It was with a singular young man, who claimed proudly to be the
illegitimate son of a certain duke, that I found myself presently in
the eau de Cologne business. A long difficult winter had passed; all my
friends had disappeared; there had been periods of dried apples again,
of posing in studios, of various odd jobs, and of half-starving, with
black weeks in plenty. I had moved into yet cheaper quarters, where I
occupied a room that had been formerly a butler’s pantry, and was so
small that when the folding-bed was down the entire space from wall to
wall was occupied. The wash-hand stand was a sink in a recess let into
the wall and supplied with a tap.
When Mr. Louis visited me, as he did frequently, we lowered the bed and
used it as a divan. The door could not open then. I made tea in the
sink. We talked....
If Louis’s atmosphere suggested choirs and places where they sing,
that of Brodie, as I may call him here, was associated with bars and
places where they drink. Not that he drank himself, for he was most
abstemious, but that in certain superior saloons, all of them far above
my means, he was usually to be found. A simple, yet complex, generous
as well as mean creature, with all the canniness of the Scot, with his
uncanniness as well, his education had been neglected, he read with
difficulty, and only wrote well enough to sign his name laboriously
to a cheque. He, too, like Louis, had his mystery; there was no one,
indeed, in my circle of those days whose antecedents would bear too
close a scrutiny.
I was first introduced to him by a burly Swede, with hands like
beef-steaks, and the shoulders of a heavy-weight fighter, who was
later arrested and sent to gaol for picking pockets. His notoriety
as a sneak-thief none of us had guessed, and how those bulky hands
could have accomplished anything neat and clever was a puzzle. In
the Scotsman’s pleasant quarters, somewhat outlandishly furnished by
himself on a top floor, the Swede had made himself at home too long.
Brodie, the prey of many who, invited for a day or two, stayed on for
weeks, was glad to see his back. His weak good-nature, refusing to turn
his guests out, was the cause of endless troubles with men who sponged
upon his kindness and his purse. This and his eau de Cologne business,
“me beezness” as he called it, were his sole topics of conversation. He
had money to spend--was it an allowance? We never knew--and was always
well dressed; many a square meal he stood me; there was something in
his soft West of Scotland voice that drew me to this odd fish in the
“perfumery line.” It reminded me of happier days. And I have described
his habits at some length, because it was owing to a small service I
rendered him, and rendered myself at the same time, that I became a
partner in “me beezness” of manufacturing and selling eau de Cologne
made from the Johann Maria Farina recipe.
Brodie’s social aspirations were very marked; to hear him talk one
would have thought him heir to a dukedom; he had, too, a curious
faculty for getting his name associated with people above him in the
social world. How he managed it was a problem I never solved. His
instinct for smelling out and using such folk was a gift from heaven.
To see his name in the paper gave him supreme happiness. Real “Society”
of course, Ward Macallister’s Four Hundred, lay beyond the reach of
what was actually a peasant type, but there were less select fields he
worked assiduously with great success. There was matter for a play,
a novel, a character study, at any rate, in Brodie, who himself, I
learned much later, had come out to New York as valet to Clyde Fitch,
the playwright, and whose recipe for the “genuine Johann Maria Farina,”
his successful “beezness,” was stolen property. My father’s son knew
certainly queer bedfellows in that underworld in New York City.
Meeting him in one of his usual haunts one night, he complained
bitterly of a young man he had invited for a week, but who had stayed
a month, and stayed on still. The name, which need not be mentioned,
was a well-known one. It was a bad case of imposition, by a man, too,
who had ample means of his own. I offered to turn him out, much to
Brodie’s alarm. That is, he both desired the result and feared it. Next
morning I arrived in the oddly-furnished rooms and found Brodie cooking
breakfast for the undesirable young man who had imposed on his host too
long, and who still lay in bed. It was a comic scene, no doubt, for
Brodie, though frightened, bore out my accusations while he fried the
eggs, and the other blustered noisily until he found out that bluster
was of no avail; and then, threatening an action for assault, got
suddenly out of bed and dressed himself. Half-an-hour later he was, bag
and baggage, in the street, while I went down and sold the “story” to
the _New York Journal_, who printed it next morning with big headlines,
but also with a drawing showing the eviction scene. No action for
assault followed, however; I received twenty dollars for my “story”;
and Brodie, full of gratitude--his name was mentioned in flattering
terms--offered to take me into partnership in “me beezness.” I demurred
at first. “You might help me with the correspondence,” he suggested
cautiously. I was to be his educated partner and his pen.
