“MAIN 6”
BUZZ--buzz--sounded the alarm. Dick stirred, shivered slightly, and sat
up.
“May the devil fly away with you!” he muttered, addressing the
clock. “I wish to thunder I could go to bed as sleepy as I wake up,”
stretching himself, and vividly recollecting how many hours he had lain
awake thinking of Peggy. His thoughts turned quickly to her challenge;
with a bound he was out of bed; no time for loitering now--too much was
at stake.
Some hours later Dick was staring moodily at the snow and slush in
front of the District building on Pennsylvania Avenue. So far, he had
been unsuccessful. Gordon had refused to be interviewed by him, now he
was in search of Detective Hardy. Muttering uncomplimentary remarks
about the offenders who allowed the streets in Washington to get in
such a fearful condition, he waded ankle deep through the melting
snow to the sidewalk, and almost into the arms of the very man he was
looking for.
“Hello, Mr. Tillinghast, how are you?” exclaimed Hardy, recovering his
balance as he slipped on the icy pavement. “What brings you down to
these diggings?”
“You,” answered Dick, briefly. “I’m assigned to cover the Trevor
murder, as you know, and I’m looking for more material.”
“Gwan,” chuckled Hardy. “Your paper has already spread itself some on
that line. In fact, it’s said just a leetle too much,” remembering the
furore Gordon’s arrest had made, and the attendant abuse heaped on the
detective force for not making more headway with the case.
“Pshaw! Hardy, you know the paper has to cater to the public, and
Washington has gone wild over the murder. I’ve had to write columns and
give ’em all sorts of theories, but none hold water.”
“’Course not. We’ve got the guilty man under lock and key.”
“Hum! Found the weapon yet?”
A look of chagrin crossed Hardy’s face. “Naw, damn it!” he growled.
“Mr. Gordon sure hid it safely; threw it down an open street sewer most
likely.”
“How about Nelson?”
“Nelson? Oh! he’s doing time for house-breaking; so we’ve got him dead
to rights if we find he’s wanted for the murder. Sorry, sir,” glancing
as he spoke at the clock over the City Post Office, “but I’ve got to
beat it quick.” Then, lowering his voice, “I’ve a bit of news which may
surprise some folks. Come round in a day or two and I’ll let you in on
it.”
“Here, wait,” shouted Dick, making a futile dive for Hardy’s coat as he
swung himself aboard a south-bound car.
“What are you wasting so much energy for, Dick?” asked a hearty voice
at his elbow. Dick swung around with a jump.
“Why, where in ---- did you drop from?” he gasped, hardly able to
credit his senses as the newcomer seized his hand and wrung it
vigorously.
“Just arrived via Panama,” explained General Long. “Let’s get on the
sidewalk, Dick. I didn’t come to Washington to be knocked down by a
dray horse,” and he dragged his still bewildered friend to the curb.
“Come into the Willard and lunch with me. I’m half dead with hunger.”
“Now,” said Dick, after they had done justice to the Martinis, “give an
account of yourself, past, present and future.”
“Past--Philippines; present--here; future--God knows!” General Long
sighed as he helped Dick and himself to the tempting dish in front of
him. “It’s good to taste Christian cooking once again. Don’t insult
good food by hurrying too much, Dick; take your time. At present I’ve
come here on waiting orders.”
Dick inwardly wondered what necessity had induced the War Department
to send for Chester Long. A man of exceptional executive ability and
personal bravery, he had been rapidly advanced over the heads of
older officers, to their unspeakable rage, until finally he had been
appointed second in command in the Philippines. He had made a record
for himself out there, and Dick was astounded that his recall should
have been kept so profound a secret.
“How did you slip away without the papers getting on?” he asked.
“Orders from the Department hushed things up pretty well, and then I
traveled incog. The why and the wherefore, I may--guess--” he smiled
quietly. “Now, Dick, give an account of yourself.”
