he’s as shrewd as they make ’em. It will be a relief to discuss the proposition with him.”
Buell looked relieved, too.
“Lansing is a smart old duck,” he said. “After your talk, drop me a hint of his advice, will you? I trust his judgment as much as your own, even though we’re professional traders.”
“I’ll do it,” nodded Leon.
He went out of the big ground-floor offices of Carney & Buell, past the customers’ room where the board and its chalked quotations held the rigid attention of a score or so of men, and through the bronze revolving door.
At the curb was his car. It was a big town car of dark blue. In the front seat, immobile as a block of wood, was a gigantic figure of a man in black whipcord.
“To Mr. Lansing’s home, Algernon,” Leon said.
The chauffeur’s huge face, moonlike and placid, with peaceable and not-too-intelligent-looking china-blue eyes, writhed a little with that “Algernon.” But the giant only said, in a voice rather high for his vast bulk: “Mr. Lansing’s home. Yes, sir.”
The home of John Lansing, in the heart of the best residential section, squatted in half a block of lawn and looked like a bank. It seemed very quiet when you considered how many people must be around. All the servants, a family, friends. But not a soul could be seen as Leon’s town car went up the front drive.
At the rear, there was a four-car garage with servants’ quarters over it, and a covered tunnel into the house. No one moved out there, either.
“You’re sure he’s home, sir?” said the giant driver.
“Yes. Just got a phone call from him. Wait here, Algernon.”
Leon, spruce and elderly and sober, trotted up the steps and rang the bell. The front door was opened. He stepped inside the house.
The minutes passed. Not one sound of activity came from the house. Not one glimpse of a living soul came from the grounds. The gigantic driver shifted uneasily at the wheel, and kept looking at the blank, dead door.
He opened the dash compartment and took out a thick book. “Radio-active Phenomena,” the book was titled. He opened it near the back and began studying. But he could not keep his mind on the text.
An hour passed. And abruptly, with a shake of decision, the huge driver moved his vast shoulders and got out of the monkey seat. Something about this picture didn’t smell right.
He went to the door and rang the bell. A butler would open it, of course, Leon would presently appear, and he’d bawl him out for being so fresh as to inquire for him. But the driver decided he’d take that chance. Every instinct told him something was wrong.
No one answered the ring. He punched at the bell again, heard it echo hollowly through vaulting space. You can feel if a place is untenanted.
But this place ought not to be empty! His boss had gone in there, hadn’t he?
The chauffeur’s placid eyes had taken on a queer, deep, alert look on his moon face. He put his hand on the ornate wrought-iron doorknob.
This man, for all the commonplace-looking chauffeur’s livery, was like something that had stepped from the legendary age of giants. He was six feet nine. He weighed two hundred and eighty-five pounds. He was fifty-three inches around the chest, and wore a size-nineteen collar. His arms were bigger around than most men’s thighs, and his legs were pillars fit for building-foundation purposes. Under his arms, among the barrel of his chest, the slabs and knots of muscle were so ponderous that his arms couldn’t hang straight down—they crooked out so that they looked stubby, though actually they were almost of gorilla length.
Men of the giant’s breed are seen occasionally. Primo Camera was one such. But they are rare. And when they do happen along, the ordinary appliances and furnishings of life are not proportioned for them.
The giant shook the locked front door. Then, with a heave that threatened to burst the whipcord livery over his huge shoulders, he lunged inward.
The
Buell looked relieved, too.
“Lansing is a smart old duck,” he said. “After your talk, drop me a hint of his advice, will you? I trust his judgment as much as your own, even though we’re professional traders.”
“I’ll do it,” nodded Leon.
He went out of the big ground-floor offices of Carney & Buell, past the customers’ room where the board and its chalked quotations held the rigid attention of a score or so of men, and through the bronze revolving door.
At the curb was his car. It was a big town car of dark blue. In the front seat, immobile as a block of wood, was a gigantic figure of a man in black whipcord.
“To Mr. Lansing’s home, Algernon,” Leon said.
The chauffeur’s huge face, moonlike and placid, with peaceable and not-too-intelligent-looking china-blue eyes, writhed a little with that “Algernon.” But the giant only said, in a voice rather high for his vast bulk: “Mr. Lansing’s home. Yes, sir.”
The home of John Lansing, in the heart of the best residential section, squatted in half a block of lawn and looked like a bank. It seemed very quiet when you considered how many people must be around. All the servants, a family, friends. But not a soul could be seen as Leon’s town car went up the front drive.
At the rear, there was a four-car garage with servants’ quarters over it, and a covered tunnel into the house. No one moved out there, either.
“You’re sure he’s home, sir?” said the giant driver.
“Yes. Just got a phone call from him. Wait here, Algernon.”
Leon, spruce and elderly and sober, trotted up the steps and rang the bell. The front door was opened. He stepped inside the house.
The minutes passed. Not one sound of activity came from the house. Not one glimpse of a living soul came from the grounds. The gigantic driver shifted uneasily at the wheel, and kept looking at the blank, dead door.
He opened the dash compartment and took out a thick book. “Radio-active Phenomena,” the book was titled. He opened it near the back and began studying. But he could not keep his mind on the text.
An hour passed. And abruptly, with a shake of decision, the huge driver moved his vast shoulders and got out of the monkey seat. Something about this picture didn’t smell right.
He went to the door and rang the bell. A butler would open it, of course, Leon would presently appear, and he’d bawl him out for being so fresh as to inquire for him. But the driver decided he’d take that chance. Every instinct told him something was wrong.
No one answered the ring. He punched at the bell again, heard it echo hollowly through vaulting space. You can feel if a place is untenanted.
But this place ought not to be empty! His boss had gone in there, hadn’t he?
The chauffeur’s placid eyes had taken on a queer, deep, alert look on his moon face. He put his hand on the ornate wrought-iron doorknob.
This man, for all the commonplace-looking chauffeur’s livery, was like something that had stepped from the legendary age of giants. He was six feet nine. He weighed two hundred and eighty-five pounds. He was fifty-three inches around the chest, and wore a size-nineteen collar. His arms were bigger around than most men’s thighs, and his legs were pillars fit for building-foundation purposes. Under his arms, among the barrel of his chest, the slabs and knots of muscle were so ponderous that his arms couldn’t hang straight down—they crooked out so that they looked stubby, though actually they were almost of gorilla length.
Men of the giant’s breed are seen occasionally. Primo Camera was one such. But they are rare. And when they do happen along, the ordinary appliances and furnishings of life are not proportioned for them.
The giant shook the locked front door. Then, with a heave that threatened to burst the whipcord livery over his huge shoulders, he lunged inward.
The
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