coloured pins, denoting the condition of the canvass. Other maps of the
city in colours, divided into all sorts of districts, told how fared
the battle in the various strongholds of Boss Dorgan and Sub-boss
Murtha.
Huge systems of card indexes, loose leaf devices, labour-saving
appliances for getting out a vast amount of campaign "literature" in a
hurry; in short, a perfect system, such as a great, well-managed
business might have been proud of, were in evidence everywhere one
looked.
Work was going ahead in every department under high pressure, for the
campaign, which had been more than usually heated, was now drawing to a
close. Indeed, it would have taken no great astuteness, even without
one's being told, to deduce merely from the surroundings that the
people here were engaged in the annual struggle of seeking the votes of
their fellow-citizens for reform and were nearly worn out by the
arduous endeavour.
It had been, as I have said, the bitterest campaign in years. Formerly
the reformers had been of the "silk-stocking" type, but now a new and
younger generation was coming upon the stage, a generation which had
been trained to achieve results, ambitious to attain what in former
years had been considered impossible. The Reform League was making a
stiff campaign and the System was, by the same token, more frightened
than ever before.
Carton was fortunate in having shaken off the thralldom of the old
bosses even before the popular uprising against them had assumed such
proportions as to warrant anyone in taking his political life in his
hands by defying the powers that ruled behind the scenes. In fact, the
Reform League itself owed its existence to a fortunate conjunction of
both moral and economic conditions which demanded progress.
Of course, the League did not have such a big "barrel" as their
opponents under Dorgan. But, at least they did have many willing
workers, men and women, who were ready to sacrifice something for the
advancement of the principles for which they stood.
In one part of the suite of offices which had been leased by the
League, Carton had had assigned to him an office of his own, and it was
to this office that he led us, after a word with the boy who guarded
the approach to the door, and an exchange of greetings with various
workers and visitors in the outside office.
We seated ourselves while Carton ran his eye through some letters that
had been left on his desk for his attention.
A moment later the door of his office opened and a young lady in a very
stunning street dress, with a pretty little rakish hat and a
tantalizing veil, stood a moment, hesitated, and then was about to turn
back with an apology for intruding on what looked like a conference.
"Good-morning, Miss Ashton," greeted Carton, laying down the letters
instantly. "You're just the person I want to see."
The girl, with a portfolio of papers in her hand, smiled and he quickly
crossed the room and held the door open, as he whispered a word or two
to her.
She was a handsome girl, something more than even pretty. The lithe
gracefulness of her figure spoke of familiarity with both tennis and
tango, and her face with its well-chiselled profile denoted
intellectuality from which no touch of really feminine charm had been
removed by the fearsome process of the creation of the modern woman.
Sincerity as well as humour looked out from the liquid depths of her
blue eyes beneath the wavy masses of blonde hair. She was good to look
at and we looked, irresistibly.
"Let me introduce Professor Kennedy and Mr. Jameson, Miss Ashton,"
began Carton, adding: "Of course you have heard of Miss Margaret
Ashton, the suffragist leader? She is the head of our press bureau, you
know. She's making a great fight for us here--a winning fight."
It seemed from the heightened look of determination which set Carton's
face in deeper lines that Miss Ashton had that indispensable political
quality of inspiring both confidence and enthusiasm in those who worked
with her.
"It is indeed a great pleasure to meet you," remarked Kennedy. "Both
Mr. Jameson and myself have heard and read a great deal about your
work, though we seem never before to have had the pleasure of meeting
you."
Miss Ashton, I recalled, was a very clever girl, a graduate of a famous
woman's college, and had had several years of newspaper experience
before she became a leader in the cause of equal suffrage.
The Ashtons were well known in society and it was a sore trial to some
of her conservative friends that she should reject what they considered
the proper "sphere" for women and choose to go out into life and devote
herself to doing something that was worth while, rather than to fritter
her time and energy away on the gaiety and inconsequentiality of social
life.
Among those friends, I had understood, was Hartley Langhorne himself.
He was older than Miss Ashton, but had belonged to the same social
circle and had always held her in high regard. In fact the attentions
he paid her had long been noticeable, the more so as she seemed
politely unaffected by them.
