As time went on Butler grew more and more puzzled and restive as to his
duty in regard to his daughter. He was sure by her furtive manner and
her apparent desire to avoid him, that she was still in touch with
Cowperwood in some way, and that this would bring about a social
disaster of some kind. He thought once of going to Mrs. Cowperwood and
having her bring pressure to bear on her husband, but afterwards he
decided that that would not do. He was not really positive as yet that
Aileen was secretly meeting Cowperwood, and, besides, Mrs. Cowperwood
might not know of her husband’s duplicity. He thought also of going to
Cowperwood personally and threatening him, but that would be a severe
measure, and again, as in the other case, he lacked proof. He hesitated
to appeal to a detective agency, and he did not care to take the other
members of the family into his confidence. He did go out and scan the
neighborhood of 931 North Tenth Street once, looking at the house; but
that helped him little. The place was for rent, Cowperwood having
already abandoned his connection with it.
Finally he hit upon the plan of having Aileen invited to go somewhere
some distance off—Boston or New Orleans, where a sister of his wife
lived. It was a delicate matter to engineer, and in such matters he was
not exactly the soul of tact; but he undertook it. He wrote personally
to his wife’s sister at New Orleans, and asked her if she would,
without indicating in any way that she had heard from him, write his
wife and ask if she would not permit Aileen to come and visit her,
writing Aileen an invitation at the same time; but he tore the letter
up. A little later he learned accidentally that Mrs. Mollenhauer and
her three daughters, Caroline, Felicia, and Alta, were going to Europe
early in December to visit Paris, the Riviera, and Rome; and he decided
to ask Mollenhauer to persuade his wife to invite Norah and Aileen, or
Aileen only, to go along, giving as an excuse that his own wife would
not leave him, and that the girls ought to go. It would be a fine way
of disposing of Aileen for the present. The party was to be gone six
months. Mollenhauer was glad to do so, of course. The two families were
fairly intimate. Mrs. Mollenhauer was willing—delighted from a politic
point of view—and the invitation was extended. Norah was overjoyed. She
wanted to see something of Europe, and had always been hoping for some
such opportunity. Aileen was pleased from the point of view that Mrs.
Mollenhauer should invite her. Years before she would have accepted in
a flash. But now she felt that it only came as a puzzling interruption,
one more of the minor difficulties that were tending to interrupt her
relations with Cowperwood. She immediately threw cold water on the
proposition, which was made one evening at dinner by Mrs. Butler, who
did not know of her husband’s share in the matter, but had received a
call that afternoon from Mrs. Mollenhauer, when the invitation had been
extended.
“She’s very anxious to have you two come along, if your father don’t
mind,” volunteered the mother, “and I should think ye’d have a fine
time. They’re going to Paris and the Riveera.”
“Oh, fine!” exclaimed Norah. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.
Haven’t you, Ai? Oh, wouldn’t that be fine?”
“I don’t know that I want to go,” replied Aileen. She did not care to
compromise herself by showing any interest at the start. “It’s coming
on winter, and I haven’t any clothes. I’d rather wait and go some other
time.”
“Oh, Aileen Butler!” exclaimed Norah. “How you talk! I’ve heard you say
a dozen times you’d like to go abroad some winter. Now when the chance
comes—besides you can get your clothes made over there.”
“Couldn’t you get somethin’ over there?” inquired Mrs. Butler.
“Besides, you’ve got two or three weeks here yet.”
“They wouldn’t want a man around as a sort of guide and adviser, would
they, mother?” put in Callum.
“I might offer my services in that capacity myself,” observed Owen,
reservedly.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Butler, smiling, and at the same
time chewing a lusty mouthful. “You’ll have to ast ’em, my sons.”
Aileen still persisted. She did not want to go. It was too sudden. It
was this. It was that. Just then old Butler came in and took his seat
at the head of the table. Knowing all about it, he was most anxious to
appear not to.
“You wouldn’t object, Edward, would you?” queried his wife, explaining
the proposition in general.
