The secretary had walked into the study and discovered a man he had never seen before calmly running through some personal papers in Wolff’s files. The stranger had seemed in no way startled or disturbed by Dunning’s entrance, and had made no attempt to escape. Instead, he had simply shoved the file drawer to, sat himself down in a chair before the desk, and said quite calmly, “Tell Dudley Wolff that I want to see him here. Now.”
Dunning, who made and kept track of Wolff’s appointments with all the deadly precision of a time clock, was upset by the incident. He had protested and tried to question the man, but had received no reply except for an insolent smile and the blunt repeated command, “Get Wolff!”
He was still sitting there quite calmly when Wolff barged in. He was an odd sort of man, though the oddness was something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He was dressed soberly enough in a smooth-fitting dark overcoat, white scarf, and a black hat which he showed no intention of removing. His face was thin, sharp-featured, ascetic. His black eyes set in deep hollows burned brightly. A thin penciling of dark mustache crossed his upper lip and descended down around each side of his mouth to meet the small close-cropped black beard that covered his chin. Although his skin was white, here was a hint of accent in his voice that Dunning couldn’t quite place. The man was, furthermore, anything but polite.
“Who,” Dudley Wolff demanded, “are you?”
The stranger looked at Dunning. “Get your secretary out of here. My business with you is private.”
There was an insolence not only in his words but in his whole manner that affected Wolff like so much hot red pepper. The millionaire’s complexion grew dark with all the rapidity of litmus paper in the presence of undiluted hydrochloric acid and his voice thundered like a Heaviside war chariot racing over cobblestones.
“You go to hell! Who the devil are you? What the blazing hell do you want? Why—”
The intruder reacted to Wolff vocal bombing attack as if he were miles away, safe underground in a deep mine. Only his eyes were watchful and careful. His thin-lipped mouth curved in what seemed to be a smile, although there was no humor in it.
“Smith will do for a name,” he said, his low steady voice cutting in across Wolff’s deep bellowing one. “And I repeat, get your secretary out of here!”
The old question of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object seemed about to be answered.
The pitch of Wolff’s voice changed. It was, suddenly, more like the crackling of a shorted electric cable.
“Dunning! Telephone. Police.”
Albert Dunning approached the desk, beside which the sinister Mr. Smith sat, gingerly. He put out his hand to pick up the phone. But no lightning struck. The man only grinned again, his sharp eyes still on Wolff.
Dunning started to dial. Then he stopped, frowned, and depressed the bar in the phone cradle once or twice. The stranger, still grinning, poked at the telephone cord that led down over the desk to the bell box by the baseboard. The point of his cane hooked under it and lifted it for their inspection. It ended abruptly three feet from the phone in a neatly sliced end.
“I thought it might be wise,” Smith said. “You’re too hasty, Wolff. If you continue to act in this manner you’ll regret it. When I tell you why I am here you will wish that you had dismissed this man—” he nodded at Dunning—“as I asked.”
“Asked!” Wolff growled, infuriated by the man’s calmly impudent manner. “You have a damned funny way of asking. Get to the point. What do you want?”
Wolff had moved in closer. He stood above the man, looking down, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. The stranger didn’t appear to notice. He glanced once again at Dunning, then shrugged.
“I want money,” he said. “Naturally.” His gloved hand slid in beneath his coat. Dunning sucked in his breath. Wolff’s right arm flexed as if to strike out.
But they heard the crinkle of paper and saw the man’s hand come out again, holding not a weapon but a long envelope of legal size.
Mr. Smith put down his cane and used both hands to open it. He removed several long, narrow, glossy photographic prints, spread them fanwise between his fingers slightly, and extended them in Wolff’s direction. Dunning caught a glimpse. They appeared to be facsimile photographs of checks. He also caught a brief flash of the envelope’s interior and of something there that looked suspiciously like the negatives from which the prints had been made. He saw Wolff’s eyes narrow and knew that he too had seen them.
Wolff stared at the prints. Then, suddenly, he let the stranger have his way. “Dunning,” he said grimly, “I’ll handle this. Wait outside.”
The secretary hesitated. “Are you sure—”
“Yes. Get out!”
Dunning turned and left hastily, closing the door behind him. He didn’t go far, but dropped on one knee and investigated the keyhole.
“That’s more like it,” he heard Smith say. “You shouldn’t let everyone know about something like this, you know.”
“Where did you get these?” Wolff asked coldly.
Smith ignored the question. “Interesting, aren’t they? And not nice. Particularly if the papers or those senators should see—”
“They’re forgeries,” Wolff protested. “I can prove that.”
Mr. Smith lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Even if you could it would take considerable time. And, meanwhile, the newspapers and the Senate Munitions Committee—” He left the sentence unfinished.
Wolff glared at him. “How much?”
“A hundred thousand. They’re worth more. But that will do.”
“And I get the negatives?”
The man nodded. He made a small gesture with the envelope. “Yes. Of course.”
Wolff said, “I’ll pay ten.” His eyes were steady on his opponent, anger spilling from them — and decision.
“Ten?” Mr. Smith made his little grin again. “I’ll give you one minute. At the end of that time the price will go up to—”
Dudley Wolff never found out what the new rate was going to be. His fist, clenched until his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palm, swung up at the man’s face.
Smith saw the movement in his shoulders. He threw himself back in the chair and tried to twist his head. Wolff’s fist smashed against the side of his jaw and ploughed along his cheek.
Smith’s chair went over backward.
It teetered for a moment in slow motion on its back legs, and then crashed down. Smith’s feet described an arc above his head. His body somersaulted from the chair along the floor, then lay still, face down.
Wolff knelt quickly and scooped the envelope up from the floor. He glanced inside, grinned briefly, and then moved hastily around behind his desk.
His right hand yanked at a drawer, readied in and came out with a revolver. His left shoved the envelope and the prints into his side coat pocket.
“Dunning!” he called.
The secretary pushed the door open.
Wolff pointed at the man on the floor with his gun. “Search him quickly, before he comes to.” His physical explosion had given Wolff control over his temper again, and, though the cold light in his gray eyes still indicated anger, he seemed almost to be enjoying himself now.
Dunning went through Mr. Smith’s pockets. He found nothing at all except some small change and a wallet. He laid these on the table before Wolff. The latter flipped open the billfold.
He blinked for a moment at the card that was there behind the square of celluloid. Then he smiled.
“That fixes him, Dunning. It makes his little blackmail attempt boomerang very nicely.”