Carton had scarcely more than introduced us, yet already I felt sure
that I scented a romance behind the ordinarily prosaic conduct of a
campaign press bureau.
It is far from my intention even to hint that the ability or success of
the head of the press bureau were not all her own or were in any degree
overrated. But it struck me, both then and often later, that the
candidate for District Attorney had an extraordinary interest in the
newspaper campaign, much more, for instance, than in the speakers'
bureau. I am sure that it was not wholly accounted for by the fact that
publicity is playing a more and more important part in political
campaigning.
Nevertheless, as we came to know afterwards such innovations as her
card index system by election districts all over the city, showing the
attitude of the various newspaper editors, local leaders, and other
influential citizens, recording changes of sentiment and possible
openings for future work, all were very full and valuable. Kennedy, who
had a regular pigeon-hole mind for facts himself, was visibly impressed
by the huge mechanical memory built up by Miss Ashton.
Though he said nothing to me, I knew that Craig also had observed the
state of affairs between the reform candidate and the suffrage leader.
"You see, Miss Ashton," explained Carton, "someone has placed a
detectaphone in the private dining-room of Dorgan at Gastron's. I heard
of it first through Mrs. Ogleby, who attended one of the dinners and
was terribly afraid her name would be connected with them if the record
should ever be published."
"Mrs. Ogleby?" cried Miss Ashton quickly. "She--at a dinner--with Mr.
Murtha? I--I can't believe it."
Carton said nothing. Whether he knew more about Mrs. Ogleby than he
cared to tell, I could not even guess.
As he went on briefly summarizing the story, Miss Ashton shot a quick
glance or two at him.
Carton noticed it, but appeared not to do so. "I suppose," he
concluded, "that she thought I was the only person capable of
eavesdropping. As a matter of fact, I think the instrument was put in
by Hartley Langhorne as part of the fight that is going on fiercely
under the surface in the organization."
It was Carton's turn now, I fancied, to observe Miss Ashton more
closely. As far as I could see, the information was a matter of perfect
indifference to her.
Carton did not say it in so many words, but one could not help
gathering that rather than seem to be pursuing a possible rival and
using his official position in order to do it, he was not considering
Langhorne in any other light than as a mere actor in the drama between
himself and Dorgan and Murtha.
"Now," he concluded, "the point of the whole thing is this, Miss
Ashton. We have learned that Betty Blackwell--you know the case--who
took the notes over the detectaphone for the Black Book, has suddenly
and mysteriously disappeared. If she is gone, it may be difficult to
prove anything, even if we get the book. Miss Blackwell happens to be a
stenographer in the office of Langhorne & Westlake."
For the first time, Miss Ashton seemed to show a sign of embarrassment.
Evidently she would just as well have had Miss Blackwell in some other
connection.
"Perhaps you would rather have nothing to do with it," suggested
Carton, "but I know that you were always interested in things of the
sort that happen to girls in the city and thought perhaps you could
advise us, even if you don't feel like personally taking up the case."
"Oh, it doesn't--matter," she murmured. "Of course, the first thing for
us to do is, as you say, to find what has become of Betty Blackwell."
Carton turned suddenly at the word "us," but Miss Ashton was still
studying the pattern of the rug.
"Do you know any more about her?" she asked at length.
As fully as possible the District Attorney repeated what he had already
told us. Miss Ashton seemed to be more than interested in the story of
the disappearance of Langhorne's stenographer.
As Carton unfolded the meagre details of what we knew so far, Miss
Ashton appeared to be torn by conflicting opinions. The more she
thought of what might possibly have happened to the unfortunate girl,
the more aroused about the case she seemed to become.
Carton had evidently calculated on enlisting her sympathies, knowing
how she felt toward many of the social and economic injustices toward
women, and particularly girls.
"If Mr. Murtha or Mr. Dorgan is responsible in any way for any harm to
her," she said finally, her earnest eyes now ablaze with indignation,
"I shall not rest until someone is punished."
