JACK TELLS THE STORY
This chapter in our composite story falls to me, not because I can write
it better but because I was present at that strange interview which
changed the whole face of the Harland case. Even now I can feel the
tightening of the muscles, the horrified chill, as we learned, in one of
the most unexpected and startling revelations ever made in a lawyer’s
office, the true significance of the supposed suicide.
It was the morning after the night ride of Babbitts and O’Mally, and I
was late at the office. The matter had been arranged after I left the
evening before and I knew nothing of it. As I entered the building I ran
into Babbitts, who was going to the Whitney offices to report on his
failure and in the hopes that some new lead might have cropped up.
Drawing me to the side of the hall he told me of their expedition. I
listened with the greatest interest and surprise. It struck me as
amazing and rather horrible. Until I heard it I had not believed the
story of the typewriter girl—that Barker was in love with Miss
Whitehall—but in the face of such evidence I had nothing to say.
We were both so engrossed that neither noticed a woman holding a child
by the hand and moving uncertainly about our vicinity. It wasn’t till
the story was over and we were walking toward the elevator that I was
conscious of her, looking this way and that, jostled by the men and
evidently scared and bewildered. Judging her too timid to ask her way,
and too unused to such surroundings—she looked poor and shabby—to
consult the office directory on the wall, I stopped and asked her where
she wanted to go.
She gave a start and said with a brogue as rich as butter:
"It’s to L’yer Whitney’s office I’m bound, but where is it I don’t know
and it’s afeared I am to be demandin’ the way with everyone runnin’ by
me like hares."
"I’m going there myself," I said, "I’ll take you."
She bubbled out in relieved thanks and followed us into the elevator. As
the car shot up I looked her over wondering what she could want with the
chief. She was evidently a working woman, neatly dressed in a dark coat
and small black hat under which her hair was drawn back smooth and
tight. Her face was of the best Irish type, round, rosy and honest. One
of her hands clasped the child’s, his little fingers crumpled inside her
rough, red ones. She addressed him as "Dannie," and when passengers
crowded in and out, drew him up against her, with a curious, soft
tenderness that seemed instinctive.
He was a pale, thin little chap, eight or nine, with large, gray eyes,
that he’d lift to the faces round him with a solemn, searching look. I
smiled down at him but didn’t get any response, and it struck me that
both of them—woman and boy—were in a state of suppressed nervousness.
Every time the gate clanged she’d jump, and once I heard her mutter to
him "not to be scared."
Inside the office Babbitts went up the hall to the old man’s den and I
tried to find out what she wanted. Her nervousness was then obvious.
Shifting from foot to foot, her free hand—she kept a tight clutch on the
boy—fingering at the buttons of her coat, she refused to say. All I
could get out of her was that she had something important to tell and
she wouldn’t tell it to anyone but "L’yer Whitney."
By this time my curiosity was aroused. I asked her if she was a witness
in a case, and with a troubled look she said "maybe she was," and then,
backing away from me against the wall, reiterated with stubborn
determination, "But I won’t speak to no one but L’yer Whitney himself."
I went up to the private office where the old man and George were
talking with Babbitts and told them. George was sent to see if he could
manage better than I had and presently was back again with the
announcement:
"I can’t get a thing out of her. She insists on seeing you, father, and
says she won’t go till she does."
"Bring her in," growled the chief, and as George disappeared he turned
to Babbitts and said, "Wait here for a moment. I want to ask you a few
more things about that girl last night."
Babbitts drew back to the window and I, taking a chair by the table,
said, laughing:
"She’s probably been sued by her landlord and wants you to take the
case."
"Maybe," said the old man quietly. "I’m curious to see."
Just then the woman came in, the child beside her, and George following.
She looked at the chief with a steady, inquiring gaze, and he rose, as
urbanely welcoming as if she were a star client.
"You want to see me, Madam?"
"I do," she answered, "if you’re L’yer Whitney. For it’s to no one else
I’ll be goin’ with what I’m bringin’."
He assured her she’d found the right man, and waved her to a chair. She
sat down, drawing the boy against her knee, the chief opposite, leaning
a little forward in his chair, all encouraging attention.
"Well, what is it?" he said.
"It’s about the Harland suicide," she answered, "and it’s my husband,
Dan Meagher, who drives a dray for the Panama Fruit Company, who’s sent
me here. ’Go to L’yer Whitney and tell him,’ he says to me, ’and don’t
be sayin’ a word to a soul, not your own mother if she was above the sod
to hear ye.’"
George, who had been standing by the table with the sardonic smile he
affects, suddenly became grave and dropped into a chair. The chief,
nodding pleasantly, said:
"The Harland suicide, Mrs. Meagher; that’s very good. We’d like any
information you can give us about it."
The woman fetched up a breath so deep it was almost a gasp. With her
eyes on the old man she bent forward, her words, with their rich rolling
r’s, singularly impressive.
