law firm of Tutt & Tutt. Such vulgar persons were not of his sphere. His
own lawyers were gray-headed, dignified, rather smart attorneys who
moved only in the best social circles and practised their profession
with an air of elegance. When Mr. Hepplewhite needed advice he sent for
them and they came, chatted a while in subdued easy accents, and went
away--like cheerful undertakers. Nobody ever spoke in loud tones near
Mr. Hepplewhite because Mr. Hepplewhite did not like anything loud--not
even clothes. He was, as we have said, quite one of the nicest men in
New York.
At the moment when Mrs. Witherspoon made her appearance he was sitting
in his library reading a copy of "Sainte-Beuve" and waiting for Bibby,
the butler, to announce tea. It was eight minutes to five and there was
still eight minutes to wait; so Mr. Hepplewhite went on reading
"Sainte-Beuve."
Then "Mrs. Witherspoon!" intoned Bibby, and Mr. Hepplewhite rose
quickly, adjusted his eye-glass and came punctiliously forward.
"My dear Mrs. Witherspoon!" he exclaimed crisply. "I am really
delighted to see you. It was quite charming of you to give me this
week-end."
"Adorable of you to ask me Mr. Hepplewhite!" returned the lady. "I've
been looking forward to this visit for weeks. What a sweet room? Is that
a Corot?"
"Yes--yes!" murmured her host modestly. "Rather nice, I think, eh? I'll
show you my few belongings after tea. Now will you go upstairs first or
have tea first?"
"Just as you say," beamed Mrs. Witherspoon. "Perhaps I had better run up
and take off my veil."
"Whichever you prefer," he replied chivalrously. "Do exactly as you
like. Tea will be ready in a couple of minutes."
"Then I think I'll run up."
"Very well. Bibby, show Mrs. Witherspoon--"
"Very good, sir. This way, please, madam. Stockin', fetch Mrs.
Witherspoon's bag from the hall."
Mr. Hepplewhite stood rubbing his delicate hands in front of the fire,
telling himself what a really great pleasure it was to have Mrs.
Witherspoon staying with him over the week-end. He was having a dinner
party for her that evening--of forty-eight. All that it had been
necessary for him to do to have the party was to tell Mr. Sadducee, his
secretary, that he wished to have it and direct him to send the
invitations from List Number One and then to tell Bibby the same thing
and to order the chef to serve Dinner Number Four--only to have
Johannisberger Cabinet instead of Niersteiner.
All these things were highly important to Mr. Hepplewhite, for upon the
absolute smoothness with which tea and dinner were served and the
accuracy with which his valet selected socks to match his tie his entire
happiness, to say nothing of his peace of mind, depended. His daily life
consisted of a series of subdued and nicely adjusted social events. They
were forecast for months ahead. Nothing was ever done on the spur of the
moment at Mr. Hepplewhite's. He could tell to within a couple of seconds
just exactly what was going to occur during the balance of the day, the
remainder of Mrs. Witherspoon's stay and the rest of the month. It would
have upset him very much not to know exactly what was going to happen,
for he was a meticulously careful host and being a creature of habit the
unexpected was apt to agitate him extremely.
So now as he stood rubbing his hands it was in the absolute certainty
that in just a few more seconds one of the footmen would appear between
the tapestry portières bearing aloft a silver tray with the tea things,
and then Bibby would come in with the paper, and presently Mrs.
Witherspoon would come down and she would make tea for him and they
would talk about tea, and Aiken, and whether the Abner Fullertons were
going to get a domestic or foreign divorce, and how his bridge was these
days. It would be very nice, and he rubbed his hands very gently and
waited for the Dresden clock to strike five in the subdued and decorous
way that it had. But he did not hear it strike.
Instead a shriek rang out from the hall above, followed by yells and
feet pounding down the stairs. Mr. Hepplewhite turned cold and something
hard rose up in his throat. His sight dimmed. And then Bibby burst in,
pale and with protruding eyes.
"There was a man in the guest room!" he gasped. "Stockin's got him. What
shall we do?"
At that moment Mrs. Witherspoon followed.
"Oh, Mr. Hepplewhite! Oh, Mr. Hepplewhite!" she gasped, staggering
toward him.
Mr. Hepplewhite would have taken her in his arms and attempted to
comfort her only it was not done in Mr. Hepplewhite's set unless under
extreme provocation. So he pressed an armchair upon her; or, rather,
pressed her into an armchair; and leaned against the bookcase feeling
very faint. He was extremely agitated.
