moment, the crowd fell back. Before the tough waiters or anyone else
could make up their minds just what to do, Kennedy, who had tucked the
box into his capacious side pocket, took each of us by the arm and we
shoved our way through the crowd.
The head waiter followed us to the door, but offered no resistance. In
fact no one seemed to know just what to do and it was all over so
quickly that even Kahn himself had not time to get a glimpse of us
through the swinging door.
A moment later we had piled into a taxicab at the curb and were
speeding through the now deserted streets uptown to the laboratory.
Kennedy was jubilant. "I may have almost precipitated a riot," he
chortled, "but I'm glad I stood up. I think it must have been at the
psychological moment."
At the laboratory he threw off his coat and prepared to plunge into
work with various mysterious pans of chemicals, baths, jars, and
beakers.
"What is it?" asked Carton, as Kennedy carefully took out the dark
leather box, shielding it from the glare of a mercury vapour light.
"A camera with a newly-invented electrically operated between-lens
shutter of great illumination and efficiency," he explained. "It has
always been practically impossible to get such pictures as I wanted,
but this new shutter has so much greater speed than anything else ever
invented before, that it is possible to use it in this sort of
detective work. I've proved its speed up to one two-thousandth of a
second. It may or may not have worked, but if it has we've caught
someone, right in the act."
Kennedy had a "studio" of his own which was quite equal to the
emergency of developing the two pictures which he had taken with the
new camera.
Late as it was, we waited for him to finish, just as we would have
waited down in the Star office if one of our staff photographers had
come in with something important.
At last Kennedy emerged from his workshop. As he did so, he slapped
down two untoned prints.
Both were necessarily indistinct owing to the conditions under which
they had had to be taken. But they were quite sufficient for the
purpose.
As Carton bent over the second one, which showed Kahn in the very act
of handing over a roll of bills to the rather anemic man whom his
runner had brought to him, Carton addressed the photograph as if it had
been Kahn himself.
"I have you at last," he cried. "This is the end of your secret ring of
jury fixers. I think that will about settle the case of Kahn, if not of
Dopey Jack, when we get ready to spring it. Kennedy, make another set
of prints and let me lock them in a safe deposit vault. That's as
precious to me as if it were the Black Book itself!"
Craig laughed. "Not such a bad evening's work, after all," he remarked,
clearing things up. "Do you realize what time it is?"
Carton glanced perfunctorily at his watch. "I had forgotten time," he
returned.
"Yes," agreed Craig, "but to-morrow is another day, you know. I don't
object to staying up all night, or even several nights, but there
doesn't seem to be anything more that we can do now, and it may be that
we shall need our strength later. This is, after all, only a beginning
in getting at the man higher up."
"The man highest up," corrected Carton, with elation as we parted on
the campus, Kennedy and I to go to our apartment.
"See you in the morning, Carton," bade Kennedy. "By that time, no
doubt, there will be some news of the Black Book."
We arrived at our apartment a few minutes later. On the floor was some
mail which Kennedy quickly ran over. It did not appear to be of any
importance--that is, it had no bearing on the case which was now
absorbing our attention.
"Well, what do you think of that?" he exclaimed as he tore open one
diminutive letter. "That was thoughtful, anyhow. She must have sent us
that a few minutes after we left headquarters."
He handed me an engraved card. It was from Miss Ashton, inviting us to
a non-partisan suffrage evening at her studio in her home, to be
followed by a dance.
Underneath she had written a few words of special invitation, ending,
"I shall try to have some people there who may be able to help us in
the Betty Blackwell matter."
X
THE AFTERNOON DANCE
It was early the following morning that I missed Kennedy from our
apartment. Naturally I guessed from my previous experiences with that
gentleman that he would most likely be found at his laboratory, and I
did not worry, but put the finishing touches on a special article for
the Star which I had promised for that day and had already nearly
completed.
Consequently it was not until the forenoon that I sauntered around to
the Chemistry Building. Precisely as I had expected, I found Kennedy
there at work.
I had been there scarcely a quarter of an hour when the door opened and
Clare Kendall entered with a cheery greeting. It was evident that she
had something to report.
