thing began to assume a suspicious look in my mind in connection with
various hints I had heard dropped by organization men about probing
into the past, and other insinuations. I felt that far from aiding
Carton, things were now getting darker. There was nothing but his
unsupported word that he had not been in such groups to counterbalance
the existence of the actual pictures themselves, on the surface a
graphic clincher to Dorgan's story. Kennedy, however, after an
examination of the photographs clung no less tenaciously to a purpose
he already had in mind, and instead of leaving them for Carton, took
them himself, leaving a note instead.
He stopped again to speak to Margaret Ashton. I did not hear all of the
conversation, but one phrase struck me, "And the worst of it is that he
called me up a little while ago and tried to act toward me in the same
old way--and that after I know what I know. I--I could detect it in his
voice. He knew he was concealing something from me."
What Kennedy said to her, I do not know, but I don't think it had much
effect.
"That's the most difficult and unfortunate part of the whole affair,"
he sighed as we left. "She believes it."
I had no comment that was worth while. What was to be done? If people
believed it generally, Carton was ruined.
XXIII
THE CONFESSION
Dorgan was putting up a bold fight, at any rate. Everyone, and most of
all his opponents who had once thought they had him on the run, was
forced to admit that. Moreover, one could not help wondering at his
audacity, whatever might be the opinion of his dishonesty.
But I was quite as much struck by the nerve of Carton. In the face of
gathering misfortunes many a man of less stern mettle might have gone
to pieces. Not so with the fighting District Attorney. It seemed to
spur him on to greater efforts.
It was a titanic struggle, this between Carton and Dorgan, and had
reached the point where quarter was given or asked by neither.
Kennedy had retired to his laboratory with the photographs and was
studying them with an increasing interest.
It was toward the close of the afternoon when the telephone rang and
Kennedy motioned to me to answer it.
"If it's Carton," he said quickly, "tell him I'm not here. I'm not
ready for him yet and I can't be interrupted."
I took down the receiver, prepared to perjure my immortal soul. It was
indeed Carton, bursting with news and demanding to see Kennedy
immediately.
Almost before I had finished with the carefully framed, glib excuse
that I was to make, he shouted to me over the wire, "What do you think,
Jameson? Tell him to come down right away. The impossible has happened.
I have got under Dopey Jack's guard--he has confessed. It's big. Tell
Kennedy I'll wait here at my office until he comes."
He had hung up the receiver before I could question him further. I
think it cured Kennedy, temporarily of asking me to fib for him over
the telephone. He was as anxious as I to see Carton, now, and plunged
into the remaining work on the photographs eagerly.
He finished much sooner than he would, otherwise, and only to preserve
the decency of the excuse that I had made did not hasten down to the
Criminal Courts Building before a reasonable time had elapsed. As we
entered Carton's office we could tell from the very atmosphere of the
halls that something was happening. The reporters in their little room
outside were on the qui vive and I heard a whisper and a busy
scratching of pencils as we passed in and the presence of someone else
in the District Attorney's office was noted.
Carton met us in a little ante-room. He was all excitement himself, but
I could see that it was a clouded triumph. His mind was really
elsewhere than on the confession that he was getting. Although he did
not ask us, I knew that he was thinking only of Margaret Ashton and how
to regain the ground that he had apparently lost with her. Still, he
said nothing about the photographs. I wondered whether it was because
of his confidence that Kennedy would pull him through.
"You know," he whispered, "I have been working with my assistants on
Dopey Jack ever since the conviction, hoping to get a confession from
him, holding out all sorts of promises if he would turn state's
evidence and threats if he didn't. It all had no effect. But Murtha's
death seems to have changed all that. I don't know why--whether he
thinks it was due to foul play or not, for he won't say anything about
that and evidently doesn't know--but it seems to have changed him."
Carton said it as though at last a ray of light had struck in on an
otherwise black situation, and that was indeed the case.
"I suppose," suggested Craig, "that as long as Murtha was alive he
would rather have died than say anything that would incriminate him.
That's the law of the gang world. But with Murtha no longer to be
shielded, perhaps he feels released. Besides, it must begin to look to
him as though the organization had abandoned him and was letting him
shift pretty much for himself."
"That's it," agreed Carton. "He has never got it out of his head that
Kahn swung the case against him and I've been careful not to dwell on
the truth of that Kahn episode."
