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  “Sir, I will take up no more of your valuable time,” Greyfell said, wishing to leave before he died from boredom. “I shall be off to begin my search for a dwelling and allow you to return to your important business.”

  “You may yet to have found a permanent abode to sleep, but you are now and will forever be, home with your Wabash family,” Burroughs said genuinely. “The Wabash family is comprised of a fortunate few individuals blessed to have been led here since 1832. Some have come to teach, some to learn and others to clean the buildings; however, once here for any reason, no one can experience Wabash without falling in love. Wabash is home to all who love her.”

  After Burroughs said his farewell and went back into his office, Greyfell tarried in the hallway to study a huge lithograph hanging there titled “South and Center Halls.” It was by Gibson and Company, dated 1859. It depicted a group of professors wearing top hats, standing on the east side of the buildings watching the student militia drilling with rifles. Deciding the lithograph too large, and lacking the value to ever make its theft worthwhile, Greyfell considered exploring Center Hall for a few minutes to ascertain whether it contained any objects precious enough to appropriate at a later time. On reflection, he decided it prudent to save such adventure for another day; right now, he had important business downtown. He walked out the main door of Center Hall and began to saunter east through the beautiful arboretum encompassing the expansive front of the Wabash campus.

  As Greyfell strolled under the trees of the arboretum, listening to the birds sing and watching the squirrels play, he decided he would stop at both the First National and Elston Banks before going to the college’s business office in the Fisher Building. Becoming weary of carrying his Gladstone bag filled with cash everywhere, he planned to rent a safe-deposit box at both institutions. Not wanting to keep all his eggs in one basket, he would divide the money in the bag, keeping half in the safe-deposit boxes of each bank. Simply because he did not like its name, he intended to avoid Citizens National Bank at 118 East Main Street.

  Before crossing Grant Avenue to head downtown on Jefferson Street, he turned facing west to view the 40-acre campus from its front entrance. To the immediate left on a hill overlooking railroad tracks stood the old Normal Building, the brick structure now home of the custodian of buildings and grounds. The tracks owned by the Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago and St. Louis Railway, popularly known as the Big Four Railway, cut through the entire south end of the campus, running roughly parallel to Perry Street.

  While looking south across Perry Street as he gazed upon the O.P. Jennison homestead, Greyfell suddenly realized how truly out of place he was in this community, and especially on this campus. Although there was no turning back now, he hoped himself a good enough actor to play out his charade convincingly for as long as necessary. The pretense of his being a professor at a Presbyterian college was so ridiculous it was travesty; his was a life of adventure, danger and violence. Would all his painstaking plans be for naught and his desired objectives doomed because he underestimated the difficulties of fitting in here?

  Greyfell quickly refocused his mind. He could not afford the luxuries of fear and doubt. To succeed with his daring plan he needed courage and confidence. He could not allow himself another negative thought; he must remain optimistic. On a positive note, he had procured the position, and he had completely fooled Burroughs; and, since Burroughs was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent denizens of Crawfordsville, how difficult could it be to deceive the rest of them?

  As he turned around and began walking across Grant Avenue, he thought of President Burroughs’ recent words to him: “Wabash is home to all who love her.” Because he had never had one, Greyfell always desired a home. In fact, after he met Alice, the dream of making a home with her had become his ultimate goal in life. His love for her was so great, as long as she were with him, anywhere would seem like heaven, possibly even Crawfordsville. However, Greyfell had sent events of such a terrible nature in motion, his aspiration for a home was now the last thing on his mind. If each aspect of his complicated scheme did not go perfectly, he would soon be dead; and, it would take all his cleverness, and a lot of luck, for every aspect to go perfectly.

  At any rate, the last piece of his audacious plan was now finally in place. It would inevitably be the cause of either his greatest achievement or his utter destruction; and, his wait would not be long for the outcome. In just 41days, on September 23, for a few moments only, the most valuable item on earth would be on the Wabash College campus. If he could manage to stay alive until then, Greyfell intended to steal it.

