The long drive into the city from the North Shore delayed Forrester so
that he did not reach the Nevins' home until the funeral services had
ended, and though he joined the cortege which followed the remains of
the banker to the cemetery he did not have an opportunity to speak to
his mother about the letter which the girl had entrusted to him. At
dinner, however, he passed the letter across the table to his mother
with the remark:
"There's a note I was requested to bring to you--and in which I am very
much interested."
Mrs. Forrester withdrew the letter from its envelope, adjusted her
glasses and glanced at the writing. Hastily she turned to the signature
and exclaimed, "Why, it's from Helen!" Then, turning to Josephine,
added, "You remember Mrs. Lewis, my dear. Her husband was appointed to
the vice-presidency of a New York bank about two years ago. She wrote to
me several times and then our correspondence gradually dropped off. I
was thinking of her only recently, and wondering how she was getting on
in New York."
"We remember her perfectly, Mother," broke in Forrester, impatiently.
"We want to know what the letter says."
"We!" echoed Josephine, surprised. "I'm sure I'm not especially
interested."
Mrs. Forrester glanced through the note. "It is a letter of
introduction," she explained, looking over her glasses at Forrester.
"How odd! Helen asks me to do what I can to make Miss Mary Sturtevant's
stay in Chicago a pleasant one. Strange that she did not write me
directly."
"Oh," breathed Josephine, smiling wisely at Forrester.
"Does she say who Miss Sturtevant is?" queried Forrester.
"The daughter of some very dear friends of Helen's. The Sturtevants are
an old New York family, she says. I'm quite sure that I have heard of
them."
"May I be permitted to inquire," said Josephine, roguishly, "how Mr.
Robert Forrester came to be the bearer of this note, and wherefrom
springs his intense interest?"
Forrester colored, then frowned severely upon his sister.
"I met the young lady through an accident this morning. When she learned
who I was she asked me to bring this letter to you. She had intended
presenting it in person, but learned after arriving that we would not be
moving to 'Woodmere' for some days."
"My! What a simple and straightforward explanation," smiled Josephine.
"Why not tell us _all_ about it, Bob?"
Forrester scowled at his sister, and sipped from his water glass to gain
time to collect his thoughts. He was not sure at this time just how much
he ought to tell. He set the glass down and briefly related how his car
had frightened the girl's horse, leaving it to be assumed that she had
at that time given him the letter.
"What an extraordinary coincidence!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester. At that
moment her attention was distracted by a question from the maid, and
Josephine, leaning toward Forrester, whispered, "Some time I want to
hear the _whole_ story, Bob. It's so romantic!"
Happily for Forrester's peace of mind the conversation drifted to other
things, and as soon as dinner was over he hurried to his favorite corner
in the library. He wanted to think, not alone of Mary Sturtevant and her
vague connection with the mystery, but of the negress, Lucy, and the
perplexing new aspect she had given to the case. There seemed no
apparent alliance between the two, yet both were strangely, though
obscurely, associated with it. Forrester had no sooner lighted his pipe,
however, when the door-bell rang, and a moment later a servant announced
that two men wished to see him. For an instant he was startled, yet it
did not seem likely that the "Friends of the Poor" would approach him in
this open way.
"Did they give any names?" he asked.
"No, just said they were from the police department, sir," was the
reply.
"Oh!" exclaimed Forrester, relieved. "Send them in."
Two heavily built men entered the room. They were strikingly alike in
their general appearance; tall, broad shouldered, with big feet, large
hands, and smooth-shaven, plump, ruddy faces. Forrester thought as he
looked at them that there was small wonder so many criminals escaped.
The average city detective was a type! Easily recognized and therefore
readily avoided.
"Is this Mr. Forrester?" inquired one of the men.
"Yes," answered Forrester, as he rose from his chair.
"Well," continued the man, "my name's Cahill, and this is my partner,
Detective Sergeant O'Connor. We come from the detective bureau."
"I'm glad to know you both," returned Forrester, smiling. "Sit down,
please," and he indicated nearby chairs. The two detectives seated
themselves and Forrester passed the humidor before returning to his
chair. The three men puffed their cigars in silence for a time, the
detectives evidently enjoying the flavor and aroma of Forrester's
excellent cigars, while he awaited the explanation of their visit.
"We came to see you about this 'Friends of the Poor' matter," began
Cahill, who appeared to be the spokesman for the pair. "My partner and
me are working on the case."
"Making any progress?" inquired Forrester, fully convinced in his own
mind, however, that they were not.
"Well, we are, and we arn't," answered Cahill. "You see, O'Connor and me
were in the police auto the other night--the night you tipped us off.
We're both some shots, and we felt pretty sure we had hit that car we
were chasing. So we've been scouting around the West Side garages
looking for a car with bullet holes."
"Why the West Side?" questioned Forrester, inwardly amused as he thought
of Humphrey's arraignment of the detectives' methods.
Cahill smiled wisely at O'Connor, and O'Connor smiled significantly back
at his partner.
"You see," explained Cahill, "we know crooks' ways pretty well. When
anything gets pulled off we can tell from the method used just about
where to look for our men. We have felt pretty sure all the time that
this was some Black Hand bunch from the Dago settlement on the West
Side. It's the same line of approach. The only difference is that
they're operating a little higher up than usual, and choking the guys
off quietly with some kind of gas, instead of filling them full of lead
from a sawed-off shotgun. The idea's the same, only they're getting a
little more ambitious--that's all."
"And about the car," prompted Forrester, still amused at the trend of
the detectives' theories.
"That's just the point," continued Cahill. "Today we located a car with
half a dozen bullet holes in the back in a garage out on Grand Avenue.
