be buried in the jungles, hidden away from their wives and children and
the light of the sun and their fellow men. They still would be dying of
fever, starvation, tortures."
He took her hand in both of his and held her finger-tips against his
lips.
"And they will never know," he whispered, "when their freedom comes,
that they owe it all to _you_."
* * * * *
On Hunter's Island, Jimmie Reeder and his bunkie, Sam Sturges, each on
his canvas cot, tossed and twisted. The heat, the moonlight, and the
mosquitoes would not let them even think of sleep.
"That was bully," said Jimmie, "what you did to-day about saving that
dog. If it hadn't been for you he'd ha' drownded."
"He would _not_!" said Sammy with punctilious regard for the truth; "it
wasn't deep enough."
"Well, the scout-master ought to know," argued Jimmie; "he said it was
the best 'one good turn' of the day!"
Modestly Sam shifted the lime-light so that it fell upon his bunkie.
"I'll bet," he declared loyally, "_your_ 'one good turn' was a better
one!"
Jimmie yawned, and then laughed scornfully.
"Me!" he scoffed. "I didn't do nothing. I sent my sister to the movies."
THE FRAME-UP
When the voice over the telephone promised to name the man who killed
Hermann Banf, District Attorney Wharton was up-town lunching at
Delmonico's. This was contrary to his custom and a concession to
Hamilton Cutler, his distinguished brother-in-law. That gentleman was
interested in a State constabulary bill and had asked State Senator
Bissell to father it. He had suggested to the senator that, in the legal
points involved in the bill, his brother-in-law would undoubtedly be
charmed to advise him. So that morning, to talk it over, Bissell had
come from Albany and, as he was forced to return the same afternoon, had
asked Wharton to lunch with him up-town near the station.
That in public life there breathed a man with soul so dead who, were he
offered a chance to serve Hamilton Cutler, would not jump at the chance
was outside the experience of the county chairman. And in so judging his
fellow men, with the exception of one man, the senator was right. The
one man was Hamilton Cutler's brother-in-law. In the national affairs
of his party Hamilton Cutler was one of the four leaders. In two
cabinets he had held office. At a foreign court as an ambassador his
dinners, of which the diplomatic corps still spoke with emotion, had
upheld the dignity of ninety million Americans. He was rich. The history
of his family was the history of the State. When the Albany boats drew
abreast of the old Cutler mansion on the east bank of the Hudson the
passengers pointed at it with deference. Even when the search-lights
pointed at it, it was with deference. And on Fifth Avenue, as the
"Seeing New York" car passed his town house it slowed respectfully to
half speed. When, apparently for no other reason than that she was good
and beautiful, he had married the sister of a then unknown up-State
lawyer, every one felt Hamilton Cutler had made his first mistake. But,
like everything else into which he entered, for him matrimony also was a
success. The prettiest girl in Utica showed herself worthy of her
distinguished husband. She had given him children as beautiful as
herself; as what Washington calls "a cabinet lady" she had kept her name
out of the newspapers; as Madame l'Ambassatrice she had put
archduchesses at their ease; and after ten years she was an adoring
wife, a devoted mother, and a proud woman. Her pride was in believing
that for every joy she knew she was indebted entirely to her husband. To
owe everything to him, to feel that through him the blessings flowed,
was her ideal of happiness.
In this ideal her brother did not share. Her delight in a sense of
obligation left him quite cold. No one better than himself knew that his
rapid-fire rise in public favor was due to his own exertions, to the
fact that he had worked very hard, had been independent, had kept his
hands clean, and had worn no man's collar. Other people believed he owed
his advancement to his brother-in-law. He knew they believed that, and
it hurt him. When, at the annual dinner of the Amen Corner, they
burlesqued him as singing to "Ham" Cutler, "You made me what I am
to-day, I hope you're sat-isfied," he found that to laugh with the
others was something of an effort. His was a difficult position. He was
a party man; he had always worked inside the organization. The fact that
whenever he ran for an elective office the reformers indorsed him and
the best elements in the opposition parties voted for him did not shake
his loyalty to his own people. And to Hamilton Cutler, as one of his
party leaders, as one of the bosses of the "invisible government," he
was willing to defer. But while he could give allegiance to his party
leaders, and from them was willing to receive the rewards of office,
from a rich brother-in-law he was not at all willing to accept anything.
