In that delightful state of drowsiness that follows after waking from a
sound sleep, John mentally reviewed the stirring adventure of the night
before. The warm, bright sunshine streaming in through the open windows
of his bedroom had wakened him slowly. He could hear his mother in the
kitchen, preparing breakfast.
Every detail of how the mayor, Murphy, Brennan and he had succeeded in
overhearing a conversation between Gibson and "Gink" Cummings was fresh
in his mind. His nerves tingled as he again felt the thrill of those
breathless minutes when Benton photographed Gibson and the "Gink" by
flashlight and Cummings rained shots after them as they escaped in the
mayor's automobile.
It was only a matter of a few hours now before the conspiracy between
the police commissioner and candidate for mayor and the notorious king
of the underworld to seize control of the city government would be
exposed, broadcast throughout Los Angeles as the most sensational news
story of the year. Before he returned home, after three o'clock in the
morning, John, with Brennan, had informed P. Q. of their success in
obtaining evidence to prove the Cummings-Gibson conspiracy. The city
editor told them he would communicate with the "chief" Sunday and
instructed them to report for duty earlier than usual Monday morning.
"We'll probably break the story Monday," said P. Q. "We'll shoot
everything we have: Gallant's story of the framed raid on the Spring
street bookmakers, how the 'Gink' regulated crime to give Gibson a
reputation; the affidavits of 'Big Jim' Hatch and his wife and give it
the finishing touch with Benton's photograph. Of course, we'll have
Smith's verbatim report. Arrange with him to have it ready for us
without fail by seven o'clock Monday morning. One of you get an
affidavit from Murphy, telling his whole story. You've blown the lid off
things this time, all right, boys."
Murphy left them before they telephoned to P. Q., so it was impossible
for them to arrange with him to meet one of them before Monday. They
agreed that John should find Murphy and obtain his affidavit in order
that it would be ready for publication Monday.
The elation John felt as a newspaper reporter in having aided in
obtaining the evidence for the exposure of the Cummings-Gibson plot
changed to regret when he thought of how it would affect Consuello.
Could she, would she remember and follow out her promise to think of him
as having done what he believed was his duty? Would she refuse to
believe the truth about Gibson or would she, in the bitterness of
disillusionment, blame those who brought about the exposure? He pictured
her beside her window of red geraniums, lifting tear-dimmed eyes to her
"green and friendly hill" and he was unhappy in conjecturing upon her
broken heart.
His mother's call to him that breakfast was waiting roused him from his
reverie. He had never told Mrs. Gallant that Consuello was Gibson's
fiancee; in fact, Consuello's name had never been mentioned between them
since the night that Mrs. Gallant had displayed her antipathy for her.
He realized also that his mother would not be able to comprehend why
Consuello met him in Gibson's absence and would probably consider it an
unforgivable breach of etiquette.
At breakfast he told his mother of his adventure of the previous night,
minimizing the dangers of the exploit to forestall her inevitable
admonition for him to avoid risks of all kinds.
"It's a big thing for me," he said, enthusiastically. "I was promised
more salary and a contract if it went through. Of course, Brennan and
P. Q. and Murphy deserve most of the credit, but I helped them."
"What will become of this man Gibson?" Mrs. Gallant asked.
"I've been wondering how he'll take it," he said. "He may try to bluff
through, claim it's all a perjured frame-up. But I don't believe he'll
do that. You see, he knows that the photograph is absolutely condemning
evidence. I expect that he'll simply disappear. He may have left the
city by this time. Or he may try to bargain with our publisher by
offering to retire as a candidate if the scandal about him is hushed up.
I don't believe the 'chief' would consent to that, though."
Usually on Sunday mornings John accompanied his mother to church. This
day, however, because it was too late for them to attend the morning
service, they went for a walk instead. When they passed the neighborhood
motion picture theater John noticed that Consuello's latest picture, the
one he had seen at the pre-view, was being shown. An heroic size
photograph of Consuello stood in the small lobby of the theater. He
noticed that his mother averted her eyes. They walked in silence for
half a block and then Mrs. Gallant spoke.
