The Substitute Millionaire Page #13

Jack Norman had no idea he was Silas Gyde's sole heir—until the multimillionaire was killed by an anarchist's bomb and Jack found himself the richest man in New York. The inheritance included a warning from his benefactor about an elaborate protection scheme promising to protect the wealthy from anarchists, in which Gyde had declined to enroll. Recognizing his own danger, Jack enlists a out-of-work actor to take on his own identity, while he, in the guise of Jack Norman's secretary, works furiously behind the scenes to break up the gang and unmask their leader, the mysterious Mr. B.

• Fiction
• Mystery

								


"What's your name?" asked Jack.

"Private or professional?"

"Oh, anything you like."

"Well, I'm generally known as Guy Harmsworth."

"Some name, 'Bo!"

However, the really significant names seem to come out of the air. Jack started calling his friend 'Bo.  From that it was but a little step to Bobo.  In the sound of Bobo there was something subtly descriptive.  It stuck.  He is Bobo still.

As they entered the big clothing store Jack said: "Get the best.  I'll stand for it."

Bobo thus encouraged, proved to have a very nice taste in wearing apparel.  They bought hurriedly, for the pangs of hunger were pressing. But when the main articles, suit, hat, shoes, were out of the way both young men plunged in the smaller and more luxurious articles; shirts of heavy silk that crinkled richly between thumb and finger; wonderful cravats that would almost stand alone.  Few youngsters attain their desires in this direction, and Bobo and Jack, long denied, fairly wallowed.  They each bought a valise to carry away their surplus purchases.

In half an hour Bobo was transformed.  To call Bobo fat was merely to indicate his type.  He was not all over the place, but a well set-up youngster of a rather melting style of beauty, which promised obesity later perhaps, but in youth was not unpleasing.  At least not in his new clothes.

When finally Jack produced the roll of yellow backs to pay for what they had bought, Bobo's look of anxiety disappeared and was not seen again.  A little sigh escaped him.  It was as if he had said:

"It is not a dream."

Bobo leaving the outfitters was metamorphosed in more than his apparel. He stuck his chest out now, and looked passers-by in the eye.  A stage-English accent crept into his unadorned Manhattanese.  Jack seeing him cast sheep's-eyes at a stand of walking-sticks, purchased him a yellow malacca, such as his own soul had hankered after earlier in the day.  It was the finishing touch.  Bobo swung it with a delightful arrogance.  He even adopted a certain condescension of tone towards Jack who had no stick.

"I say, old chap, these togs are really not half bad for ready-made, what!  Not what a London tailor would turn out of course.  But they fit, because I happen to have a normal figure."

"Perfect forty-six," murmured Jack.

They returned for their dinner to the famous café on Bryant Square.  It was the first eating-place in New York that dared to veil its interior from the vulgar gaze.  Those alluring, closely-drawn pink curtains cause the envious poor to suspect the delightful worst.  It is not so well known in the provinces as flashier resorts, but it is certainly the place where most New Yorkers go first when they get money.

When they finally penetrated the mystery the plainness of the interior was rather disappointing, and the place was almost empty for it was half way between the dinner and the supper hours.  But the food when it came justified the café's great reputation.

Jack had ordered blindly from the French carte-de-jour, choosing the most expensive dish from each subdivision; Petite Marmite; Cotelotte des Ecrivisses au diable; Filet Mignon au Moelle: pommes de terre Florizel; Choux-fleur hollandaise; plombière, etc.  The result was eminently satisfactory.  Bobo groaned with delight.  It appeared that Bobo had a special and particular talent for eating.

"Don't wake me!  Don't wake me!" he prayed.  "Many's the time I've dreamed of this, but it was always snatched away just as I sat down. Say, are we going to have coffee and cigars?"

"Sure thing.  Fifty centers."

"O Lord, let me sleep till then and afterwards.  You can do what you like to me!"

"You seem to have a nice taste in fancy eats," said Jack.

"A nice taste!  I was born with the tongue of an epicure, a delicate tongue, a high-toned tongue!  For me to be obliged to eat in lunch wagons and beaneries was a crime against nature!"

"Well, how would you like to keep this up for a while?" said Jack with an offhand air.

"Hey?" said Bobo opening his eyes.

Jack studied him.  "He's something of a fool," he thought.  "But maybe that's what I need.  I couldn't control a hard-headed guy.  And he's an actor.  He ought to be able to play a part.  And he'd be grateful for his meals, I could do what I wanted with him.  Anyhow I have to take a chance, and I might do worse."

"What d'ye mean, keep it up?" demanded Bobo.

"This is only a sample," said Jack.  "How would you like the real thing for a while; a suite of rooms at the Madagascar; a yacht, a motor car----  Oh, half a dozen motors; all the clothes you wanted from the best tailor in America; as for the eats--all you'd have to do would be press a button and give your order."

Bobo turned a little pale.  "What are you getting at?"

"Supposing a man offered you this, would you be willing to put yourself in his hands?"

"Say, if it was on the level, he could do what he wanted with me!" said Bobo fervently.

"All right!" said Jack.  "It's a go!"

Bobo stared.  "Say, fellow, what kind of a pipe are you giving me?  Do you mean you are offering me----  Are you crazy?"

"Did you read the afternoon papers?" asked Jack.

Bobo nodded.  "Fellow left his on a bench beside me."

"You've never asked me my name."

"What is it?"

"Jack Norman."

Bobo stared speechless.  "On the level?" he gasped.

Jack took a couple of letters from his pocket and showed him the superscriptions.

"Jack Norman!" said Bobo.  "Then what were you loafing in the park by yourself for?"

"Trying to get accustomed to the idea."

Bobo had no more to say.  He had lost the condescending air.

"Here's the situation," said Jack.  "For certain reasons which I will explain to you, I want to keep under cover for a while.  I want to keep my picture out of the papers.  I don't want to be pointed out and followed wherever I go.  Well, the easiest way to escape notice is for me to get some fellow to take my place, see?"

"But everybody who knows you will know I'm not the real guy."

"That's all right.  We won't be moving in the same circles as I used to.  Want to do it?"

"Do I want to do it----!"

"Wait a minute.  It's only fair to warn you that old Silas Gyde was croaked by a gang of blackmailers, and they're after me now."

Bobo paled and hesitated.

"But I mean to meet all their demands until we nail them, so there's not much danger."

Bobo's face cleared.  "Will I do it----" he began again.

"Hold on!  There are two conditions.  You must promise to do everything I tell you.  And second, you are not to marry any woman under false pretences."

"I promise," said Bobo.

"Good!  It's a bargain.  From this moment you are John Farrow Norman, the newly-made millionaire, and I am plain Jack Robinson, your secretary."

They shook hands across the table.

8

As the two young men left the café Bobo said: "Where are we going now?"

"First we must find quarters," said Jack.  "We don't want to carry these valises around all night."
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