MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
You can imagine after that disappointment in Philadelphia—it seems an
unfeeling way to speak of the death of an old gentleman—how we all
turned our eyes and kept them fixed on Tony Ford.
Friday night Babbitts told me the hospital had reported he couldn’t be
seen till Monday. The others were in a fever, he said, O’Mally smoking
big black cigars by the gross and Jack Reddy gone off to Buffalo, and
Mr. George that scared Ford would slip off some way he’d have liked to
put a cordon of the National Guard round the hospital.
Then came Saturday—and Gee! up everything burst different to what
anybody had expected.
It started with Mr. George. Being so nervous he couldn’t rest he called
up the hospital in the morning and got word that there’d been a mistake
in the message of the day before and that Mr. Ford was well enough to
see the Philadelphia detectives that afternoon. Before midday Babbitts
and O’Mally were gathered in, and while I was waiting on pins and
needles in Ninety-fifth Street and Jack Reddy was off unsuspecting in
Buffalo, the two of them were planted by Tony Ford’s bedside, hearing
the story that lifted the Harland case one peg higher in its surprise
and grewsomeness.
O’Mally and Babbitts had their plans all laid beforehand. They were two
plain-clothes men from Philadelphia, who had just come on a new lead—the
finding of Sammis. When they’d opened that up before him, they were
going to pass on to the murder—take him by surprise. If Ford made the
confession they hoped to shake out of him, the warrant for his arrest
would be issued and the Harland case come before the public in its true
light.
Babbitts had never seen Ford and when he described him to me it didn’t
sound like the same man. He was lying propped up with pillows, his head
swathed in bandages, and his face pale and haggard. Under the covers his
long legs stretched most to the end of the cot, and his big, powerful
hands were lying limp on the counterpane. He was in a private room, in
an inside wing of the hospital, very quiet and retired.
When the attendant left and they introduced themselves he looked sort of
scowling from one to the other. Both noticed the same thing—a kind of
uneasiness, as if his apprehensions were aroused, and for all his broken
head he was on the job, not weak and indifferent, but wary and alert.
This wasn’t what they wanted so they started in telling him the news
they thought would please him and put him at his ease. A clue had been
picked up in Philadelphia that looked like the mystery of his attack was
solved.
"In fact," says O’Mally, "a man’s been run to earth there that we’re
pretty sure is the one."
Both men were watching him and both saw a change come over him that
caught their eyes and held them. Instead of being relieved he was
scared.
"Have you got the man?" he said.
O’Mally nodded:
"That’s what we have."
"Who is he?"
"Party called Sammis. Answers to the description——"
Before he could go further Ford raised himself on his elbow, looking
downright terrified.
"Joseph Sammis?" he said, his eyes set staring on O’Mally.
"That’s it. We tracked him up and found him. But I don’t want to raise
any false hopes. We were too late. When we got there he was dead."
It had an extraordinary effect upon Ford. He gave a gasp, and raised
himself up into a sitting posture, his mouth open, his eyes glued on
O’Mally. For a minute not one of them said a word—Ford evidently too
paralyzed at what he’d heard, and the others too surprised at the way
Ford was acting which was exactly different to what they’d expected. It
was he who spoke first, his voice gone down to a husky murmur:
"_Dead?_"
O’Mally answered:
"Heart disease, angina pectoris. The doctor down there said some strain
or effort had finished him. That, as we see it, was the attack he made
on you."
Then Ford did the most surprising thing of all. Raising his hands he
clapped both over his face, and with a big, heaving sob from the bottom
of his chest, fell back on the pillows and began to cry.
Babbitts said you couldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t seen it—he and
O’Mally looking stumped at each other and between them that great ox of
a man, lying in the bed crying like a baby. Then Himself, being fearful
that maybe they’d done the man harm, rose up to go after a nurse, but
O’Mally caught him by the coat, whispering, "Keep still, you goat," then
turned and said very pleasant to Ford:
"Knocked you out, old man. That’s natural, nerves still weak. Keep it up
till you feel better. Don’t mind us—we’re used to it."
So there they sat, Babbitts still uneasy, but O’Mally, calm and patient,
tilting back in his chair looking dreamy out of the window. He said
afterward that he knew that hysterical fit for what it was—relief, and
that was why he wouldn’t let Babbitts call a nurse.
Presently the sobs began to ease off and Ford, groping under the pillow
for a handkerchief, said, all choked up:
"How did you come to connect him with me?"
"By papers found in his desk—records of a real-estate business you and
he’d been in some years ago at Syracuse."
"That’s the man," said Ford, between his hiccuppy catches of breath,
"and he’s dead?"
