an even more heartrending sight. Piled in several heaps much higher
than a man's head and as carelessly as cordwood were the tiny coffins
holding the babies which the authorities are called on by the poor of
the city to bury in large numbers--far too poor to meet the cost of the
cheapest decent burial. Atop the stack of regulation coffins were the
nondescript receptacles made use of by the very poor--the most pathetic
a tiny box from the corner grocery. The bodies, some dozens of them,
lay like so much merchandise, awaiting shipment.
"What a barbarity!" I heard Craig mutter, for even he, though now and
then forced to visit the place when one of his cases took him there,
especially when it was concerned with an autopsy, had never become
hardened to it.
Often I had heard him denounce the primitive appointments, especially
in the autopsy rooms. The archaic attempts to utilize the Morgue for
scientific investigation were the occasion for practices that shocked
even the initiated. For the lack of suitable depositories for the
products of autopsies, these objects were plainly visible in rude
profusion when a door was opened to draw out a body for inspection.
About and around the slabs whereon the human bodies lay, in bottles and
in plates, this material which had no place except in the cabinets of a
laboratory was inhumanly displayed in profusion, close to corpses for
which a morgue is expected to provide some degree of reverential care.
"You see," apologized the keeper, not averse to throwing the blame on
someone else, for it indeed was not his but the city's fault, "one
reason why so many bodies have to remain uncared for is that I could
show you cooling box after cooling box with some subject which figured
during the past few months in the police records. Why victims of
murders committed long ago should be held indefinitely, and their
growing numbers make it impossible to give proper places to each day's
temporary bodies, I can't say. Sometimes," he added with a sly dig at
Carton, "the only explanation seems to be that the District Attorney's
office has requested the preservation of the grisly relics."
I could see that Carton was making a mental note that the practice
would be ended as far as his office was concerned.
"So--you saw the story in the newspapers about Mr. Murtha," repeated
the keeper, not displeased to see us and at the publicity it gave him.
"It was I that discovered him--and yet many's the times some of the
boys that must have handled the body since it was picked up beside the
tracks must have seen him. It was too late to get anyone to take the
body away to-night, but the arrangements have all been made, and it
will be done early in the morning before anyone else sees Pat Murtha
here, as he shouldn't be. We've done what we could for him
ourselves--he was a fine gentleman and many's the boy that owes a boost
up in life to him."
Reverentially even the hardened keeper drew out one of the best of the
drawer-like boxes. On the slab before us lay the body. Carton drew
back, excitedly, shocked.
"It IS Murtha!" he exclaimed.
I, too, looked at it quickly. The name as Carton pronounced it, in such
a place, had, to me at least, an unpleasant likeness to "murder."
Kennedy had bent down and was examining the mutilated body minutely.
"How do you suppose such a thing is possible--that he could lie about
the city, even here until the night keeper came on,--unknown?" asked
Carton, aghast.
"I don't know," I said, "but I imagine that in connection with the
actual inadequacy of the equipment one would find reflected the same
makeshift character in the attitude and actions of those who handle the
city's dead. It used to be the case, at least, that the facilities for
keeping records were often almost totally neglected, and not through
the fault of the Morgue keepers, entirely. But, I understand it is
better now."
"This is terrible," repeated Carton, averting his face. "Really,
Jameson, it makes me feel like a hound, for ever thinking that Murtha
might have been putting up a game on me. Poor old Murtha--I should have
preferred to remember him as the 'Smiling Boss' as everyone always
called him!"
I called to mind the last time we had seen Murtha, in Carton's office
as the bearer of an offer which had made Carton almost beside himself
with anger at the thought of the insult that he would compromise with
the organization. What a contrast, this, with the Murtha who, in turn,
had been trembling with passion at Carton's refusal!
And yet I could not but reflect on the strangeness of it all--the fact
that the organization, of which Murtha was a part, had by its neglect
and failure to care for the human side of government when there was
graft to be collected, brought about the very conditions which had made
possible such neglect of the district leader's body, as it had been
bandied back and forth, unwittingly by many who owed their very
positions to the organization.