  II

  In Search of Greyfell

  What had promised to be a boring evening in Cole Cordwood’s life suddenly became unexpectedly stimulating. Although he was attending the Amalthea Association’s sponsored lectures on the topic of benevolence and charity, he had not really intended to listen to any of the speakers. His sole purpose for attending was to closely inspect Madison Square Garden and to observe how efficiently its management and staff could handle an event. He wanted to determine whether Madison Square Garden Company’s second mortgage bonds were the bargain they appeared to be on paper. He needed to make his decision before J.P. Morgan and Company reorganized Madison Square Garden Company next Sunday, 15 August 1897. Therefore, Cordwood simply ignored all of the lectures as he wandered around and analyzed the facility and observed the staff, that is, until a Dr. Charon Stygian began to speak.

  The reaction of the audience to Stygian’s address interrupted Cordwood’s thoughts as he calculated the building’s 13,000-seat capacity’s correlation to the company’s ability to pay 6 per cent per annum on the reorganized bonds. The sober multitude had quite abruptly become extremely agitated; once Cordwood began to pay attention to Stygian’s words, it was apparent why the crowd was becoming so incensed.

  “You are all self-serving hypocrites!” Stygian yelled. “All who give to charity do so for selfish reasons, not for the benefit of others. All philanthropic organizations in New York, including the Amalthea Association, are nothing but packs of wealthy wolves slaughtering flocks of poor sheep. You periodically do an insignificant act of perceived good in order to trick all the little lambs into believing you are their shepherds and not bloodthirsty wolves at all.”

  If Stygian’s intent had been to alienate his audience, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He had affronted New York philanthropists in general, and the Amalthea Association in particular; these were people used to veneration, not denigration. The founders of the Amalthea Association considered themselves the social, intellectual and spiritual elite. Only recently had they changed the name of their organization from “Cornucopia” to “Amalthea” as they worried the former not sufficiently cryptic. After all, even a common person could know “cornucopia” was a horn containing an endless supply of nourishment for the infant Zeus; but only a person of superior sophistication and intellect would know “Amalthea” was the goat from which the horn came. Thus, was the name changed to make the association more fit for the likes of the Astors, the Roosevelts and the Vanderbilts.

  “A selfless act of charity is impossible for anyone to achieve,” Stygian stated, after waiting for a lull in the clamor of the angry crowd. “By definition, a truly selfless act of charity can bring no advantage of any kind to the benefactor; the beneficiary would have to be a total stranger to the benefactor, and no one can ever learn that the benefactor was responsible for the act. No one has ever met, nor will ever meet, the criteria.”

  “What of the acts of God?” Reverend Henry Codman Potter, Protestant Episcopal Bishop of New York, asked in a voice loud enough to resonate over the din.

  “It is beyond the ability of any deity to do a selfless act because the deity demands to be worshiped for all its acts,” Stygian replied, in a manner so smug it added fuel to the flames of hostility within the assembled crowd.

&
nbsp; Although Cordwood admired Stygian’s nerve and was entertained by his acrimonious style, he felt his central argument inane. Many anonymous donations could well be selfless acts of charity using Stygian’s own definitions and criteria. Cordwood did not consider voicing his opinion out of a sense of mercy; it appeared Stygian had enough enemies spitting questions and insults at him for the moment.

  “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish.” George F. Nelson, rector of St. Barnabas Chapel, reiterated the Biblical passage in a tone of true exasperation.

  “Sir, the fact that you know God did it, and worship Him for it, proves He failed in two of the criteria,” Stygian said, after waiting for the “Amens” and “Here, Heres” to subside. “And, the fact that He so loved the world proves the beneficiary was not a total stranger; so, your God failed in all the criteria.”

  “But what of Christ and His sacrifice?” Catholic Archbishop of New York, M.A. Corrighan shouted.