"The letter to Betty Blackwell which you sent to the Montmartre has
come back, unopened," she announced, taking from her handbag a letter
stamped with the post-office form indicating that the addressee could
not be found and that the letter was returned to the sender. The
stamped hand of the post-office pointed to the upper left-hand corner
where Clare had written in a fictitious name and used an address to
which she frequently had mail sent when she wanted it secret.
"Only on the back," she pursued, turning the letter over, "there are
some queer smudges. What are they? They don't look like dirt."
Kennedy glanced at it only casually, as if he had fully expected the
incident to turn out as it did.
"Not unopened, Miss Kendall," he commented. "We have already had a
little scientific letter-opening. This was a case of scientific
letter-sealing. That was a specially prepared envelope."
He reached down into his desk and pulled out another, sealed it
carefully, dried it, then held it over a steaming pan of water until
the gum was softened and it could be opened again. On the back were
smudges just like those on the letter that had been returned.
"On the thin line of gum on the flap of the envelope," he explained, "I
have placed first a coating of tannin, over which is the gum. Then on
the part of the envelope to which the flap adheres when it is sealed I
placed some iron sulphate. When I sealed the envelope so carefully I
brought the two together separated only by the thin film of gum. Now
when steam is applied to soften the gum, the usual method of the
letter-opener, the tannin and the sulphate are brought together. They
run and leave these blots or dark smudges. So, you see, someone has
been found at the Montmartre, even if it is not Betty Blackwell
herself, who has interest enough in the case to open a letter to her
before handing it back to the postman. That shows us that we are on the
right trail at least, even if it does not tell us who is at the end of
the trail. Here's another thing; This 'Marie' is a new one. We must
find out about her."
"At the Futurist Tea Room at four this afternoon, when she meets our
good friend, young Dr. Harris," reminded Clare. "Between cabarets and
tea rooms I don't know whether this is work or play."
"It's work, all right," smiled Kennedy, adding, "at least it would be
if it weren't lightened by your help."
It was the middle of the afternoon when Craig and I left the laboratory
to keep our appointment with Miss Kendall at the Futurist Tea Room,
where we hoped to find Dr. Harris's friend "Marie," who seemed to want
to see him so badly.
A long line of touring and town cars as well as taxicabs bore eloquent
testimony not only to the popularity of this tea room and cabaret, but
to the growth of afternoon dancing. One never realizes how large a
leisure class there is in the city until after a visit to anything from
a baseball game to a matinee--and a dance. People seemed literally to
be flocking to the Futurist. They seemed to like its congeniality, its
tone, its "atmosphere."
As we left our hats to the tender mercies of the "boys" who had the
checking concession we could see that the place was rapidly filling up.
"If we are to get a table that we want here, we'd better get it now,"
remarked Kennedy, slipping the inevitable piece of change to the head
waiter. "If we sit over there in that sort of little bower we can see
when Miss Kendall arrives and we shall not be so conspicuous ourselves,
either."
The Futurist was not an especially ornate place, although a great deal
of money had evidently been expended in fitting it up to attract a
recherche clientele.
Our table, which Kennedy had indicated, was, as he had said, in a sort
of little recess, where we could see without being much observed
ourselves, although that seemed almost an impossibility in such a
place. In fact, I noticed before we had had time to seat ourselves that
we had already attracted the attention of two show girls who sat down
the aisle and were amusing themselves at watching us by means of a
mirror. It would not have been very difficult to persuade them to
dispense with the mirror.
A moment later Clare Kendall entered and paused at the door an instant,
absorbing the gay scene as only a woman and a detective could. Craig
rose and advanced to meet her, and as she caught sight of us her face
brightened. The show girls eyed her narrowly and with but slight
approval.
"We feel more at ease with a lady in the party," remarked Craig, as
they reached the table and I rose to greet her. "Two men alone here are
quite as noticeable as two ladies. Walter, I know, was quite
uncomfortable."
"To say nothing of the fact which you omitted," I retaliated, "that it
is a pleasure to be with Miss Kendall--even if we must talk shop all
the time."
