The Best Policy

Murray was deeply distressed. Mrs. Albert Vincent was so bitter – possibly with justification, although he did not like to believe it – that she would do nothing; her feeling was simply one of deep resentment that even death could not allay. But he hesitated to say so.

“Let me understand this matter a little better,” he said at last. “I am sincerely anxious to be of any assistance possible, but the circumstances are unusual.”

The nurse fought a brief battle with herself in silence. To bare the details of the story was like uncovering her heart to the world, but she saw the sympathy in Murray’s eyes, and she was personally helpless in a most trying emergency. She sorely needed a guiding hand.

“Albert and I were engaged to be married,” she said at last, with simple frankness. “We had some trifling quarrel, and then this woman came between us. He was not rich, but he had some property and excellent prospects, and – well, they were married. It was an elopement – a matter of momentary pique, he told me afterward. God knows I never tried to interfere with their married life, and she had no reason to be jealous of me. I did not even see either of them, except at rare intervals, for a long time, but she could not forget or forgive the fact that we had been a great deal to each other. And she was selfish and extravagant. I am merely repeating the judgment of her own friends in this, for I do not wish to be unjust to her, even now. After I had forsaken society and become a trained nurse I heard something of their troubles: they were living beyond his income, and his income did not increase according to expectations. Perhaps the worry of such conditions made him less capable of improving his opportunities. At any rate, her extravagance created a great deal of comment, and he has told me since that they quarreled frequently over financial matters. Then I heard that they had separated and that he had given her nearly all of the little he had left. I was not trying to keep track of them or pry into their affairs, but there were mutual friends, and I could not help hearing what was common gossip. But I studiously avoided any chance of meeting either of them – until I heard that he was sick and alone. Then I went to him and cared for him. It was not proper, you will say? Perhaps not. It put me in a false position and invited scandal? Perhaps it did. But I went, and I would go again; I was there to soothe his last moments; I was with him when all others had forsaken him, and there is nothing in this life that I would not sacrifice for the glory of that memory!”

The light of self-sacrificing love shone in her eyes as she made this final declaration, and Murray did not trust himself to speak for a moment or two. The story had been told so quietly, so simply, that the sudden emphasis at the conclusion was almost irresistible in the sublimity of its self-denying love. The great contrast between the two women made it all the stronger.

“I shall consider it my personal privilege,” replied Murray, “to see that everything possible is done.”

“Thank you,” said the nurse.

“But there are still some points that will have to be cleared up,” continued Murray. “What made you think the policy was in your name?”

“He told me he would have it changed, so that I could pay all the bills in case of his death,” said the nurse.

“Possibly,” remarked Murray, “he thought he could, but to permit a change in the beneficiary without the consent of the original beneficiary would be a blow at the very structure of life insurance. It would put a true and devoted wife at the absolute mercy of an unscrupulous or thoughtless husband: he could change the policy without her knowledge; he could sell it for the cash-surrender value; he could transfer it to a loan-shark to meet his personal or business needs – in fact, it would be no more than so much stock that could be reached by any creditor, and the trusting wife might find herself penniless. In this particular case the inability to make such a change may work injustice, but the ability to make it would work far greater injustice in practically all other instances. Mr. Vincent may have thought he could do this, and it is the very exceptional case when I most heartily wish it had been possible, but he doubtless made inquiries and found that it was not. When the beneficiary can be deprived of her interest without her knowledge and consent the value of insurance will be gone.”

“Then that is what he learned,” she remarked, as if a question had been answered. “He was dreadfully worried before he became too ill to give much thought to business matters,” she added by way of explanation. “I thought it was because I was using my own little hoard to pay expenses, and, on the doctor’s advice, I went with him twice in a cab to see about some things that were worrying him, although even then he had no business to leave his bed. It was the lesser of two evils, the doctor said, for his mental distress was affecting his physical condition seriously. He said he never could rest until he had provided for those who had been good to him in adversity. But he didn’t mean me!” she exclaimed quickly. “He meant the doctor and some others who had been generous in the matter of credit. He knew why I – ” She paused a moment, and then added: “But he wanted the others paid, and there was no one else he could trust.”

