Wade Atsheler is dead—dead by his own hand. To say that this was
entirely unexpected by the small coterie which knew him, would be to say
an untruth; and yet never once had we, his intimates, ever canvassed the
idea. Rather had we been prepared for it in some incomprehensible
subconscious way. Before the perpetration of the deed, its possibility is
remotest from our thoughts; but when we did know that he was dead, it
seemed, somehow, that we had understood and looked forward to it all the
time. This, by retrospective analysis, we could easily explain by the fact
of his great trouble. I use “great trouble” advisedly. Young, handsome,
with an assured position as the right-hand man of Eben Hale, the great
street-railway magnate, there could be no reason for him to complain of
fortune’s favors. Yet we had watched his smooth brow furrow and corrugate
as under some carking care or devouring sorrow. We had watched his thick,
black hair thin and silver as green grain under brazen skies and parching
drought. Who can forget, in the midst of the hilarious scenes he toward
the last sought with greater and greater avidity—who can forget, I
say, the deep abstractions and black moods into which he fell? At such
times, when the fun rippled and soared from height to height, suddenly,
without rhyme or reason, his eyes would turn lacklustre, his brows knit,
as with clenched hands and face overshot with spasms of mental pain he
wrestled on the edge of the abyss with some unknown danger.
He never spoke of his trouble, nor were we indiscreet enough to ask. But
it was just as well; for had we, and had he spoken, our help and strength
could have availed nothing. When Eben Hale died, whose confidential
secretary he was—nay, well-nigh adopted son and full business
partner—he no longer came among us. Not, as I now know, that our
company was distasteful to him, but because his trouble had so grown that
he could not respond to our happiness nor find surcease with us. Why this
should be so we could not at the time understand, for when Eben Hale’s
will was probated, the world learned that he was sole heir to his
employer’s many millions, and it was expressly stipulated that this great
inheritance was given to him without qualification, hitch, or hindrance in
the exercise thereof. Not a share of stock, not a penny of cash, was
bequeathed to the dead man’s relatives. As for his direct family, one
astounding clause expressly stated that Wade Atsheler was to dispense to
Eben Hale’s wife and sons and daughters whatever moneys his judgement
dictated, at whatever times he deemed advisable. Had there been any
scandal in the dead man’s family, or had his sons been wild or undutiful,
then there might have been a glimmering of reason in this most unusual
action; but Eben Hale’s domestic happiness had been proverbial in the
community, and one would have to travel far and wide to discover a
cleaner, saner, wholesomer progeny of sons and daughters. While his wife—well,
by those who knew her best she was endearingly termed “The Mother of the
Gracchi.” Needless to state, this inexplicable will was a nine day’s
wonder; but the expectant public was disappointed in that no contest was
made.
It was only the other day that Eben Hale was laid away in his stately
marble mausoleum. And now Wade Atsheler is dead. The news was printed in
this morning’s paper. I have just received through the mail a letter from
him, posted, evidently, but a short hour before he hurled himself into
eternity. This letter, which lies before me, is a narrative in his own
handwriting, linking together numerous newspaper clippings and facsimiles
of letters. The original correspondence, he has told me, is in the hands
of the police. He has begged me, also, as a warning to society against a
most frightful and diabolical danger which threatens its very existence,
to make public the terrible series of tragedies in which he has been
innocently concerned. I herewith append the text in full:
It was in August, 1899, just after my return from my summer vacation, that
the blow fell. We did not know it at the time; we had not yet learned to
school our minds to such awful possibilities. Mr. Hale opened the letter,
read it, and tossed it upon my desk with a laugh. When I had looked it
over, I also laughed, saying, “Some ghastly joke, Mr. Hale, and one in
very poor taste.” Find here, my dear John, an exact duplicate of the
letter in question.
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. August 17, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—We desire you to realize upon whatever portion of your
vast holdings is necessary to obtain, IN CASH, twenty millions of dollars.
This sum we require you to pay over to us, or to our agents. You will note
we do not specify any given time, for it is not our wish to hurry you in
this matter. You may even, if it be easier for you, pay us in ten,
fifteen, or twenty instalments; but we will accept no single instalment of
less than a million.