“Object!” he echoed, with a well simulated but rough attempt at gayety.
“A fine thing I’d be doing for meself—objectin’. I’d be glad if I could
get shut of the whole pack of ye for a time.”
“What talk ye have!” said his wife. “A fine mess you’d make of it
livin’ alone.”
“I’d not be alone, belave me,” replied Butler. “There’s many a place
I’d be welcome in this town—no thanks to ye.”
“And there’s many a place ye wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for
me. I’m tellin’ ye that,” retorted Mrs. Butler, genially.
“And that’s not stretchin’ the troot much, aither,” he answered,
fondly.
Aileen was adamant. No amount of argument both on the part of Norah and
her mother had any effect whatever. Butler witnessed the failure of his
plan with considerable dissatisfaction, but he was not through. When he
was finally convinced that there was no hope of persuading her to
accept the Mollenhauer proposition, he decided, after a while, to
employ a detective.
At that time, the reputation of William A. Pinkerton, of detective
fame, and of his agency was great. The man had come up from poverty
through a series of vicissitudes to a high standing in his peculiar
and, to many, distasteful profession; but to any one in need of such in
themselves calamitous services, his very famous and decidedly patriotic
connection with the Civil War and Abraham Lincoln was a recommendation.
He, or rather his service, had guarded the latter all his stormy
incumbency at the executive mansion. There were offices for the
management of the company’s business in Philadelphia, Washington, and
New York, to say nothing of other places. Butler was familiar with the
Philadelphia sign, but did not care to go to the office there. He
decided, once his mind was made up on this score, that he would go over
to New York, where he was told the principal offices were.
He made the simple excuse one day of business, which was common enough
in his case, and journeyed to New York—nearly five hours away as the
trains ran then—arriving at two o’clock. At the offices on lower
Broadway, he asked to see the manager, whom he found to be a large,
gross-featured, heavy-bodied man of fifty, gray-eyed, gray-haired,
puffily outlined as to countenance, but keen and shrewd, and with
short, fat-fingered hands, which drummed idly on his desk as he talked.
He was dressed in a suit of dark-brown wool cloth, which struck Butler
as peculiarly showy, and wore a large horseshoe diamond pin. The old
man himself invariably wore conservative gray.
“How do you do?” said Butler, when a boy ushered him into the presence
of this worthy, whose name was Martinson—Gilbert Martinson, of American
and Irish extraction. The latter nodded and looked at Butler shrewdly,
recognizing him at once as a man of force and probably of position. He
therefore rose and offered him a chair.
“Sit down,” he said, studying the old Irishman from under thick, bushy
eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re the manager, are you?” asked Butler, solemnly, eyeing the man
with a shrewd, inquiring eye.
“Yes, sir,” replied Martinson, simply. “That’s my position here.”
“This Mr. Pinkerton that runs this agency—he wouldn’t be about this
place, now, would he?” asked Butler, carefully. “I’d like to talk to
him personally, if I might, meaning no offense to you.”
“Mr. Pinkerton is in Chicago at present,” replied Mr. Martinson. “I
don’t expect him back for a week or ten days. You can talk to me,
though, with the same confidence that you could to him. I’m the
responsible head here. However, you’re the best judge of that.”
Butler debated with himself in silence for a few moments, estimating
the man before him. “Are you a family man yourself?” he asked, oddly.
“Yes, sir, I’m married,” replied Martinson, solemnly. “I have a wife
and two children.”
Martinson, from long experience conceived that this must be a matter of
family misconduct—a son, daughter, wife. Such cases were not
infrequent.
“I thought I would like to talk to Mr. Pinkerton himself, but if you’re
the responsible head—” Butler paused.
“I am,” replied Martinson. “You can talk to me with the same freedom
that you could to Mr. Pinkerton. Won’t you come into my private office?
We can talk more at ease in there.”