“I quite understand,” said Murray encouragingly.

“He made me stay in the cab both times,” she went on, “and the second time – when he had me sign his wife’s name – he seemed – ”

“Had you sign his wife’s name!” exclaimed Murray. “To what?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “It was a formality, he said, to straighten out some tangle, so I did it. I would have done anything to ease his mind and get him back to bed.”

Murray gave a low whistle. He was beginning to understand the situation.

“Pardon me, Miss – ” he said.

“Miss Bronson – Amy Bronson,” she explained.

Murray had heard of Miss Bronson some years before. She had suddenly given up society to become a trained nurse, and there had been vague rumors of an unhappy love affair. Later, her father’s death had left her dependent upon her own resources, and society had commented on what a fortunate thing it was that she had already chosen an occupation and fitted herself for it. He never had known her, and only a bare suggestion of the story had come to his notice, but it was sufficient to make him more than ever her champion now.

“Miss Bronson,” he said, “I fear there are greater complications here than I had supposed. Did Mr. Vincent get any money on either of those trips?”

“Yes. On the second he told me that he closed up an old deal, and he was more contented after that. After the first he was so dreadfully disturbed, that I never dared ask him any questions.”

“Do you know where the insurance policy is?”

“No. I searched for it before coming here, but could find no trace of it.”

Murray was as considerate as the circumstances would permit, but he had become suddenly business-like. Aside from the question of sympathy, the matter was now one to interest him deeply. He had been groping blindly before, but with light came the possibility of action.

“You are alone?” he asked.

“Entirely so.”

“If you will go back,” said Murray, reaching for his desk telephone, “Mrs. Murray will be there as soon as a cab can carry her. I would go myself, but I think I can be of better service to you for the moment by remaining here.”

As soon as she had gone and he had telephoned to his wife, Murray made some inquiries of the clerks in the outer office and learned of a sick man who had asked about the possibility of changing the beneficiary of a policy. The visit had been made some time before, but the man was so evidently ill and in such deep distress that the circumstances had been impressed on the mind of the clerk who had answered his questions.

“That accounts for one trip,” mused Murray. “Now for the loan-shark that he saw on the other. We’ll hear from him pretty soon, and then there will be some lively times.”

Murray had had experience with the ways of loan-sharks before, and he was confident that he now had the whole story. Vincent was out of money and desperate; he knew that Miss Bronson had been using her own money, and that not one cent of it would his wife pay back; he had tried to have the beneficiary of the policy changed, and had failed. Then, determined to get something out of the policy, he had gone to a loan-shark. The unscrupulous money-lender, getting an exorbitant rate of interest, could afford to be less particular about the wife’s signature. He would run the risk of forgery, confident that the policy would be redeemed to prevent a scandal, no matter what happened. Indeed, in some cases a loan-shark would a little rather have a forgery than the genuine signature, for it gives him an additional hold on the interested parties and lessens the likelihood of a resort to law over the question of usurious interest.

“The scoundrel will come,” said Murray, and the scoundrel came by invitation. A formal notification that he held an assignment of the policy arrived first, and that gave his name and address and enabled Murray to telephone him. A loan-shark does not lose much time in matters of this sort. Neither did Murray in this case, for his invitation to call was prompt and imperative, even to setting the exact time for the call. And a message was sent to Mrs. Albert Vincent, also.

“What’s your interest in that policy?” asked Murray.

“A thousand dollars,” replied the money-lender.

“A thousand dollars!” ejaculated the startled Murray. “What the devil did he do with the money?”

“That is something that does not concern me,” said the money-lender carelessly.

The confidence and carelessness of the reply recalled Murray to a consciousness of the situation. He had a sharp and hard game to play with a clever and unscrupulous man.

“How much did you loan him?” he demanded.

“The note is for a thousand dollars,” was the prompt reply.

“How much did you loan him, Shylock?” repeated Murray, and the money-lender was startled out of his complacent confidence.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted!” he exclaimed. “I hold the policy and the assignment of it as security. If you can’t talk business, as man to man, I’ll quit and leave the matter to a lawyer.”