Believe us, dear Mr. Hale, when we say that we embark upon this course of
action utterly devoid of animus. We are members of that intellectual
proletariat, the increasing numbers of which mark in red lettering the
last days of the nineteenth century. We have, from a thorough study of
economics, decided to enter upon this business. It has many merits, chief
among which may be noted that we can indulge in large and lucrative
operations without capital. So far, we have been fairly successful, and we
hope our dealings with you may be pleasant and satisfactory.
Pray attend while we explain our views more fully. At the base of the
present system of society is to be found the property right. And this
right of the individual to hold property is demonstrated, in the last
analysis, to rest solely and wholly upon MIGHT. The mailed gentlemen of
William the Conqueror divided and apportioned England amongst themselves
with the naked sword. This, we are sure you will grant, is true of all
feudal possessions. With the invention of steam and the Industrial
Revolution there came into existence the Capitalist Class, in the modern
sense of the word. These capitalists quickly towered above the ancient
nobility. The captains of industry have virtually dispossessed the
descendants of the captains of war. Mind, and not muscle, wins in to-day’s
struggle for existence. But this state of affairs is none the less based
upon might. The change has been qualitative. The old-time Feudal Baronage
ravaged the world with fire and sword; the modern Money Baronage exploits
the world by mastering and applying the world’s economic forces. Brain,
and not brawn, endures; and those best fitted to survive are the
intellectually and commercially powerful.
We, the M. of M., are not content to become wage slaves. The great trusts
and business combinations (with which you have your rating) prevent us
from rising to the place among you which our intellects qualify us to
occupy. Why? Because we are without capital. We are of the unwashed, but
with this difference: our brains are of the best, and we have no foolish
ethical nor social scruples. As wage slaves, toiling early and late, and
living abstemiously, we could not save in threescore years—nor in
twenty times threescore years—a sum of money sufficient successfully
to cope with the great aggregations of massed capital which now exist.
Nevertheless, we have entered the arena. We now throw down the gage to the
capital of the world. Whether it wishes to fight or not, it shall have to
fight.
Mr. Hale, our interests dictate us to demand of you twenty millions of
dollars. While we are considerate enough to give you reasonable time in
which to carry out your share of the transaction, please do not delay too
long. When you have agreed to our terms, insert a suitable notice in the
agony column of the “Morning Blazer.” We shall then acquaint you with our
plan for transferring the sum mentioned. You had better do this some time
prior to October 1st. If you do not, in order to show that we are in
earnest we shall on that date kill a man on East Thirty-ninth Street. He
will be a workingman. This man you do not know; nor do we. You represent a
force in modern society; we also represent a force—a new force.
Without anger or malice, we have closed in battle. As you will readily
discern, we are simply a business proposition. You are the upper, and we
the nether, millstone; this man’s life shall be ground out between. You
may save him if you agree to our conditions and act in time.
There was once a king cursed with a golden touch. His name we have taken
to do duty as our official seal. Some day, to protect ourselves against
competitors, we shall copyright it.
We beg to remain,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
I leave it to you, dear John, why should we not have laughed over such a
preposterous communication? The idea, we could not but grant, was well
conceived, but it was too grotesque to be taken seriously. Mr. Hale said
he would preserve it as a literary curiosity, and shoved it away in a
pigeonhole. Then we promptly forgot its existence. And as promptly, on the
1st of October, going over the morning mail, we read the following:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., October 1, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—Your victim has met his fate. An hour ago, on East
Thirty-ninth Street, a workingman was thrust through the heart with a
knife. Ere you read this his body will be lying at the Morgue. Go and look
upon your handiwork.
On October 14th, in token of our earnestness in this matter, and in case
you do not relent, we shall kill a policeman on or near the corner of Polk
Street and Clermont Avenue.
Very cordially,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
Again Mr. Hale laughed. His mind was full of a prospective deal with a
Chicago syndicate for the sale of all his street railways in that city,
and so he went on dictating to the stenographer, never giving it a second
thought. But somehow, I know not why, a heavy depression fell upon me.
What if it were not a joke, I asked myself, and turned involuntarily to
the morning paper. There it was, as befitted an obscure person of the
lower classes, a paltry half-dozen lines tucked away in a corner, next a
patent medicine advertisement:
Shortly after five o’clock this morning, on East Thirty-ninth Street, a
laborer named Pete Lascalle, while on his way to work, was stabbed to the
heart by an unknown assailant, who escaped by running. The police have
been unable to discover any motive for the murder.