All that spring and summer I received ten dollars a week which,
in addition to free-lance newspaper work, enabled me to live in
comparative luxury. In a dark little back-office on Broadway and 8th
Street, the eau de Cologne was made. It might have been the secret
headquarters of an anarchist fraternity, or the laboratory of some
mediæval alchemist, such was the atmosphere of secrecy, of caution and
of mystery. It never occurred to me that anything was wrong. Our only
assistant was a young Polish girl named Paola, a beautiful, dark-haired
Jewess. The precious recipe I was never allowed to see. Great flagons
in wicker coverings stood in rows upon long shelves; the mixing of
the ingredients was a delicate operation lasting an hour; the room
smelt rich and sweet of spices that made me think of Araby and the
East. It was a curious and picturesque scene--the rather darkened
room, the perfume-laden air, the hush no traffic could disturb, the
great, mysterious flagons, which might almost have concealed forty
thieves, the canny Scot of doubtful origin, the beautiful Jewess,
the air of caution and suspicion that reigned over all. The filling
of the bottles in two sizes, affixing the labels, flavouring the
soap--we made eau-de-Cologne soap too--answering the letters, writing
flowery advertisements, and so forth, occupied the entire day. Brodie,
a born salesman, would take a cab and visit the big stores with
samples--Macy’s, Siegel and Cooper, and others whose names I have
forgotten. He never came back without an order. The business flourished.
I made no secret of being in the perfumery trade. I had moved into a
larger room at my boarding-house. I had bought boots, some new linen,
and most of my things were out of pawn. Then, presently, here and
there, I began to notice things I did not like. Rumours reached me.
Hints were dropped, sometimes more than hints, that made me wonder
and look over my shoulder a little. No member of my immediate circle
at this time was of too sweet origin nor of too stainless habits, yet
from these came the rumours and the hints. I had better “keep my eyes
peeled,” and the rest...! One man in particular who warned me was an
elderly, shrewd German, friend of Brodie’s, and himself a mystery. His
occupation was unknown, however, even to Brodie; he hid it carefully
away; he led a double life, protecting himself with the utmost skill
and caution behind a screen of detail none of us ever pierced. “Von”
Schmidt, as he styled himself, was educated; also he had a heart;
for once, when I was in a state of collapse from hunger, he brought
oysters for me at great trouble to himself, having to go out on a
rainy night and bring them some distance along the street; from which
moment, though the unpleasant mystery about him intrigued and cautioned
me, I became his friend. We talked German together. His one desire,
he confided to me, was to marry a rich woman, and once he clumsily
proposed to arrange a rich marriage for myself if I would give him
a--commission on results!
His personality is worth this brief description, perhaps, since it
sheds light, incidentally, upon the world I lived in. Always most
carefully dressed, he occupied a single room in a well-appointed house
in East 22nd Street, talking airily of a bedroom on the floor above,
of a bathroom I was sure he never used, and complaining apologetically
of “this awful house I’m in for the moment.” His pose was that of an
aristocrat, proud and resigned among untoward circumstances, and it was
through no mistake of his own that this humbug did not impose on me.
I just knew it was all bunkum. His actual business, I felt sure, was
unsavoury, though Brodie, having once discovered artificial flowers
in his coat pocket, thought he was a floor-walker in some big store.
Various suspicious details confirmed me later in the belief that his
real occupation was blackmailing.
In his single room, at any rate, where a piece of furniture against
the wall covered with framed photographs of German notabilities was
in reality a folding-bed--I never once, since the oysters, betrayed
that I knew this--he lived “like a gentleman.” Every night, from nine
o’clock onwards, he was “at home”; a box of cigars, various liqueurs,
he offered without fail, and “with an air” if you please, although
the former never held more than three or four cigars, the bottles
never more than enough to fill two glasses, because “my servant,
confound him, has forgotten again to fill them.” He had no servant,
of course, and the minimum of replenishing was done by himself every
evening before nine o’clock. “Then you are a Baron really?” I said
once, referring to the “von” before his name. He looked at me with the
disdainful smile a prince in difficulties might have worn: “In this
city of snobs and scoundrels,” he said lightly, “I have dropped my
title. The ‘von’ alone I find more dignified.” He left the house, I
found, every morning sharp at eight, and this was in favour of Brodie’s
theory that he had some regular job. He was an experienced, much-lived
old bird, a touch of something sinister about him always, about most
of his friends as well. Some very disagreeable types I surprised more
than once in his well-furnished room. He “knew the ropes,” knew men
and women too, his counsel was always sound in worldly matters. A lack
of humour was his chief failing, it seemed to me, while his snobbery
was another weakness that probably led many of his schemes to failure.