Kennedy had been watching her emotions keenly, I suspect, to see
whether she connected Langhorne in any way with the disappearance. I
could see it interested him that she did not seem even to consider that
Langhorne might be responsible. Whether her intuition was correct or
not, it was at least better at present than any guess that we three
might have made.
"They control so many forces for evil," she went on, "that there is no
telling what they might command against a defenceless girl like her
when it is a question of their political power."
"Then," pursued Kennedy, pacing the floor thoughtfully, "the next
question is, How are we to proceed? The first step naturally will be
the investigation of this Little Montmartre. How is it to be done? I
presume you don't want to go up there and look the place over yourself,
do you, Carton?"
"Most certainly not," said Carton emphatically. "Not if you want this
case to go any further. Why, I can't walk around a corner now without a
general scurry for the cyclone cellars. They all know me, and those who
don't are watching for me. On the contrary, if you are going to start
there I had better execute a flank movement in Queens or Jersey to
divert attention. Really, I mean it. I had better keep in the
background. But I'll tell you what I would like to do."
Carton hesitated and came to a full stop.
"What's the matter?" asked Kennedy quickly, noticing the hesitation.
"Why--I--er--didn't know just how you'd take a suggestion--that's all."
"Thankfully. What is it?"
"You know young Haxworth?"
"You mean the son of the millionaire who is investigating vice and whom
the newspapers are poking fun at?"
"Yes. Those papers make me tired. He has been working, you know, with
me in this matter. He is really serious about it, too. He has a corps
of investigators of his own already. Well, there is one of them, a
woman detective named Clare Kendall, who is the brains of the whole
Haxworth outfit. If you would be willing to have them--er--to have her
co-operate with you, I think I could persuade Haxworth---"
"Oh," broke in Kennedy with a laugh. "I see. You think perhaps there
might be some professional jealousy? On the contrary, it solves a
problem I was already considering. Of course we shall need a woman in
this case, one with a rare amount of discretion and ability. Yes, by
all means let us call in Miss Kendall, and let us take every advantage
we can of what she has already accomplished."
Carton seized the telephone.
"Tell her to meet us at my laboratory in half an hour," interposed
Kennedy. "You will come along?"
"I can't. Court opens in twenty minutes and there is a motion I must
argue myself."
Miss Ashton appeared to be greatly gratified at Craig's reception of
the suggestion, and Carton noticed it.
"Oh, yes," recollected Carton, "by the way, as I was on my way down
here, my office called up and told me that they had succeeded in
locating and arresting Dopey Jack. That ought to please you,--it will
mean cutting down the number of those East Side 'rackets' considerably
if we succeed with him."
"Good!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I don't think there were any worse affairs
than the dances of that Jack Rubano Association. They have got hold of
more young girls and caused more tragedies than any other gang. If you
need any help in getting together evidence, Mr. Carton, I shall be only
too glad to help you. I have several old scores myself to settle with
that young tough."
"Thank you," said Carton. "I shall need your help, if we are to do
anything. Of course, we can hold him only for primary frauds just now,
but I may be able to do something about that dance that he broke up as
a shooting affray."
Miss Ashton nodded encouragingly.
"And," he went on, "it's barely possible that he may know something, or
some of his followers may, about the robbery of Mr. Langhorne's
safe,--if not about the complete and mysterious disappearance of Betty
Blackwell."
"They'd stop at nothing to save their precious skins," commented Miss
Ashton. "Perhaps that is a good lead. At any rate I can suggest that to
the various societies and other agencies which I intend to set in
motion trying to trace what has happened to her. You can have him held
until they have time to report?"
"I shall make it a point to do so at any cost," he returned, "and I can
say only this, that we are all deeply indebted to you for the interest
you have shown in the case."
"Not at all," she replied enthusiastically, evidently having overcome
the first hesitation which had existed because Miss Blackwell had been
Langhorne's stenographer.
Miss Ashton had quickly jotted down in her notebook the best
description we could give of the missing girl, her address, and other
facts about her, and a list of those whom she meant to start at work on
the case.
For a moment she hesitated over one name, then with a sudden resolution
wrote it down.