"S-send for the police! S-s-send for B-burk!" he stuttered. Burk was a
husky watchman who also acted as a personal guard for Mr. Hepplewhite.
An alarm began to beat a deafening staccato in the hall outside the
library. Bibby rushed gurgling from the room. Several tall men in knee
breeches and silk stockings dashed excitedly up and down stairs using
expressions such as had never before been heard by Mr. Hepplewhite, and
the clanging gong of a police wagon was audible as it clattered up the
Avenue.
"Oh, Mr. Hepplewhite," whispered Mrs. Witherspoon, unconsciously seeking
his hand. "I never was so frightened in my life!"
Then the gong stopped and the police poured into the house and up the
stairs. There were muffled noises and suppressed ejaculations of "Aw,
come on there, now! I've got him, Mike! No funny business now, you! Come
along quiet!"
The whole house seemed blue with policemen, and Mr. Hepplewhite became
aware of a very fat man in a blue cap marked Captain, who removed the
cap deferentially and otherwise indicated that he was making obeisance.
Behind the fat man stood three other equally fat men, who held between
them with grim firmness, by arm, neck and shoulder, a much smaller--in
fact, quite a small--man shabby, unkempt, and with a desperate look upon
his unshaven face.
"We've got him, all right, Mr. Hepplewhite!" exulted the captain,
obviously grateful that God had vouchsafed to deliver the criminal into
his and not into other hands. "Shall I take him to the house--or do you
want to examine him?"
"I?" ejaculated Mr. Hepplewhite. "Mercy, no! Take him away as quickly as
possible!"
"As you say, sir," wheezed the captain. "Come along, boys! Take him over
to court and arraign him!"
"Yes, do!" urged Mrs. Witherspoon. "And arraign him as hard as you can;
for he really frightened me nearly to death, the terrible man!"
"Leave him to me, ma'am!" adjured the captain "Will you have your butler
act as complainant sir?" he asked.
"Why--yes--Bibby will do whatever is proper," agreed Mr. Hepplewhite.
"It will not be necessary for me to go to court, will it?"
"Oh, no!" answered the captain. "Mr. Bibby will do all right. I suppose
we had better make the charge burglary, sir?"
"I suppose so," replied Mr. Hepplewhite vaguely.
"Get on, boys," ordered the captain. "Good evening, sir. Good evening,
ma'am. Step lively, you!"
The blue cloud faded away, bearing with it both Bibby and the burglar.
Then the third footman brought the belated tea.
"What a frightful thing to have happen!" grieved Mrs. Witherspoon as she
poured out the tea for Mr. Hepplewhite. "You don't take cream, do you?"
"No, thanks," he answered. "I find too much cream hard to digest. I have
to be rather careful, you know. By the way, you haven't told me where
the burglar was or what he was doing when you went into the room."
"He was in the bed," said Mrs. Witherspoon.
* * * * *
"In the 'Decay of Lying,' Mr. Tutt," said Tutt thoughtfully, as he
dropped in for a moment's chat after lunch, "Oscar Wilde says, 'There is
no essential incongruity between crime and culture.'"
The senior partner removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and carefully
polished the lenses with a bit of chamois, which he produced from his
watch pocket, meanwhile resting the muscles of his forehead by elevating
his eyebrows until he somewhat resembled an inquiring but good-natured
owl.
"That's plain enough," he replied. "The most highly cultivated people
are often the most unscrupulous. I go Oscar one better and declare that
there is a distinct relationship between crime and progress!"
"You don't say, now!" ejaculated Tutt. "How do you make that out?"
Mr. Tutt readjusted his spectacles and slowly selected a stogy from the
bundle in the dusty old cigar box.
"Crime," he announced, "is the violation of the will of the majority as
expressed in the statutes. The law is wholly arbitrary and depends upon
public opinion. Acts which are crimes in one century or country become
virtues in another, and vice versa. Moreover, there is no difference,
except one of degree, between infractions of etiquette and of law, each
of which expresses the feelings and ideas of society at a given moment.
Violations of good taste, manners, morals, illegalities, wrongs,
crimes--they are all fundamentally the same thing, the insistence on
one's own will in defiance of society as a whole. The man who keeps his
hat on in a drawing-room is essentially a criminal because he prefers
his own way of doing things to that adopted by his fellows."
"That's all right," answered Tutt. "But how about progress?"