Every summer, for instance, he would go for two weeks to Newport, where
the rank and fashion went. “When I was at Newport,” or “I am going to
Newport next week,” were phrases his tongue loved to mouth and taste
like fine wine. But his brief days there were spent actually in a cheap
boarding-house, although the letters he wrote to all and sundry, to
myself included, bore one word only as address: “Newport,” made from a
die, at the head of his coloured paper.
It was von Schmidt, then, who warned me about Brodie and his
eau-de-Cologne business: “He is a fool, a peasant. There will be
trouble there. Do not identify yourself with him or his business. It
is not worth while....” And his manner conveyed that he could tell
something more definite if he liked, which I verily believe was the
case. Brodie, I was convinced later, paid him tribute.
I began to feel uncomfortable. One day I asked Brodie, point blank,
what his recipe was and how he came by it? “That’s me own beezness,”
he replied. “There’s nothing to be nairvous about.” I consulted “old
Louis.” “If you feel the faintest doubt,” was his answer, “you should
leave at once.” I decided to get out. Brodie asked me to wait the
current month. I agreed.
Before the end of the month, however, when I left the eau-de-Cologne
business, a most unpleasant and alarming incident occurred. The
terrible thing, long dreaded in a vague kind of way, had overtaken me
at last. I was to be convicted of a crime I had not committed. I might
even be sent to gaol....
Brodie’s outlandish furnishing of his rooms has been mentioned
purposely; they were filled with an assortment of showy trash that
could not have deceived a charwoman; fifty dollars would have covered
everything. He was proud of his curtains, rugs and faked draperies,
however; showed them off with the air of a connoisseur; hinted at their
great value. He had insured them, it always pleased him to mention.
The _New York Journal_, describing the eviction scene, had referred
to his fine apartment “furnished with exotic taste and regardless of
cost,” adding this touch of colour which was certainly not my own.
Brodie, thus encouraged in print, promptly took out another fire policy
in a second company. And one day, while toying with his flagons, he
mentioned casually that he was having “me place done up a bit,” new
paint, new paper were to be put on, and--might he bring his clothes to
my room until this was finished, as his own cupboard space was limited?
He brought the suits himself, carrying them one by one concealed
inside a folded overcoat upon his arm. He did this always after dusk.
No suspicion stirred in me. My own cupboards were, of course, empty.
Brodie’s fine wardrobe now filled them. It all seemed natural enough;
certainly it roused no doubt or query in me; neither did the party to
which I was invited a few days later, which included a “distinguished”
member, of course, a famous dress-designer from Europe, with whose
publicity campaign in the Press, Brodie had contrived to get his name
associated.
We were a party of five men, and we met at our host’s rooms before
going out to dine, the rooms that had just been done up; and attention,
I recall, was drawn particularly to the beauty, rarity and value of
his variegated trash. The electric light was shaded, a big coal fire
burned in the grate, at a cursory glance the apartment might possibly
have produced a favourable impression of expense and richness. But our
host did not allow us to linger; there was a hurried cocktail, and we
were gone. I remember that I was last but one in the procession down
the stairs from this top floor; Brodie, who had held the door open for
us to pass, came last. Also I remembered later, that as we reached the
next flight, he said he had forgotten something, and dashed upstairs
again to fetch it. A moment later he rejoined us in the street, and
we all went on to dinner. “It was a kind of house-warming party,” he
explained.
The evening passed pleasantly. We went on to Koster and Biel’s music
hall, and after that, to supper in some Tenderloin joint or other. And
it was here I first noticed a change in our host. Something about him
was different. His behaviour was not what was normal to him. His face
was pale, his manner nervous and excited; though there was no drink in
him to account for it, he was overwrought, unusually voluble, unable to
keep still for a single moment. I had never seen him like this before,
and the strangeness of his behaviour arrested me. Once or twice, _à
propos_ of nothing, he referred to the money he had spent on his
apartment; and more than once in asides to me, he spoke of the value of
his rugs and curtains, engaging my endorsement, as it were. The other
men, who knew him less intimately, probably noticed nothing, or, if
they did, attributed it to the excitement of alcohol.... But it made me
more and more uneasy. I didn’t like it; I watched him attentively. I
came to the strange conclusion, long before the evening was over, that
he was frightened. And when he met suggestions that it was time for bed
with obstinate refusals, anxious and nervous at the same time, I knew
that he was more than frightened, he was terrified.