“If you put one foot outside of that door,” retorted Murray, “we’ll fight this matter to a finish, Shylock, and we’ll get some points on your business methods. Come back and sit down.”

The money-lender had made a pretense of leaving, but he paused and met the cold, hard look of Murray. Then he came back.

“Of course, we take risks,” he said apologetically.

“Mighty few,” commented Murray uncompromisingly.

“If a man has security that is good at the bank he won’t come to us,” persisted the money-lender. “We have to protect ourselves for the additional risk.”

“By getting a man to put himself in the shadow of the penitentiary,” said Murray. “I know all about you people, Shylock. How much did you loan?”

The money-lender was angered almost to the point of defiance – but not quite. Loan-sharks do not easily reach that point: the very nature of their business makes it inadvisable, except when some poor devil is in their power.

“Oh, of course, if it’s a personal matter with you,” he said, “I might scale it a little. The note is for a thousand dollars, with various incidental charges that make it now a thousand and eighty dollars. I might knock off a hundred from that.”

“How much did you loan him, Shylock?” repeated Murray.

“Nine hundred dollars,” answered the money-lender in desperation.

“Shylock,” said Murray with cold deliberation, “I know you people. If I didn’t, I might ask to see the canceled check, but that would prove nothing. You give a check for the full amount, but the man has to put up a cash bonus when he gets it. How much did you loan him?”

“I’ll stand on the note,” declared the money-lender angrily. “I know my rights, and I can be as ugly as you. The note is signed by himself and his wife, and you’ll have a hard time going back of it.”

Murray touched a bell and a boy answered.

“Ask Mrs. Vincent to step in here,” said Murray.

The money-lender was plainly disconcerted, but he was not unaccustomed to hard battles, so he nerved himself to bluff the thing through, it being too late to do anything else.

“Mrs. Vincent,” said Murray, when the woman appeared, “I have found the insurance policy.”

“Where is it?” she asked eagerly.

“Mr. Shylock,” – with a motion toward the money-lender, – “holds it.”

“Give it to me, Mr. Shylock,” demanded Mrs. Vincent, who was not a woman to grasp the bitter insult of the name, and her innocent repetition of it added to the anger of the man. Still, the habit of never letting his personal feelings interfere with business was strong within him.

“I must be paid first,” he said.

“Paid!” she cried. “What is there to pay? The insurance money is mine!”

“I hold a note,” insisted the money-lender.

“What’s that to me?” she retorted. “Do you think I’m going to pay his debts? I didn’t contract them; I wasn’t with him; he left me years ago! Let her look out for the debts! Give me the policy or I’ll have you arrested!”

The woman was wildly and covetously excited: she would not rest easy until the actual possession of the money assured her that there was no possibility of a slip. The money-lender, too, was anxious. Murray alone seemed to be taking the matter quietly, for these two were now playing the game for him, although the details required his close attention. A very slight miscalculation might carry it beyond his control.

“It’s assigned to me,” said the money-lender with a pretense of confidence. “I have your signature.”

“It’s a lie!” she cried.

“Oh, no,” interrupted Murray quietly; “it’s a forgery.”

“That woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Vincent. “She stole my name as well as my husband!”

“That man,” corrected Murray. “He did it for the woman who did so much for him. He would have given her all, if he could.”

Murray had reason to know that it was the nurse, but he lied cheerfully in what he considered a good cause. They were getting to the critical and dangerous point in the game he was playing: the widow would be merciless to the nurse.

“It’s a forgery, anyway!” declared Mrs. Vincent. “I won’t pay a cent!”

“I’ll sue,” said the money-lender threateningly.

“Well, sue!” she cried. “What do I care? You can’t get anything on a forgery. I guess I know that much.”

“It will make a scandal,” said the money-lender insinuatingly.

“Let it,” she retorted angrily.

They were again making points for Murray, each showing the weakness of the other’s position, so Murray merely watched and waited.

“If there is another woman in the case,” persisted the money-lender, who had been quick to grasp the significance of the previous remarks, “the shame and disgrace – ”

“What do I care?” she interrupted. “The disgrace is for her.”