I could not help but think that if he had served humanity with one-half
the zeal which he had served graft, this could not have happened.
The more I contemplated the case, the more tragic did it seem to me. I
longed for the assignment of writing the story for the Star--the chance
I would have had in the old days to bring in a story that would have
got me a nod of approval from my superior. I determined, as soon as
possible, to get the Star on the wire and try to express some of the
thoughts that were surging through my brain in the face of this awful
and unexpected occurrence.
There he lay, alone, uncared for except by such rude hands as those of
the Morgue attendants. I could not help reflecting on the strange
vicissitudes of human life, and death, which levelled all distinctions
between men of high and low degree. Murtha had almost literally sprung
from the streets. His career had been one possible only in the social
and political conditions of his times. And now he had only by the
narrowest chance escaped a burial in a pauper's grave at the hands of
the city which he had helped Dorgan to debauch.
Carton, too, I could see was overwhelmed. For the moment he did not
even think of how this blow to the System might affect his own chances.
It was only the pitiful wreck of a human being before us that he saw.
I was not an expert on study of wounds, such as was Kennedy, who was
examining Murtha's body with minute care, now and then muttering under
his breath at the rough and careless handling it had received in its
various transfers about the city. But there were some terrible wounds
and disfigurements on the body, which added even more to the horror of
the case.
One thing, I felt, was fortunate. Murtha had had no family. There had
been plenty of scandal about him, but as far as I knew there was no one
except his old cronies in the organization to be shocked by his loss,
no living tragedy left in the wake of this.
"How do you suppose it happened?" I asked the night keeper.
He shook his head doubtfully. "No one knows, of course," he replied
slowly. "But I think the big fellow got worse up there in that asylum.
He wasn't used to anything but having his own way, you know. They say
he must have waited his chance, after the dinner hour, when things were
quiet, and then slipped out while no one was looking. He may have been
crazy, but you can bet your life Pat Murtha was the smartest crazy man
they ever had up there. THEY couldn't hold him."
"I see," I said, struck by the faith which the man had inspired even in
those who held the lowest of city positions. "But I meant how do you
suppose he was killed?"
The attendant looked at me thoughtfully a while. "Young man," he
answered, "I ain't saying nothing and it may have been an accident
after all. Have you ever been up in that part of town?"
I had not and said so.
"Well," he continued, "those electric trains do sneak up on a fellow
fast. It may have been an accident, all right. The coroner up there
said so, and I guess he ought to know. It must have been late at
night--perhaps he was wandering away from the ordinary roads for fear
of being recaptured. No one knows--I guess no one will know, ever. But
it's a sad day for many of the boys. He helped a lot of 'em. And Mr.
Dorgan--he knows what a loss it is, too. I hear that it's hit the Chief
hard."
The attendant, rough though he was and hardened by the daily succession
of tragedies, could not restrain an honest catch in his voice over the
passing of the "big fellow," as some of them called the "Smiling Boss."
It was a pretty good object lesson on the power of the system which the
organization had built up, how Murtha, and even the more distant Dorgan
himself, had endeared himself to his followers and henchmen. Perhaps it
was corrupt, but it was at least human, and that was a great deal in a
world full of inhumanities. In the face of what had happened, one felt
that much might be forgiven Murtha for his shortcomings, especially as
the era of the Murthas and Dorgans was plainly passing.
"Here at least," whispered Carton, as we withdrew to a corner to escape
the palling atmosphere, "is one who won't worry about what happens to
that Black Book any more. I wonder what he really knew about it--what
secrets he carried away with him?"
"I can't say," I returned. "But, one thing it does. It must relieve
Mrs. Ogleby's fears a bit. With Murtha out of the way there is one less
to gossip about what went on at Gastron's that night of the dinner."
He said nothing and just then Kennedy straightened up, as though he had
finished his examination. We hurried over to him. I thought the look on
Craig's face was peculiar.
"What is it--what did you find?" both Carton and I asked.
Kennedy did not answer immediately.
"I--I can't say," he answered slowly at length, as we thanked the
Morgue keeper for his courtesy and left the place. "In fact I'd rather
not say--until I know."