Once when I asked him whether he felt unwell, there was startled terror
in his cunning eyes as he whispered: “I dreamed of rats last night.
Something bad will be coming.” His face was white as chalk. To dream
of rats, with him, always meant an enemy in the offing; a dozen times
he had given me instances of this strange superstition; to dream of an
acquaintance in connexion with these unpleasant rodents meant that
this particular acquaintance was false, an enemy, someone who meant him
harm. I, therefore, understood the allusion in his mind, but this time,
for some reason, I did not believe it. He was lying. The terror of a
guilty conscience was in those startled eyes and in that sheet-white
skin. I felt still more uneasy. I was glad I had put my resignation
from the “beezness” in writing. There was trouble coming in connexion
with that recipe, and Brodie already knew it.
It was after two in the morning when we reached home. My rooms were a
couple of streets before his own, but he begged me to see him to his
door. His nervous state had grown, meanwhile, worse and worse; his legs
failed him several times, seeming to sink under his weight; he took my
arm; more than once he reeled. There was something about it all, about
himself particularly, that made my skin crawl. The awful feeling that
I, too, was to be involved increased in me.
As we turned out of Fourth Avenue into his street, a loud noise met
us: a prolonged, hoarse sound, a clank of machinery in it somewhere,
another sound as well that pulsed and throbbed. A dense crowd blocked
the way. There was smoke. A fire engine was pumping water into a
burning building--the one that Brodie lived in. These details I noticed
in the first few seconds, but even before I had registered them Brodie
uttered a queer cry and half-collapsed against me. He was speechless
with terror, and at first something of his terror he communicated
to me, too. My heart sank into my boots. The “rats” I understood
instantly, had nothing to do with his eau de Cologne recipe. This was a
far more serious matter.
Fires were no new thing to me, and this evidently was only a small one,
but, none the less, people might have been burned to death. Telling
my companion to wait for me, and to keep his mouth shut whatever
happened, I produced some paper and pushed my way through the crowd to
the police cordon, saying I was from the _Evening Sun_. Though I had
no fire-badge, the bluff worked. I ran up the steps of the familiar
house. “Which floor is it? How did it start? Is it insured? Is anybody
burned?” I asked a fireman. The answer came and I jotted it down; it
was the top floor, how it started was unknown, nobody was hurt--it was
heavily insured.
It had been burning for four hours, the worst was over, the fire was
out; only steam and smoke now filled the staircase and corridors. The
street was covered with a litter of ruined furniture. The occupants of
the lower floors stood about in various attire; I caught unpleasant
remarks as I dashed upstairs to Brodie’s floor. Hoses, I found, were
still at work; the room we had left six hours before was gutted; a
gaping hole permitted a view of the room on the floor below, and this
hole began immediately in front of the grate. A black woolly mat
with long hair, I remembered, had lain on the floor just there. The
unpleasant remarks, as I ran up, had reference to insurance; phrases
such as “over-insured,” “too well insured” were audible. They were the
usual phrases uttered at the scene of a New York fire, where arson was
as common as picking pockets; I had heard them a hundred times; they
had furnished clues for my newspaper stories. On this occasion they
held a new significance.
Brodie shared my folding-bed that night, but he did not sleep. He cried
a good deal. He said very little. He referred neither to the loss of
his stuff, nor to the fact of its being covered by insurance, nor to
how and why the fire started. He was frightened to the bone.
Next day, when we visited the burned apartment to secure what fire
and water had spared, Brodie was abused and scarified by the inmates
as he went upstairs.... Weeks of keen anxiety followed, of worse than
anxiety. The insurance companies refused to pay the claims, which
Brodie, after much hesitation, had sent in. They decided to fight them.
The lawyer--a _scheister_, meaning a low, unprincipled type of attorney
who would take any case for the money it might contain--bled my friend
effectively by preying on his obvious fear. He was summoned to give
witness before a hearing in the offices of the company, and I shall
never forget his face when he met me that night with the significant
words: “They know everything about me, everything about you too. They
even know that I took all my clothes to your room before it happened.
They are going to summon you to give evidence too.”