"Dead as Julius Cæsar." O’Mally leaned forward, his voice dropping, "You
_knew_ he was the chap that attacked you?"
Ford, his head drooped, his shoulders hunched up like an old woman’s,
nodded:
"Yes, I lied when I said he was a stranger to me."
"Why did you do that?" asked Babbitts.
It was just what you might know he’d ask. One of the cutest things about
Himself is that he never can understand why anyone, no matter what the
provocation, has to lie.
Ford didn’t answer and O’Mally, giving his chair a hitch nearer to the
bed, said kind and persuasive:
"Say, Ford, you’d better tell us all you know. We got the papers, and
most of the information. The man’s dead. Clean it up and we’ll let it
drop."
Without raising his head Ford said, low and sort of sullen:
"All right—if you agree to that. I was in business with him and
I—I—didn’t play fair—lit out with some of the money." He turned a
lowering look on Babbitts. "_That’s_ the answer to your question," then
back to O’Mally, "I didn’t run across him or hear of him in all this
time and supposed the whole thing was buried and forgotten till he came
into my room Tuesday night. He was blazing mad, said he’d been waiting
for a chance to even up, and had at last found me. To keep him quiet I
said I’d give him some money. I had some."
"Yes, yes," said O’Mally, nodding cheerfully, "the legacy your uncle
left you."
Ford shot a look at him, sharp and quick:
"Oh, you know about that?"
"Naturally. Inquiries have been made in all directions. Go on."
"I hadn’t much cash there—a few dollars, but I thought I’d hand him that
and agree to pay him more later. He said he didn’t want money, _that_
wouldn’t square our accounts, and as I went to the desk he came up
behind me and struck me. That’s all I know."
"Did he say how he’d located you?"
"Yes. He’d been looking for me ever since I’d skipped but couldn’t find
me. Then he saw my name in the papers after the Harland suicide. Some
fool reporter spoke to me in the street that night and I told him who I
was and where I worked. A short while after Sammis phoned up to the
Black Eagle Building, heard from Miss Whitehall I’d left and got from
her my house address."
"Did he say what he was doing in Philadelphia?"
"He had some new job there, he didn’t say what, but he said he was well
paid. That came out in his blustering about not wanting my money."
There was a pause, Babbitts and O’Mally scribbling in their note books,
Ford sitting up in that hunched position, looking surly at his hands
lying on the counterpane. So far every word he’d said tallied with what
they already knew. Babbitts was wondering how O’Mally was going to get
round to the real business of the interview, when the detective suddenly
raised up from his notes, and leaning forward tapped lightly on one of
Ford’s hands with the point of his pencil.
"Say, Ford, how about that legacy from your uncle?"
Ford gave a start, stiffened up and looked quick as a flash into the
detective’s face.
"What about it?" he stammered.
O’Mally, his body bending forward, his pencil tip still on Ford’s hand,
said with sudden, grim meaning:
"_We_ know where it came from."
For a second they eyed each other. Babbitts said it looked like an
electric current was passing between them, holding them as still as if
they were mesmerized. Then O’Mally went on, very low, each word falling
slow and clear from his lips:
"We know all about that money and the game you’ve been playing. This
Sammis business isn’t what we’re here for. It’s the other—the Harland
matter, the thing that’s been occupying your time and thoughts lately.
That outside job of yours—that job that was finished on the night of
January the fifteenth." He paused and Ford’s glance slid away from him,
his eyes like the eyes of a trapped animal traveling round the walls of
the room. "We’ve _got_ you, Ford. The whole thing’s in our hands. Your
only chance is to tell—tell everything you know."
In describing it to me Babbitts said that moment was one of the tensest
in the whole case. Ford was cornered, you could see he knew it and you
could see the consciousness of guilt in his pallid face and trembling
hands. O’Mally was like a hunter that has his prey at last in sight,
drawn forward to the edge of his chair, his jaw squared, his eyes
piercing into Ford like gimlets.
"Go ahead," he almost whispered. "What was that money paid you for?"
Ford tried to smile, the ghost of that cock-sure grin distorting his
face like a grimace.
"I guess you’ve got the goods on me," he said. "I know when I’m beaten.
You needn’t try any third degree. I’ll tell."
Babbitts was so excited he could hardly breathe. The Big Story was his
at last—he was going to hear the murderer’s confession from his own
lips. Ford lifted his head, and holding it high and defiant, looked at
O’Mally and said slowly:
"I got that money from Hollings Harland for reporting to him the affair
between Johnston Barker and Miss Whitehall."