"Why, that is simple," replied his partner. "The man who refuses to bow
to habit, tradition, law--who thinks for himself and acts for himself,
who evolves new theories, who has the courage of his convictions and
stakes his life and liberty upon them--that man is either a statesman, a
prophet or a criminal. And in the end he is either hailed as a hero and
a liberator or is burned, cast into prison or crucified."
Tutt looked interested.
"Well, now," he returned, helping himself from the box, "I never thought
of it, but, of course, it's true. Your proposition is that progress
depends on development and development depends on new ideas. If the new
idea is contrary to those of society it is probably criminal. If its
inventor puts it across, gets away with it, and persuades society that
he is right he is a leader in the march of progress. If he fails he goes
to jail. Hence the relationship between crime and progress. Why not say
that crime is progress?"
"If successful it is," answered Mr. Tutt. "But the moment it is
successful it ceases to be crime."
"I get you," nodded Tutt. "Here to-day it is a crime to kill one's
grandmother; but I recall reading that among certain savage tribes to do
so is regarded as a highly virtuous act. Now if I convince society that
to kill one's grandmother is a good thing it ceases to be a crime.
Society has progressed. I am a public benefactor."
"And if you don't persuade society you go to the chair," remarked Mr.
Tutt laconically.
"To use another illustration," exclaimed Tutt, warming to the subject,
"the private ownership of property at the present time is recognized and
protected by the law, but if we had a Bolshevik government it might be a
crime to refuse to share one's property with others."
"In that case if you took your share of another's property by force,
instead of being a thief you would be a Progressive," smiled his
partner.
Tutt robbed his forehead.
"Looking at it that way, you know," said he, "makes it seem as if
criminals were rather to be admired."
"Well, some of them are, and a great multitude of them certainly were,"
answered Mr. Tutt. "All the early Christian martyrs were criminals in
the sense that they were law-breakers."
"And Martin Luther," suggested Tutt.
"And Garibaldi," added Mr. Tutt.
"And George Washington--maybe?" hazarded the junior partner.
Mr. Tutt shrugged his high shoulders.
"You press the analogy a long way, but--in a sense every successful
revolutionist was in the beginning a criminal--as every rebel is and
perforce must be," he replied.
"So," said Tutt, "if you're a big enough criminal you cease to be a
criminal at all. If you're going to be a crook, don't be a piker--it's
too risky. Grab everything in sight. Exterminate a whole nation, if
possible. Don't be a common garden highwayman or pirate; be a Napoleon
or a Willy Hohenzollern."
"You have the idea," replied Mr. Tutt. "Crime is unsuccessful defiance
of the existing order of things. Once rebellion rises to the dignity of
revolution murder becomes execution and the murderers become
belligerents. Therefore, as all real progress involves a change in or
defiance of existing law, those who advocate progress are essentially
criminally minded, and if they attempt to secure progress by openly
refusing to obey the law they are actual criminals. Then if they
prevail, and from being in the minority come into power, they are taken
out of jail, banquets are given in their honor, and they are called
patriots and heroes. Hence the close connection between crime and
progress."
Tutt scratched his chin doubtfully.
"That sounds pretty good," he admitted, "but"--and he shook his
head--"there's something the matter with it. It doesn't work except in
the case of crimes involving personal rights and liberties. I see your
point that all progressives are criminals in the sense that they are
'agin the law' as it is, but--I also see the hole in your argument,
which is that the fact that all progressives are criminals doesn't make
all criminals progressive. Your proposition is only a half truth."
"You're quite wrong about my theory being a half truth," retorted Mr.
Tutt. "It is fundamentally sound. The fellow who steals a razor or a few
dollars is regarded as a mean thief, but if he loots a trust company or
takes a million he's a financier. The criminal law, I maintain, is
administered for the purpose of protecting the strong from the weak, the
successful from the unsuccessful the rich from the poor. And, sir"--Mr.
Tutt here shook his fist at an imaginary jury--"the man who wears a red
necktie in violation of the taste of his community or eats peas with his
knife is just as much a criminal as a man who spits on the floor when
there's a law against it. Don't you agree with me?"
"I do not!" replied Tutt. "But that makes no difference. Nevertheless
what you say about the criminal law being devised to protect the rich
from the poor interests me very much--very much indeed But I think
there's a flaw in that argument too, isn't there? Your proposition is
true only to the extent that the criminal law is invoked to protect
property rights--and not life and liberty. Naturally the laws that
protect property are chiefly of benefit to those who have it--the rich."
