CAUGHT ON THE WIRES
DICK was up betimes the next morning, stopping only long enough to
swallow a cup of coffee and a plate of oatmeal. Then calling a cheery
good-by to Mrs. Brisbane, he banged out of the front door and down
the steps in such haste that he collided violently with “Uncle” Andy
Jackson, the Brisbane factotum, who was busy shoveling the snow off the
steps.
“Laws, Marse Dick,” groaned Uncle Andy, picking himself up carefully.
“’Pears like yo’ am in a hurry.”
“Awfully sorry, Uncle,” said Dick, helping the old man to his feet.
“Here,” thrusting some loose change into the ready palm, “buy some
liniment for the bruises. Whew! I didn’t realize it snowed so much last
night.”
As far as the eye could see the large, old-fashioned gardens, which
surround the old houses in Georgetown, were covered with banks of snow,
an unusual sight in the Capital City. In some places the drifts were
waist high.
“Plenty mo’ snow fo’ ole Andy to shovel,” grumbled the old man, who
dearly loved the sound of his own voice, and seized every opportunity
to talk to Dick, whom he especially admired because he belonged to “de
quality.” “’Pears like de sky am a-tryin’ ter whitewash dis hyer wicked
city. Las’ night, sah, I went to hear de Reverend Jedediah Hamilton. He
sho’ am a powerful preacher. He says Satan am a-knocking at de gates ob
Washington; dat it am a whitened sepulcher; an’ dat we all am a-gwine
ter perdition. Hadn’t yo’ better git religion, Marse Dick?”
“Oh, I’m not worrying just now, Uncle. You see, my brother John is a
minister of the Gospel, and I guess he’ll intercede for me.”
“’Twon’t do, Marse Dick; de Good Book it say: ‘Every man shall bear his
own burden and every tongue shall stand on its own bottom.’”
Dick waved his hand in farewell as he plunged through the drifts to
cross the street. Uncle Andy watched the tall, athletic figure out of
sight; then shook his head solemnly.
“’Pears like Marse Dick am pas’ prayin’ fo’,” he muttered. Then,
hearing Mrs. Brisbane’s frantic calls for him, he shouted: “Comin’, ole
Miss, comin’.”
The street cars were blocked by the heavy fall of snow, so Dick had to
walk from Georgetown to the _Star_ Building, a distance of nearly two
miles, consequently he was late. But after the first rush of work was
over, he stole a moment to call up the White House, and asked the names
of the night watchmen who were on duty in the Executive Offices on that
fatal Wednesday.
“Wait a moment,” answered the White House central, “and I’ll find out.
Hello--the men were Charlie Flynn and Tom Murray.”
“Much obliged,” called Dick, as he rang off. Luck was certainly
with him at last. He had greatly feared that he would not get any
information in regard to the mysterious telephone call without a great
deal of difficulty and delay, for “mum” was the word with all the White
House employés.
But Tom Murray had been General Long’s orderly during the campaign
in Cuba, and, in fact, owed his present position to the General’s
influence. Dick knew where he lived, as Tom had married Peggy
Macallister’s maid, Betty; and once when Betty was ill with typhoid
fever, Peggy had asked Dick to go with her to Tom’s modest home on
Capitol Hill.
Dick hurriedly covered his first assignment, rushed back to the office
in time to get his story in the afternoon paper, then tore out again
and jumped aboard a Navy Yard car. Twenty minutes later he was beating
a hasty tattoo on the Murrays’ front door. Tom himself admitted him.
“Why, Mr. Tillinghast, sir! I’m mighty glad to see you. Won’t you come
in?”
Dick stepped into the tiny parlor. “I’ve just stopped by for a moment,
Tom. Thought you’d like to know that General Long is in town.”
Tom fell back a step in his astonishment.
“Glory be,” he shouted. “Where is he stopping, sir. That is, if he
cares to see me?”
“At the New Willard. He wants to see you to-night.”
Tom’s face fell. “I can’t go, at least not to-night, sir. You see,
I’m on night duty at the White House now, sir. I get off at six every
morning and sleep until noon. I’m just up now, sir. Do you think the
General could see me in the afternoon?”
“Sure; I’ll ask him. By the way, Tom, who answers the White House
telephones at night?”
“I do, sir; leastways, I attend to the switch-board in the Executive
Offices.”
“Do you happen to recollect what person in the White House called up
‘North--123’ on February third, or rather February fourth, at two
fifteen in the morning?”
Tom looked searchingly at his questioner.
“Ought I to answer that question, sir?”
“I think you should. General Long sent me here to ask you.”
“May the good Lord forgive me,” thought Dick, “I know Cheater will back
me up.”
Tom’s face cleared. “Then it’s all right, sir. I hesitated to answer
you, sir, because--the call came from the President himself.”
For a moment Dick was too aghast to speak. The President! Truly, his
investigations were leading him into deep water.
“Are you quite sure, Tom?” he asked, soberly.