If you’d hit him in the head with a brick Babbitts said he couldn’t have
been more knocked out. He had sense enough to smother the exclamation
that nearly burst from him, but he _did_ square round in his chair and
look aghast at O’Mally. That old bird never gave a sign that he’d got a
blow in the solar plexus. For all anyone could guess by his face, it was
just what he’d expected to hear.
"You were in Harland’s pay," he murmured, nodding his head.
"I was in Harland’s pay from the first of December to the day of his
death. In that time he gave me eight hundred dollars."
O’Mally, slouching comfortable against his chair back, drooped his head
toward his shoulder and said:
"Suppose you tell us the whole thing, straight from the start. It’ll be
easier that way."
"Any way you want it," said Ford. "It’s all the same to me. I first met
Harland in the elevator some time in the end of November. Seeing me
every day he spoke to me casually and civilly, as one man does to
another. There was nothing more than that till Johnston Barker began
coming to the Azalea Woods Estates, then, bit by bit, Harland grew more
friendly. I’ll admit I was flattered, a chap in my position doesn’t
usually get more than a passing nod from a man in his. As he warmed up
toward me, feeling his way with questions, I began to get a line on what
he was after—he wanted a tab kept on Barker."
"Jealous?" O’Mally suggested.
"Desperately jealous. As soon as the thing opened up before me I saw how
matters stood. He was secretly crazy about Miss Whitehall and was easy
until Barker cut in, _then_ he got alarmed. Barker was a bigger man than
he, and there was no doubt about it that she liked Barker. When he
realized that he put it up to me straight. He’d sized me up pretty
thoroughly by that time and knew that I’d—what’s the use of mincing
matters—do his dirty work for him."
O’Mally inclined his head as if he was too polite to contradict.
"He offered me good money and all I had to do was to watch her and
Barker and report what I heard or saw. It was a cinch—I was on the spot,
the only other person in the office a fool of a stenographer, a girl,
who hardly counted."
"What was the result of your—er—investigations?"
"That Barker was in love with her too. He came often on a flimsy excuse
that he wanted to build a house in the tract. She was friendly at first,
then for a while very cold and haughty—as if they might have had a
quarrel. Then they seemed to make that up, and get as thick as thieves."
"Did _she_ seem to care for Harland?"
"Not exactly—anyway not the way he did for her. She was always awfully
nice to him—the few times he came into the office—gentle and sweet, but
not the way she was with Barker. She was two different women to
them—with Harland a sort of affable, gracious winner, but with Barker a
girl with a man she’s fond of, natural, glad to see him, no society
stunts.
"A little before Christmas I caught on to the fact that she was
receiving letters from Barker, and Harland offered me extra money if I’d
get their contents. This wasn’t so easy. Generally she took them away
with her, but twice she left them on her desk. All I had to do then was
to stay overtime and when she was gone, copy them. That way I got on to
something that phazed us both—she and Barker were up to some scheme."
O’Mally moved slightly in his chair.
"Scheme?" he said—"What do you mean by scheme?"
"Something they were planning to do. After Christmas every time he’d
come they’d go into the private office and talk there so low you
couldn’t catch a word. And the letters were all about it, but we
couldn’t get a line on what it was. I’ll show them to you and you’ll see
for yourself. It got Harland wild, for though they weren’t exactly love
letters, they showed that she and Barker were close knit in some secret
enterprise."
"Did you continue this work till the day of the suicide?"
"I did—to the night—to the time it happened. Harland was getting more
and more worked up. I don’t know whether it was the Barker-Whitehall
business or his own financial worries, but I could see he was holding
the lid on with difficulty. That day, January fifteenth, as you may
remember, he was in her office and had a talk with her. As he went out I
saw that he looked cheered-up, brisk and confident. Of course I’ve no
idea what she said to him, but knowing the state he was in, I’ll swear
it was something that gave him hope. Yet a few hours after that he
killed himself.
"Seeing him so heartened up and being curious myself, I decided to stay
that evening and do a little quiet snooping among her papers. But she
nearly blocked that game. She was in the habit of going between
half-past five and six, leaving me to close up. That night she didn’t do
it, but hung about in the office, and after watching her for a few
minutes I saw that she was on the jump—moving about, going from one desk
to the other, glancing at the clock. Her manner made me certain that
something was up—it was possible it had to do with the scheme she and
Barker were hatching. I got the idea that I’d go and come back after a
while, on the chance of stumbling on something that would be useful to
my employer. I left her there and after loafing round for about half an
hour returned. The office was dark and she’d gone. I lit up and looked
over her desk in the Exhibit Room and a table in my room where she kept
some papers, but found nothing. Then I thought I’d take a look into the
private office but that door was locked."
"Ah, locked," said O’Mally, calm as a summer sea. "Was that her custom?"