"Isn't Miss Carrillo a friend, a very dear friend, of this Mr. Gibson?"
she asked.
"Yes," he admitted. "Why do you ask, mother?"
She did not reply.
"But, mother," he exclaimed, "surely you won't think that she knew of
his scheming with 'Gink' Cummings! Will you blame her because someone
she knew went wrong? Do you hold her responsible for the faults and
weaknesses of others?"
Again Mrs. Gallant did not reply. Her silence provoked him. It was so
unlike her to be unfair. He stifled the angry protest he was about to
utter.
"Some day, mother, you are going to know her," he said. "Then every
unkind thought you have ever held toward her will come back to you in
anguish. You know, mother, dearest, how wrong it is to condemn unfairly.
That was one of the first lessons taught me by father; to withhold
judgment; suppress prejudice until all sides of a case have been heard.
That is the keystone of American liberty--'malice toward none.' It was
the principle of the Magna Carta, Great Britain's document of human
rights, that the English barons compelled their king to deliver to them
more than 700 years ago.
"Remember, mother, dearest"--his voice softened--"it was prejudice,
intolerance and hate that caused the crucifixion of Christ."
"John, please," his mother said, gently, "please don't allow anything
to spoil our one day of the week together."
"But, mother----" he began.
"My boy! Please," she pleaded.
He had never gone against her wishes when she spoke to him like that. He
patted her arm and smiled.
"All right, mother, dearest," he said, "we'll forget all about it now.
This is our day together and nothing shall impair it."
How glad he would have been to have been able to have told her of his
love for Consuello! How much help she could have been to him, now that
he was about to ruin the man Consuello had agreed to take as her
husband. If "that" Mrs. Sprockett, who was fostering his mother's
prejudice against motion pictures and motion picture players, would only
stay more at home with her colicky baby instead of playing the part of a
hypocritical Puritan. A passage from Proverbs his father had often
quoted returned to him.
"Where no wood is there the fire goeth out; so where there is no
talebearer, the strife ceaseth."
But he chased these thoughts from his head to be a companion to his
mother. They admired flowers in gardens of homes they passed, studied
interesting architecture they caught sight of, planned a picnic in the
foothills--John thought of the spot where he had watched Consuello
before the cameras--recited bits of poetry to each other and enjoyed the
afternoon more than any since the death of Mr. Gallant, who had always
led them on their Sunday "tramps," as he called them.
It was earlier than usual when they returned to their home. They
shortened their outing because of John's promise to Brennan to see
Murphy before morning and obtain from him an affidavit to be used in the
printed exposure of Cummings and Gibson.
"Be careful, my boy," Mrs. Gallant cautioned him as he kissed her before
leaving to get the car to go down town.
"Don't worry, mother; there's no danger now," he assured her.
As he passed the neighborhood picture theater a young girl, sixteen or
seventeen years of age, emerged from the door. In the strong light of
the lobby he saw her face plainly--a rather pretty face--and he
remembered, indistinctly, of having met her, seen her somewhere before.
He saw that she recognized him with a startled expression and
unconsciously he slowed his steps. The girl hurried to his side and put
her hand on his arm.
"Please don't tell, will you?" she begged.
"Tell? I don't understand," he said.
"Aren't you John Gallant?" she asked.
He noticed a look of fear in her eyes.
"Yes."
"I'm Alma Sprockett," she said, as if the mention of her name was
sufficient explanation of her request for him to keep whatever she had
in mind a secret.
"Well?" he asked, still unable to understand.
"If mother ever found out that I was at the picture show today I'd be in
a peck of trouble," she said. "She won't let me go to the movies at all
and I have to sneak away and I do enjoy them so much. Now you won't tell
your mother or my mother or anyone, will you?"
"Of course not," he answered, smiling.
"Oh, thanks ever and ever so much," she said, and turning, hurried
homeward.
That was it, he thought as he waited for his car. Mrs. Sprockett could
find time to run around the neighborhood telling others what to do, what
not to do, what should be done and what shouldn't be done, but she
couldn't be obeyed even by her own daughter! All the way uptown and
until he turned into the narrow, foul-aired stairway leading up to
Murphy's room, Mrs. Sprockett and Alma, his mother and Consuello were
jumbled in his thoughts.