  “Jesus benefited immensely from His act,” Stygian answered, after pouring a glass of water and drinking it slowly. “He knew in advance His sacrifice would make Him King of Kings, and Lord of Lords; Christ made out like a bandit.”

  This blasphemous comment about Jesus caused such an uproar it effectively ended Stygian’s talk, although he tried to quiet the crowed until the very moment he was escorted off the stage. Cordwood wondered if Stygian had been paid in advance for his lecture. If not, the odds were certainly against him receiving remuneration now.

  Cordwood’s thoughts went back to business as he ignored the next lecturer, the buzz of the crowd and the tramping of exiting feet. Though this had been a relatively small event by Madison Square Garden standards, he felt it had given him a fairly good understanding of the way the place was run. He determined it was worth the risk to buy sixty thousand dollars of the bonds; his mind now settled, he joined the line of those departing.

  As was his custom, once outside, he ignored all cabs and began to make his brisk walk home. Although he lived only a few blocks away in a Brownstone on East Twentieth Street, he would have walked had it been miles. He simply enjoyed walking and would do it in any weather.

  As he strode along, his mind went back to the founding members of the Amalthea Association. Although he knew a few of them, did business with some of them and was as rich as most of them, he was not accepted in their elevated social circle because his was not “old” money. They looked down upon anyone who acquired wealth in any way other than being born to it. All non-inherited money was perceived inferior by their indolent minds, so they treated Cordwood exactly as they did all the nouveau riche: they subtly snubbed him. In their sophistry of reason, a great fortune amassed by any effort was indistinguishable from the wages of a common laborer; thus, such money was dirty and the hands of its owner soiled. In Cordwood’s particular situation, how shocked these elite would be if they learned how truly filthy his money, and hands, were.

  Cordwood was a mercenary, actually the leader of an army of mercenaries. For the appropriate compensation, Cordwood and his men could handle anything from assassinations to waging wars. Smuggling was a lucrative sideline, as was stealing; however, the bread-and-butter of the business always remained killing for hire. Inflicting death in any quantity was his specialty and his most profitable enterprise; there was never a shortage of clients willing to pay handsomely for his service of extinguishing other men’s lives.

  Cordwood had walked two blocks when a rather sinister looking, stout, balding man emerged from a dark alley and approached him. When the man got close, Cordwood slowed down a bit by shortening his stride; then, he looked over at the portly man with an expression of restless expectation.

  “We haven’t found Greyfell yet,” the corpulent man said, in a deep, raspy voice.

  “Then why in hell are you here and not out looking for him?” Cordwood snapped, as he went back to waking at his normal pace. “Have you gone insane Grimes? Why are you wasting time telling me no news?”

  “I got news, “Grimes said, while trying to keep up with Cordwood’s long strides. “He was right here in New York two days ago, in Harlem.”

  With only a turn of his head and an impatient glance, Cordwood clearly communicated his desire to hear all the facts in rapid fashion. Even when barely illuminated by a street lamp Cordwood’s facial expressions were much louder than his words.

  “He hired Denton to forge a bunch of papers for him,” Grimes said with an even more grating voice, due to the strain of having to speak while trying to catch his breath from the brisk walk. “Greyfell picked up everything and paid the balance the day before yesterday.”

  Another curt look from Cordwood told Grimes to continue, and quickly; he had not paused to wait for a reaction from Cordwood but only to take a deep breath.

  “Greyfell wanted a diploma, a lot of transcripts and a bunch of letters of reference from professors,” Grimes wheezed out. “All from a place called John Hopkins.”

  “Johns Hopkins,” Cordwood corrected Grimes, while slowing to a complete stop. “What name is Greyfell using?”

  “Strange enough, he wanted his real name put on all the documents,” Grimes said, as he savored the blissful state of standing still.

  “Perhaps not strange at all,” Cordwood said softly, as if thinking aloud, rather than speaking to Grimes. “After all, Greyfell’s not wanted for a crime anywhere on earth under his real name.”

