The Best Policy

“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.”

“Suicide!” exclaimed Ross.