Carton led us into his main office, where Rubano was seated with two of
Carton's assistants who were quizzing him industriously and obtaining
an amazing amount of information about gang life and political
corruption. In fact, like most criminals when they do confess, Dopey
Jack was in danger of confessing too much, in sheer pride at his own
prowess as a bad man.
Outside, I knew that it was being well noised abroad, in fact I had
nodded to an old friend on the Star who had whispered to me that the
editor had already called him up and offered to give Rubano any sum for
a series of articles for the Sunday supplement on life in the
underworld. I knew, then, that the organization had heard of it, by
this time--too late.
Most of the confession was completed by the time we arrived, but as it
had all been carefully taken down we knew we had missed nothing.
"You see, Mr. Carton," Rubano was saying as we three entered and he
turned from the assistant who was quizzing him, "it's like this. I
can't tell you all about the System. No one can. You understand that.
All any of us know is the men next to us--above and below. We may have
opinions, hear gossip, but that's no good as evidence."
"I understand," reassured Carton. "I don't expect that. You must tell
me the gossip and rumours, but all I am bartering a pardon for is what
you really know, and you've got to make good, or the deal is off, see?"
He said it in a tone that Dopey Jack could understand and the gangster
protested. "Well, Mr. Carton, haven't I made good?"
"You have so far," grudgingly admitted Carton who was greedy for
everything down to the uttermost scrap that might lead to other things.
"Now, who was the man above you, to whom you reported?"
"Mr. Murtha, of course," replied Jack, surprised that anyone should ask
so simple a question.
"That's all right," explained Carton. "I knew it, but I wanted you on
record as saying it. And above Murtha?"
"Why, you know it is Dorgan," replied Dopey, "only, as I say, I can't
prove that for you any better than you can."
"He has already told about his associates and those he had working
under him," explained Carton, turning to us. "Now Langhorne--what do
you know about him?"
"Know about Langhorne--the fellow that was--that I robbed?" repeated
Jack.
"You robbed?" cut in Kennedy. "So you knew about thermit, then?"
Dopey smiled with a sort of pride in his work, much as if he had
received a splendid recommendation.
"Yes," he replied. "I knew about it--got it from a peterman who has
studied safes and all that sort of thing. I heard he had some secret,
so one night I takes him up to Farrell's and gets him stewed and he
tells me. Then when I wants to use it, bingo! there I am with the
goods."
"And the girl--Betty Blackwell--what did she have to do with it?"
pursued Craig. "Did you get into the office, learn Langhorne's habits,
and so on, from her?"
Dopey Jack looked at us in disgust. "Say," he replied, "if I wanted a
skirt to help me in such a job, believe me I know plenty that could put
it all over that girl. Naw, I did it all myself. I picked the lock,
burnt the safe with that powder the guy give me, and took out something
in soft leather, a lot of typewriting."
We were all on our feet in unrestrained excitement. It was the Black
Book at last!
"Yes," prompted Carton, "and what then--what did you do with it?"
"Gave it to Mr. Murtha, of course," came back the matter-of-fact answer
of the young tough.
"What did he do with it?" demanded Carton.
Dopey Jack shook his head dubiously. "It ain't no use trying to kid
you, Mr. Carton. If I told you a fake you'd find it out. I'd tell you
what he did, if I knew, but I don't--on the level. He just took it.
Maybe he burnt it--I don't know. I did my work."
Unprincipled as the young man was, I could not help the feeling that in
this case he was telling only the truth as he knew it.
We looked at each other aghast. What if Murtha had got it and had
destroyed it before his death? That was an end of the dreams we had
built on its capture. On the other hand, if he had hidden it there was
small likelihood now of finding it. The only chance, as far as I could
see, was that he had passed it along to someone else. And of that Dopey
Jack obviously knew nothing.
Still, his information was quite valuable enough. He had given us the
first definite information we had received of it.
Carton, his assistants, and Kennedy now vigorously proceeded in a sort
of kid glove third degree, without getting any further than convincing
themselves that Rubano genuinely did not know.
"But the stenographer," reiterated Carton, returning to the line of
attack which he had temporarily abandoned. "Something became of her.
She disappeared and even her family haven't a trace of her, nor any
other institutions in the city. We've got something on you, there,
Rubano."