"However that may be," declared Mr. Tutt fiercely, "I claim that the
criminal laws are administered, interpreted and construed in favor of
the rich as against the liberties of the poor, for the simple reason
that the administrators of the criminal law desire to curry favor with
the powers that be."
"The moral of which all is," retorted the other, "that the law ought to
be very careful about locking up people."
"At any rate those who have violated laws upon which there can be a
legitimate difference of opinion," agreed Mr. Tutt.
"That's where we come in," said Tutt. "We make the difference--even if
there never was any before."
Mr. Tutt chuckled.
"We perform a dual service to society," he declared. "We prevent the law
from making mistakes and so keep it from falling into disrepute, and we
show up its weak points and thus enable it to be improved."
"And incidentally we keep many a future statesman and prophet from going
to prison," said Tutt. "The name of the last one was Solomon
Rabinovitch--and he was charged with stealing a second-hand razor from a
colored person described in the papers as one Morris Cohen."
How long this specious philosophic discussion would have continued is
problematical had it not been interrupted by the entry of a young
gentleman dressed with a somewhat ostentatious elegance, whose wizened
face bore an expression at once of vast good nature and of a deep and
subtle wisdom.
It was clear that he held an intimate relationship to Tutt & Tutt from
the familiar way in which he returned their cordial, if casual,
salutations.
"Well, here we are again," remarked Mr. Doon pleasantly, seating himself
upon the corner of Mr. Tutt's desk and spinning his bowler hat upon the
forefinger of his left hand. "The hospitals are empty. The Tombs is as
dry as a bone. Everybody's good and every day'll be Sunday by and by."
"How about that man who stole a razor?" asked Tutt.
"Discharged on the ground that the fact that he had a full beard created
a reasonable doubt," replied Doon. "Honestly there's nothing doing in my
line--unless you want a tramp case."
"A tramp case!" exclaimed Tutt & Tutt.
"I suppose you'd call it that," he answered blandly. "I don't think he
was a burglar. Anyhow he's in the Tombs now, shouting for a lawyer. I
listened to him and made a note of the case."
Mr. Tutt pushed over the box of stogies and leaned back attentively.
"You know the Hepplewhite house up on Fifth Avenue--that great stone
one with the driveway?"
The Tutts nodded.
"Well, it appears that the prisoner--our prospective client--was
snooping round looking for something to eat and found that the butler
had left the front door slightly ajar. Filled with a natural curiosity
to observe how the other half lived, he thrust his way cautiously in and
found himself in the main hall--hung with tapestry and lined with stands
of armor. No one was to be seen. Can't you imagine him standing there in
his rags--the Weary Willy of the comic supplements--gazing about him at
the _objets d'art_, the old masters, the onyx tables, the
statuary--wondering where the pantry was and whether the housekeeper
would be more likely to feed him or kick him out?"
"Weren't any of the domestics about?" inquired Tutt.
"Not one. They were all taking an afternoon off, except the third
assistant second man who was reading 'The Pilgrim's Progress' in the
servants' hall. To resume, our friend was not only very hungry, but very
tired. He had walked all the way from Yonkers, and he needed everything
from a Turkish bath to a manicuring. He had not been shaved for weeks.
His feet sank almost out of sight in the thick nap of the carpets. It
was quiet, warm, peaceful in there. A sense of relaxation stole over
him. He hated to go away, he says, and he meditated no wrong. But he
wanted to see what it was like upstairs.
"So up he went. It was like the palace of 'The Sleeping Beauty.'
Everywhere his eyes were soothed by the sight of hothouse plants, marble
floors, priceless rugs, luxurious divans--"
"Stop!" cried Tutt. "You are making me sleepy!"
"Well, that's what it did to him. He wandered along the upper hall,
peeking into the different rooms, until finally he came to a beautiful
chamber finished entirely in pink silk. It had a pink rug--of silk; the
furniture was upholstered in pink silk, the walls were lined with pink
silk and in the middle of the room was a great big bed with a pink silk
coverlid and a canopy of the same. It seemed to him that that bed must
have been predestined for him. Without a thought for the morrow he
jumped into it, pulled the coverlid over his head and went fast asleep.
"Meanwhile, at tea time Mrs. De Lancy Witherspoon arrived for the
week-end. Bibby, the butler, followed by Stocking, the second man,
bearing the hand luggage, escorted the guest to the Bouguereau Room, as
the pink-silk chamber is called."