He led the way into an adjoining room which had two windows looking
down into Broadway; an oblong table, heavy, brown, smoothly polished;
four leather-backed chairs; and some pictures of the Civil War battles
in which the North had been victorious. Butler followed doubtfully. He
hated very much to take any one into his confidence in regard to
Aileen. He was not sure that he would, even now. He wanted to “look
these fellys over,” as he said in his mind. He would decide then what
he wanted to do. He went to one of the windows and looked down into the
street, where there was a perfect swirl of omnibuses and vehicles of
all sorts. Mr. Martinson quietly closed the door.
“Now then, if there’s anything I can do for you,” Mr. Martinson paused.
He thought by this little trick to elicit Buder’s real name—it often
“worked”—but in this instance the name was not forthcoming. Butler was
too shrewd.
“I’m not so sure that I want to go into this,” said the old man
solemnly. “Certainly not if there’s any risk of the thing not being
handled in the right way. There’s somethin’ I want to find out
about—somethin’ that I ought to know; but it’s a very private matter
with me, and—” He paused to think and conjecture, looking at Mr.
Martinson the while. The latter understood his peculiar state of mind.
He had seen many such cases.
“Let me say right here, to begin with, Mr.—”
“Scanlon,” interpolated Butler, easily; “that’s as good a name as any
if you want to use one. I’m keepin’ me own to meself for the present.”
“Scanlon,” continued Martinson, easily. “I really don’t care whether
it’s your right name or not. I was just going to say that it might not
be necessary to have your right name under any circumstances—it all
depends upon what you want to know. But, so far as your private affairs
are concerned, they are as safe with us, as if you had never told them
to any one. Our business is built upon confidence, and we never betray
it. We wouldn’t dare. We have men and women who have been in our employ
for over thirty years, and we never retire any one except for cause,
and we don’t pick people who are likely to need to be retired for
cause. Mr. Pinkerton is a good judge of men. There are others here who
consider that they are. We handle over ten thousand separate cases in
all parts of the United States every year. We work on a case only so
long as we are wanted. We try to find out only such things as our
customers want. We do not pry unnecessarily into anybody’s affairs. If
we decide that we cannot find out what you want to know, we are the
first to say so. Many cases are rejected right here in this office
before we ever begin. Yours might be such a one. We don’t want cases
merely for the sake of having them, and we are frank to say so. Some
matters that involve public policy, or some form of small persecution,
we don’t touch at all—we won’t be a party to them. You can see how that
is. You look to me to be a man of the world. I hope I am one. Does it
strike you that an organization like ours would be likely to betray any
one’s confidence?” He paused and looked at Butler for confirmation of
what he had just said.
“It wouldn’t seem likely,” said the latter; “that’s the truth. It’s not
aisy to bring your private affairs into the light of day, though,”
added the old man, sadly.
They both rested.
“Well,” said Butler, finally, “you look to me to be all right, and I’d
like some advice. Mind ye, I’m willing to pay for it well enough; and
it isn’t anything that’ll be very hard to find out. I want to know
whether a certain man where I live is goin’ with a certain woman, and
where. You could find that out aisy enough, I belave—couldn’t you?”
“Nothing easier,” replied Martinson. “We are doing it all the time. Let
me see if I can help you just a moment, Mr. Scanlon, in order to make
it easier for you. It is very plain to me that you don’t care to tell
any more than you can help, and we don’t care to have you tell any more
than we absolutely need. We will have to have the name of the city, of
course, and the name of either the man or the woman; but not
necessarily both of them, unless you want to help us in that way.
Sometimes if you give us the name of one party—say the man, for
illustration—and the description of the woman—an accurate one—or a
photograph, we can tell you after a little while exactly what you want
to know. Of course, it’s always better if we have full information. You
suit yourself about that. Tell me as much or as little as you please,
and I’ll guarantee that we will do our best to serve you, and that you
will be satisfied afterward.”
He smiled genially.
“Well, that bein’ the case,” said Butler, finally taking the leap, with
many mental reservations, however, “I’ll be plain with you. My name’s
not Scanlon. It’s Butler. I live in Philadelphy. There’s a man there, a
banker by the name of Cowperwood—Frank A. Cowperwood—”
“Wait a moment,” said Martinson, drawing an ample pad out of his pocket
and producing a lead-pencil; “I want to get that. How do you spell it?”