It did not take long in the telling, as the two friends had never
completely lost sight of each other, and mutual friends had kept them
in touch with their doings. General Long was Dick’s senior by some
fifteen years, but since the days of the Spanish war in Cuba, where
Dick was sent as war correspondent, they had been sworn allies.
“I’m dreadfully shocked about the Trevor murder,” said Long, after
Dick had finished speaking of himself. “The papers are filled with it.
Gordon is the last person I’d think capable of so dastardly a crime.
While at Annapolis, where he was a three-striper, he was voted the
most popular man, and the one most likely to succeed. He never lied,
and he never went back on a friend. Since his graduation his record in
the Service has been fine, fine. And now, to have such a charge against
him! How have the mighty fallen! Poor Gordon--poor devil!”
“Things look pretty black for him,” admitted Dick. “But still the
evidence is not absolutely conclusive, simply circumstantial.”
“In what way?”
“In the first place no weapon has been found in his possession.
Secondly, the absolute lack of motive.”
Long twirled his wine glass about in his fingers.
“Is there none?” he asked, finally.
“Apparently none. After years of absence Gordon came to Washington on
receiving his appointment as aide to the President one month ago. He
never went to the Trevors much. In fact, he and Mrs. Trevor were total
strangers. They met first at a theater party I gave, which Mrs. Trevor
chaperoned, on the night of Gordon’s arrival in town. You know he and
I went to Lawrenceville together.”
Long glanced around the half empty café; their table was in the farther
corner, and their waiter had departed after removing the dessert and
putting the liqueur and coffee before them. There was no chance of
their conversation being overheard, but Long motioned to Dick to pull
his chair closer, as he said in a low voice:
“I’ve always had great respect for your discretion, Dick; therefore,
I’m going to confide in you. You can use your judgment about speaking
of what I tell you now.
“Some four years ago or more, I was military attaché at the Court of
St. James. One day I ran across Don Gordon in Hyde Park. He told me he
was there on leave visiting his sister, Lady Dorchester. I didn’t see
much of him because his entire time was taken up with paying desperate
attention to--Hélène de Beaupré.”
“What!” shouted Dick, starting up in his intense surprise.
“Hush, man,” said Long, sternly. “You are attracting attention.” Dick,
much abashed, subsided into his chair. “I can swear to what I am
saying, because at that time Hélène de Beaupré was the rage in London.
Men and women raved about her, and she was received everywhere. Gordon
lost his head over her, he was madly infatuated with her beauty;
whether his affection was returned, I know not.” Long shrugged his
shoulders.
“Just about that time I was relieved from duty in London, and in the
rush of departure forgot all about Gordon and his affairs. But one day
on shipboard Alfred Clark told me that he had seen Gordon and Hélène de
Beaupré applying at the Home Office for a special license to marry at
once.”
Dick looked at his friend too dazed to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
he muttered.
For a few minutes they sat regarding each other in puzzled silence.
Then Dick roused himself to ask: “Is the Alfred Clark of whom you speak
the man who is now secretary to the Attorney General?”
“Is he tall, well-built, handsome, with a peculiar scar on his temple?”
“You have described the man to a dot. Looks like a Gypsy?” Long nodded
in acquiescence. “He goes out here a great deal; sort of insinuates
himself into people’s good graces. I never liked him--too much of a
beauty man to suit me. What was he doing in England?”
“He stopped there from Italy on his way to the States. At that time his
father had plenty of money, and Alfred did nothing but travel about at
his own sweet will. The crash came just afterwards, and then he had to
get to work.”
“It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, poor devil.
I’ve gone through a somewhat similar experience,” and Dick sighed
sympathetically. “Strange that Mrs. Trevor, Gordon and Clark should all
be here at the same time!”
“Fate plays strange tricks,” agreed Long. “I heard nothing further
about these three people until I read of the Trevor tragedy. How did
Gordon and Mrs. Trevor look, Dick, when you introduced them?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Dick. “Gordon didn’t appear until about the
middle of the first act; the box was in semi-darkness. I introduced him
to all my friends as he was the stranger, and I remember hearing Mrs.