I consulted with “old Louis,” telling him the full story, but making
no accusations. “Few people are worthy to live with,” was his comment,
“fewer still to share one’s confidence. You must tell the truth as you
know it. You have nothing to fear.” I was searchingly examined by the
company’s lawyer and my evidence made, I saw, a good impression. No
awkward leading questions were put. Brodie had been kind to me; I knew
nothing definite against him; in his ignorance, which I described, he
might well have thought his possessions were of value. It had nothing
to do with me, at any rate, and there was a perfectly good explanation
for his clothes being in my cupboard. None the less, it was a trying
ordeal. Worse, however, was to follow. The fire marshal, recently
appointed, a proverbial new broom, was out to put down the far too
frequent arson in the city. Fire Marshal Mitchell--I see his face
before me still--intended to prosecute.
This was a bombshell. My imaginative temperament then became, indeed,
my curse. Waiting for the summons was like waiting for the verdict
of a hostile jury. I waited many days, hope alternating with fear. I
felt sure I was being watched the whole time. Brodie and I never met
once. I changed my room about this time, though for reasons entirely
disconnected with this unpleasant business (I had obtained a violin
pupil in another house), and I wrote to the fire marshal informing him
of my new address, in case, as I understood was probable, he might want
my evidence.
But what really alarmed me most was my inside knowledge of New York
justice. I had seen too many innocent men sent up; I had heard faked
evidence in too many police cases; I knew that, without a “pull,” I
stood but little chance of escaping a conviction as an accessory
to what they would call a wanton case of arson. I was not even on
the staff of a newspaper at the time. I had no influence of any sort
behind me. Nor were my means of support too “visible,” a Britisher,
a highly-connected Britisher into the bargain, it was just what the
new-broom fire marshal was looking for. It would make a big case for
the Press. The agony of mind I endured was ghastly, and the slow delay
of long waiting intensified it.... One evening, on coming home about
dusk, I saw a strange man in the little hall-way of my house. He asked
me my name. I told him. He handed me a blue paper and went out. It was
the long-expected subpœna from the fire marshal. I was summoned to
attend at eight o’clock two mornings later in his office.
My emotions that night and the next day were new experiences to me; I
heard the judge sentence me, saw myself in prison for a term of years
with hard labour. I began to _feel_ guilty. I knew I should say the
wrong thing to the fire marshal. I should convict myself. The truth
was the truth, but everything pointed against me; I knew Brodie as a
friend, I was his business associate, was frequently in his rooms, had
accepted kindnesses from him, I needed money badly, I had hidden his
good clothes in my cupboards a few days before the fire. I had been
with him on that particular night, I had left the room with him--last
of the party. I should be looked upon as guilty, it was for me to
clear myself. Prejudice against me, too, as an Englishman would be
strong. The Boyde episode would be revived, and twisted to show that I
consorted with law-breakers. I should stammer and hesitate and appear
to be hiding the truth, to be lying, and I should most certainly look
guilty. The thing I dreaded had come upon me. I thought of my home and
family.
It all made me realize with a fresh sharpness the kind of world poverty
had dragged me down to, with the contrast between what I had been
born to and what I now lived in.... I needed every scrap of strength
and comfort my books could give me. That I was exaggerating like
a schoolboy never occurred to me. I suffered the tortures of the
damned, of the already condemned, at any rate. That I was innocent of
wrong-doing was, for some reason, no consolation: I had got myself into
an awful mess and should have to pay the price.
The wildest ideas filled my brain; I would call and enlist the
influence of McCloy, of various officials, of headquarters detectives,
of D. L. Moody the Revivalist, who was then preaching in New York
and who had been a guest in my father’s house, of the Exchange Place
banker, even of von Schmidt, though fear of blackmail stopped me here.
But reflection told me how useless such a proceeding would be. The
Republicans, besides, were in power at the time, and Tammany had no
“pull.” I even thought of Roosevelt, whom, as President of the Police
Board, I had often interviewed. The fire marshal would rejoice in the
case, of course, for, as with the Boyde story, the newspapers would
print it at great length. There lay much _kudos_ for him in it. I
had no sleep that night, as I had no friend or counsellor either. I
thought of spending it in Bronx Park with the trees, but it occurred to
me that, if I were being watched, the act might be interpreted as an
attempt to escape--for what would a New York fire marshal make of my
love of nature?
The following day, as the dreaded examination grew closer, was a day of
acute misery--until the late afternoon, when I met by chance the man
who saved me. I shall always believe, at least, that “saved” is the
right word to use.
