As the cab chugged through the crowded city streets, Thornton mentally went through all his calculations. He knew to the penny how much he’d receive after Vanderslice took his cut. Out of that he’d only have to pay off the mortgage on Marjorie’s house and a ten-thousand-dollar loan he’d taken out to cover the cost of the last lot of rifles he’d bought just yesterday. The general had given him good advice, and he’d spent nearly every penny he had. At first he’d wondered why he’d been able to buy up so many rifles. Couldn’t the owners just sell directly to the army like he was doing? But no. Some of the rifles, as it happened, hadn’t been obtained legally. The current owners hadn’t had proper documentation, but they were happy to provide some for the sale to Thornton. If it wasn’t exactly legal, who cared? The papers he handed over to the general would all be in order as far as he was concerned.
And now that he thought about it, he’d sell Marjorie’s house. What did he need with that crumbling pile? He could build himself a mansion on Fifth Avenue. He’d rub shoulders with the people who mattered in the city. They’d put him on to more deals like this one. Before he knew it, he’d be a millionaire. Too bad Marjorie wasn’t here to see it. But since she wasn’t, he was free to marry another society girl, the daughter of one of those old families who sold their girls to the highest bidder because they were down to their last penny. This time he knew how to make the most of his opportunities. They’d invite him to their parties and he’d join their clubs. They might turn up their noses in private, but in public, they’d acknowledge him and nod to him in his box at the opera and shake his hand at church.
The cab swerved to the curb and stopped with a lurch in front of Vanderslice’s office. Fletcher paid the driver, then jumped out and held the door for him. Thornton frowned at the building with its ancient bricks and wavy glass windows. The place had probably been there since the Revolution. From now on, he would only do business in offices located in tall, new buildings with elevators.
Inside, he looked askance at the fading wallpaper and age-darkened wainscoting. Even the clerk sitting at the lobby desk looked old.
“Welcome, Mr. Thornton. The others are already inside. Allow me to escort you.”
Thornton left Fletcher to wait in the lobby. He didn’t need protection from the general, and certainly not from Bates and Vanderslice.
Vanderslice greeted him. The poor fellow was practically giddy with excitement. The general, as he had expected, seemed merely pleased that this day had finally come. Bates, however, was grim. He’d probably realized how stupid he’d been not to demand a higher fee for his work.
When they were settled, Bates led them through the process of transferring ownership of the many, many rifles from him to the United States Army, making sure they had the addresses of the various warehouses where they were being stored so the army could collect them. Bates had contracts and bills of sale and other papers. Thornton signed and the general signed and occasionally Vanderslice signed as a witness. The final paper was a list of all the lots of rifles and the price the general was paying him for each, with a lovely total at the bottom. Vanderslice would get ten percent, but what was left would be more than triple what his fortune had been even before he’d met Betty and Jake Perkins.
He had to clench his hands on the tabletop to keep from rubbing them with glee.
“And here,” the general said, pulling an envelope from the pocket inside his jacket, “are the bank drafts.” He handed it to Bates. “If you’ll make sure everything is in order, we can celebrate with a cigar.” From another pocket, he produced a gold case engraved with a heavily stylized monogram. He flipped it open and offered one to Thornton.
He took it happily, running it beneath his nose to savor the rich aroma as he’d seen the general do. A fine cigar. He would have expected nothing less from the general.
“Maybe we should open a window before we indulge,” the general said, getting up after handing the case to Vanderslice. While he opened one of the windows a bit, Bates and Vanderslice each selected a cigar. Vanderslice produced a knife and matches, and soon they were all puffing away.
Bates, he noticed, had peered into the envelope and seemed satisfied with what he found there. Then he turned to Thornton. “What are your plans now, Thornton?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, instantly wary. Bates would never ask him a question unless he had an ulterior motive.
“Just what I said. Are you going to stay in the city or go back to Albany or maybe travel or . . . ?” He shrugged as if the answer meant nothing to him.
“Perhaps Thornton is going to keep finding more ordnance to sell to the army,” the general said with a smug smile.
“Perhaps I will,” he said.
Everyone looked up in surprise at the sound of a disturbance in the front office. Nothing untoward ever happened to challenge the dignity of this building, so the echo of raised voices was doubly disconcerting.
“What on earth . . . ?” Vanderslice muttered, starting to rise, but he was hardly on his feet before the door to their meeting room flew open and slammed into the wall.
“Ah, there you are, General Sterling,” the intruder said. He was some kind of army officer, his uniform fairly glittering with gold braid and brass buttons. Behind him came half a dozen enlisted men in their bright blue uniforms with equally shiny buttons, carrying rifles and wearing sidearms.
A tremor of alarm flickered over him, but Thornton reminded himself that the army didn’t rob people. They couldn’t possibly be in any danger.
“What is the meaning of this, Colonel?” the general demanded. He’d also risen from his chair, and Thornton and Bates had, too.
“I think you know why we’re here, Sterling.” The colonel’s gaze skimmed the other three men, sizing them up. Thornton instinctively straightened and lifted his chin. “Which one of you is Vanderslice?”
“I am,” Vanderslice said. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“Colonel Inchwood, at your service. Am I correct in assuming that you gentlemen are here because you believe you are selling something to the United States Government?”
“That’s right,” Thornton said. “I am.”
The colonel looked him over again, this time with what might have been pity. “I’m sorry to inform you that General Sterling has no authority to purchase anything on behalf of the United States or anyone else.” He nodded to one of the soldiers, who moved to the table and began gathering all the papers lying there.
“What are you doing?” Vanderslice cried. “You can’t take those.”
“Yes, I can,” the colonel said. “That’s evidence. I’m here to arrest General Sterling for war profiteering, among other crimes.”
“You can’t do this,” the general said, outraged. “I’m a personal friend of President Wilson. He’ll never allow it.”
“When he heard what you were doing, he signed the warrant himself, General.” The colonel nodded to two other soldiers. “Take him.” They moved around the table and grabbed hold of the general, who seemed too flummoxed to even react.
Thornton suddenly realized with alarm that the first soldier had also picked up the envelope containing the bank drafts. “Wait, that’s mine.”
He would have lunged for the soldier, but the colonel held up his hand to stop him and snatched the envelope for himself. “What’s this? Ah, yes, bank drafts.” He looked up and shook his head. “Forged, I’m afraid, and worthless. The general was going to steal your property . . . What was he buying from you?”