Trevor say she was ‘delighted to meet him.’ I took it for granted she
didn’t know him.”
Long shook his head. “It’s a black business, Dick, whichever way you
look at it. If she jilted Gordon and married Trevor, it might be a
reason for the crime; or if Gordon really married her first, then there
is a still greater motive for the murder.”
“Bigamy?” ejaculated Dick.
“Perhaps. Gordon is poor--Trevor rich; apparently the balance dipped in
the latter’s favor. It is not the first time souls have been bought and
honor lost by the desire for filthy lucre. Mind you, Dick, this last
is all surmise. I may be entirely wrong. You can use the information
I have given you if you think best; and I’ll be here if you want to
consult me about it.”
“Which way are you going?” asked Dick.
“To the War Department, and you--?”
“To the office. I’ll drop in and see you sometime to-morrow. It’s bully
having you back again, old man. So long,” and with a parting hand shake
the two friends parted.
Dick was very tired when he reached his home in Georgetown that night.
His landlady heard his key turn in the lock and came out in the hall to
meet him.
Mrs. Brisbane, “befo’ de wah,” had not known what it was to put on
her own silk stockings; now, she took “paying guests.” Her husband
and brothers had died for “The Cause”; her property near Charleston,
South Carolina, had been totally destroyed during the horrors of the
Reconstruction period. She had come to Washington, that Mecca for
unemployed gentlewomen, in hopes of adding to her slender income.
For years she had been employed in the Post Office Department, as a
handwriting expert. Then suddenly her eyesight failed her; and broken
in health and hopes, she and her young granddaughter kept the wolf from
the door and a roof over their heads as best they could.
Dick was devoted to Mrs. Brisbane. Her gentle dignity and indomitable
pluck in the face of every misfortune had won his admiration and
respect. He had lived with them for over three years, and was looked
upon as one of the family.
“You are late, Dick,” she said. “Have you had a busy day?”
“Yes, Mrs. Brisbane,” he answered, “and I’m dog tired, having been on
the dead jump ever since I left here this morning.”
“Not too tired to come into the dining-room and help us celebrate my
seventieth birthday, I hope?”
Dick looked reproachfully at her. “And you never told me! I don’t
think that’s fair. Am I not one of the family? Yes-- Then I claim a
relative’s privilege.”
Mrs. Brisbane beamed upon him. “You extravagant boy! That’s just why I
did not tell you. I hope you are not too exhausted to enjoy a glass of
eggnog?”
“What a question! You know I would walk miles to get a taste of your
eggnog. There’s nothing like it, this side of Heaven.”
“Heaven is not usually associated with eggnog,” laughed Nancy Pelham, a
pretty young girl of sixteen. “And Granny’s brew is apt to lead one in
the opposite direction.”
“Tut! Child. As Pa once said, eggnog was invented especially for God’s
po’ creatures in their moments of tribulation. It puts new heart in
most everyone, even a po’ Yankee.”
Dick laughed. “You are a pretty good hater, Mrs. Brisbane,” he said,
helping himself to the frothy beverage.
“I reckon I’ve got cause.” Mrs. Brisbane’s drawl was delicious. “An’
I’m from Charleston, Dick, don’t forget that. Why, one of my nieces
never knew until she got to New York that ‘damn Yankee’ was two words.”
“Granny, Granny,” remonstrated Nancy. “Dick’s a good Northerner by
birth, and we mustn’t wave the bloody shirt.”
“Nonsense,” said Dick, hastily. “I love to fight our battles over
with Mrs. Brisbane. What a beautiful punch bowl that is?” he added,
enthusiastically.
“Isn’t it? It was given to Granny’s father, General Pinckney, by Mr.
Calhoun.”
“It is the only piece of silver saved from the wreck,” said Mrs.
Brisbane, sadly. “I could not part with it for old associations’ sake.
