With John Fletcher, former Justice of the Supreme Court of the
State of New York, at one end of a telephone, official red tape
was quickly and effectively cut. Professor Herman Brierly was
given the powers and privileges necessary for an independent
investigation.
Less than an hour after the receipt of the telegrams, Professor
Brierly, accompanied by McCall, Matthews and Jimmy Hale, was at
the office of the medical examiner, who was charged with making
the official report on deaths by other than natural means.
Dr. Simpson showed the old savant marked respect. Parts of the
story had leaked out somehow and the knowledge that behind
Professor Brierly were such distinguished names had its effect,
apart from the weight that the old scientist's own name carried.
The four men were led into a small bare chamber, behind the office
of the medical examiner, where all the earthly remains of Morris
Miller lay on an enameled metal slab.
Dr. Simpson drew aside the sheet, saying:
"I've not yet had time to make a post mortem, Professor, but that
will be only a formal gesture in this case. This is obviously
suicide."
Professor Brierly, who did not mince words when engaged in a
scientific investigation, took one look at the hole in the temple
with its encircling powder marks. He snapped:
"This is obviously _not_ suicide; certainly not, if this wound was
the cause of death, which neither you nor I at present know. Have
you the weapon with which this was done?"
Dr. Simpson reddened.
"The police have that, sir."
"And the bullet--oh, of course you have not extracted that. We will
do it together, if you please."
Professor Brierly began taking off his coat and vest, Matthews
doing likewise.
Dr. Simpson said tartly:
"Since you know so much about it without examination, and are so
cock sure that it isn't suicide, why bother with such trifles as
the weapon and the bullet. You might have sat down and written a
thesis about it without even seeing the body."
Professor Brierly whirled on him bristling. Matthews, coat and
vest in hand, slid between them. They were of equal height.
Matthews looked at the other and said softly:
"Doctor, it isn't safe or wise to talk to Professor Brierly that
way when I'm around. We don't want any trouble. You were told to
give Professor Brierly the fullest opportunity and help in making
this post mortem. We don't need your help, but it would be wiser
not to interfere."
Dr. Simpson was looking into a pair of dangerously cold blue eyes.
Nothing made Matthews as angry as an affront to the man who was
more than father to him. Dr. Simpson saw the rippling muscles, he
saw the clean cut jaw; he remembered the names of the men who were
behind this investigation. He retreated gracefully.
"Oh, all right, but it disturbs a professional man to have his
word questioned so lightly. I have some reputation--just a minute,
I'll bring the instruments."
Jimmy asked Matthews:
"How long will this take, Jack?"
"Perhaps an hour, Jimmy, why do you ask?"
"Nothing, I want to go out and use the phone. I'll be back before
you're through."
For the past half hour Jimmy had been outwardly calm, but inwardly
raging with impatience. Minutes became a matter of supreme
importance now. James Hale, the newspaper man, now had a big
story, and it was important to catch the Eagle's home edition if
possible. This was July Fourth. On this day, while they issued a
paper, they kept only a skeleton staff. With nothing big breaking
they were likely to put the home edition to bed and call it a day,
leaving just a man or two in the office for emergencies, similar
to the early morning dogwatch.
He also took a malicious satisfaction in shooting something into
the office that would keep them all on the jump for the rest of
the day and perhaps late into the night.
Jimmy, accustomed to thinking in headlines, had been formulating a
head for the story; he was now murmuring it to himself as he
hurried to a public telephone: DEATH POINTS A FINGER, DEATH POINTS
A FINGER, over and over again. He saw those words, in letters
three inches high, flaming across the top of the front page.
When the pleasant far-away voice of the operator said: "New York
Eagle" Jimmy barked: "'Lo Ann, gimme the city desk quick, will
you."
"Mr. Hite's wire is busy, will you wait a minute, Mr. Hale?"
"Can't Ann. I got to catch the home, put whoever Hite's talkin' to
on another wire and gimme the chief."
Jimmy had made a request that he would have made only in dire
emergency; he felt he was justified. He heard a faint clicking,
then came Hite's familiar growl:
"Are you drunk, Jimmy? What the hell can be so important that you
must cut in--mebbe you think I'll stop the presses for a feature
story. I--I said I'd pay the expenses of the trip, not for useless,
expensive telephone calls. You could have mailed--"
"'Scuse me, chief. I got a wow of a story. When's the home going
to bed?"