Jack laughed. "Mr. Carton," he answered easily, "the police put me
through the mill on that without finding anything, and I don't believe
you have anything. But just to show you that I'm on the square with
you, I don't mind telling you that I got her away."
It was dramatic, the off-hand way in which the gangster told of this
mystery that had perplexed us.
"Got her away--how--where?" demanded Carton fiercely.
"Mr Murtha gave me some money--a wad. I don't know who gave it to him,
but it wasn't his money. It was to pay her to stay away till this all
blew over. Oh, they made it worth her while. So I dolled up and saw
her--and she fell for it--a pretty good sized wad," he repeated, as
though he wished some of it had stuck to his own hands.
We fairly gasped at the ease and simplicity with which the fellow
bandied facts that had been beyond our discovery for days. Here was
another link in our chain. We could not prove it, but in all
probability it was Dorgan who furnished the money. Even if the Black
Book were lost, it was possible that in the retentive memory of this
girl there might be much that would take its place. She had seen a
chance for providing for the future of herself and her family. All she
had to do was to take it and keep quiet.
"You know where she is, then?" shot out Kennedy suddenly.
"No--not now," returned Dopey. "She was told to meet me at the Little
Montmartre. She did. I don't think she knew what kind of place it was,
or she wouldn't have come."
He paused, as though he had something on his mind.
"Go on," urged Kennedy. "Tell all. You must tell all."
"I was just thinking," he hesitated. "I remember I saw Ike the Dropper
and Marie Margot there that day, too, with Martin Ogleby--"
"Martin Ogleby!" interrupted Carton in surprise.
"Yes, Martin Ogleby. He hangs about the Montmartre and the Futurist,
all those joints. Say--I've been thinking a heap since this case of
mine came up. I wonder whether it was all on the level--with me. I gave
the money. But was that a stall? Perhaps they tried to get back.
Perhaps she played into their hands--I saw her watching the sports,
there, and believe me, there are some swell lookers. Oh well, _I_ don't
know. All I know is my part. I don't know anything that happened after
that. I can't tell what I don't know, can I, Mr. Carton?"
"Not very well," smiled the prosecutor. "But you can tell us anything
you suspect."
"I don't know what I suspect. I was only a part of the machine. Only
after I read that she disappeared, I began to think there might have
been some funny business--I don't know."
Eager as we were, we could only accept this unsatisfactory explanation
of the whereabouts of Betty.
"After all, I was only a part," reiterated Jack. "You better ask
Ike--that's all."
Just then the telephone buzzed. Carton was busy and Kennedy, who
happened to be nearest, answered it. I fancied that there was a puzzled
expression on his face, as he placed his hand over the transmitter and
said to Carton, "Here--it's for you. Take it. By the way, where's that
thing I left down here for recording voices?"
"Here in my desk. But you took the cylinder with you."
"Haven't you got another? Don't you ever use them for dictating
letters?"
Carton nodded and sent his stenographer to get a new one.
"Just a minute, please," cut in Kennedy. "Mr. Carton will be here in a
few moments, now."
Carton took the telephone and placed his hand over it, until, with a
nod from Kennedy as he affixed the machine, he answered.
"Yes--this is the District Attorney," we heard him answer. "What?
Rubano? Why you can't talk to him. He's a convicted man. Here? How do
you know he's here? No--I wouldn't let you talk to him if he was. Who
are you, anyway? What's that--you threaten him--you threaten me? You'll
get us both, will you? Well, I want to tell you, you can go plumb--the
deuce! The fellow's cut himself off!"
As Carton finished, a peculiar smile played about Rubano's features. "I
expected that, but not so soon," he said quietly. "New York'll be no
place for me, Mr. Carton, after this. You've got to keep your word and
smuggle me out. South Africa, you know--you promised."
"I'll keep my word, Rubano, too," assured Carton. "The nerve of that
fellow. Where's Kennedy?"
We looked about. Craig had slipped out quietly during the telephone
conversation. Before we could start a search for him, he returned.
"I thought there was something peculiar about the voice," he explained.
"That was why I wanted a record of it. While you were talking I got
your switchboard operator to connect me with central on another wire.
The call was from a pay station on the west side. There wasn't a chance
to get the fellow, of course--but I have the voice record, anyhow."