Everything else of value, silver and jewelry, was sold long ago.
How many distinguished men have drunk out of that bowl!” she sighed
involuntarily. “Heigh oh! It is not good to reminisce. But I’ll never
forget, Dick, one dinner I attended here.
“It was before I secured my place in the Post Office, and I was
visiting some Washington friends. They took me to a dinner given by Mr.
and Mrs. John Thompson, who were new-comers. They had struck ‘ile’ and
were entertaining lavishly that winter. Imagine my feelings when I saw
them using my entire silver service, even to the small silver!
“I recognized our coat-of-arms, as well as the pattern of the silver.
They passed it off as family heirlooms! I found out later that they had
spent months collecting the pieces from different second-hand dealers
in antiques. I would not have minded so much if they had not been so
palpably nouveaux riches. It seemed a sacrilege! Why, they hardly knew
the uses of some of the pieces.”
Dick leaned over and patted her hand sympathetically.
“‘Heaven sends almonds to those who have no teeth,’” he quoted. “Now, I
wonder if you can tell me anything about Texas?” he added, suddenly.
“Texas!” exclaimed Mrs. Brisbane. “Not much; I’ve never been there
myself, but I have been told that only men and mules can live in that
State. The climate usually kills all the women.”
“It isn’t Texas in general I am interested in,” chuckled Dick, “but the
Gordons.”
“The Gordons are Georgians, Dick.”
“Not Donald Gordon, he was born in Texas.”
“Now, I do recollect that Major Gordon moved to Texas just after
the wah. I believe he married a Galveston woman; and then went into
politics.”
“Whatever the cause,” said Dick, his eyes twinkling, “he represented
Texas in the Senate for years; finally died in Washington, and is
interred in the Congressional Burying Ground here. Now, Mrs. Brisbane,
can you tell me anything about them?”
“Not a thing, Dick, except that Senator Gordon was a man of very high
temper; he nearly killed a soldier once for disobeying orders. Why do
you ask?”
“I know,” broke in Nancy. She had been an interested listener, and had
also seen that Dick’s glass was never empty. “It has something to do
with the Trevor murder.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Dick, gravely. “I am doing my best to prove
Gordon’s innocence; and, hang it all! every shred of evidence I turn
up, is against him.”
“It was a shocking murder of a defenseless woman. I do not believe a
Gordon could have done it,” declared Mrs. Brisbane.
“And yet--”
“Listen to me a moment, Dick,” Nancy tapped the table in her
earnestness. “Perhaps I can help you. That Wednesday was my night shift
at the North Exchange.” Nancy was temporarily working as a central
in the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company until she had taken
her Civil Service examination for a Government position. “Well, about
fifteen minutes after two that morning a call came for the Trevors’
house.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes. I don’t mean the regular house telephone, but for the Attorney
General’s private wire in his private office.”
“What!” Dick’s voice grew in volume as his astonishment increased. “Are
you sure, Nancy?”
“Absolutely positive. You know the number of the telephone in the
Attorney General’s private office at his home is not listed in
the regular book, as is his house wire. His private telephone is
‘North--123’; I remember it because it is so easy; and the other is
‘North--6795.’”
“But as to the time, Nancy?”
“I am certain about that, too. It was very quiet in the Exchange, and
when the call came I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked at the big
wall clock directly opposite, and I saw it was fifteen minutes past
two.”
“Nancy, you are a wonder--a brick. But why didn’t you come forward and
give your evidence at the inquest?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, Dick,” the young girl colored painfully. “I went to
work at the Exchange because we are so frightfully poor; but I--I--just
couldn’t face the notoriety which I feared I would be dragged into.
Then again, it might not have anything to do with the terrible affair.”
“Do?” echoed Dick; his tone was eloquent. “Was the telephone answered?”
“Yes, at once.”
“Now, do you happen to know where the call came from?”
“Yes. It was--‘Main 6.’”
Dick gazed at her too spellbound for words.
_Main 6--The White House!_