Clare smiled, for her quick intuition had already taken in and
dismissed as of no importance the two show girls. We ordered as a
matter of course, then settled back for a long interval until the
waiter out of the goodness of his heart might retrieve whatever was
possible from the mob of servitors where refreshments were dispensed.
"Opposite us," whispered Clare, resting her chin on her interlocked
fingers and her elbows on the tip-edge of the table, "do you see that
athletic-looking young lady, who seems to be ready for anything from
tea to tango? Well, the man with her is Martin Ogleby."
Ogleby was of the tall, sloping-shouldered variety, whom one can see on
the Avenue and in the clubs and hotels in such numbers that it almost
seems that there must be an establishment for turning them out, even
down to a trademark concealed somewhere about them, "Made in England."
Only Ogleby seemed a little different in the respect that one felt that
if all the others were stamped by the same die, he was the die, at
least. Compared to him many of the others took on the appearance of
spurious counterfeits.
"Dr. Harris," Craig whispered, indicating to us the direction with his
eyes.
Outside on a settee, we could see in the corridor a man waiting,
restless and ill at ease. Now and then he looked covertly at his watch
as if he expected someone who was late and he wondered if anything
could be amiss.
Just then a superbly gowned woman alighted from a cab. The starter
bowed as if she were familiar. It was evident that this was the woman
for whom Harris waited, the "Marie" of the letter.
She was a carefully groomed woman, as artificial as French heels. Yet
indeed it was that studied artificiality which constituted her chief
attraction. As Harris greeted her I noted that Clare was amazed at the
daring cut of her gown, which excited comment even at the Futurist.
Her smooth, full, well-rounded face with its dark olive skin and just a
faint trace of colour on either cheek, her snappy hazel eyes whose fire
was heightened by the penciling of the eyebrows, all were a marvel of
the dexterity of her artificial beautifier. And yet in spite of all
there was an air of unextinguishable coarseness about her which it was
difficult to describe, but easy to feel. "Her lips are too thick and
her mouth too large," remarked Clare, "and yet in some incomprehensible
way she gives you the impression of daintiness. What is it?"
"The woman is frankly deceptive from the tip of her aigrette to the
toes of her shoes," observed Craig.
"And yet," smiled Clare, watching with interest the little stir her
arrival had made among the revellers, "you can see that she is the envy
of every woman here who has slaved and toiled for that same effect
without approaching within miles of it or attracting one quarter the
notice for her pains that this woman receives."
Dr. Harris was evidently in his element at the attention which his
companion attracted. They seemed to be on very good terms indeed, and
one felt that Bohemianism could go no further.
They paused, fortunately, at a just vacated table around an "L" from us
and sat down. For once waiters seemed to vie in serving rather than in
neglecting.
By this time I had gained the impression that the Futurist was all that
its name implied--not up to the minute, but decidedly ahead of it.
There was an exotic flavour to the place, a peculiar fascination, that
was foreign rather than American, at seeing demi-monde and decency
rubbing elbows. I felt sure that a large percentage of the women there
were really young married women, whose first step downward was truly
nothing worse than saying they had been at their whist clubs when in
reality it was tango and tea. What the end might be to one who let the
fascination blind her perspective I could imagine.
Dr. Harris and "Marie" were nearer the dancing floor than we were, but
seemed oblivious to it. Now and then as the music changed we could
catch a word or two.
He was evidently making an effort to be gay, to counteract the feeling
which she had concealed as she came in, but which had the upper hand
now that they were seated.
"Won't you dance?" I heard him say.
"No, Harry. I came here to tell you about how things are going."
There was a harshness about her voice which I recognized as belonging
exclusively to one class of women in the city. She lowered it as she
went on talking earnestly.
"It looks as though someone has squealed, but who--" I caught in the
fragmentary lulls of the revelry.
"I didn't know it was as bad as that," Dr. Harris remarked.
They talked almost in whispers for several moments while I strained my
ears to catch a syllable, but without success. What were they talking
about? Was it about Dopey Jack? Or did they know something about Betty
Blackwell? Perhaps it was about the Black Book. Even when the music
stopped they talked without dropping a word.