Mr. Bonnie Doon, carried away by his own powers of description, waved
his hand dramatically at the old leather couch against the side wall,
in which Weary Willy was supposed to be reclining.
"Can't you see 'em?" he declaimed. "The haughty Bibby with nose in air,
preceding the great dame of fashion, enters the pink room and comes to
attention, 'This way, madam!' he declaims, and Mrs. Witherspoon sweeps
across the threshold." Bonnie Doon, picking up an imaginary skirt,
waddled round Mr. Tutt and approached the couch. Suddenly he started
back.
"Oh, la, la!" he half shrieked, dancing about. "There is a man in the
bed!"
Both Tutts stared hard at the couch as if fully expecting to see the
form of Weary Willy thereon. Bonnie Doon had a way of making things
appear very vivid.
"And sure enough," he concluded, "there underneath the coverlid in the
middle of the bed was a huddled heap with a stubby beard projecting like
Excalibur from a pink silk lake!"
"Excuse me," interrupted Tutt. "But may I ask what this is all about?"
"Why, your new case, to be sure," grinned Bonnie, who, had he been
employed by any other firm, might have run the risk of being regarded as
an ambulance chaser. "To make a long and tragic story short, they sent
for the watchman, whistled for a policeman, telephoned for the hurry-up
wagon, and haled the sleeper away to prison--where he is now, waiting
to be tried."
"Tried!" ejaculated Mr. Tutt. "What for?"
"For crime, to be sure," answered Mr. Doon.
"What crime?"
"I don't know. They'll find one, of course."
Mr. Tutt swiftly lowered his legs from the desk and brought his fist
down upon it with a bang.
"Outrageous! What was I just telling you, Tutt!" he cried, a flush
coming into his wrinkled face. "This poor man is a victim of the
overzealousness which the officers of the law exhibit in protecting the
privileges and property of the rich. If John De Puyster Hepplewhite fell
asleep in somebody's vestibule the policeman on post would send him home
in a cab; but if a hungry tramp does the same thing he runs him in. If
John De Puyster Hepplewhite should be arrested for some crime they would
let him out on bail; while the tramp is imprisoned for weeks awaiting
trial, though under the law he is presumed to be innocent. Is he
presumed to be innocent? Not much! He is presumed to be guilty,
otherwise he would not be there. But what is he presumed to be guilty
of? That's what I want to know! Just because this poor man--hungry,
thirsty and weary--happened to select a bed belonging to John De Puyster
Hepplewhite to lie on he is thrown into prison, indicted by a grand
jury, and tried for felony! Ye gods! 'Sweet land of liberty!'"
"Well, he hasn't been tried yet," replied Bonnie Doon. "If you feel that
way about it why don't you defend him?"
"I will!" shouted Mr. Tutt, springing to his feet. "I'll defend him and
acquit him!"
He seized his tall hat, placed it upon his head and strode rapidly
through the door.
"He will too!" remarked Bonnie, winking at Tutt.
"He thinks that tramp is either a statesman or a prophet!" mused Tutt,
his mind reverting to his partner's earlier remarks.
"He won't think so after he's seen him," replied Mr. Doon.
It sometimes happens that those who seek to establish great principles
and redress social evils involve others in an involuntary martyrdom far
from their desires. Mr. Tutt would have gone to the electric chair
rather than see the Hepplewhite Tramp, as he was popularly called by the
newspapers convicted of a crime, but the very fact that he had become
his legal champion interjected a new element into the situation,
particularly as O'Brien, Mr. Tutt's arch enemy in the district
attorney's office, had been placed in charge of the case.
It would have been one thing to let Hans Schmidt--that was the tramp's
name--go, if after remaining in the Tombs until he had been forgotten by
the press he could have been unobtrusively hustled over the Bridge of
Sighs to freedom. Then there would have been no comeback. But with
Ephraim Tutt breathing fire and slaughter, accusing the police and
district attorney of being trucklers to the rich and great, and
oppressors of the poor--law breakers, in fact--O'Brien found himself in
the position of one having an elephant by the tail and unable to let go.
In fact, it looked as if the case of the Hepplewhite Tramp might become
a political issue. That there was something of a comic side to it made
it all the worse.
"Holy cats, boys!" snorted District Attorney Peckham to the circle of
disgruntled police officers and assistants gathered about him on the
occasion described by the reporters as his making a personal
investigation of the case, "Why in the name of common sense didn't you
simply boot the fellow into the street?"