Still less was he willing that of the credit he deserved for years of
hard work for the party, of self-denial, and of efficient public service
the rich brother-in-law should rob him.
His pride was to be known as a self-made man, as the servant only of the
voters. And now that he had fought his way to one of the goals of his
ambition, now that he was district attorney of New York City, to have it
said that the office was the gift of his brother-in-law was bitter. But
he believed the injustice would soon end. In a month he was coming up
for re-election, and night and day was conducting a campaign that he
hoped would result in a personal victory so complete as to banish the
shadow of his brother-in-law. Were he re-elected by the majority on
which he counted, he would have the party leaders on their knees.
Hamilton Cutler would be forced to come to him. He would be in line for
promotion. He knew the leaders did not want to promote him, that they
considered him too inclined to kick over the traces; but were he now
re-elected, at the next election, either for mayor or governor, he
would be his party's obvious and legitimate candidate.
The re-election was not to be an easy victory. Outside his own party, to
prevent his succeeding himself as district attorney, Tammany Hall was
using every weapon in her armory. The commissioner of police was a
Tammany man, and in the public prints Wharton had repeatedly declared
that Banf, his star witness against the police, had been killed by the
police, and that they had prevented the discovery of his murderer. For
this the wigwam wanted his scalp, and to get it had raked his public and
private life, had used threats and bribes, and with women had tried to
trap him into a scandal. But "Big Tim" Meehan, the lieutenant the Hall
had detailed to destroy Wharton, had reported back that for their
purpose his record was useless, that bribes and threats only flattered
him, and that the traps set for him he had smilingly side-stepped. This
was the situation a month before election day when, to oblige his
brother-in-law, Wharton was up-town at Delmonico's lunching with Senator
Bissell.
Down-town at the office, Rumson, the assistant district attorney, was on
his way to lunch when the telephone-girl halted him. Her voice was
lowered and betrayed almost human interest.
From the corner of her mouth she whispered:
"This man has a note for Mr. Wharton--says if he don't get it quick
it'll be too late--says it will tell him who killed 'Heimie' Banf!"
The young man and the girl looked at each other and smiled. Their
experience had not tended to make them credulous. Had he lived, Hermann
Banf would have been, for Wharton, the star witness against a ring of
corrupt police officials. In consequence his murder was more than the
taking off of a shady and disreputable citizen. It was a blow struck at
the high office of the district attorney, at the grand jury, and the
law. But, so far, whoever struck the blow had escaped punishment, and
though for a month, ceaselessly, by night and day "the office" and the
police had sought him, he was still at large, still "unknown." There had
been hundreds of clews. They had been furnished by the detectives of the
city and county and of the private agencies, by amateurs, by newspapers,
by members of the underworld with a score to pay off or to gain favor.
But no clew had led anywhere. When, in hoarse whispers, the last one had
been confided to him by his detectives, Wharton had protested
indignantly.
"Stop bringing me clews!" he exclaimed. "I want the man. I can't
electrocute a clew!"
So when, after all other efforts, over the telephone a strange voice
offered to deliver the murderer, Rumson was sceptical. He motioned the
girl to switch to the desk telephone.
"Assistant District Attorney Rumson speaking," he said. "What can I do
for you?"
Before the answer came, as though the speaker were choosing his words,
there was a pause. It lasted so long that Rumson exclaimed sharply:
"Hello," he called. "Do you want to speak to me, or do you want to speak
to me?"
"I've gotta letter for the district attorney," said the voice. "I'm to
give it to nobody but him. It's about Banf. He must get it quick, or
it'll be too late."
"Who are you?" demanded Rumson. "Where are you speaking from?"
