Oesterlische lifted his chin. “Of course I can! Just watch me! It’s as good as done!”
“And then I’ll be yours,” Winifred said, in a low, thrilling voice. “
All
yours.”
Oesterlische was so taken by this dazzling concept that he hardly noticed Artemus Q. Wildish standing behind him until the older man tapped him heavily on the shoulder.
“Young man!” Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice boomed in Oesterlische’s ear, making him wince. “Step into my office.”
• • •
“You’ve lost me a lot of money.”
Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice was stern and disapproving. It almost ruined the pleasure Oesterlische felt at being in Wildish’s den. Wildish’s den was a wonderful, masculine place, wall papered in bookshelves with acres of expensively bound books. Everything smelled of leather and hound dog and brandy. There was a roaring, welcoming fire in the hearth. Oesterlische felt quite certain that if he were to own such a den, he would never leave it, even to fetch spendthrift young brokers with designs on his daughter in by the ear.
Wildish went to a humidor and withdrew a pair of fat, fragrant Cuban cigars and handed one to Oesterlische. The old man went through all the fussy motions of cigar smoking—clipping the end and piercing it, rolling it between his fingers contemplatively, sniffing it.
“You’ve lost me $10,000, to be precise.” Wildish lit the cigar, looking at Oesterlische through the flame. “And I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
“I intend to hit you up for another $100,000,” Oesterlische said, letting his cigar rest between his fingers, unfiddled with. The older man’s eyes widened as he waved out the match and puffed out a mouthful of smoke.
“Indeed?” he said.
“And with that $100,000, I’m going to make you $10 million. I’ve got a proposition for you that will make all other propositions seem like mere suggestions by comparison.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Wildish said, drawing another mouthful of smoke.
“It’s magic . . .” Oesterlische began, “. . . which I know isn’t usually in your line. But this is fantastic magic. Exceptional magic. Magic that could make the railroads obsolete.”
“That’s hardly appealing to me.” Wildish’s eyes narrowed. “You should know better than anyone how much stock I hold in the railroads.”
“I’d advise you to get out of it, quick,” Oesterlische said. “In a year’s time, those certificates will be worthless.”
“Poppycock,” Wildish said. But his eyes narrowed by another precise degree. “Tell me more.”
Oesterlische described the scroll, and his lightning-quick trip to Boston and back. He left out all the troublesome details, like the fact that they didn’t actually know how to really make the scroll work. He painted visions of fairy transport achieved in a twinkling, travelers veritably blooming with delight at the opportunity to wave money at the providers of such a wonderful service. By the time he was finished, Wildish’s eyes, once suspicious slits, had widened to the size of California grapefruits, and his expensive Cuban cigar burned to ash in a brass tray, forgotten.
“How about side effects? Strange loopholes? Odd anomalies?”
“I’ve got Elden Marinus looking into that,” Oesterlische said offhandedly.
“Marinus? Why, he’s quite an up-and-comer! Charges exorbitant rates! How can you afford him?”
Oesterlische yawned extravagantly, did not answer.
“And you’ve got a license on this magic?” Wildish said. Despite his best efforts, eagerness was creeping into his voice. “You’ve got the rights?”
“The scroll is mine,” Oesterlische rolled the cigar between his fingers. “But I’ll need that money to get the ball rolling. A hundred thousand should do nicely.”
“You’re not getting a penny more than fifty,” Artemis Q. Wildish grunted, throwing open the heavy, leather-bound check register on his
“And then I’ll be yours,” Winifred said, in a low, thrilling voice. “
All
yours.”
Oesterlische was so taken by this dazzling concept that he hardly noticed Artemus Q. Wildish standing behind him until the older man tapped him heavily on the shoulder.
“Young man!” Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice boomed in Oesterlische’s ear, making him wince. “Step into my office.”
• • •
“You’ve lost me a lot of money.”
Artemus Q. Wildish’s voice was stern and disapproving. It almost ruined the pleasure Oesterlische felt at being in Wildish’s den. Wildish’s den was a wonderful, masculine place, wall papered in bookshelves with acres of expensively bound books. Everything smelled of leather and hound dog and brandy. There was a roaring, welcoming fire in the hearth. Oesterlische felt quite certain that if he were to own such a den, he would never leave it, even to fetch spendthrift young brokers with designs on his daughter in by the ear.
Wildish went to a humidor and withdrew a pair of fat, fragrant Cuban cigars and handed one to Oesterlische. The old man went through all the fussy motions of cigar smoking—clipping the end and piercing it, rolling it between his fingers contemplatively, sniffing it.
“You’ve lost me $10,000, to be precise.” Wildish lit the cigar, looking at Oesterlische through the flame. “And I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
“I intend to hit you up for another $100,000,” Oesterlische said, letting his cigar rest between his fingers, unfiddled with. The older man’s eyes widened as he waved out the match and puffed out a mouthful of smoke.
“Indeed?” he said.
“And with that $100,000, I’m going to make you $10 million. I’ve got a proposition for you that will make all other propositions seem like mere suggestions by comparison.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Wildish said, drawing another mouthful of smoke.
“It’s magic . . .” Oesterlische began, “. . . which I know isn’t usually in your line. But this is fantastic magic. Exceptional magic. Magic that could make the railroads obsolete.”
“That’s hardly appealing to me.” Wildish’s eyes narrowed. “You should know better than anyone how much stock I hold in the railroads.”
“I’d advise you to get out of it, quick,” Oesterlische said. “In a year’s time, those certificates will be worthless.”
“Poppycock,” Wildish said. But his eyes narrowed by another precise degree. “Tell me more.”
Oesterlische described the scroll, and his lightning-quick trip to Boston and back. He left out all the troublesome details, like the fact that they didn’t actually know how to really make the scroll work. He painted visions of fairy transport achieved in a twinkling, travelers veritably blooming with delight at the opportunity to wave money at the providers of such a wonderful service. By the time he was finished, Wildish’s eyes, once suspicious slits, had widened to the size of California grapefruits, and his expensive Cuban cigar burned to ash in a brass tray, forgotten.
“How about side effects? Strange loopholes? Odd anomalies?”
“I’ve got Elden Marinus looking into that,” Oesterlische said offhandedly.
“Marinus? Why, he’s quite an up-and-comer! Charges exorbitant rates! How can you afford him?”
Oesterlische yawned extravagantly, did not answer.
“And you’ve got a license on this magic?” Wildish said. Despite his best efforts, eagerness was creeping into his voice. “You’ve got the rights?”
“The scroll is mine,” Oesterlische rolled the cigar between his fingers. “But I’ll need that money to get the ball rolling. A hundred thousand should do nicely.”
“You’re not getting a penny more than fifty,” Artemis Q. Wildish grunted, throwing open the heavy, leather-bound check register on his
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