
might well go into the treasury. Tighe & Co. would manage the "'change"
subtleties of this without giving any one else a chance to bid, while at
the same time making it appear an open-market transaction. At the same
time Sengstack went carefully into the state of the treasurer's office
for his master's benefit--finding out what it was that Strobik, Wycroft,
and Harmon had been doing with their loans. Via another source they were
ordered to disgorge at once or face prosecution. They were a part of
Mollenhauer's political machine. Then, having cautioned Stener not to
set over the remainder of his property to any one, and not to listen
to any one, most of all to the Machiavellian counsel of Cowperwood,
Sengstack left.

Needless to say, Mollenhauer was greatly gratified by this turn of
affairs. Cowperwood was now most likely in a position where he would
have to come and see him, or if not, a good share of the properties he
controlled were already in Mollenhauer's possession. If by some hook or
crook he could secure the remainder, Simpson and Butler might well talk
to him about this street-railway business. His holdings were now as
large as any, if not quite the largest.