Dopey Jack's confession occupied most of the evening and it was late
when we got away. Carton was overjoyed at the result of his pressure,
and eager to know, on the other hand, whether Kennedy had made any
progress yet with his study of the photographs.
I could have told him beforehand, however, that Craig would say nothing
and he did not. Besides, he had the added mystery of the new phonograph
cylinder to engross him, with the result that we parted from Carton, a
little piqued at being left out of Craig's confidence, but helpless.
As for me, I knew it was useless to trail after Kennedy and when he
announced that he was going back to the laboratory, I balked and, in
spite of my interest in the case, went home to our apartment to bed,
while Kennedy made a night of it.
What he discovered I knew no better in the morning than when I left
him, except that he seemed highly elated.
Leisurely he dressed, none the worse for his late work and after
devouring the papers as if there were nothing else in the world so
important, he waited until the middle of the morning before doing
anything further.
"I merely wanted to give Dorgan a chance to get to his office," he
surprised me with, finally. "Come, Walter, I think he must be there
now."
Amazed at his temerity in bearding Dorgan in his very den, I could do
nothing but accompany him, though I much feared it was almost like
inviting homicide.
The Boss's office was full of politicians, for it was now approaching
"dough day," when the purse strings of the organization were loosed and
a flood of potent argument poured forth to turn the tide of election by
the force of the only thing that talks loud enough for some men to
hear. Somehow, Kennedy managed to see the Boss.
"Mr. Dorgan," began Kennedy quietly, when we were seated alone in the
little Sanctum of the Boss, "you will pardon me if I seem to be a
little slow in coming to the business that has brought me here this
morning. First of all I may say that you probably share the idea that
ever since the days of Daguerre photography has been regarded as the
one infallible means of portraying faithfully any object, scene, or
action. Indeed, a photograph is admitted in court as irrefutable
evidence. For, when everything else fails, a picture made through the
photographic lens almost invariably turns the tide. However, such a
picture upon which the fate of an important case may rest should be
subjected to critical examination, for it is an established fact that a
photograph may be made as untruthful as it may be reliable."
He paused. Dorgan was regarding him keenly, but saying nothing. Kennedy
did not mind, as he resumed.
"Combination photographs change entirely the character of the initial
negative and have been made for the past fifty years. The earliest,
simplest, and most harmless photographic deception is the printing of
clouds in a bare sky. But the retoucher with his pencil and etching
tool to-day is very skilful. A workman of ordinary ability can
introduce a person taken in a studio into an open-air scene well
blended and in complete harmony without a visible trace of falsity."
Dorgan was growing interested.
"I need say nothing of how one head can be put on another body in a
picture," pursued Craig, "nor need I say what a double exposure will
do. There is almost no limit to the changes that may be wrought in form
and feature. It is possible to represent a person crossing Broadway or
walking on Riverside Drive, places he may never have visited. Thus a
person charged with an offence may be able to prove an alibi by the aid
of a skilfully prepared combination photograph.
"Where, then," asked Kennedy, "can photography be considered as
irrefutable evidence? The realism may convince all, except the expert
and the initiated after careful study. A shrewd judge will be careful
to insist that in every case the negative be submitted and examined for
possible alterations by a clever manipulator."
Kennedy bent his gaze on Dorgan. "Now, I do not accuse you, sir, of
anything. But a photograph has come into my possession in which Mr.
Carton is represented as standing in a group on a porch, with Mr.
Murtha, Mrs. Ogleby, and an unknown woman. The first three are in poses
that show the utmost friendliness. I do not hesitate to say that was
originally a photograph of yourself, Mr. Murtha, Mrs. Ogleby, and a
woman whom you know well. It is a pretty raw deal, a fake in which
Carton has been substituted by very excellent photographic forgery."
"A fake--huh!" repeated Dorgan, contemptuously. "How about the story of
them? There's no negative. You've got to show me that the original
print stolen from Carton, we'll say, is a fake. You can't do it. No,
sir, those pictures were taken this summer."
Kennedy quietly laid down the bundle of photographs copied from those
alleged to have been stolen from Carton. He was pointing to a shadow of
a gable on the house.
