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Broken Bond (Version 2)

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<h2 id="VIII">CHAPTER VIII. “NAME YOUR PRICE.”</h2> James Stone looked as if the ground had suddenly caved from under his feet. His big body stiffened, his hands clutched his hat, and his startled eyes were riveted on Follansbee’s countenance. He moistened his dry lips again and attempted to speak, but it ended only in a swallow, as evidenced by the movement in his throat. The great specialist seemed to enjoy the sensation he had made. “You know, Mr. Stone,” he went on, “that we doctors have a way, sometimes, of locating a patient’s trouble by feeling him over until we find a tender spot. When he winces, we know we’ve struck it, and we draw our own conclusions. It’s obvious that I’ve found your tender spot; therefore, there isn’t any use in your beating about the bush. I know that you desire to eliminate Crawford. I might use a stronger expression, but I’ll spare your feelings to that extent. Out with it, now, man! You have a lot of poison bottled up in your system. Let it come out. If there’s anything wrong with you mentally, as your friend in Brazil seems to have thought, I’ll find it out and make due allowances. On the other hand, if you’re sane, you need be no more afraid of confiding[45] in me. I’m not a policeman, you know—or a judge. Remember, too, that I have said I could help you.” It was not so much his words, but the manner in which he uttered them that gave James Stone a certain confidence. Follansbee was as far removed as possible from the type of the kindly, tolerant, helpful physician. On the contrary, everything said, every glance he cast—the whole man, in fact—would have been highly distasteful to the average person. It was that very thing, however, that tended to draw Stone out and to make him reveal the murderous impulses which controlled him. It seemed incredible, but he had a feeling that he had nothing to fear from the famous Doctor Follansbee; in fact, that the latter was a possible ally. And in support of that startling belief, certain words of young Floyd’s came to him. Floyd had said that Follansbee was very eccentric, had ways of doing things that were all his own, and was in the habit of seeming to sympathize with those who came to him, no matter what they might say or do. The young physician had evidently been a firm believer in the man who had once been his professor, but Stone found himself wondering if Follansbee was what he had seemed to Floyd. He doubted it, and decided he had found a kindred spirit. Follansbee’s mask seemed to be slipping off. Emboldened by this, the miner dropped his great[46] hands on his knees and leaned forward, flinging a quick glance about him as he did so. “Are you sure we’ll not be heard here?” he asked, cunning returning to his eyes. “Perfectly,” was the answer. “My servants are well trained, and these walls are much thicker than those they put into the houses they build nowadays. You can talk openly and freely, Stone, and your secrets will be guarded.” Stone nodded, and the glitter in his eyes became more pronounced. “You are right, Doctor Follansbee,” he said. “I can’t figure out how you know, but I want to get rid of Win Crawford. I—I want to get rid of him before he gets rid of me.” His heavy face was wrinkled into a mask of cunning—the foolish, vacant cunning of the insane. “He thinks he’s clever,” Stone went on; “thinks I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I’m as cute as he is, and I’ve tumbled to him.” Follansbee had folded his long, flexible fingers and was leaning his shoulders on the arms of his chair. His evil-looking eyes were slowly taking on a mocking twinkle as they looked at the features of the man in front of him. The skilled specialist had no further doubt about the matter. At that moment he knew to a certainty that James Stone was mad, and that his was the most dangerous form of insanity, for it centered only on one object. Outwardly and in his everyday life, Stone might[47] move and conduct himself as an ordinary individual, but lurking always in his diseased brain was one wild and terrible fancy—an insane fear and hatred of the man who in the brighter, if less prosperous, past he had once risked his life to save. It remained to be seen, however, in what Follansbee’s treatment of the case would consist. “So you think that your partner is going to kill you, do you?” the specialist asked. “I don’t think—I know!” the husky voice returned. “All this is only a game of his. He has brought me to New York because he was afraid to do it in Brazil. I have too many friends there, but he’ll find I’m too much for him. Ha, ha! He’ll find out!” The laugh was so ugly and hollow, and the man so obviously getting more and more excited that Follansbee decided to stave off a further outburst. “That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure you will be able to look after yourself.” “I’m going to do more than that,” Stone announced malignantly. “I’m going to kill him before he has a chance to kill me.” It was clear that he had thrown off all fear of Follansbee, either under the influence of his own misguided desires or his belief that the head of St. Swithin’s was not what he seemed to the world. With a quick movement he rose to his feet, and, leaning over the desk, looked down into the physician’s eyes with a face that worked convulsively. “And you’ve got to help me!” he added. “I’ve[48] tried three times to do it, twice on board the Cortez, but luck was against me every time.” “Three times!” Follansbee repeated, in astonishment. “Then Crawford knows what you’re up to?” “Yes, he knows,” Stone answered, “but that doesn’t make any difference. He’s a fool, and he thinks he’s got to stick by me to wait his own chance. He and I are staying at the same hotel in connecting rooms. We breakfasted at the same table this morning, and I had hard work to get away from him.” “That’s queer,” the specialist remarked thoughtfully. “He must be a fool!” His surprise was genuine. He was not capable of fathoming the true cause of Crawford’s devotion to his old comrade—could not understand that Stone’s partner had forgiven and deliberately left his life in jeopardy for the sake of other days. And in James Stone’s distorted brain there was no more idea of the truth. He stabbed at the desk with one thick finger. “That’s his cursed cunning, I tell you!” he declared. “He’s waiting until he gets good and ready to strike. By Heaven, I can’t sleep at night, sometimes, for thinking of it! That’s why he doesn’t leave me, even though I’ve tried three times to kill him. He’s just waiting his chance, waiting his chance.” The hoarse voice was lifted until it broke. “But his chance isn’t going to come!” the demented man insisted. “He won’t live to get it! You’ve got to help me, I tell you. Floyd sent me to you because he caught me trying to shoot Crawford out there,[49] and thought I was crazy. You know better, though, and I know something about you. Floyd thinks you’re only a great doctor, but he’s a kid, and he doesn’t know the world as I do. I ain’t crazy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee; I ain’t a fool. Maybe New York thinks you’re a saint, for all I know—though I don’t see how it can when it looks at that face of yours! But I know you’re not. You may be the king-pin of your profession, but you’re a crook as well—as big a rascal as ever walked the earth! I know something about men, and you can’t fool me. “Now, let’s get down to business,” he continued. “Charlie Floyd sent me here for one kind of help, but you’ve opened the way for another—and that’s the kind I want. I ain’t very good at this sort of thing, I’ll admit. I’ve failed three times, but if you take it on, I guess you’ll get your man at the first crack. If you can’t I’ve got you wrong. I’m willing to pay well, but I don’t want any backing and filling about it. So name your price and let’s get busy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee, for time is on the wing.” <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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