He rapped on the panel of the door of Murphy's room at the end of the
dark, dingy hall. When he received no response he turned the knob and
pushed against the door, which held fast. Discovering that it was locked
he hesitated a moment to decide whether to wait or leave and return
later.
A moan, a deep gasping sound, came to his ears. He started and put his
ear to the crack of the door. Another moan, fainter than before, sounded
in the room.
"Murphy!" he called.
There was no answer from beyond the door, not even a moan. John shook
the handle.
"Murphy! Murphy! Is that you? Are you hurt?" he shouted.
No answer, no sound. He put his shoulder to the door and, bracing
himself, pushed with all his strength against it, but it held firm.
Stepping back he swung a kick against a lower panel. The wood broke and
splintered. He dropped to his knees and tore the split pieces out with
his hands.
Through the hole in the panel he saw the key "Slim" Gray had tossed back
into the room over the transom. Reaching his arm through the opening he
picked it up and, opening the door, rushed into the room.
The twisted, broken, beaten figure of Murphy lay on the floor near the
foot of the bed. The awfulness of the sight turned John sick and with a
choking cry of pity and despair he dropped to his knees beside it.
"Murphy! Murphy!" he cried. "What have they done to you? Can you hear
me? Speak to me, Murphy, speak to me."
The head of the "bashed" youth rolled limply from side to side and he
groaned unconsciously. John shut his eyes to close from vision the
swollen, lacerated face of his friend. Fury surged through him as he
jumped to his feet. He knew intuitively that Murphy was the victim of
"Gink" Cummings' brutality. He wanted to kill Cummings with his hands.
Sobbing, he ran from the room and dashed to the nearest telephone. He
called the receiving hospital, telling the attendant to rush the
ambulance at top speed. He waited at the street entrance to the rooming
house until the ambulance arrived, its shrill siren whistle clearing a
pathway for it through the traffic. Slowly, gently, they lifted Murphy
from the floor and, placing him on a stretcher, carried him down the
stairs to the ambulance. A morbid crowd, attracted by the sight of the
ambulance, thronged the sidewalk.
John sat beside the stretcher with the white-clad attendant as the
ambulance sped up Third street to Hill and turning to the right stopped
with a creaking of brakes in front of the hospital door. He waited
anxiously for the surgeons to make their examination. Two detectives
hurried from central station to the hospital and getting what
information John had, dashed out to a waiting automobile.
In his anxiety as he waited for the verdict of the surgeons he only gave
the detectives Murphy's name and the address of the rooming house. They
were gone before he could tell them he knew Murphy had been "bashed" by
the "Gink's" men.
"He's in bad shape," the chief surgeon told him. "Skull fracture; arms,
jaw, ribs and nose broken; internal injuries; cuts and bruises; lost a
lot of blood."
"What can be done to save him?" John asked.
"An operation is about the only thing," the surgeon replied. "He's
pretty far gone."
"Operate then," said John. "Get the best surgeons in the city to help
you. Spare no expense."
An hour later Murphy was on the operating table with three of the most
capable surgeons in Los Angeles working with all their skill and science
to hold the flickering life in his body. Not knowing where to find
Brennan, John telephoned to P. Q.
"I'll get in touch with the mayor and have him tell Sweeney to put
every available detective on the case," the city editor said. "Do
everything you can for Murphy. Be careful yourself. If the 'Gink' knows
what Murphy has done he knows that you and Brennan were with him. He'll
not stop at anything. I'll try to find Brennan."
While Murphy was in the operating room, Chief Sweeney, with a squad of
detectives, appeared at the hospital and questioned John.
"I've just talked with the mayor," Sweeney said. "He has told me enough
of what has happened to convince me that the 'Gink's' men did this. I'm
going out now to arrest Cummings on suspicion and hold him in jail until
we see how Murphy comes out. If he dies, I'll charge Cummings with
murder if it's the last thing I do on earth."