The man at the other end of the wire ignored the questions.
"Where'll Wharton be for the next twenty minutes?"
"If I tell you," parried Rumson, "will you bring the letter at once?"
The voice exclaimed indignantly:
"Bring nothing! I'll send it by district messenger. You're wasting time
trying to reach me. It's the _letter you_ want. It tells"--the voice
broke with an oath and instantly began again: "I can't talk over a
phone. I tell you, it's life or death. If you lose out, it's your own
fault. Where can I find Wharton?"
"At Delmonico's," answered Rumson. "He'll be there until two o'clock."
"Delmonico's! That's Forty-fort Street?"
"Right," said Rumson. "Tell the messenger--"
He heard the receiver slam upon the hook.
With the light of the hunter in his eyes, he turned to the girl.
"They can laugh," he cried, "but I believe we've hooked something. I'm
going after it."
In the waiting-room he found the detectives.
"Hewitt," he ordered, "take the subway and whip up to Delmonico's. Talk
to the taxi-starter till a messenger-boy brings a letter for the D.A.
Let the boy deliver the note, and then trail him till he reports to the
man he got it from. Bring the man here. If it's a district messenger and
he doesn't report, but goes straight back to the office, find out who
gave him the note; get his description. Then meet me at Delmonico's."
Rumson called up that restaurant and had Wharton come to the phone. He
asked his chief to wait until a letter he believed to be of great
importance was delivered to him. He explained, but, of necessity,
somewhat sketchily.
"It sounds to me," commented his chief, "like a plot of yours to get a
lunch up-town."
"Invitation!" cried Rumson. "I'll be with you in ten minutes."
After Rumson had joined Wharton and Bissell the note arrived. It was
brought to the restaurant by a messenger-boy, who said that in answer to
a call from a saloon on Sixth Avenue he had received it from a young man
in ready-to-wear clothes and a green hat. When Hewitt, the detective,
asked what the young man looked like, the boy said he looked like a
young man in ready-to-wear clothes and a green hat. But when the note
was read the identity of the man who delivered it ceased to be of
importance. The paper on which it was written was without stamped
address or monogram, and carried with it the mixed odors of the
drug-store at which it had been purchased. The handwriting was that of a
woman, and what she had written was: "If the district attorney will come
at once, and alone, to Kessler's Café, on the Boston Post Road, near the
city line, he will be told who killed Hermann Banf. If he don't come in
an hour, it will be too late. If he brings anybody with him, he won't
be told anything. Leave your car in the road and walk up the drive. Ida
Earle."
Hewitt, who had sent away the messenger-boy and had been called in to
give expert advice, was enthusiastic.
"Mr. District Attorney," he cried, "that's no crank letter. This Earle
woman is wise. You got to take her as a serious proposition. She
wouldn't make that play if she couldn't get away with it."
"Who is she?" asked Wharton.
To the police, the detective assured them, Ida Earle had been known for
years. When she was young she had been under the protection of a man
high in the ranks of Tammany, and, in consequence, with her different
ventures the police had never interfered. She now was proprietress of
the road-house in the note described as Kessler's Café. It was a place
for joy-riders. There was a cabaret, a hall for public dancing, and
rooms for very private suppers.
In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was
exclusive, but in all other respects its reputation was of the worst. In
situation it was lonely, and from other houses separated by a quarter of
a mile of dying trees and vacant lots.
The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but
lately, through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had been
relaid. It was patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle policemen.
"But this," continued the detective eagerly, "is where we win out. The
road-house is an old farmhouse built over, with the barns changed into
garages. They stand on the edge of a wood. It's about as big as a city
block. If we come in through the woods from the rear, the garages will
hide us. Nobody in the house can see us, but we won't be a hundred yards
away. You've only to blow a police whistle and we'll be with you."
"You mean I ought to go?" said Wharton.
Rumson exclaimed incredulously:
"You _got_ to go!"
"It looks to me," objected Bissell, "like a plot to get you there alone
and rap you on the head."