"I intend to see Hartley Langhorne about it, too," she added frankly.
"Perhaps he may tell something of importance, after all."
I am sure that this final resolution cost her more than all the rest.
Carton would never have asked it of her, yet was gratified that she saw
it to be her duty to leave nothing undone in tracing the girl, not even
considering the possibility of offending Langhorne.
"Decent people don't seem to realize," she remarked as she shut her
little notebook and slipped it back into her chatelaine, "how the
System and the underworld really do affect them. They think it is all
something apart from the rest of us, and never consider how closely we
are all bound together and how easy it is for the lowest and most
vicious stratum in the social order to pass over and affect the
highest."
"That's exactly the point," agreed Carton. "Take this very case. It
goes from Wall Street to gangland, from Gastron's down to the
underworld gambling joints of Dopey Jack and the rest."
"Society--gambling," mused Miss Ashton, taking out her notebook again.
"That reminds me of Martin Ogleby. I must see Mary and try to warn her
against some of those sporty friends of her husband's."
"Please, Miss Ashton," put in Carton quickly, "don't mention that I
have told you of the detectaphone record. It might do more harm than
good, just at present. For a time at least, I think we should try to
keep under cover."
Whether or not that was his real reason, he turned now to Kennedy for
support. We had been, for the most part, silent spectators of what had
been happening.
"I think so--for the present--at least as far as our knowledge of the
Black Book goes," acquiesced Craig. He had turned to Miss Ashton and
made no effort to conceal the admiration which he felt for her, after
even so brief an acquaintance. "I think Miss Ashton can be depended
upon to play her part in the game perfectly. I, for one, want to thank
her most heartily for the way in which she has joined us."
"Thank you," she smiled, as she rose to go to her own office. "Oh, you
can always depend on me," she assured us as she gathered up her
portfolio of papers, "where there are the interests of a girl like
Betty Blackwell involved!"
VI
THE WOMAN DETECTIVE
Half an hour later, a tall, striking, self-reliant young woman with an
engaging smile opened the laboratory door and asked for Professor
Kennedy.
"Miss Kendall?" Craig inquired, coming forward to meet her.
She was dark-haired, with regular features and an expression which
showed a high degree of intelligence. Her clear grey eyes seemed to
penetrate and tear the mask off you. It was not only her features and
eyes that showed intelligence, but her gown showed that without
sacrificing neatness she had deliberately toned down the existing
fashions which so admirably fitted in with her figure in order that she
might not appear noticeable. It was clever, for if there is anything a
good detective must do it is to prevent people from looking twice.
I knew something of her history already. She had begun on a rather
difficult case for one of the large agencies and after a few years of
experience had decided that there was a field for an independent woman
detective who would appeal particularly to women themselves. Unaided
she had fought her way to a position of keen rivalry now with the best
men in the profession.
Narrowly I watched Kennedy. Here, I felt instinctively, were the "new"
woman and the "new" man, if there are such things. I wondered just how
they would hit it off together. For the moment, at least, Clare Kendall
was an absorbing study, as she greeted us with a frank, jerky
straight-arm handshake.
"Mr. Carton," she said directly, "has told me that he received an
anonymous letter this morning. May I see it?"
There are times when the so-called "new" woman's assumed masculine
brusqueness is a trifle jarring, as well as often missing the point.
But with Clare Kendall one did not feel that she was eternally trying
to assert that she was the equal or the superior of someone else,
although she was, as far as the majority of detectives I have met are
concerned. It was rather that she was different; in fact, almost from
the start I felt that she was indispensable. She seemed to have that
ability to go straight to the point at issue, a sort of faculty of
intuition which is often more valuable than anything else, the ability
to feel or sense things for which at first there was no actual proof.
No good detective ever lacks that sort of instinct, and Clare Kendall,
being a woman, had it in large degree. But she had more. She had the
ability to go further and get the facts and actual proof; for, as she
often said during the course of a case, "Woman's intuition may not be
good evidence in a court of law, but it is one of the best means to get
good evidence that will convince a court of law."