“And for him,” said the money-lender. “I can make him out a forger.”

“It won’t give you the money,” she argued.

“It will make you the widow of a criminal,” he threatened. “How would you like the disgrace of that? And the other things! If I have to go to court the whole scandal will be revealed and the very name you bear will be a shame! The widow of a forger! A woman who could not hold her husband! An object of pitying contempt, so small that she would not pay an honest debt to protect the name that is hers!” In his anxiety not to lose, the money-lender became almost eloquent in picturing possible conditions. No other sentiment or emotion could have given him this power. And he saw that the effect was not lost upon the woman, for no one knew better than she the harm the exploitation of the whole miserable story would do. Even a blameless woman can not entirely escape the obloquy that attaches to the name she bears, and there had been enough already to make it difficult for Mrs. Vincent to retain a position on the fringe of society. “Of course,” he went on, “if you’d rather stand this than pay, there is nothing for me to do but leave and put the matter in the hands of a lawyer.”

“Wait a minute, Shylock,” interrupted Murray. “Mrs. Vincent is going to pay – something.”

“Pay money that he got for her!” she exclaimed with sudden resentfulness. “She’s the forger, anyway; I know it!”

“Did you ever see her, Shylock?” asked Murray.

“He came alone,” replied the money-lender, “with the assignment of policy ready, and he swore to it.”

“That settles that,” said Murray with apparent conviction. “It would be a thankless task to try to prove that any one else forged the signature, and neither one of you is in a position to seek any court notoriety. Now, Shylock, after deducting the bonus and all trumped-up charges, how much did you loan?”

“Nine hundred dollars,” said the money-lender desperately.

“Try again, Shylock,” urged Murray. “You never loaned any such sum under any such circumstances.”

“If you don’t stop insulting me,” exclaimed the money-lender angrily, “I’ll quit right now and take my chances with the law.”

“You haven’t any chances with the law, Shylock,” retorted Murray. “You can make a scandal, but you can’t get a damn cent. That’s why you’re going to be reasonable. How much did you loan? You’d better be honest with me, for it’s your only chance.”

“I’ll take eight hundred dollars, with the interest charges.”

“You’ll take an even seven hundred dollars,” said Murray.

“But the interest!” cried the money-lender. “Don’t I get any interest?”

“Aha!” exclaimed Murray. “I guessed it right, didn’t I? That’s just what you loaned. You see, others have hypothecated policies with you people, and I’ve learned something of the business. There are more peculiar deals tried with insurance policies than with any other form of security. But you don’t get any interest, Shylock: you get your principal back, and you’re lucky to get that.”

“It’s robbery!” complained the money-lender.

“It’s generosity,” said Murray. “You ought to lose it all.”

“I won’t pay it!” declared Mrs. Vincent, and Murray turned sharply to her.

“Mrs. Vincent,” he said, “you will pay this sum to Shylock out of the policy, and you will pay all the bills, including the cost of the funeral, which I advanced. You will not do this as a matter of generosity, or even of justice, but from purely selfish motives. If you, being able to prevent it, permitted this scandal to come to light, you would be eternally disgraced: doors would be closed to you everywhere. God knows it is bad enough as it is, but this would make it infinitely worse. Even where no real blame attaches to her, there is always criticism and contempt for the woman who lets another take her husband from her, and a repudiation of the expenses of his last illness or any other bills, when you are getting the insurance, would condemn you absolutely in the eyes of all people who knew the circumstances. For this reason, you are going to do what I say, and you are going to make the necessary arrangements now. For similar selfish reasons, Shylock is going to do what I say, and he is going to make the necessary arrangements now. If either of you balk at the terms, I’ll drop the whole matter and let you fight it out, to your mutual trouble and loss.”

Neither dared take the risk, for each feared that, without Murray, the other would gain the advantage. Neither was in a position to defy the other, and Murray had forced concessions from each that the other could not. He was clearly master of the situation.

“Do you accept the terms?” he demanded. “If not, get out!”