"You see that shadow of the gable, Dorgan?" he asked. "Perhaps you
never heard of it, but it is possible to tell the exact time at which a
photograph was taken from a study of the shadows. It is possible in
theory and practice, and it can be trusted absolutely. Almost any
scientist, Dorgan, may be called in to bear testimony in court
nowadays, but you probably think the astronomer is one of the least
likely.
"Well, the shadow in this picture can be made to prove an alibi for
someone. Notice. It is seen prominently to the right, and its exact
location on the house is an easy matter. The identification of the
gable casting the shadow ought to be easy. To be exact, I have figured
it out as 19.62 feet high. The shadow is 14.23 feet down, 13.10 feet
east, and 3.43 feet north. You see, I am exact. I have to be. In one
minute it moves 0.080 feet upward, 0.053 feet to the right, and 0.096
feet in its apparent path. It passes the width of a weatherboard, 0.37
foot, in four minutes and thirty-seven seconds."
Kennedy was talking rapidly of data which he had derived from the study
of the photograph as from plumb line, level, compass, and tape,
astronomical triangle, vertices, zenith, pole, and sun, declination,
azimuth, solar time, parallactic angles, refraction, and a dozen other
bewildering terms.
"In spherical trigonometry," he concluded, "to solve the problem three
elements must be known. I know four. Therefore, I can take each of the
known, treat it as unknown, and have four ways to check my result. I
find that the time might have been either three o'clock, twenty-one
minutes and twelve seconds in the afternoon, or 3:21:31 or 3:21:29, or
3:21:33. The average is 3: 21:26 and there can be no appreciable error
except for a few seconds. I tell you that to show you how close I can
come. The important thing, however, is that the date must have been one
of two days, either May 22 or July 22. Between these two dates we must
decide on evidence other than the shadow. It must have been in May, as
the immature condition of the foliage shows. But even if it had been in
July, that would be far from the date you allege. Why, I could even
tell you the year. Then, too, I could look up the weather records and
tell something from them. I can really answer, with an assurance and
accuracy superior to the photographer himself, if you could produce him
and he were honest, as to the real date. The original picture, aside
from being doctored, was actually taken last May. Science is not
fallible, but exact in this matter."
Kennedy felt that he had scored a palpable hit. Dorgan was speechless.
Still, Craig hurried on.
"But, you may ask, how about the automobile picture? That also is an
unblushing fake. Of course I must prove that. In the first place you
know that the general public has come to recognize the distortion of a
photograph as denoting speed. A picture of a car in a race that doesn't
lean is rejected. People demand to see speed, speed, more speed, even
in pictures. Distortion does indeed show speed, but that, too, can be
faked.
"Almost everyone knows that the image is projected upside down by the
lens on the plate, and that the bottom of the picture is taken before
the top. The camera mechanism admits light, which makes the picture, in
the manner of a roller blind curtain. The slit travels from the top to
the bottom and, the image on the plate being projected upside down, the
bottom of the object appears on the top of the plate. For instance, the
wheels are taken before the head of the driver. If the car is moving
quickly, the image moves on the plate and each successive part is taken
a little in advance of the last. The whole leans forward. By widening
the slit and slowing the speed of the shutter, there is more distortion.
"Now, that is just what has been done. A picture has been taken of a
car owned once by Murtha, probably at rest, with perhaps yourself,
Murtha, Mrs. Ogleby, and your friend in it. The matter of faking Carton
or anyone else is simple. If, with an enlarging lantern, the image of
this faked picture is thrown on the printing paper like a lantern
slide, and if the right-hand side is moved a little further away than
the left, the top further away than the bottom, you can in that way
print a fraudulent high-speed picture ahead.
"True, everything else in the picture, even if motionless, is
distorted, and the difference between this faking and the distortion of
the shutter can be seen by an expert. But it will pass with most
people. In this case, however," added Kennedy suddenly, "the faker was
so sure of it that he was careless. Instead of getting the plate
further from the paper on the right, he did so on the left. It was
further away on the bottom than on the top. He got the distortion, all
right, enough to satisfy anyone. But it is distortion in the wrong
direction! The top of the wheel, which goes fastest and ought to be
most indistinct, is, in the fake, as sharp as any other part. It is a
small mistake that was made, but fatal. Your picture is not of a joy
ride at all. It is really high speed--backwards! It is too raw, too
raw."