"Not as far as I knew. I’d never found it locked before. It gave me an
uneasy feeling for I thought she might have suspected what I was doing
and turned the key against any invasion of her particular sanctum. She
was no fool and might have caught on. So I fixed up the papers as I
found them and left the office. You know what time _that_ was, or you do
if you read of the Harland suicide. I’ve always supposed the poor chap
was up that side corridor as I stood there waiting for the car."
Babbitts bent over his notebook scribbling—he had to hide his face. He
told me he thought the expression on it of stunned, crestfallen
blankness would have given him away to an idiot. Waiting with their ears
stretched to hear a confession of murder—and _this_ was what they got!
And the man wasn’t lying. Every word he’d said matched with the facts
we’d been worming and digging to find. He couldn’t possibly have known
murder had been discovered—he hadn’t any suspicion a murder had been
committed. The great revelation, that was to have broken on the public
with an explosion like a dynamite bomb, was that Tony Ford was Harland’s
paid spy.
"Well," he said, looking at O’Mally, "what have you got to say? Go ahead
with it if it’ll give you any satisfaction. Only you needn’t waste your
breath. I know, without being told, that it’s a rotten, dirty business."
O’Mally, his face as red as the harvest moon, pulled at his mustache
looking thoughtful. But, sore as he must have been—you’d have to know
O’Mally to realize what his disappointment was—he answered cool and
easy:
"I ain’t got anything to say. It’s not my job to train the young. You’ve
told me what I wanted to know—that’s all I’m here for."
Ford turned to Babbitts and asked him to get some letters off the table
and then went on to O’Mally:
"How did you come to find it out?"
Babbitts, gathering up the letters, cocked his head to listen, wondering
how O’Mally was going to get out of it. But you couldn’t phaze that
veteran.
"Several ways—you see what we’re after is Johnston Barker. It’s the
Copper Pool that owns us, and nosing round in our quiet little way we
got on to the Barker-Whitehall affair and from that followed the scent
to that legacy of yours. We didn’t altogether believe in that uncle
up-state—thought maybe he was Johnston Barker in private life, and that
you might know something," he gave a lazy, good-humored laugh. "Got
fooled all round. I don’t mind telling you now that the way we happened
on Sammis was pure accident. Thought he was Barker and had him shadowed.
He looked like enough to him to have been his brother."
"That’s so," said Ford, as Babbitts handed him the letters, "especially
with his hat on. I noticed it myself." He selected two papers from the
bunch and handed them to O’Mally. "There—those are the letters I spoke
of. This one," he flicked it across the counterpane, "is just a note
from Harland making a date. I don’t know how I happened to keep it."
They were the three letters Babbitts had taken after the attack, copies
of which at that moment were lying in O’Mally’s pocket.
It was not till they were out on the hospital steps that they dared to
speak. O’Mally’s face was a study, his mouth drooped down to his chin
and his eyes dismal and despairing like he’d come from a tragedy.
"Well!" he said, "what do you make of that?"
"Zero!"
"Not a thing to do with it, hasn’t a suspicion of it, no more involved
in it than that sparrow there," he pointed to a sparrow that had lit on
the step near-by. "I’ve had setbacks in my profession before—but this!"
He stopped, stuck his hands into his pockets and stared blankly at the
sparrow.
"Well, if it lets him out," said Babbitts, "it tightens the cords round
the other two."
"Um," agreed O’Mally, still gazing stonily at the sparrow, "that’s what
keeps your spirits up."
"With him eliminated the whole thing concentrates on her and Barker."
"It does, my son." O’Mally roused up and came out of his depression.
"Instead of a brain and a pair of hands as we’ve called it, it was a
brain and one hand—the smart hand, the right. That was the woman."
He turned and began to descend the steps, taking Babbitts by the arm to
draw him closer and speaking low:
"Do you see how it went? They were in the private office when Ford came
back—she and Barker and the dead man. When they heard him come they
switched off the light and locked the door—and, Great Scott, can you
imagine how they felt! Shut in there in the dark with their victim, not
knowing who Ford could be or what he was doing, listening to him
rummaging round, his steps coming nearer, his hand on the doorknob! I’m
too familiar with murder to see any terrors in it—but _that_ situation!
I’ve never known the beat of it in all my experience. Then when Ford
goes—on his very heels—over and out with the thing they’d killed. And
both of them back there again, or maybe stealing to the front windows
and taking a look down at the crowd below."
They walked up the street arm in arm, talking in hushed voices. As he
looked at the faces of the people that passed the thought came to
Babbitts that in a short time, maybe a few days, they’d be reading in
the papers of the awful crime not one of them now had a suspicion of.