I knew from previous experiences that it was of no use to try to quiz
Kennedy. He was a veritable Gradgrind for facts, facts, facts. As for
myself, I could not help wondering whether, after all, Murtha might not
have been the victim of foul play--and, if so, by whom?
XXII
THE CANARD
We did not have to wait long for the secret of the robbery of Carton to
come out. It was not in any "extras," or in the morning papers the next
day, but it came through a secret source of information to the Reform
League.
"A clerk in the employ of the organization who is really a detective
employed by the Reform League," groaned Carton, as he told us the story
himself the next morning at his office, "has just given us the
information that they have prepared a long and circumstantial story
about me--about my intimacy with Mrs. Ogleby and Murtha and some
others. The story of the robbery of my study is in the papers this
morning. To-morrow they plan to publish some photographs--alleged to
have been stolen."
"Photographs--Mrs. Ogleby," repeated Kennedy. "Real ones?"
"No," exclaimed Carton quickly, "of course not--fakes. Don't you see
the scheme? First they lay a foundation in the robbery, knowing that
the public is satisfied with sensations, and that they will be sure to
believe that the robbery was put up by some muckrakers to obtain
material for an expose. I wasn't worried last night. I knew I had
nothing to conceal."
"Then what of it?" I asked naively.
"A good deal of it," returned Carton excitedly, "The story is to be, as
I understand it, that the fake pictures were among those stolen from me
and that in a roundabout way they came into the possession of someone
in the organization, without their knowing who the thief was. Of course
they don't know who took them and the original plates or films are
destroyed, but they've concocted some means of putting a date on them
early in the spring."
"What are they that they should take such pains with them?" persisted
Kennedy, looking fixedly at Carton.
Carton met his look without flinching. "They are supposed to be
photographs of myself," he repeated. "One purports to represent me in a
group composed of Mrs. Ogleby, Murtha, another woman whom I do not even
know, and myself. I am standing between Murtha and Mrs. Ogleby and we
look very familiar. Another is a picture of the same four riding in a
car, owned by Murtha. Oh, there are several of them, of that sort."
He paused as a dozen unspoken questions framed themselves in my mind.
"I don't hesitate to admit," he added, "that a few months ago I knew
Mrs. Ogleby--socially. But there was nothing to it. I never knew Murtha
well, and the other woman I never saw. At various times I have been
present at affairs where she was, but I know that no pictures were ever
taken, and even if there had been, I would not care, provided they told
the truth about them. What I do care about is the sworn allegation
that, I understand, is to accompany these--these fakes."
His voice broke. "It's a lie from start to finish, but just think of
it, Kennedy," he went on. "Here is the story, and here, too, are the
pictures--at least they will be, in print, to-morrow. Now, you know
nothing could hurt the reform ticket worse than to have a scandal like
this raised at this time. There may be just enough people to believe
that there is some basis for the suspicion to turn the tide against me.
If it were earlier in the campaign, I might accept the issue, fight it
out to a finish, and in the turn of events I should have really the
best sort of campaign material. But it is too late now to expose such a
knavish trick on the Saturday before election."
"Can't we buy them off?" I ventured, perplexed beyond measure at this
new and unexpected turn of events.
"No, I won't," persisted Carton, shutting his square jaw doggedly. "I
won't be held up--even if that is possible."
"Miss Ashton on the wire," announced a boy from the outer office.
The look on Carton's face was a study. I saw directly what was the
trouble--far more important to him than a mere election.
"Tell her--I'm out--will be back soon," he muttered, for the first time
hesitating to speak to her.
"You see," he continued blackly, "I'll fight if it takes my last
dollar, but I won't allow myself to be blackmailed out of a cent--no,
not a cent," he thundered, a heightened look of determination fixing
the lines on his face as he brought his fist down with a rattling bang
on the desk.
Kennedy was saying nothing. He was letting Carton ease his mind of the
load which had been suddenly thrust upon it. Carton was now excitedly
pacing the floor.