John noticed as Sweeney and the detectives hurried away that several of
them carried sawed-off shotguns.
A few minutes later they wheeled Murphy out of the operating room on a
carrier and placed him on a cot in one of the wards. John approached one
of the surgeons, swathed in sterilized clothes and apron.
"Will he live, doctor?" he asked in trepidation.
The surgeon answered without looking up from the rubber gloves he was
peeling from his hands.
"He has a chance," he said.
"Much of a chance?" John asked.
"Not much, I'm afraid," the surgeon said. "You see, he is weak from the
loss of blood and he is hurt internally. His ribs have punctured his
lungs. Only one in a hundred injured the way he is ever recovers. We'll
do everything we can now, but we're almost helpless."
He went to Murphy's bedside. The figure stretched flat on the bed was
motionless except for an almost indiscernible trembling of the covering
that showed Murphy was still breathing. The face of the unconscious
youth was hidden by bandages. A pungent odor of ether filled the room.
As John looked down on the bed, praying that the little flame of life
would not be extinguished by the cold breath of death, he became
conscious of the fact that someone else had entered and was standing
close behind him. Believing it to be a nurse he turned slowly to ask if
it was possible that Murphy might regain consciousness after the effects
of the anesthetic wore off. He found himself facing the mayor.
For fully a minute the mayor stood looking down at Murphy. Tears filled
his eyes and brimmed over his cheeks. He let them fall unheeded as he
lifted his eyes to John.
"Gallant," he said, "if you don't mind, I'm going to pray for the life
of this boy."
John bowed his head. He saw the mayor drop to his knees at the side of
the bed so that his forehead touched the covers.
"'Thy will be done,' oh, Father," he heard the mayor pray, "but we ask
Thee in Thy gentle mercy, to spare us the life of this boy. We ask Thee
to hold the life in his poor, battered body; to bring him back to us. We
ask it, oh, Lord, in the name of Thy son; Amen."
The mayor rose to his feet and they walked from the room.
"I hope you'll tell the people of Los Angeles what Murphy saved them
from," said the mayor as they separated outside the hospital door.
"Whether I'm re-elected or not I'll not rest until the brutes who beat
him are brought to justice. You can tell them that, too."
Dusk was deepening into night as John entered the detective bureau at
central station, around the corner in First street from the hospital. He
found the two detectives who made the first investigation of the case
writing out their reports.
"Three men did it," one of them told him. "They were seen entering and
leaving the house. Two big fellows and a small, thin-faced man. No one
heard the noise or suspected that anything was wrong."
"No identification of the men?" he asked.
"Not yet," the detective replied. "We understand the chief and a bunch
of the boys are on the case and may make an arrest before morning. By
the way, if you're a friend of Murphy's you'd better go down to his room
and take charge of his things. There's no lock on the door now, you
know, and things are liable to disappear."
"Thanks for the tip," said John. "I'll attend to it."
He went direct to Murphy's room from police headquarters. The room was
dark and, scratching a match, he lighted the gas at a jet in the wall.
He thought of how rapidly gas illumination in homes had disappeared. He
remembered Consuello's father telling him that as late as 1870 there was
only one street lamp--a gas one--in Spring street, although there was
agitation among the citizens to have the city council add another light
to put "as far south as First street."
As he inspected the room in the pale light from the gas flame he tried
to picture in his mind how Murphy had tried to save himself from the
three bruisers. He discovered the stain caused by the spilled whisky,
the empty bottle under the bed. Then, suddenly, it flashed into his
mind that Murphy might have been beaten to force him to reveal the names
of those who were with him. He stopped his work of collecting Murphy's
few belongings as this possibility came into his brain.
Had Murphy told? Beaten and kicked and facing death had he sought mercy
by revealing who had the evidence against Cummings and Gibson? Or, had
he passed into insensibility keeping it a secret?
He heard footsteps approaching the room. Perhaps it was Sweeney and his
detectives coming to inspect the scene of the brutal attack. It might be
Brennan.
The door swung open and three men entered the room quickly. John
recognized one of them as "Slim" Gray.
He knew he was face to face with the men who had "got" Murphy.