“Impossible!” was Mr. Hale’s rejoinder, when I had read the item aloud;
but the incident evidently weighed upon his mind, for late in the
afternoon, with many epithets denunciatory of his foolishness, he asked me
to acquaint the police with the affair. I had the pleasure of being
laughed at in the Inspector’s private office, although I went away with
the assurance that they would look into it and that the vicinity of Polk
and Clermont would be doubly patrolled on the night mentioned. There it
dropped, till the two weeks had sped by, when the following note came to
us through the mail:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 15, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—Your second victim has fallen on schedule time. We are in
no hurry; but to increase the pressure we shall henceforth kill weekly. To
protect ourselves against police interference we shall hereafter inform
you of the event but a little prior to or simultaneously with the deed.
Trusting this finds you in good health,
We are,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
This time Mr. Hale took up the paper, and after a brief search, read to me
this account:
A DASTARDLY CRIME
Joseph Donahue, assigned only last night to special patrol duty in the
Eleventh Ward, at midnight was shot through the brain and instantly
killed. The tragedy was enacted in the full glare of the street lights on
the corner of Polk Street and Clermont Avenue. Our society is indeed
unstable when the custodians of its peace are thus openly and wantonly
shot down. The police have so far been unable to obtain the slightest
clue.
Barely had he finished this when the police arrived—the Inspector
himself and two of his keenest sleuths. Alarm sat upon their faces, and it
was plain that they were seriously perturbed. Though the facts were so few
and simple, we talked long, going over the affair again and again. When
the Inspector went away, he confidently assured us that everything would
soon be straightened out and the assassins run to earth. In the meantime
he thought it well to detail guards for the protection of Mr. Hale and
myself, and several more to be constantly on the vigil about the house and
grounds. After the lapse of a week, at one o’clock in the afternoon, this
telegram was received:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M. October 21, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—We are sorry to note how completely you have misunderstood
us. You have seen fit to surround yourself and household with armed
guards, as though, forsooth, we were common criminals, apt to break in
upon you and wrest away by force your twenty millions. Believe us, this is
farthest from our intention.
You will readily comprehend, after a little sober thought, that your life
is dear to us. Do not be afraid. We would not hurt you for the world. It
is our policy to cherish you tenderly and protect you from all harm. Your
death means nothing to us. If it did, rest assured that we would not
hesitate a moment in destroying you. Think this over, Mr. Hale. When you
have paid us our price, there will be need of retrenchment. Dismiss your
guards now, and cut down your expenses.
Within minutes of the time you receive this a nurse-girl will have been
choked to death in Brentwood Park. The body may be found in the shrubbery
lining the path which leads off to the left from the band-stand.
Cordially yours,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
The next instant Mr. Hale was at the telephone, warning the Inspector of
the impending murder. The Inspector excused himself in order to call up
Police Sub-station F and despatch men to the scene. Fifteen minutes later
he rang us up and informed us that the body had been discovered, yet warm,
in the place indicated. That evening the papers teemed with glaring
Jack-the-Strangler headlines, denouncing the brutality of the deed and
complaining about the laxity of the police. We were also closeted with the
Inspector, who begged us by all means to keep the affair secret. Success,
he said, depended upon silence.
As you know, John, Mr. Hale was a man of iron. He refused to surrender.
But, oh, John, it was terrible, nay, horrible—this awful something,
this blind force in the dark. We could not fight, could not plan, could do
nothing save hold our hands and wait. And week by week, as certain as the
rising of the sun, came the notification and death of some person, man or
woman, innocent of evil, but just as much killed by us as though we had
done it with our own hands. A word from Mr. Hale and the slaughter would
have ceased. But he hardened his heart and waited, the lines deepening,
the mouth and eyes growing sterner and firmer, and the face aging with the
hours. It is needless for me to speak of my own suffering during that
frightful period. Find here the letters and telegrams of the M. of M., and
the newspaper accounts, etc., of the various murders.
You will notice also the letters warning Mr. Hale of certain machinations
of commercial enemies and secret manipulations of stock. The M. of M.
seemed to have its hand on the inner pulse of the business and financial
world. They possessed themselves of and forwarded to us information which
our agents could not obtain. One timely note from them, at a critical
moment in a certain deal, saved all of five millions to Mr. Hale. At
another time they sent us a telegram which probably was the means of
preventing an anarchist crank from taking my employer’s life. We captured
the man on his arrival and turned him over to the police, who found upon
him enough of a new and powerful explosive to sink a battleship.