The music started again. There was no mistaking the appeal that the
rocking whirl of the rhythmic dance made. From the side of the table
where Kennedy was seated he could catch an occasional glimpse of the
face of Marie. I noticed that he had torn a blank page off the back of
the menu and with a stub of a pencil was half idly writing.
At the top he had placed the word, "Nose," followed by "straight, with
nostrils a trifle flaring," and some other words I could not quite
catch. Beneath that he had written "Ears," which in turn was followed
by some words which he was setting down carefully. Eyes, chin, and
mouth followed, until I began to realize that he was making a sort of
scientific analysis of the woman's features.
"I shall need some more--" I caught as the music softened unexpectedly.
A singer on the little platform was varying the programme now by a solo
and I shifted my chair so as to get a better view and at the same time
also a look at the table around the corner from us.
As I did so I saw Dr. Harris reach into his breast pocket and take out
a little package which he quickly handed to Marie. As their hands met,
their eyes met also. I fancied that the doctor struggled to
demagnetize, so to speak, the look which she gave him.
"You'll come to see me--afterwards?" she asked, dropping the little
package into her handbag of gold mesh and rattling the various
accoutrements of beautification which tinkled next to it.
Harris nodded.
"You're a life saver to some--" floated over to me from Marie.
The solo had been completed and the applause was dying away.
"... tells me he needs ... badly off ... don't forget to see ..."
The words came in intervals. What they meant I did not know, but I
strove to remember them. Evidently Marie and a host of others were
depending on Harris for something. At any rate, it seemed, now that she
had talked she felt easier in mind, as one does after carrying a weight
a long time in secret.
"Tanguez-vous?" he asked as the orchestra struck up again.
"Yes--thank you, Harry--just one."
We watched the couple attentively as they were alternately lost and
found in the dizzy swaying mass. The music became wilder and they threw
themselves into the abandon of the dance.
They had been absorbed so much in each other and the unburdening of
whatever it was she had wanted to tell him, that neither had noticed
the other couple on the other side of the floor whose presence had
divided our own attention.
Martin Ogleby and his partner were not dancing. It was warm and they
were among the lucky ones who had succeeded in getting something
besides a cheque from the waiters. Two tall glasses of ginger ale with
a long curl of lemon peel sepentining through the cracked ice stood
before them.
The dance had brought Dr. Harris and Marie squarely around to within a
few feet of where Ogleby was sitting. As Harris swung around she faced
Ogleby in such a way that he could not avoid her, nor could she have
possibly missed seeing him.
For a moment their eyes met. Not a muscle in either face moved. It was
as if they were perfect strangers. She turned and murmured something to
her partner. Ogleby leaned over, without the least confusion, and made
a witty remark to his partner. It was over in a minute. The acting of
both could not have been better if they had deliberately practised
their parts. What did it mean?
As the dance concluded I saw Ogleby glance hastily over in the
direction of Marie. He gave a quick smile of recognition, as much as to
say "Thank you."
It was evident now that both Dr. Harris and Marie, whoever she was,
were getting ready to leave. As they rose to move to the door, Kennedy
quickly paid our own cheque, leaving the change to the waiter, and
without seeming to do so we followed them.
Harris was standing near the starter with his hat off, apparently
making his adieux. Deftly Kennedy managed to slip in behind so as to be
next in line for a cab.
"Walter and I will follow Harris if they separate," he whispered to
Clare Kendall. "You follow the woman."
The afternoon was verging toward dinner and people were literally
bribing the taxicab starter. Our own cab stood next in line behind that
which Harris had called.
"I have certainly enjoyed this little glimpse of Bohemia," commented
Kennedy to Miss Kendall as we waited. "I shouldn't mind if detective
work took me more often to afternoon dances. There, they are going down
the steps. Here's the cab I called. Let me know how things turn out.
Goodbye. Here--chauffeur, around that way--where that other cab is
going--the lady will tell you where to drive."
Harris hesitated a moment as if considering whether to take a cab
himself, then slowly turned and strolled down the street.
We followed, slowly also. There was something unreal about the bright
afternoon sunshine after the atmosphere of the Futurist Tea Room, where
everything had been done to promote the illusion of night.