"They believe plainly," he continued, growing more excited as he paced
up and down, "that the pictures will of course be accepted by the
public as among those stolen from me, and in that, I suppose, they are
right. The public will swallow it. If I say I'll prosecute, they'll
laugh and tell me to go ahead, that they didn't steal the pictures. Our
informant tells us that a hundred copies have been made of each and
that they have them ready to drop into the mail to the leading hundred
papers, not only of this city but of the state, in time for them to
appear Sunday. They think that no amount of denying on our part can
destroy the effect."
"That's it," I persisted. "The only way is to buy them off."
"But, Jameson," argued Carton, "I repeat--they are false. It is a plot
of Dorgan's, the last fight of a boss, driven into a corner, for his
life. And it is meaner than if he had attempted to forge a letter.
Pictures appeal to the eye much more than letters. That's what makes
the thing so dangerous. Dorgan knows how to make the best use of such a
roorback on the eve of an election and even if I not only deny but
prove that they are a fake, I'm afraid the harm will be done. I can't
reach all the voters in time. Ten see such a charge to one who sees the
denial."
He looked from one to the other of us helplessly. "If we had a week or
two, it might be all right. But I can't make any move to-day without
making a fool of myself, nothing until they are published, as the last
big thing of the campaign. Monday and Tuesday morning do not give me
time to reply in the papers and hammer it in. Even if they were out
now, it would not give me time to make of it an asset instead of a
liability. And then, too, it means that I am diverted by this thing,
that I let up in the final efforts that we have so carefully planned to
cap the campaign. That in itself is as much as Dorgan wants, anyway."
Kennedy had been, so far, little more than an interested listener, but
now he asked pointedly, "You have copies of the pictures?"
"No--but I've been promised them this morning."
"H'm," mused Craig, turning the crisis over in his mind. "We've had
alleged stolen and forged letters before, but alleged stolen and forged
photographs are new. I'm not surprised that you are alarmed,
Carton,--nor that Walter suggests buying them off. But I agree with
you, Carton--it's best to fight, to admit nothing, as you would imply
by any other method."
"Then you think you can trace down the forger of those pictures before
it is too late?" urged Carton, leaning forward almost like a prisoner
in the dock to catch the words of the foreman of the jury.
"I haven't said I can do that--yet," measured Craig with provoking
slowness.
"Say, Kennedy, you're not going to desert me?" reproached Carton.
Kennedy laughed as he put his hand on Carton's shoulder.
"I've been afraid of something like this," he said, "ever since I began
to realize that you had once been--er--foolish enough to become even
slightly acquainted with that adventuress, Mrs. Ogleby. My advice is to
fight, not to get in wrong by trying to dicker, for that might amount
to confession, and suit Dorgan's purpose just as well. Photographs," he
added sententiously, "are like statistics. They don't lie unless the
people who make them do. But it's hard to tell what a liar can
accomplish with either, in an election. I--I don't know that I'd desert
you--if the pictures were true. I'd be sure there was some other
explanation."
"I knew it," responded Carton heartily. "Your hand on that, Kennedy.
Say, I think I've shaken hands with half the male population of this
city since I was nominated, but this means more than any of them. Spare
no reasonable expense and--get the goods, no matter whom it hits higher
up--Langhorne--anybody. And, for God's sake get it in time--there's
more than an election that hangs on it!"
Carton looked Kennedy squarely in the eye again, and we all understood
what it was he meant that was at stake. It might be possible after all
to gloss over almost anything and win the election, but none of us
dared to think what it might mean if Miss Ashton not only suspected
that Carton had been fraternizing with the bosses but also that there
had been or by some possibility could be anything really in common
between him and Mrs. Ogleby.
That, after all, I saw was the real question. How would Miss Ashton
take it? Could she ever forgive him if it were possible for Langhorne
to turn the tables and point with scorn at the man who had once been
his rival for her hand? What might be the effect on her of any
disillusionment, of any ridicule that Langhorne might artfully heap up?
As we left Carton, I shared with Kennedy his eagerness to get at the
truth, now, and win the fight--the two fights.
"I want to see Miss Ashton, first," remarked Kennedy when we were
outside.
Personally I thought that it was a risky business, but felt that
Kennedy must know best.