We persisted. Mr. Hale was grit clear through. He disbursed at the rate of
one hundred thousand per week for secret service. The aid of the
Pinkertons and of countless private detective agencies was called in, and
in addition to this thousands were upon our payroll. Our agents swarmed
everywhere, in all guises, penetrating all classes of society. They
grasped at a myriad clues; hundreds of suspects were jailed, and at
various times thousands of suspicious persons were under surveillance, but
nothing tangible came to light. With its communications the M. of M.
continually changed its method of delivery. And every messenger they sent
us was arrested forthwith. But these inevitably proved to be innocent
individuals, while their descriptions of the persons who had employed them
for the errand never tallied. On the last day of December we received this
notification:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., December 31, 1899.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—Pursuant of our policy, with which we flatter ourselves
you are already well versed, we beg to state that we shall give a passport
from this Vale of Tears to Inspector Bying, with whom, because of our
attentions, you have become so well acquainted. It is his custom to be in
his private office at this hour. Even as you read this he breathes his
last.
Cordially yours,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
I dropped the letter and sprang to the telephone. Great was my relief when
I heard the Inspector’s hearty voice. But, even as he spoke, his voice
died away in the receiver to a gurgling sob, and I heard faintly the crash
of a falling body. Then a strange voice hello’d me, sent me the regards of
the M. of M., and broke the switch. Like a flash I called up the public
office of the Central Police, telling them to go at once to the
Inspector’s aid in his private office. I then held the line, and a few
minutes later received the intelligence that he had been found bathed in
his own blood and breathing his last. There were no eyewitnesses, and no
trace was discoverable of the murderer.
Whereupon Mr. Hale immediately increased his secret service till a quarter
of a million flowed weekly from his coffers. He was determined to win out.
His graduated rewards aggregated over ten millions. You have a fair idea
of his resources and you can see in what manner he drew upon them. It was
the principle, he affirmed, that he was fighting for, not the gold. And it
must be admitted that his course proved the nobility of his motive. The
police departments of all the great cities cooperated, and even the United
States Government stepped in, and the affair became one of the highest
questions of state. Certain contingent funds of the nation were devoted to
the unearthing of the M. of M., and every government agent was on the
alert. But all in vain. The Minions of Midas carried on their damnable
work unhampered. They had their way and struck unerringly.
But while he fought to the last, Mr. Hale could not wash his hands of the
blood with which they were dyed. Though not technically a murderer, though
no jury of his peers would ever have convicted him, none the less the
death of every individual was due to him. As I said before, a word from
him and the slaughter would have ceased. But he refused to give that word.
He insisted that the integrity of society was assailed; that he was not
sufficiently a coward to desert his post; and that it was manifestly just
that a few should be martyred for the ultimate welfare of the many.
Nevertheless this blood was upon his head, and he sank into deeper and
deeper gloom. I was likewise whelmed with the guilt of an accomplice.
Babies were ruthlessly killed, children, aged men; and not only were these
murders local, but they were distributed over the country. In the middle
of February, one evening, as we sat in the library, there came a sharp
knock at the door. On responding to it I found, lying on the carpet of the
corridor, the following missive:
OFFICE OF THE M. OF M., February 15, 1900.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—Does not your soul cry out upon the red harvest it is
reaping? Perhaps we have been too abstract in conducting our business. Let
us now be concrete. Miss Adelaide Laidlaw is a talented young woman, as
good, we understand, as she is beautiful. She is the daughter of your old
friend, Judge Laidlaw, and we happen to know that you carried her in your
arms when she was an infant. She is your daughter’s closest friend, and at
present is visiting her. When your eyes have read thus far her visit will
have terminated.
Very cordially,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
My God! did we not instantly realize the terrible import! We rushed
through the dayrooms—she was not there—and on to her own
apartments. The door was locked, but we crashed it down by hurling
ourselves against it. There she lay, just as she had finished dressing for
the opera, smothered with pillows torn from the couch, the flush of life
yet on her flesh, the body still flexible and warm. Let me pass over the
rest of this horror. You will surely remember, John, the newspaper
accounts.