  “You want Denton killed for talking don’t you?” Grimes asked nonchalantly. “We didn’t have to rough him up much at all before he started telling everything. I figured you wouldn’t want a loose-tongued forger left able to tell more secrets, what with all the work he’s done for you; so, I left Pitts back there with him to do the job once I get back with the word form you.”

  “How long have you worked for me?” Cordwood asked staidly.

  “Over twenty years,” Grimes answered, with a sheepish tone to his froggy voice.

  “In all that time, have I ever wanted you to do any of my thinking?” Cordwood asked sedately.

  Grimes bowed a bit, averting his eyes as he shook his head from side to side.

  “I want Denton alive because he is the best, and I will no doubt need him in the future,” Cordwood growled. “However, I want Denton to understand from now on he works exclusively for me and me alone! You and Pitts move him and all his belongings from his place in Harlem to the building I own in the Bronx; he can have the entire third floor for his living quarters and operations. He is to have no company I have not approved in advance, and he is never to leave unescorted. I want him watched 24 hours, everyday. Do you understand?

  Grimes nodded.

  “Have Denton completely relocated by morning,” Cordwood ordered tersely, as if such a feat would require no time or effort at all from Grimes. “And, I want Greyfell found at once!”

  “Damn it, we’re all doing our best boss!” Grimes said defensively to the point of defiance. In the heat of the moment, pride in his work and in the work of his men outweighed his fear of upsetting Cordwood; and, he was too mentally and physically exhausted from days of nonstop hunting for Greyfell to care what Cordwood thought. “The boys have all been working their asses off on this one.”

  “If you had done your best, you would have found Greyfell two days ago,” Cordwood uttered, with such revulsion he spat out the words as if purging poisons. “I want no more excuses from you, only dammed quick results! You find Greyfell immediately, or I’m going to come down on you and the boys; and, hell will be coming with me!”

  Grimes had forgotten about being proud and tired even before Cordwood grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and lifted him up until they were looking eye to eye; Cordwood’s caustic threat had already removed any thoughts from his mind, other than ideas on how to find Greyfell. Over the years, G
rimes had often encountered the foul temper of an impatient Cordwood; but this degree of intensity was extraordinary and frightening, even for Cordwood.

  “I’m going to give you and the boys an incentive to stop being lazy and incompetent, and actually do your job for a change,” Cordwood said, while tightening his grip on Grime’s collar. “I’ll pay a twenty-thousand dollar bonus if Greyfell is found by midnight tomorrow; the reward gets cut in half each and every day after. If he has not been discovered before the reward gets below a thousand, I’ll make you and the boys wish you were never born. Now, do you promise to finally find Greyfell for me?”

  Grimes nodded simply to appease Cordwood. He and his men had been working so hard and long searching for Greyfell he did not think it possible to intensify the effort, even with incentives or threats. Finding a person in hiding took time; finding a person with copious amounts of brains and money in hiding also took luck. Grimes could not really promise to find Greyfell’s hideout quickly, but at least his nod to that effect had calmed Cordwood to the point of setting him back down and releasing the hold on his collar.

  “This probably would never occur to you and the boys; but, because of the nature of the documents Denton forged for Greyfell, you might want to include colleges and universities as possible places to look for him,” Cordwood said sarcastically, while turning to walk away. “The next time you and I meet, you shall have found Greyfell!”

  III

  A Job Postponed

  John Prester was arguably the finest hired assassin ever born. During his eighteen-year career, he had successfully fulfilled all his contracts by causing the deaths of 216 men. He was in London, England, for the sole purpose of inducing the untimely end of victim number 217. His future target, Charles Harrison, was a member of the United Kingdom House of Commons. Prester planned to do the job by suffocating Harrison; if executed properly, it would seem Harrison had died of heart failure. Prester usually dispatched victims in a manner that made it appear as though they had succumbed to natural causes; on occasion, he would orchestrate an unfortunate accident, like a drowning. Either way, he was so adept at his craft, no authority had ever suspected foul play regarding the demise of any of his prey.