When we arrived at the Reform League headquarters, the clerks and girls
had already set to work, and the office was a hive of industry in the
rush of winding up the campaign. Typewriters were clicking, clippings
were being snipped out of a huge stack of newspapers and pasted into
large scrapbooks, circulars were being folded and made ready to mail
for the final appeal.
Carton's office there had been in the centre of the suite. On one side
were the cashier and bookkeeper, the clerical force and the speakers'
bureau, where spellbinders of all degrees were getting instructions,
final tours were being laid out, and reports received of meetings
already held.
On the other side was the press bureau, with its large and active
force, in charge of Miss Ashton.
As we entered we saw Miss Ashton very busy over something. Her back was
toward us, but the moment she turned at hearing us we could see that
something was the matter.
Kennedy wasted no time in coming to the point of his visit. We had
scarcely seated ourselves beside her desk when he leaned over and said
in a low voice, "Miss Ashton, I think I can trust you. I have called to
see you about a matter of vital importance to Mr. Carton."
She did not betray even by a fleeting look on her proud face what the
true state of her feelings was.
"I don't know whether you know, but an attempt is being made to slander
Mr. Carton," went on Kennedy.
Still she said nothing, though it was evident that she was thinking
much.
"I suppose in a large force like this that it is not impossible that
your political enemies may have a spy or two," observed Kennedy,
glancing about at the score or more clerks busily engaged in getting
out the "literature."
"I have sometimes thought that myself," she murmured, "but of course I
don't know. There isn't anything for them to discover in THIS office,
though."
Kennedy looked up quickly at the significant stress on the word "this."
She saw that Kennedy was watching. Margaret Ashton might have made a
good actress, that is, in something in which her personal feelings were
not involved, as they were in this case. She was now pale and agitated.
"I--I can't believe it," she managed to say. "Oh, Mr. Kennedy--I would
almost rather not have known it at all,--only I suppose I must have
known it sooner or later."
"Believe me, Miss Ashton," soothed Kennedy, "you ought to know. It is
on you that I depend for many things. But, tell me, how do you know
already? I didn't think--it was known."
She was still pale, and replied nervously, "Our detective in the
organization brought the pictures up here--one of the girls opened them
by mistake--it got about the office--I couldn't help but know."
"Miss Ashton," remonstrated Kennedy soothingly, "I beg you to be calm.
I had no idea you would take it like this, no idea. Please, please.
Remember pictures can lie--just like words."
"I--I hope you're right," she managed to reply slowly. "I'm all broken
up by it. I'm ready to resign. My faith in human nature is shaken. No,
I won't say anything about Mr. Carton to anyone. But it cuts me to have
to think that Hartley Langhorne may have been right. He always used to
say that every man had his price. I am afraid this will do great harm
to the cause of reform and through it to the woman suffrage cause which
made me cast myself in with the League. I--I can hardly believe--"
Kennedy was still looking earnestly at her. "Miss Ashton," he implored,
"believe nothing. Remember one of the first rules of politics in the
organization you are fighting is loyalty. Wait until--"
"Wait?" she echoed. "How can I? I hate Mr. Carton for--for even
knowing--" she paused just in time to substitute Mr. Murtha for Mrs.
Ogleby--"such men as Mr. Murtha--secretly."
She bit her lip at thus betraying her feelings, but what she had seen
had evidently affected her deeply. It was as though the feet of her
idol had turned to clay.
"Just think it over," urged Kennedy. "Don't be too harsh. Don't do
anything rash. Suspend judgment. You won't regret it."
Kennedy was apparently doing some rapid thinking. "Let me have the
photographs," he asked at length.
"They are in Mr. Carton's office," she answered, as if she would not
soil her hands by touching the filthy things.
We excused ourselves and went into Carton's office.
There they were wrapped up, and across the package was written by one
of the clerks, "Opened by mistake."
Kennedy opened the package again. Sure enough, there were the
photographs--as plain as they could be, the group including Carton,
Mrs. Ogleby, Murtha, and another woman, standing on the porch of a
gabled building in the sunshine, again the four speeding in a touring
car, of which the number could be read faintly, and other less
interesting snapshots.