A coincidence, as singular as the coincidence of catching Boyde, was
involved. Fate, anyhow, brought me across the path of Mullins, the one
man who could help, just at the time and place, too, where that help
could be most effectively given. The word coincidence, therefore, seems
justified.
Mullins, the Irishman, was an editorial writer on the _Evening Sun_
when I was a reporter there; he disliked the paper as heartily as I
did, and his ambition was to join the staff of the _New York Times_,
where Muldoon, another Irishman, a boon companion, was City Editor.
He had proved a real friend to me in my days of gross inexperience.
“If ever I get on the _Times_,” he used to say, “I’ll try and get a
place for you, too. It’s a fine, clean paper, and they treat a man
decently.” He had realized his ambition just about the time I went into
the eau-de-Cologne business, but had said there was no vacancy for me.
There might be one later. He would let me know. For months, however, we
had not met, and the matter had really left my mind. And it was now,
when I was casting about in a state of semi-panic for someone who might
help me, that I suddenly thought of Mullins. As a last hope, rather, I
thought of him, for it seemed a very off-chance indeed.
For various reasons I did not act upon the idea, but Mullins was in
my mind, so much, so persistently, so often, that I kept seeing him
in passers-by. I mistook several strangers for Mullins, until close
enough to see my mistake. Then, suddenly, in Union Square, towards
evening, I did see him. I was sitting on a bench. He walked past me. He
was on his way to an assignment. I told him the whole story, making no
accusations, but omitting no vital detail. He listened attentively, his
face very grave. He shared my own misgivings. “It’s just the kind of
case Mitchell’s looking for,” he said. “He wants to make a splash with
it. But I think I can fix it for you. Guess what my assignment is at
this moment?”
And then he told me. His job that evening was a special interview with
Mitchell, a descriptive story of the newly-appointed fire marshal, his
personality and character, his plans for suppressing arson, and it was
to be a front-page article. Mullins could make him or mar him; he had a
free hand in the matter; the _Times_ was a Republican organ. It would
mean a great deal to Mitchell. “He comes from my part of Ireland,” said
Mullins with a grin and a wink. And then he added that he had spoken
to Muldoon about me only the day before, and that Muldoon had promised
me a place on the paper the moment it was possible--in a few weeks
probably. “I shall just mention to Mitchell that you’re going on the
_Times_,” was his significant parting word to me, as he hurried off to
keep his appointment.
My examination next morning was robbed of much of its terror. The
fire marshal was evidently not quite sure of himself, for, if manner,
voice and questions were severe, I detected an attitude that suggested
wavering. A shorthand writer behind me took down every word I uttered,
and the searching examination about the clothes, my social and business
relations with Brodie, my knowledge, if any, concerning the value of
his rugs and curtains, especially concerning the night of the fire
and the details of how we left the room, gave me moments of acute
discomfort. Although Mitchell rarely once looked straight at me, I
knew he was observing my every word and gesture, the slightest change
in facial expression, too. He confined himself entirely to questions,
allowing no hint of his own opinion to escape him, and yet, to my very
strung-up attention, he betrayed the uncertainty already mentioned.
I, of course, confined myself entirely to answers, brief, but without
hesitation.
My instinct, right or wrong, was to protect Brodie, a man who had
shown me real kindness. I remembered the meals, for one thing. In any
case, it was not for me to express opinions, much less to bring an
accusation. And, towards the end of a gruelling half-hour, I began to
feel a shade more comfortable. When, with a slightly different manner,
the fire marshal began to ask personal questions about my own career,
I felt the day was almost won. I gave a quick outline of my recent
history, though I never once mentioned the name of Mullins; let fall
the detail, too, that I was an Irishman, and, a little later, seizing
an opening with an audacity that surprised myself even while I said the
words, I congratulated Mr. Mitchell upon his campaign to crush out the
far too frequent arson in the city. “As a newspaper man,” I gave this
blessing, and the shot, I instantly saw, went home. If I could be of
any use to him on the _Times_, if any suspicious case came my way, I
added that I should always be glad to serve him. For the first time the
fire marshal smiled. I shot in a swift last stroke for Brodie, though
an indirect one. “But you don’t want any _mis_fires,” I ventured,
inwardly delighted that the play on the word amused him. “A big case
that failed of a conviction would be damaging.”
We shook hands as I left soon after, though the final comfort he denied
me. For when I mentioned that my present address would always find me
“if you need me again,” he merely bowed and thanked me. He did _not_
say, as I hoped he would, “your presence will not be required any more.”