Harris walked along meditatively, crossing one street after another,
not as if debating where he was going, but rather in no great hurry to
get there.
Instead of going down Broadway he swerved into Seventh Avenue, then
after a few blocks turned into a side street, quickened his pace, and
at last dived down into a basement under a saloon.
It was a wretched neighbourhood, one of those which reminds one of the
life of an animal undergoing a metamorphosis. Once it had evidently
been a rather nice residential section. The movement of population
uptown had left it stranded to the real estate speculators, less
desirable to live in, but more valuable for the future. The moving in
of anyone who could be got to live there had led to rapid deterioration
and a mixed population of whites and negroes against the day when the
upward sweep of business should bring the final transformation into
office and loft buildings. But for the present it was decaying, out of
repair, a mass of cheap rooming-houses, tenements, and mixed races.
The joint into which Harris had gone was the only evidence of anything
like prosperity on the block, and that evidence was confined to the two
entrances on the street, one leading into the ground floor and the
other down a flight of steps to the basement.
"Do you want to go in?" asked Kennedy in a tone that indicated that he
himself was going.
Just then a negro, dazzling in the whiteness of his collar and the
brilliancy of his checked suit, came up the stairs accompanied by a
light mulatto.
"It's a black and tan joint," Craig went on, "at least
downstairs--negro cabaret, and all that sort of thing."
"I'm game," I replied.
We stumbled down the worn steps, past a swinging door near which stood
the proprietor with a careful eye on arrivals and departures. The place
was deceiving from the outside. It really extended through two houses,
and even at this early hour it was fairly crowded.
There were negroes of all degrees of shading, down to those who were
almost white. Scattered about at the various tables were perhaps half a
dozen white women, tawdry imitations of the faster set at the Futurist
which we had just left, the leftovers of a previous generation in the
Tenderloin. There was also a fair sprinkling of white men, equally
degraded. White men and coloured women, white women and coloured men,
chatted here and there, but for the most part the habitues were
negroes. At any rate the levelling down seemed to have produced
something like an equality of races in viciousness.
As we sat down at a table, Kennedy remarked: "They used to drift down
to Chinatown, a good many of these relics. You used to see them in the
old 'suicide halls' of the Bowery, too. But that is all passing away
now. Reform and agitation have closed up those old dives. Now they try
to veneer it over with electric lights and bright varnish, but I
suppose it comes to the same thing. After they are cast off Broadway,
the next step lower is the black and tan joint. After that it is
suicide, unless it is death."
"I don't think this is any improvement over the--the bad old days," I
ventured.
Kennedy shook his head in agreement. "There's Harris, down there in the
back, talking to someone, a white man, alone."
A waiter came over to us grinning, for we had assumed the role of
sightseers.
"Who is that, 'way back there, with his chair tipped to the wall,
talking to the man with his back to us?" asked Kennedy.
"Ike the Dropper, sah," informed the waiter with obvious pride that
such a celebrity should be harboured here.
I looked with a feeling akin to awe at the famous character who, in
common with many others of his type, had migrated uptown from the
proverbial haunts of the gunmen on the East Side in search of pastures
new and untroubled.
Ike the Dropper may have once been a strong-arm man, but at present I
knew that he was chiefly noted for the fact, and he and his kind were
reputed to be living on the earnings of women to whom they were
supposed to afford "protection." I reflected on the passing glories of
brutality which had sunk so low.
There were noise and life a plenty here. At a discordant box of a piano
a negro performer was playing with a keen appreciation of time if of
nothing else, and two others with voices that might not have been
unpopular in a decent minstrel show were rendering a popular air. They
wore battered straw hats and a make-up which was intended to be
grotesque.
From time to time, as the pianist was moved, he played snatches of the
same music as that which we had heard at the Futurist, and between us
and Harris and Ike the Dropper several couples were one-stepping, each
in their own sweet way. As the music became more lively their dancing
came more and more to resemble some of the almost brutal Apache dances
of Paris, in that the man seemed to exert sheer force and the woman
agility in avoiding him. It was an entirely new phase of afternoon
dancing, an entirely new "leisure class," this strange combination of
Bohemia and Senegambia.