The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

for me. Well, then, there’s no more to be said. Must you be going so soon?”

      “I—I—yes. I better be gettin’ along.”

      “Good night, then. See you Satur­day.”

      “Good night,” said Bogan, and de­parted.

      On the stairway he kicked himself, groaning.

      “What a damn fool I was not to take him up at forty! Why, Cozzens was countin’ on fifty, anyhow. I could of knocked down ten for myself, easy as pie. If I hadn’t tried to grab the whole fifty— My Gawd, when will I learn that honesty’s the best policy, after all?”

      IV.

      The wedding was one of the most brilliant ever held at St. Simon Stylites Church. Brilliant, too, was the future of Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge Brant held to be. He, as the only son-in-law of so prominent a politician as old Dexter Cozzens; she, as the wife of a man destined in short order to erase the word “assistant” from his present title, received innumerable felicitations.

      The papers gave the ceremony bril­liant write-ups, and mentioned the bril­liancy with which young Brant had run down—from very slight clews—the forger responsible for the death of Markwood Hinman, for the assault on Henry Kitching, and for the theft of the forged check in Kitching’s pocket.

      The trial, everybody remembered, had been brilliant. Only for the unfor­tunate “hanging” of the jury, on account of circumstantial evidence, brilliant jus­tice would have been done. The crim­inal, however—a Norwegian named Aalborg, and rather a brilliant fellow—had got four years. So everybody agreed it had all been very brilliant, especially as the criminal would have remained quite undetected had it not been for young Brant’s exceptional legal ability. The general brilliancy made everybody happy, and the papers all pre­dicted a crushing campaign against the crime wave, a cleanup of municipal politics, and all sorts of lovely and de­sirable reforms.

      Not the least brilliant of all develop­ments from the case were those that be­fore very long began to smile down on the stanch old war horse and reformer, Dexter Cozzens. His fortunes soon be­gan to prosper, rapidly though quietly. For brilliancy of this kind is usually kept hidden under bushels—nay, even under pecks. And this, of course, is all as it should be.

      Another brilliant feature of the af­fair, likewise unknown to the public, was the kind of instruction given at the pen by Aalborg, now known only as No. 45327. He undertook to teach the tough idea not, indeed, to shoot, but to explore mathematics, penmanship, and foreign languages. His services were recognized as exceptionally brilliant. They were willing, too. No. 45327 was never “stood out,” got all kinds of good-conduct marks, became popular with everybody from the war­den down—or up, as you choose—and seemed to enjoy his work almost as if he were getting paid a thousand dollars a month for it. So brilliant a teacher he became, and so model a prisoner, that before long special privileges were extended to him; and, though confined, his punishment hung not too onerously upon his gray-clad shoulders.

      Thus everything turned out most bril­liantly for all hands, save for Best-pol­icy Bogan. He, strangely enough, took scant joy of anything connected with the matter. For some reason unknown, he seemed to be cherishing a secret sor­row. But as his opinion, one way or the other, was not of the slightest im­portance, nobody cared.

      Thus time passed, Cozzens waxed fat, Brant became powerful. Aalborg was forgotten by the world; and presently three years and seven months were gone. Then the prison gates swung open for him and he walked out—a man who had well served his purpose, a free man, with his debt to society all paid.

      Society, having long since dismissed him from its mind, gave him no slight­est heed. What is deader than dead news?

      Another question: Does all this mean our story is completely done? Not in the least, as we shall very presently see.

      V.

      Half a year after Aalborg’s release, Aalborg himself sent in his card to Dis­trict Attorney Coolidge Brant. The card read: “John Carl Enemark.” The visitor requested only a few words in private. Brant, expansive with pros­perity and power, bade the clerk usher Mr. Enemark into the private office.

      “Mr. Brant,” said the visitor, laying his hat and gloves on the glass-topped desk, “I did you a great favor, just a little more than five years ago. Your conviction of me was the first case that brought you prominently into the public eye. I am not overstating the facts when I say you are now district attorney because of that case. Do you remember me?”

      “Perfectly,” answered Brant, which was quite true. Vestine, Aalborg, Ene­mark—whatever you choose to call him—had not changed appreciably. He had grown a little higher in the fore­head, perhaps, where the hair had faded; had taken on a few pounds of flesh, and showed a fresher color, that was all. His clothes still were of the quiet blue with the faint vertical stripe, that he always wore. He looked content and well-to-do. Prosperity seemed to have knocked at his door and found that door open.

      “Are you amicably disposed toward me, Mr. Brant?” asked Vestine, for so we shall name him.

      “Sit down, please,” invited the dis­trict attorney with a smile.

      Vestine sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and waited.

      “Well?” asked Brant.

      “I still have a question before you, Mr. Brant. Are you amicable?”

      “Perfectly. To be frank with you, Mr.—er—Enemark, I’m sorry I couldn’t send you to the chair. I did my best to, and failed. That’s all part of the fortunes of war, and I hold no ill will. So long as you go straight, and break no laws, I bear no animus.”

      “Neither do I against you. I am planning to go back to Denmark in about a month. ‘My native country, thee,’ and all that sort of thing. Be­fore I start, I have a favor to ask of you.”

      “What is it?”

      “I want to get married.”

      Brant smiled and drummed his fin­gers on the desk.

      “That’s very laudable,” he answered. “Marriage is often an excellent asset to a man’s success and honesty.”

      “Quite so. Have I your permission to marry the young lady of my choice, under honorable conditions?”

      “Certainly! Why ask me?”

      “There’s a very special reason, Mr. Brant.”

      “Which is—”

      “She happens, at present, to be under indictment for forgery in this city, and out on bail. This forgery she com­mitted without my knowledge or con­sent, in a kind of moment of inadvert­ence, so to speak. Her bail is two thousand dollars. I’m her bondsman—indirectly. Well?”

      “Well?”

      “I want the indictment quashed and the bail bond returned. She could jump bail, easily enough, and I could afford to lose two thousand dollars without serious inconvenience. But that doesn’t suit my purpose. First, because two thousand dollars is really money; and second because forgery’s an extraditable offense, and I don’t intend to have my wife a fugitive from justice. There­fore, I’m asking you to do me this favor.”

      “Well, you are a cool one, I must say!” exclaimed the district attorney.

      “Very true. Will you arrange the matter for me?”

      “I like your nerve!”

      “I’m glad of that, Mr. Brant. It’s helped you before now. Please make a note of my fiancée’s case. It’s dock­eted as No. 327, for the spring term. And—”

      “Why, this is preposterous!” cried Brant, reaching for the push button. “Good day, sir!”

      “Wait,” smiled Vestine, gently push­ing back the other’s hand. “Suppose you refuse me, what then?”

      “Why—why—”

      “Imagine