“It’s brutal, outrageous!” declared the woman.

“A swindle!” exclaimed the man.

“That will do, Shylock,” cautioned Murray. “There is nothing to be said except ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and only thirty seconds in which to say that. I’ve reached the limit of my patience.”

He took out his watch and began to count the seconds.

When they were gone Murray sent for Amy Bronson, the nurse.

“I was just coming to see you,” she explained when she arrived. “I finally found a note hidden away among Albert’s effects. It contained five one hundred-dollar bills and the scribbled line, ‘I have tried to do more for you, but can not.’”

“I didn’t see how he could have spent all the money,” mused Murray.

“Now I can pay the bills,” she said.

“No,” said Murray. “A memorandum of all that he owed is to be sent to me. Mrs. Vincent will pay everything.”

“Mrs. Vincent!” cried the nurse. “Impossible! I couldn’t have so misjudged her.”

“I don’t think you misjudged her,” returned Murray, “but,” – whimsically, – “I’m a wonder at argument. You ought to hear me argue. Mrs. Vincent decided to take my view of the matter with the insurance.”

“But the five hundred dollars!” said Miss Bronson.

“Keep it,” said Murray. “He intended it for you, and it is little enough. I’m only sorry that the ten-thousand-dollar policy is not for you, also, but it is one of the incidental hardships that arise from an ordinarily wise provision of the law.”

The nurse’s lip quivered and the tears came to her eyes.

“I was an entire stranger to you, Mr. Murray,” she said, “but you have been very good to me when I most needed a friend. I – I don’t know how I can – ”

“I have been amply repaid for all I have done,” said Murray.

“How?” she asked in surprise.

“I have had the royal satisfaction,” he answered, “of compelling an unscrupulous man and a selfish woman to do a fairly creditable thing; I have had the joy of showing my contempt for them in my very method of doing this.”

She did not quite understand, her gratitude making her blind to all else at the moment.

“And also,” added Murray to himself, when she had gone, “the great satisfaction of saving a devoted woman from the consequences of at least one of her acts of devotion. Forgery is a serious matter, regardless of the circumstances.”

AN INCIDENTAL ERROR

“It’s mighty awkward,” said Owen Ross, the insurance solicitor.

“It is,” admitted Dave Murray.

“I’ve been after him for over six months,” persisted Ross, “and now, after urging him persistently to take out a policy, I have got to tell him that we won’t give him one. That would be hard enough if he had sought us out, and it’s ten times as hard when we have sought him. Why, it looks as if we were playing a heartless practical joke on him.”

“But it can’t be helped,” said Murray. “It’s one of the disagreeable features of the business. We convince a man that it’s to his interest to carry life insurance, and then we tell him he can’t have any. Naturally, from his prejudiced viewpoint, we seem to be contemptibly insincere and deceitful.”

“Of course, we are in no sense shortening his life,” remarked Ross, “but it seems like pronouncing a sentence of death, just the same. He is sure to make an awful row about it.”

“One man,” said Murray reminiscently, “fell dead in this office when his application was refused. The shock killed him, but there was no way to avoid giving him the shock. However, that was an exceptional case: I never knew of another to succumb, although it must be admitted that the news that one is destined not to live long is distressing and depressing.”

“What’s the reason for refusing Tucker?” asked Ross.

“There are several reasons,” replied Murray. “The physician reports heart murmur, which indicates some latent trouble that is almost certain to develop into a serious affection.”

“May not the physician be wrong?”

“He is paid to be right, but, of course, we are all liable to make mistakes, and it can’t be denied that heart murmur is deceptive. I’ve known men to be the subject of unfavorable reports at one hour of the day and most favorable ones at another. The occupation immediately preceding the examination may develop symptoms that are normally absent. However, I would not feel justified in accepting this application, even if the report were favorable.”

“Why not?” demanded Ross.

“The amount of insurance he wishes to carry would make him worth more dead than alive, which is a condition of affairs that an insurance company dislikes.” Murray became reminiscent again. “I recall one such risk,” he went on. “The man found the premiums a greater burden than he could carry, so he died.”