"It’s an honest woman I am, your Honor, and what I’ll be after tellin’
you is God’s truth for me and for Dannie here, who’s never lied since
the day he was born."
The little boy looked up and spoke, his voice clear and piping, after
the fuller tones of his mother:
"I’m not lying."
"Let’s hear this straight, Mrs. Meagher," said the chief. "I’m a little
confused. Is it you or the boy here that knows something?"
"_Him_," she said, putting her hand on the child’s shoulder, "he _seen
something_. It’s this way, your Honor. I’m one of the cleaners in the
Massasoit Building. The three top floors is mine and I go on duty to rid
up the offices from five till eight. It’s my habit to take Dannie with
me, he bein’, as maybe you can see, delicate since he had the typhoid,
and not allowed to go to school yet or run on the street."
"I empty the trash baskets," piped up the little boy.
"Don’t speak, Dannie, till your evidence is wanted," said she. "On the
evenin’ of the suicide, L’yer Whitney, I was doin’ my chores on the
seventeenth floor, in the Macauley-Blake Company’s offices, they bein’,
as you may know, at the back of the buildin’. I was through with the
outer room by a quarter past six, so I turned off the lights and went
into the inner room, closin’ the door, as I had the window open and
didn’t want the cold air on the boy."
"You left him in the room that looks over the houses to the front of the
Black Eagle Building?"
"By the window," spoke up the little boy. "I was leanin’ there lookin’
out."
"That’s it," said she. "The office was dark and as I shut the door I
seen him, by the sill, peerin’ over some books they had there." She took
the little boy’s hand and, fondling it in hers, said, "Now, Dannie, tell
his Honor what you saw, same as you tolt Paw and me this day." She
turned to the chief. "It’s no lie he’ll be after sayin’, L’yer Whitney,
I’ll swear that on the Book."
The little boy raised his big eyes to the old man’s and spoke, clearly
and slowly:
"I was lookin’ acrost at the Black Eagle Building, at the windows
opposite. On the floor right level with me they was all dark, ’cept the
hall one. That was lit and I could see down into the hall, and there was
no one in it. Suddent a door opened, the one nearest to the window, and
a head come out and looked quick up and down and then acrost to our
building. Then it went in and I was thinkin’ how it couldn’t see me
because it was all dark where I was, when the door opened again, slow,
and an awful sort of thing came out."
He stopped and turned to his mother, shrinking and scared. She put her
arm round him and coaxed softly:
"Don’t be afeart, darlint. Go on, now, and tell it like you tolt it to
me and Paw at breakfast."
The old man was motionless, his face as void of expression as a stone
mask. George was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes on
the boy in a fixed stare.
"What was it you saw, Dannie?" said the chief, his voice sounding deep
as an organ after that moment of breathless hush. "Don’t be afraid to
tell us."
The boy spoke again, pressing back against his mother:
"It was like an animal creepin’ along, crouched down——"
"Show the gentlemen," said Mrs. Meagher, and without more urging the
little chap slid down to the floor on his hands and knees and began
padding about, bent as low as he could. It was a queer sight, believe
me—the tiny figure creeping stealthily along the carpet—and we four men,
all but the old man, now up on our feet, leaning forward to watch with
faces of amazement.
"That way," he said, looking up sideways. "Just like that—awful quick
from the door to the window." He rose and went back to his mother,
cowering against her. "I thought it was some kind of bear, and I was
terrible scairt. I was so scairt I couldn’t raise a yell or make a break
or nothin’. I stood lookin’ and I saw it was a man, and——" He stopped,
terrified memory halting the words.
She had to coax again, her arm around him, her face close to his.
"Go on, Dannie boy, you want the gintlemin to think you’re the brave man
that ye are. Go on, now, lamb." Over his head she looked at the chief
and said, "It’s a sight might have froze the heart of anyone, let alone
a pore, sickly kid."
The boy went on, almost in a whisper:
"He had another man on his back, still, like he was dead, with his arms
hangin’ down. I could see the hands draggin’ along the floor like they
was bits of rope. And when he got to the window, quick—I never seen
nothin’ so quick—the one that was creepin’ slid the other on to the
sill. He done it this way." He crouched down on his knees with his hands
raised over his head and made a forward, shoving motion. "Pushing him
out. Just for a second I could see the dead one, acrost the sill, with
his head down, and then the other gave a big shove and he went over."
There was a moment of dead silence in which you could hear the tick of
the clock on the mantel. I had an impression of Babbitts, his face full
of horror, and George, bent across the table, biting on his under lip.
Only the old man held his pose of bland stolidity.
"And what did the man—the one that was on his knees—do then, Dannie?" he
asked gently.
"He got up and made a break for the door. Whisht," he shot one palm
across the other with a swift gesture—"like that, and went in."
"Which door was that—which side?"
Dannie waved his right hand.
"This one—the door he came out of—this side!"
"The Azalea Woods Estates," came from George.
The old man gave him a quick glance, a razor-sharp reproof, and turning
to Dannie held out his hand.