"My investigators have been watching that place for some time," she
remarked as she finished the letter. "Of course, having been closely in
touch with this sort of thing for several months in my work, I have had
all the opportunity in the world to observe and collect information.
The letter does not surprise me."
"Then you think it is a good tip?" asked Kennedy.
"Decidedly, although without the letter I should not have started
there, I think. Still, as nearly as I can gather, there is a rather
nondescript crowd connected in one way or another with the Montmartre.
For instance, there is a pretty tough character who seems to be
connected with the people there, my investigators tell me. It is a
fellow named 'Ike the Dropper,' one of those strong-arm men who have
migrated up from the East Side to the White Light District. At least my
investigators have told me they have seen him there, for I have never
bothered with the place myself. There has been plenty of work elsewhere
which promised immediate results. I'm glad to have a chance to tackle
this place, though, with your help."
"What do you think of the rest of the letter?" asked Craig.
"I think I could make a pretty shrewd guess from what I have heard, as
to the identity of some of those hinted at. I'm not sure, but I think
the lawyer may be a Mr. Kahn, a clever enough attorney who has a large
theatrical clientele and none too savoury a reputation as a local
politician. The banker may be Mr. Langhorne, although he is not exactly
a young man. Still, I know he has been associated with the place. As
for the club-man I should guess that that was Martin Ogleby."
Kennedy and I exchanged glances of surprise.
"As a first step," said Kennedy, at length, "I am going to write a
letter to Betty Blackwell, care of the Little Montmartre--or perhaps
you had better do the actual writing of it, Miss Kendall. A woman's
hand will look less suspicious."
"What shall I write?" she asked.
"Just a few lines. Tell her that you are one of the girls in the
office, that you have heard she was at the Montmartre--anything. The
actual writing doesn't make any difference. I merely want to see what
happens."
Miss Kendall quickly wrote a little note and handed it to him.
"Then direct this envelope," he said, reaching into a drawer of his
desk and bringing out a plain white one. "And let me seal it."
Carefully he sealed and stamped the letter and handed it to me to post.
"You will dine with us, Miss Kendall?" he asked. "Then we will plan the
next step in our campaign."
"I shall be glad to do so," she replied.
Fifteen minutes later I had dropped the letter in the drop of a branch
of the general post-office to ensure its more prompt delivery, and it
was on its way through the mails to accomplish the purpose Kennedy may
have contemplated.
"Just now it is more important for us to become acquainted with this
Little Montmartre," he remarked. "I suppose, Miss Kendall, we may
depend on you to join us?"
"Indeed you may," she replied energetically. "There is nothing that we
would welcome more than evidence that would lead to the closing of that
place."
Kennedy seemed to be impressed by the frankness and energy of the young
woman.
"Perhaps if we three should go there, hire a private dining-room, and
look about without making any move against the place that would excite
suspicion, we might at least find out what it is that we are fighting.
Of course we must dine somewhere, and up there at the same time we can
plan our campaign."
"I think that would be ripping," she laughed, as the humour of the
situation dawned on her. "Why, we shall be laying our plans right in
the heart of the enemy's country and they will never realize it.
Perhaps, too, we may get a glimpse of some of those people mentioned in
the anonymous letter."
To Clare Kendall it was simply another phase of the game which she had
been playing against the forces of evil in the city.
The Little Montmartre was, as I already knew, one of the smaller hotels
in a side street just off Broadway, eight or ten stories in height, of
modern construction, and for all the world exactly like a score of
other of the smaller hostelries of the famous city of hotels.
Clare, Craig, and myself pulled up before the entrance in a taxicab,
that seeming to be the accepted method of entering with eclat. A boy
opened the door. I jumped out and settled with the driver without a
demur at the usual overcharge, while Craig assisted Clare.
Laughing and chatting, we entered the bronze plate-glass doors and
walked slowly down a richly carpeted corridor. It was elegantly
furnished and decorated with large palms set at intervals, quite the
equal in luxuriousness, though on a smaller scale, of any of the larger
and well-known hotels. Beautifully marked marbles and expensive
hangings greeted the eye at every turn. Faultlessly liveried servants
solicitously waited about for tips.