"Not with that note inviting him there," protested Hewitt, "and signed
by Earle herself."
"You don't know she signed it?" objected the senator.
"I know _her_," returned the detective. "I know she's no fool. It's her
place, and she wouldn't let them pull off any rough stuff there--not
against the D.A., anyway."
The D.A. was rereading the note.
"Might this be it?" he asked. "Suppose it's a trick to mix me up in a
scandal? You say the place is disreputable. Suppose they're planning to
compromise me just before election. They've tried it already several
times."
"You've still got the note," persisted Hewitt. "It proves _why_ you went
there. And the senator, too. He can testify. And we won't be a hundred
yards away. And," he added grudgingly, "you have Nolan."
Nolan was the spoiled child of "the office." He was the district
attorney's pet. Although still young, he had scored as a detective and
as a driver of racing-cars. As Wharton's chauffeur he now doubled the
parts.
"What Nolan testified wouldn't be any help," said Wharton. "They would
say it was just a story he invented to save me."
"Then square yourself this way," urged Rumson. "Send a note now by hand
to Ham Cutler and one to your sister. Tell _them_ you're going to Ida
Earle's--and why--tell them you're afraid it's a frame-up, and for them
to keep your notes as evidence. And enclose the one from her."
Wharton nodded in approval, and, while he wrote, Rumson and the
detective planned how, without those inside the road-house being aware
of their presence, they might be near it.
Kessler's Café lay in the Seventy-ninth Police Precinct. In taxi-cabs
they arranged to start at once and proceed down White Plains Avenue,
which parallels the Boston Road, until they were on a line with
Kessler's, but from it hidden by the woods and the garages. A walk of a
quarter of a mile across lots and under cover of the trees would bring
them to within a hundred yards of the house.
Wharton was to give them a start of half an hour. That he might know
they were on watch, they agreed, after they dismissed the taxi-cabs, to
send one of them into the Boston Post Road past the road-house. When it
was directly in front of the café, the chauffeur would throw away into
the road an empty cigarette-case.
From the cigar-stand they selected a cigarette box of a startling
yellow. At half a mile it was conspicuous.
"When you see this in the road," explained Rumson, "you'll know we're on
the job. And after you're inside, if you need us, you've only to go to a
rear window and wave."
"If they mean to do him up," growled Bissell, "he won't get to a rear
window."
"He can always tell them we're outside," said Rumson--"and they are
extremely likely to believe him. Do you want a gun?"
"No," said the D.A.
"Better have mine," urged Hewitt.
"I have my own," explained the D.A.
Rumson and Hewitt set off in taxi-cabs and, a half-hour later, Wharton
followed. As he sank back against the cushions of the big touring-car he
felt a pleasing thrill of excitement, and as he passed the traffic
police, and they saluted mechanically, he smiled. Had they guessed his
errand their interest in his progress would have been less perfunctory.
In half an hour he might know that the police killed Banf; in half an
hour he himself might walk into a trap they had, in turn, staged for
him. As the car ran swiftly through the clean October air, and the wind
and sun alternately chilled and warmed his blood, Wharton considered
these possibilities.
He could not believe the woman Earle would lend herself to any plot to
do him bodily harm. She was a responsible person. In her own world she
was as important a figure as was the district attorney in his. Her
allies were the men "higher up" in Tammany and the police of the upper
ranks of the uniformed force. And of the higher office of the district
attorney she possessed an intimate and respectful knowledge. It was not
to be considered that against the prosecuting attorney such a woman
would wage war. So the thought that upon his person any assault was
meditated Wharton dismissed as unintelligent. That it was upon his
reputation the attack was planned seemed much more probable. But that
contingency he had foreseen and so, he believed, forestalled. There then
remained only the possibility that the offer in the letter was genuine.