Late that night Mr. Hale summoned me to him, and before God did pledge me
most solemnly to stand by him and not to compromise, even if all kith and
kin were destroyed.
The next day I was surprised at his cheerfulness. I had thought he would
be deeply shocked by this last tragedy—how deep I was soon to learn.
All day he was light-hearted and high-spirited, as though at last he had
found a way out of the frightful difficulty. The next morning we found him
dead in his bed, a peaceful smile upon his careworn face—asphyxiation.
Through the connivance of the police and the authorities, it was given out
to the world as heart disease. We deemed it wise to withhold the truth;
but little good has it done us, little good has anything done us.
Barely had I left that chamber of death, when—but too late—the
following extraordinary letter was received:
OFFICE OF THE M. of M., February 17, 1900.
MR. EBEN HALE, Money Baron:
Dear Sir,—You will pardon our intrusion, we hope, so closely upon
the sad event of day before yesterday; but what we wish to say may be of
the utmost importance to you. It is in our mind that you may attempt to
escape us. There is but one way, apparently, as you have ere this
doubtless discovered. But we wish to inform you that even this one way is
barred. You may die, but you die failing and acknowledging your failure.
Note this: WE ARE PART AND PARCEL OF YOUR POSSESSIONS. WITH YOUR MILLIONS
WE PASS DOWN TO YOUR HEIRS AND ASSIGNS FOREVER.
We are the inevitable. We are the culmination of industrial and social
wrong. We turn upon the society that has created us. We are the successful
failures of the age, the scourges of a degraded civilization.
We are the creatures of a perverse social selection. We meet force with
force. Only the strong shall endure. We believe in the survival of the
fittest. You have crushed your wage slaves into the dirt and you have
survived. The captains of war, at your command, have shot down like dogs
your employees in a score of bloody strikes. By such means you have
endured. We do not grumble at the result, for we acknowledge and have our
being in the same natural law. And now the question has arisen: UNDER THE
PRESENT SOCIAL ENVIRONMENT, WHICH OF US SHALL SURVIVE? We believe we are
the fittest. You believe you are the fittest. We leave the eventuality to
time and law.
Cordially yours,
THE MINIONS OF MIDAS.
John, do you wonder now that I shunned pleasure and avoided friends? But
why explain? Surely this narrative will make everything clear. Three weeks
ago Adelaide Laidlaw died. Since then I have waited in hope and fear.
Yesterday the will was probated and made public. To-day I was notified that
a woman of the middle class would be killed in Golden Gate Park, in
faraway San Francisco. The despatches in to-night’s papers give the
details of the brutal happening—details which correspond with those
furnished me in advance.
It is useless. I cannot struggle against the inevitable. I have been
faithful to Mr. Hale and have worked hard. Why my faithfulness should have
been thus rewarded I cannot understand. Yet I cannot be false to my trust,
nor break my word by compromising. Still, I have resolved that no more
deaths shall be upon my head. I have willed the many millions I lately
received to their rightful owners. Let the stalwart sons of Eben Hale work
out their own salvation. Ere you read this I shall have passed on. The
Minions of Midas are all-powerful. The police are impotent. I have learned
from them that other millionnaires have been likewise mulcted or
persecuted—how many is not known, for when one yields to the M. of
M., his mouth is thenceforth sealed. Those who have not yielded are even
now reaping their scarlet harvest. The grim game is being played out. The
Federal Government can do nothing. I also understand that similar branch
organizations have made their appearance in Europe. Society is shaken to
its foundations. Principalities and powers are as brands ripe for the
burning. Instead of the masses against the classes, it is a class against
the classes. We, the guardians of human progress, are being singled out
and struck down. Law and order have failed.
The officials have begged me to keep this secret. I have done so, but can
do so no longer. It has become a question of public import, fraught with
the direst consequences, and I shall do my duty before I leave this world
by informing it of its peril. Do you, John, as my last request, make this
public. Do not be frightened. The fate of humanity rests in your hand. Let
the press strike off millions of copies; let the electric currents sweep
it round the world; wherever men meet and speak, let them speak of it in
fear and trembling. And then, when thoroughly aroused, let society arise
in its might and cast out this abomination.
Yours, in long farewell,
WADE ATSHELER.