"Well, Dannie, that’s a wonderful story, and it’s great the way you tell
it. Let’s shake on it." The little boy stepped forward and put his
small, thin paw in the chief’s big palm. "You’ve told it to all the
fellows on the block, haven’t you?"
Dannie shook his head.
"I ain’t told it to a soul till this mornin’, when I couldn’t hold it no
more and let out to Paw and Maw."
"Why didn’t you tell?"
"I was scairt. I didn’t want to. I kep’ dreamin’ of it at night and I
didn’t know what to do. And this mornin’ when Paw and Maw was gassin’
about the suicide I just busted out. I—I——" his lips trembled and the
tears welled into his eyes.
"It’s thrue what he says, every word," said Mrs. Meagher. "It’s sick
he’s been ever sence, and me crazy not knowin’ what was eatin’ into him.
And this mornin’ he breaks into a holler and out it comes."
As she was speaking the old man patted the thin hand, eyeing the child
with a deep, quiet kindliness.
"You’re a wise boy, Dannie," said he. "And you want to keep on being a
wise boy and not tell anyone. Will you answer a question or two, saying
when you don’t know or don’t remember? I’ll see that you get something
pretty nice afterward, if you do."
"Yes," says Dannie, "I’ll answer."
"Could you see what the man looked like, the man that was alive?"
"No—I wasn’t near enough. They was like—like"—he paused and then said,
his eyes showing a troubled bewilderment—"like shadows."
"He would have seen the figures in silhouette," George explained, "black
against the lit window."
"That’s it," he turned eagerly to George. "And it was acrost the street
and the houses on Broadway."
"Um," said the chief, "too far for any detail. Well, this man, the one
that went on his hands and knees, was he a fat man?"
The child shook his head.
"No, sir. He—he was just like lots of men."
"Now look over these three gentlemen," said the chief, waving his hand
at us. "Which of them looks most like him? Not their faces, but their
bodies."
Dannie looked at us critically and carefully. His eye passed quickly
over Babbitts, medium height, broad and stocky, lingered on me, six feet
two with the longest reach in my class at Harvard, then brought up on
George, who tips the beam at one hundred and sixty pounds.
"Most like him," he said, pointing a little finger at the junior member
of Whitney & Whitney. "Skinny like him."
"Very well done, Dannie," said the old man, then turned to George.
"Lightly built. He would have no means of judging height."
George took up the interrogation:
"Could you see at all what kind of clothes he wore?"
"No—he went too quick."
"And he looked over at your building?"
"Yes—but he couldn’t have seen anything. Maw’s floors was all dark."
"Did you see him come out of the room again?"
"No. I was that scairt I crep’ away back to where Maw was."
"Come in to me like a specter," said Mrs. Meagher. "And not a word out
of him only that he was cold."
"Well, Mrs. Meagher," said the chief, "this is a great service you’ve
done us, and it’s up to us to do something for you."
"Oh, your Honor," she answered, "it’s not pay I’m wantin’. It was my
dooty and I done it. Now, Dannie boy, it’s time we was gettin’ home."
"Wait a moment," said the old man. "You say your husband’s a drayman.
Tell him to come and see me—my home’s the best place—this evening if
possible. And tell him—and this applies as much to you"—his bushy brows
came down over his eyes and his expression grew lowering—"not to mention
one word of this. If you keep your mouths shut, your future’s made. If
you blab"—he raised a warning finger and shook it fiercely in her
face—"God help you."
Mrs. Meagher looked terrified. She clutched Dannie and drew him against
her skirts.
"It’s not a word I’ll be after sayin’, your Honor," she faltered. "I’ll
swear it before the priest."
"That’s right. I’ll see the priest about it." He suddenly changed,
straightened up, and was the genial old gentleman who could put the
shyest witness at his ease. "The little chap doesn’t look strong. New
York’s no place for him. He ought to run wild in the country for a bit."
"Ah, don’t be after sayin’ it," she shook her head wistfully. "That’s
what the doctor tolt me. But what can a poor scrubwoman do?"
"Not as much, maybe, as a lawyer can. You leave that to me. I’ll see he
goes and you’ll be along. All I ask in return is"—he put his finger on
his lips—"just one word—silence."
She tried to say something, but laughing and pooh-poohing her attempts
at thanks, he walked her to the door.
"There—there—no back-talk. Hustle along now, and don’t forget, I want to
see Dan Meagher tonight. Ask the clerk in the waiting room for the
address. Good-bye." He shook hands with her and patted Dannie on the
shoulder. "A month on a farm and you won’t know this boy. Good-bye and
good luck to you!"
As the door shut on her his whole expression and manner changed. He
turned back to the room, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders
hunched, his eyes, under the drooping thatch of his hair, looking from
one to the other of us.
"Well, gentlemen?" he said.
"_Murder!_" came from George on a rising breath.
"Murder," repeated his father. "A fact that I’ve suspected since the
inquest."