The unnatural thing, in turn, has destroyed my work and those whom I held dear. It is in vain that I assure myself of innocence of spirit. Mine is the crime of presumption. Now, as expedition—worthless though that may be—I give myself…
It is better not to think of that last leap, and the struggle of an insane man in the grip of the dying monster.
4. The Nth Power
Arthur Train
The Nth Power
NONE of the firm—least of all the junior partner, myself—knew just how Doctor Migraine had become one of our customers. He came to us just as thousands of other stock-brokers' clients come to them: passed along by some chance word or owing to some trifling dissatisfaction with someone else; just as, in fact, of his own patients—if he had any probably came to him. He was a large, full-chested, deep-voiced, black-bearded man, such as usually takes the part of the Russian Grand Duke in the melodramas, yet he lacked markedly any of the assertiveness of a Romanoff, and indeed, at times,was almost provokingly retiring and unassuming. For he was a fine figure of a man, and his mere presence in our customers' room, on those rare occasions when he visited our offices, was enough to send rumors flying of a possible advance in Russian 6s or a probable slump in Japanese 4s.
But he was only an occasional customer. Often his massive, carefully—tailored form would not darken our door for months. Then, usually when the market was as dull as a millpond and nothing was doing—except traders playing for "eighths," like minnows skipping in the shallows—he would enter unannounced and pass silently into the senior partner's private office. There he would give his orders, always in some single stock and always for thousand and five thousand share lots, and invariably the market would advance or react to suit his purposes. Then he would sell or cover, as the case might be, and take his profits away with him in the shape of a certified check, which inevitably came back with the indorsement of a world-powerful banking house upon its reverse. He always stayed and saw the deal through, and, as I distinctly recall, always sat in the same posture upon the same corner of the sofa until it was all over—chin in hand.
And he always guessed right. Charlie Buck used to say he must be either Harriman's chef or J. P. Morgan's valet in disguise. Everything he touched moved one way or the other. He was like a sudden squall striking down from off the mountains upon a summer sea. The market might have shown every sign of stagnation; but, once let the good Migraine superimpose himself upon Buck's sofa and order a few thousand Reading or Colorado Fuel, and it would begin positively to boil with activity. I have seen Migraine come into our ofiice when the ticker had been still for minutes—you know what that means—just rapping out a hundred shares or so of Union every little while, simply from a sense of decency, as it were, and in less than no time the whole market would be jumping. It was curious if the word is sufficiently expressive; Buck called it "uncanny." For a short haul the doctor seemed infallible. He never left an open order on our books—the deal had to be finished and the money in his pocket before he left the office. That was another thing that struck us as singular. Almost anybody will get a copper—fastened tip once in a while that will absolutely compel him, if he has any sort of a soul, to buy or sell the market as a matter of conscience with the certainty of a big profit some time in the course of a week, two weeks or a month. Migraine never did that sort of thing. He never carried a stock over night, but, whatever he went into, he guessed right the very first time. And the money I have seen him pocket without a quiver! Singularly emotionless he was— and still is—as if money were nothing to him; and I verily believe it is not, save as a means to a certain end. Buck and I could not imagine where he got his information, but in the end we decided that he was a sort of agent for some one of the big fellows, and simply thanked our good luck for getting the commissions and at first let it go at that. But in the end we followed Migraine every time until—but that can wait. Yet, in point of fact, there was nothing uncanny about the doctor himself, even if he did appear to have supernatural powers of divination.
He was an immaculate, seemingly matter-of-fact sort of person, blue-eyed, white-toothed and scented with heliotrope. The Russian Grand Duke business was instinctive with him, and the sight of his huge, whiskered frame wrapped in a black frock coat and surmounted by a gleaming silk hat was enough to make an office boy draw his heels together with a click and give a royal salute. That was another thing we never could understand—why he should come at all. Our biggest customers stay uptown and use the telephone. But he never telephoned.
Time and again we tried to find out something about him, but without result. The city directory gave only his name and house address, the telephone book contained nothing, and the Social Register simply the ambiguous information that he belonged to various learned and professional organizations. Who's Who did a little better, for it stated that he had taken degrees at Bonn, Vienna and St. Petersburg, had "written extensively upon psychiatry and psychology," and devoted himself to research. Altogether a queer bird to be dabbling in stocks. A queer bird, perhaps, altogether; and yet he was the most valuable customer on our books.
When at length, after some five years, the good doctor at the end of a frantic day upon the market—during which he had sat imperturbably in the inner office and kept me hustling to execute his orders—invited me to dine with him upon the following evening, neither inclination nor good business dictated a refusal.
We had been making money ourselves for the last three or four years by trailing after Migraine in his operations, but when you are making hay you can never tell how long the sun is going to shine, or how soon the goose will die who happens to be laying the golden egg. We had Migraine now, to be sure, but we might lose him at any time. We prayed for his health and prosperity as a Chinaman prays for the salubrity of his grandparents. We became depressed in his absence, and fell on his neck when he rediscovered himself. And an invitation to dinner! Why, it might mean anything from a job to corner Union to the disclosure of an infallible system for beating the market! I did not hesitate; I went, and stood not upon the order of my going.
I found that Dr. Migraine lived in a small house upon one of the streets in the upper eighties, running off from Central Park West, and I had no sooner been relieved of my hat and coat by the Japanese servant than our worthy customer himself appeared at the head of the stairs and, grasping my hand warmly, welcomed me to his abode. I remember thinking at the time that it was a shabby sort of a place for a big trader to live in. There was no sign of wealth or even of luxury. The house was narrow—not over seventeen feet, I should say—and finished in some cheap sort of imitation hard wood. A good deal of dust came off the railing of the banisters, and even the Jap looked dusty. I confess to being disappointed, and this feeling increased when the doctor led me into his library, or rather study, and I found that his principal room—for there was no parlor or drawing-room—was furnished only with a worn and very cheap rug, a horrible onyx clock, a few very comfortable but exceedingly seedy armchairs. It was lined to the ceiling with rows of tipsy, shoddy-looking books. I tell you, I began to wonder if I hadn't made a mistake. Imagine! Here was our best customer, a man who had cleaned up to my certain knowledge some two hundred thousand during the past year, living like a second-class dentist! If it had not been for his immaculate appearance and the faint scent of heliotrope that always hung around him I should have doubted his identity.
"Sit down, sit down," said Doctor Migraine, waving me into a low chair as he poked up the dying embers in the grate. "Saki will have the cocktails here in a moment. What I lack in elegance I must try to make up in hospitality."
"You have a very—er—cozy little place here, I'm sure," I returned, trying to put some enthusiasm into my tone.
"Rather shabby, I'm afraid," remarked Migraine. "Have a cigarette?"
He took a box from behind the clock and held them out to me.
"You were thinking," he continued with a quizzical smile, "that it was strange that so successful a customer of yours was content to live in such a dingy hole. Don't deny it. I saw you thinking it. I don't blame you.