It seemed quite too good to be true. For, as he asked himself, on the
very eve of an election, why should Tammany, or a friend of Tammany,
place in his possession the information that to the Tammany candidate
would bring inevitable defeat. He felt that the way they were playing
into his hands was too open, too generous. If their object was to lead
him into a trap, of all baits they might use the promise to tell him who
killed Banf was the one certain to attract him. It made their invitation
to walk into the parlor almost too obvious. But were the offer not
genuine, there was a condition attached to it that puzzled him. It was
not the condition that stipulated he should come alone. His experience
had taught him many will confess, or betray, to the district attorney
who, to a deputy, will tell nothing. The condition that puzzled him was
the one that insisted he should come at once or it would be "too late."
Why was haste so imperative? Why, if he delayed, would he be "too late"?
Was the man he sought about to escape from his jurisdiction, was he
dying, and was it his wish to make a death-bed confession; or was he so
reluctant to speak that delay might cause him to reconsider and remain
silent?
With these questions in his mind, the minutes quickly passed, and it was
with a thrill of excitement Wharton saw that Nolan had left the
Zoological Gardens on the right and turned into the Boston Road. It had
but lately been completed and to Wharton was unfamiliar. On either side
of the unscarred roadway still lay scattered the uprooted trees and
bowlders that had blocked its progress, and abandoned by the contractors
were empty tar-barrels, cement-sacks, tool-sheds, and forges. Nor was
the surrounding landscape less raw and unlovely. Toward the Sound
stretched vacant lots covered with ash heaps; to the left a few old and
broken houses set among the glass-covered cold frames of truck-farms.
The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness. And when an
automobile sign told him he was "10 miles from Columbus Circle," he felt
that from the New York he knew he was much farther. Two miles up the
road his car overhauled a bicycle policeman, and Wharton halted him.
"Is there a road-house called Kessler's beyond here?" he asked.
"On the left, farther up," the officer told him, and added: "You can't
miss it, Mr. Wharton; there's no other house near it."
"You know me," said the D.A. "Then you'll understand what I want you to
do. I've agreed to go to that house alone. If they see you pass they may
think I'm not playing fair. So stop here."
The man nodded and dismounted.
"But," added the district attorney, as the car started forward again,
"if you hear shots, I don't care how fast you come."
The officer grinned.
"Better let me trail along now," he called; "that's a tough joint."
But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the man
still stood where they had parted.
Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it
passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel and with his thumb
motioned behind him.
"That's one of the men," said Nolan, "that started with Mr. Rumson and
Hewitt from Delmonico's."
Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no
hitch, smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of them on
the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the
signal and knew that within call were friends.
The yellow ciagarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden
building of two stories. It was linked to the road by a curving driveway
marked on either side by whitewashed stones. On verandas enclosed in
glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under red candle-shades and,
protruding from one end of the house and hung with electric lights in
paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing. In the rear of the house stood
sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the autumn leaves showed
yellow. Painted fingers and arrows pointing, and an electric sign,
proclaimed to all who passed that this was Kessler's. In spite of its
reputation, the house wore the aspect of the commonplace. In evidence
nothing flaunted, nothing threatened. From a dozen other inns along the
Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was in no way to be
distinguished.
As directed in the note, Wharton left the car in the road. "For five
minutes stay where you are," he ordered Nolan; "then go to the bar and
get a drink. Don't talk to any one or they'll think you're trying to get
information. Work around to the back of the house. Stand where I can see
you from the window. I may want you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson."
On foot Wharton walked up the curving driveway, and if from the house
his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the second story
the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty.
Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside the
house, was there any sign that his visit was expected. He stood in a
hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that he guessed
led to the private supper-rooms. On his left was the restaurant.
Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as
though resting in preparation for those to come, it wore an air of
peaceful inactivity. At a table a maitre d'hôtel was composing the menu
for the evening, against the walls three colored waiters lounged
sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a pale youth with drugged eyes
was with one hand picking an accompaniment. As Wharton paused
uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, nasal
tenor raised his voice and sang:
"And from the time the rooster calls
I'll wear my overalls,
And you, a simple gingham gown.
So, if you're strong for a shower of rice,
We two could make a paradise
Of any One-Horse Town."