"Just gone; didn't I tell you--"
Jimmy found an effective way of stopping this flow of talk. He cut
in, saying:
"_One, perhaps three of this Tontine group have been murdered
during the past twenty-four hours_."
"What!"
The growl that came over the wire was a scream. Jimmy jerked the
instrument away from his ear.
The explosion kept ringing in his ear painfully. Hale repeated
slowly:
"One, perhaps three of the Tontine group were murdered during the
past twenty-four hours."
The growl that now answered him was Hite's normal voice, with the
tense undertone it held when he had a big story. Jimmy heard
Hite's voice faintly; the city editor was giving orders to the
pressroom that would stop the presses. For the next fifteen
minutes there would be feverish but orderly activity.
"All right, Jimmy, just gimme the flash so I'll have enough for a
head; the copy desk's all gone. Then I'll put you on Roy's wire
and you can give him the story."
Jimmy, with the capacity of the trained newspaper man to tell a
big story in a few words, told Hite enough in four sentences to
furnish material for a headline. Then, with malicious satisfaction,
he said:
"There's a New York end on this, chief."
This he knew would have the effect of keeping in the office
everybody who had not yet gone home and might even cause a
scurrying about that would call in others, thus spoiling whatever
plans they had made for the rest of the day. Newspaper men have no
union hours. He added as an afterthought: "I got a swell head for
this, chief. DEATH POINTS A FINGER."
The answer to this was a grunt. There was a click and Roy Heath's
soft southern drawl came floating over the miles of wire. There
was a stream of invective. Jimmy's past, present and future were
depicted in pointed billingsgate, all done in good English. Roy
had planned a pleasant afternoon and evening with a lady who had
just finished a triumphant musical comedy engagement. And now--Jimmy
wickedly cut in on this by saying:
"This is a swell obit, Roy." There is nothing the newspaper man
hates to do as much as an obituary. The cub's early training is
obtained on the obituary column. Roy took a fresh start, but he
was cut short, evidently by Hite, whose desk was near the rewrite
man's.
"All right, shoot if you got anything to say."
Jimmy, for the next thirty minutes, sketched the vivid story, so
fresh in his mind over the miles of wires between them,
interrupted from time to time by the growing excited ejaculations
from Roy Heath, as he sensed the "scoop" qualities of the story.
He ended:
"Tontine is spelt--"
"I know how to spell it and I know what it is. I got some
education. I ain't a damn ignorant Yankee."
"One of the members of this group is Lorenzo Tonti, a direct
Descendant of the man who devised this insurance. The fund now
amounts to about several million dollars. During all this time,
whenever there was an accident, injury or death to a member of
this group, each of the survivors received in an envelope a sheet
of paper with the number '14' on it.
"This bunch had an annual reunion on the Fourth of July, a gesture
to show the real patriotism of Southerners--"
"What do you mean 'gesture'? They are the only real patriots in
the country."
"Fourteen survivors were to have met at the camp of Isaac
Higginbotham, former justice of the United States Supreme Court.
Eleven came. At eight o'clock this morning a telephone message
came telling of the suicide of one of them, August Schurman,
retired art dealer, of New York. At nine o'clock there came a
telephone message telling of the suicide of another, Morris
Miller, of Lentone, Vermont. At ten o'clock there came a message
telling of the drowning of Herbert Wrigley, retired manufacturer,
at Bradley Beach, New Jersey.
"Just as they received word of the third death there came a batch
of telegrams, one for each of the eleven survivors, with the word
'fourteen' on each telegram, just that, nothing else, just
'fourteen.'
"We just saw the body of Morris Miller. The medical examiner
pronounced it suicide. Professor Brierly, after looking at the
bullet wound in the temple, says, that if that wound caused death,
it is not suicide. And you betcher life what Professor Brierly
says is so. Me and the Prof are now gonna make an exhaustive
investigation and give you our findings. Got it all?"
The monosyllabic grunt coming over the wire showed Jimmy that Roy
Heath had taken it all. Jimmy knew that there would now come from
Heath's clicking typewriter keys an amplified and elaborated story
that would take the breath of all who read it. Shortly the halted
presses would resume their roar and pour out an edition that would
startle the country.
Soon other papers would take up the burden. This was a story of
major importance. There was thrill, glamour, romance, drama,
everything that goes to make the big newspaper event. And it was.