Grand Avenue, you know, is full of Dagos all the way from the river. The
garage man said it was left there late Tuesday night by three young
Italians. Now, do you get the idea?"
Forrester did, and he was astounded at the news.
"You mean," he queried, "that you ascribe this whole affair to some West
Side Black Hand band, and that this car proves your theory?"
"Sure thing!" assented Cahill. "O'Connor and me have been working on
this case for months. Sometimes we thought we had a clue, and then again
we didn't. We have suspected Black Handers from the first, but we
couldn't exactly get a line on them. That tip you gave us Tuesday night
started things right. Now we know where we're at. There's three
detectives in overalls in that garage right now, and if those guys come
back for their car the whole thing'll be cleared up in a jiffy."
"What makes you think that this is the car you wanted?" persisted
Forrester, still doubting the correctness of the detectives' theories.
"Headquarters has no report of any other car being shot at by the
police. And this car was left late _Tuesday_ night. Get the idea?"
Forrester pulled reflectively at his cigar. He was overwhelmed. The
suspicions he had entertained regarding the weird negress, the girl on
the horse and her colored servant, were knocked flat. The half-formed
theories he had been building up around them were completely shattered.
The growing pride he had felt in his own detective talents was crushed,
and the discoveries in which he had exulted were rendered valueless.
After all, the hard-headed, plodding, unimaginative city detectives knew
their business best. There was really no mystery or romance to crime; no
clever men pitting their brains against those of astute detectives. The
criminal class was nothing more than the police claimed it to be--just a
stunted, unnatural, evil-smelling plant, with its roots buried deep in
the sordid, filthy dives and foreign settlements of the West Side.
Forrester was disappointed; deeply disappointed. In spite of the danger,
worry and uncertainty, the thing had gotten into his blood during the
last few days. It had fired his imagination, stirred his latent
energies, and awakened his brain. And now the whole elaborate structure
which had been slowly building up toward the skies collapsed in one
moment to reveal nothing save a few murderous thugs concealed in the
cellar.
Forrester heaved a sigh.
"Relieved, eh?" chuckled Cahill. "Thought the police were no good, and
that you had to kiss ten thousand bucks good-by?"
Forrester laughed. Now the humor of the situation struck him. Green's
long study of the problem, his careful tabulation of information and
secretly developed theories, were in the same class with Humphrey's
suggested scientific solution, and Forrester's own investigations and
conjectures. No wonder the Chief of Detectives had said, "Novices only
hamper us."
"No," explained Forrester, in answer to Cahill's comment, "I hadn't
exactly lost faith in the police. But I will say this: I have recently
made some peculiar and interesting discoveries on my own account, and
now you have practically knocked the foundation from under them with
your very matter of fact solution of the mystery."
"We ain't solved it yet, remember," objected Cahill. "We've simply got a
line on the right people, and in due time we'll get our hands on them.
We may still have to ask you to help us. That's what we dropped in for
this evening."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Forrester.
"Well, you see it's this way," explained Cahill. "If those Dagos come
back to the garage between now and Saturday, we'll have them. But if
they get wise that we found the car, they may chuck it and steal another
one. In that case we'll sure get them at the oak tree up there on the
North Shore Saturday night. What we want you to do is to put that money
in the tree at the time we tell you to, so that we will be ready."
"But nobody has ever succeeded in locating these people at the tree,"
protested Forrester.
"I know," admitted Cahill, grinning, "but O'Connor and me have worked
out a plan. We figure that in the past these guys have been able to slip
in between the detectives on watch. You see, it's pretty dark in those
woods at night. Our plan is going to put a stop to that. It's like this:
"We're going to put a peg in the ground on each side of the tree, back
and front. O'Connor will be on one side and me on the other. There'll be
a string from each peg running to O'Connor, and the same thing on the
other side to me. We'll hold these strings, one in each hand. Now, that
completely surrounds the tree, so that anyone approaching will kick into
a string. We'll know from the hand the string's in just what direction
to look for them in the dark. O'Connor's strings will be A and B, and
mine will be C and D. Get the idea?
"If O'Connor feels a tug, he'll yell A or B at me. If I get a feel on
one of my strings I'll holler C or D. Get me? Then we'll both make a
rush at just the right spot. Believe me, Mr. Forrester, we got them this
time. No sneaking up between detectives _next_ Saturday night."
"The idea sounds very good, Cahill," agreed Forrester. "Perhaps it will
work. If I don't hear from you in the meantime, what hour do you wish me
to approach the tree on Saturday night?"
"We've fixed on ten-thirty, if that is convenient for you, Mr.
Forrester," answered Cahill.
"That suits me," declared Forrester.
"And now, we'll be going," announced Cahill, rising. "Thanks for the
cigar. As fine a smoke as I've had in a long time."
"Bang up," murmured O'Connor.
"Take another along," suggested Forrester, accepting the hint.
The two detectives each carefully selected another cigar, and then
Forrester went with them to the door.
"What will you do if the ghosts supposed to haunt that tree should
appear?" inquired Forrester.
"You don't believe that stuff, do you, Mr. Forrester?" asked Cahill,
scornfully.
"Well, several people, unknown to one another, have agreed on the
details."
Cahill smiled. "Maybe so," he said, "but don't forget that O'Connor and
me can shoot, Mr. Forrester. We can lay out any ghost that ever
ghosted."
"You certainly have my best wishes for your success," said Forrester.
"Don't worry any more," assured Cahill, as he passed out. "The police
have got this gang dead to rights _this_ time. Saturday night will end
it!"