Butler told him.
“Yes; now go on.”
“He has a place in Third Street—Frank A. Cowperwood—any one can show
you where it is. He’s just failed there recently.”
“Oh, that’s the man,” interpolated Martinson. “I’ve heard of him. He’s
mixed up in some city embezzlement case over there. I suppose the
reason you didn’t go to our Philadelphia office is because you didn’t
want our local men over there to know anything about it. Isn’t that
it?”
“That’s the man, and that’s the reason,” said Butler. “I don’t care to
have anything of this known in Philadelphy. That’s why I’m here. This
man has a house on Girard Avenue—Nineteen-thirty-seven. You can find
that out, too, when you get over there.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Martinson.
“Well, it’s him that I want to know about—him—and a certain woman, or
girl, rather.” The old man paused and winced at this necessity of
introducing Aileen into the case. He could scarcely think of it—he was
so fond of her. He had been so proud of Aileen. A dark, smoldering rage
burned in his heart against Cowperwood.
“A relative of yours—possibly, I suppose,” remarked Martinson,
tactfully. “You needn’t tell me any more—just give me a description if
you wish. We may be able to work from that.” He saw quite clearly what
a fine old citizen in his way he was dealing with here, and also that
the man was greatly troubled. Butler’s heavy, meditative face showed
it. “You can be quite frank with me, Mr. Butler,” he added; “I think I
understand. We only want such information as we must have to help you,
nothing more.”
“Yes,” said the old man, dourly. “She is a relative. She’s me daughter,
in fact. You look to me like a sensible, honest man. I’m her father,
and I wouldn’t do anything for the world to harm her. It’s tryin’ to
save her I am. It’s him I want.” He suddenly closed one big fist
forcefully.
Martinson, who had two daughters of his own, observed the suggestive
movement.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Butler,” he observed. “I am a father
myself. We’ll do all we can for you. If you can give me an accurate
description of her, or let one of my men see her at your house or
office, accidentally, of course, I think we can tell you in no time at
all if they are meeting with any regularity. That’s all you want to
know, is it—just that?”
“That’s all,” said Butler, solemnly.
“Well, that oughtn’t to take any time at all, Mr. Butler—three or four
days possibly, if we have any luck—a week, ten days, two weeks. It
depends on how long you want us to shadow him in case there is no
evidence the first few days.”
“I want to know, however long it takes,” replied Butler, bitterly. “I
want to know, if it takes a month or two months or three to find out. I
want to know.” The old man got up as he said this, very positive, very
rugged. “And don’t send me men that haven’t sinse—lots of it, plase. I
want men that are fathers, if you’ve got ’em—and that have sinse enough
to hold their tongues—not b’ys.”
“I understand, Mr. Butler,” Martinson replied. “Depend on it, you’ll
have the best we have, and you can trust them. They’ll be discreet. You
can depend on that. The way I’ll do will be to assign just one man to
the case at first, some one you can see for yourself whether you like
or not. I’ll not tell him anything. You can talk to him. If you like
him, tell him, and he’ll do the rest. Then, if he needs any more help,
he can get it. What is your address?”
Butler gave it to him.
“And there’ll be no talk about this?”
“None whatever—I assure you.”
“And when’ll he be comin’ along?”
“To-morrow, if you wish. I have a man I could send to-night. He isn’t
here now or I’d have him talk with you. I’ll talk to him, though, and
make everything clear. You needn’t worry about anything. Your
daughter’s reputation will be safe in his hands.”
“Thank you kindly,” commented Butler, softening the least bit in a
gingerly way. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll take it as a great favor,
and pay you well.”
“Never mind about that, Mr. Butler,” replied Martinson. “You’re welcome
to anything this concern can do for you at its ordinary rates.”
He showed Butler to the door, and the old man went out. He was feeling
very depressed over this—very shabby. To think he should have to put
detectives on the track of his Aileen, his daughter!