“Quite, sir,” with military precision. “I remember the night perfectly,
sir. While the White House is often called up at all hours, it ain’t
usual for inmates of the household to ring up outside calls after
midnight.”
“Had you any trouble getting your party?”
“No, sir. Central was rather slow about answering, but that was the
only delay.”
“Thanks, Tom, you’ve helped General Long a lot by telling me all this.
Go and see him about six to-night on your way to the White House. You
will probably catch him then. Is your wife well?”
“Yes, sir, thank you. Please tell the General I will be at the hotel
without fail. Good-by, sir.”
When Dick had departed, Tom walked into his kitchen with a grave face.
“I’m afraid, Betty, I talked too freely with Mr. Tillinghast.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Betty, whose temper was apt to get peppery when
she worked over a hot fire. “Master Dick isn’t the sort to get us into
trouble.” And that ended the discussion.
Dick plodded along the streets too absorbed in thought to notice the
snow and ice. Should he, or should he not? Well, he would try anyway,
so quickening his steps he hastened over to the Congressional Library
and entered one of the pay-station telephone booths in the building.
“What number, please?” asked Central.
“Main 6.” A few minutes’ wait.
“Drop in your nickel, there’s your party.”
“Hello, White House, I want to speak to Secretary Burton--Hello,
Burton, that you? This is Dick Tillinghast talking.”
“Well, Dick, how are you?”
“Oh, so-so. Say, Burton, do you think the President would see me alone
for a few minutes?” Dick heard Burton whistle. “I know he is fearfully
busy with the arrival of the Grand Duke Sergius, but I swear it’s
important--a matter of life and death.”
Burton detected the earnest note in Dick’s voice, and was convinced.
“Hold the wire, old man.”
Dick waited impatiently. So much depended on the answer.
“Hello, Central, don’t cut me off--Burton, that you?”
“Yes. The President says he will see you at ten minutes of five,
_sharp_.”
“Burton, you are a trump. By-by.”
Prompt to the minute, Dick appeared in the waiting room of the
Executive Offices. Burton came to the door and beckoned to him.
“In with you,” he whispered. “I sincerely hope your news is of
sufficient importance to excuse my sending you in ahead of two irate
senators,” and he gave Dick’s broad shoulders an encouraging pat, as
the door swung open to admit him to the private office.
Dick had been frequently thrown with the President, having been one
of the reporters detailed to accompany him when he toured the country
before his election, but he never entered his presence without feeling
the force and personality of the great American, who, with unerring
hand, was steering the Ship of State through such turbulent waters.
The President straightened his tall, wiry form as Dick advanced to
greet him. His large dark eyes, set deep under shaggy eyebrows, gazed
rather blankly at Dick for a moment, then lighted with recognition as
they shook hands.
“How are you, Mr. Tillinghast? Sit down here.” The President pointed to
a large arm chair close beside his desk, then he glanced at the clock.
“Burton said you wished to see me alone about a matter of life and
death.”
“Well, yes, Mr. President; I put it that way to attract Burton’s
attention.” Then, seeing a frown gathering on the rugged, heavily lined
face, he hastened to add: “I came to see you about the Trevor murder.”
There was no mistaking the President’s genuine start of surprise.
“To see me! Why?”
“I wanted to ask you, sir, who it was answered the telephone when you
called up the Attorney General’s private office on Thursday morning at
two fifteen o’clock?”
The President leaned thoughtfully back in his chair and regarded Dick
intently. Apparently what he saw in his appearance pleased him, for
after a prolonged scrutiny, which Dick bore with what equanimity he
could, he reached over and touched his desk bell.
“Is Secretary Bowers still in the White House?” he asked the attendant
who answered his summons.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“My compliments, and ask him to step here.”
Dick waited in silence, a good deal perturbed in spirit. What was to
pay? The President had but time to gather up some loose papers and put
them in his desk when the door opened and admitted his Secretary of
State, James Bowers, a man known throughout the length and breadth of
the land as representing all that was best in America and Americans.
“Your attendant caught me just as I was leaving, Mr. President,” he
said. “I am entirely at your service,” and he bowed gravely to Dick,
who had risen on his entrance.
“I won’t detain you long. You know Mr. Tillinghast?”
“Yes,” smiled the Secretary. “He has interviewed me on many occasions.”
“Then sit here by me.” The President pushed a chair toward him. “Mr.
Tillinghast has come to me about the Trevor murder.” The Secretary
raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I leave this matter entirely in your
hands, Bowers. Use your judgment in the affair. Now, Mr. Tillinghast,
tell us how you found out a telephone call came from this office at
that particular hour for the Trevor house.”
Quickly Dick told them; and the two men followed each word with deep
attention. After Dick ceased speaking, the Secretary sprang from his
chair and paced the room rapidly in deep thought.
“Tillinghast,” he said, stopping abruptly, “what I tell you now is
strictly confidential. I am not speaking for publication.”
“Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick, quietly, “I give you my word of honor
that I shall never make use of what you tell me.”
“Good! On the whole, I am glad you came, because I was just debating
whether or not to send for the Chief of Police about this very affair.
Have I your permission to speak freely to Tillinghast, Mr. President.”
“You have.”
Secretary Bowers settled himself more comfortably in his chair, cleared
his throat, and began:
“On that Wednesday night I came here to have a secret conference about
a matter of national importance. The President and I talked until long
after midnight. During our discussion we found it necessary to get the
Attorney General’s advice on a vital law point. Knowing that Trevor
often stays until daylight in his private office, as I do--” a ghost
of a smile lighted his lips--“I took the chance of finding him and
rang him up there first, intending, if that failed, to call his house
’phone. The President’s voice and mine are much alike, and it is not
surprising that Murray thought it was he calling up Mr. Trevor at that
hour.”
“And did he answer you?” asked Dick, breathlessly.
“No--a woman did.”
Dick sat back in his chair and gazed hopelessly at the President, and
then at the Secretary. Instantly his thoughts flew to Beatrice. Great
Heavens! He was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“Did--did you by chance recognize her voice?”
The Secretary hesitated a moment before answering.
“She spoke with a decided foreign accent”--again he hesitated. “I
called her ‘Mrs. Trevor.’”
“Mrs. Trevor!” gasped Dick. For once words failed him.
“Let me describe the scene to you exactly,” went on the Secretary.
“I waited only a few minutes for the connection, and then I heard
the faint click of the receiver being removed from the hook, then a
woman’s cultivated voice asked: ‘Who is eet?’ I promptly replied: ‘Can
I speak to your husband, Mrs. Trevor?’ She made no answer, but in a
second the Attorney General came to the telephone, gave me the desired
information, and I rang off.”
In absolute silence the three men faced each other, with bewilderment
and doubt written on their countenances. The long pause was broken by
the Secretary.
“When I first heard of the tragedy I, like the rest of the world,
thought poor Mrs. Trevor had been murdered by the burglar, Nelson. On
the day the inquest was held, I received a telegram saying that my wife
was dangerously ill with typhoid fever in Cambridge. She had gone there
two weeks before to be with our son, who is at Harvard. I dropped
everything and hastened at once to her bedside. Until the crisis was
over I never left her. And so deep was my anxiety, for the doctors held
out little hope that she would recover, that I neglected everything
outside the sick room. I left all my business to my private secretary.
“My wife rallied wonderfully after the crisis was passed, and I
returned to Washington on last night’s Federal. On the trip down my
secretary told me all the developments in the Trevor case. I was simply
thunderstruck!”
“In his direct testimony Mr. Trevor denied being in his private office
after his return from the banquet; denied having seen his wife again.
He undoubtedly perjured himself,” said the President, thoughtfully.
“Still, even in the face of such evidence, he may be innocent of the
crime. For the time being I shall give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“You are right, and very just, Mr. President,” exclaimed the Secretary.
“This phase of the case must be sifted to the bottom in absolute
secrecy. It would be ruinous to let the outside world know you even
suspect your Attorney General guilty of murder. The effect would be
appalling. Now, Tillinghast--” he spoke with greater emphasis--“I
know you to be a man of integrity. You have already shown great skill
in this affair; therefore, I am going to ask you to go and see the
Attorney General as my representative, and ask him for an explanation.
Then come and report to me. I could send one of the Secret Service men,
but the fewer people involved in this scandal the better.”
“I’ll do my very best, Mr. Secretary, to merit your trust,” said Dick,
warmly. “But how am I to reach the Attorney General? He refuses to see
any newspaper men.”
“That is easily arranged,” said the Secretary. “May I borrow pen and
ink, Mr. President?” drawing some note paper toward him as he spoke.
“I’ll write a few lines asking him to see you; that will be all that is
necessary.”
Quickly Secretary Bowers’ hand traveled over the paper; then, folding
it neatly, he handed the note to Dick, saying:
“Don’t fail us, Tillinghast; remember we depend on your tact and
discretion. I would see Trevor myself, but my time is entirely taken up
with the Grand Duke Sergius’ presence in the city. He dines with the
President to-night, as you doubtless know....”
“Come in,” called the President, as a discreet knock interrupted the
Secretary. Burton entered and handed him a note.
“This is marked ‘Immediate and Personal,’ Mr. President. Recognizing
the handwriting, I brought it right in.”
As the President tore open the envelope and rapidly read its contents,
Secretary Bowers turned to Dick, who was standing by the desk awaiting
an opportunity to depart, and said quickly:
“Come and see me at the State Department to-morrow morning at nine
o’clock.”
The President signaled to Burton to withdraw; then he looked directly
at the Secretary of State and Dick.
“This,” he said, tapping the letter in his hand, “is from Mr. Trevor,
tendering me his resignation as my Attorney General on the ground of
ill health.”