TO return and take up the ordinary routine of reporting after these
crystal days of beauty and romance was anything but satisfactory. Gone
was the White City with its towers and pinnacles and the wide blue wash
of lake at its feet. After the Fair and the greater city, St. Louis
seemed prosaic indeed. Still, I argued, I was getting along here better
than I had in Chicago. When I went down to the office I found Wandell
poring as usual over current papers. He was always scribbling and
snipping, like a little old leathery Punch, in his mussy office. The
mere sight of him made me wish that I were through with the newspaper
business forever: it brought back all the regularity of the old days.
When should I get out of it? I now began to ask myself for the first
time. What was my real calling in life? Should I ever again have my
evenings to myself? When should I be able to idle and dawdle as I had
seen other people doing? I did not then realize how few the leisure
class really comprises; I was always taking the evidence of one or two
passing before my gaze as indicating a vast company. _I_ was one of the
unfortunates who were shut out; _I_ was one whose life was to be a
wretched tragedy for want of means to enjoy it now when I had youth and
health!
“Well, did you have a good time?” asked Wandell.
“Yes,” I replied dolefully. “That’s a great show up there. It’s
beautiful.”
“Any of the girls fall in love with you?” he croaked good-humoredly.
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as that.”
“Well, I suppose you’re ready to settle down now to hard work. I’ve got
a lot of things here for you to do.”
I cannot say that I was cheered by this. It was hard to have to settle
down to ordinary reporting after all these recent glories. It seemed to
me as though an idyllic chapter of my life had been closed forever.
Thereafter, I undertook one interesting assignment and another but
without further developing my education as to the workings of life. I
was beginning to tire of reporting, and one more murder or political or
social mystery aided me in no way.
I recall, however, taking on a strange murder mystery over in Illinois
which kept me stationed in a small countyseat for days, and all the time
there was nothing save a sense of hard work about it all. Again, there
was a train robbery that took me into the heart of a rural region where
were nothing but farmers and small towns. Again there was a change of
train service which permitted the distribution of St. Louis newspapers
earlier than the Chicago papers in territory which was somehow disputed
between them and because of which I was called upon to make a trip
between midnight and dawn, riding for hours in the mailcar, and then
describing fully this supposedly wonderful special newspaper service
which was to make all the inhabitants of this region wiser, kinder,
richer because they could get the St. Louis papers before they could
those of Chicago! I really did not think much of it, although I was
congratulated upon having penned a fine picture.
One thing really did interest me: A famous mindreader having come to
town and wishing to advertise his skill, he requested the _Republic_ to
appoint a man or a committee to ride with him in a carriage through the
crowded downtown streets while he, blindfolded but driving, followed the
directing thoughts of the man who should sit on the seat beside him. I
was ordered to get up this committee, which I did—Dick, Peter,
Rodenberger and myself were my final choice, I sitting on the front seat
and doing the thinking while the mindreader raced in and out between
cars and wagons, turning sharp corners, escaping huge trucks by a hair
only, to wind up finally at Dick’s door, dash up the one flight of
stairs and into the room (the door being left open for this), and then
climb up on a chair placed next to a wardrobe and, as per my thought,
all decided on beforehand, take down that peculiar head of Alley Sloper
and hand it to me.
Now this thing, when actually worked out under my very eyes and with
myself doing the thinking, astounded me and caused me to ponder the
mysteries of life more than ever. How could another man read my mind
like that? What was it that perceived and interpreted my thoughts? It
gave me an immense kick mentally, one that stays by me to this day, and
set me off eventually on the matters of psychology and chemic mysteries
generally. When this was written up as true, as it was, it made a
splendid story and attracted a great deal of attention. Once and for
all, it cleared up my thoughts as to the power of mind over so-called
matter and caused this “committee” to enter upon experiments of its own
with hypnotists, spiritualists and the like, until we were fairly well
satisfied as to the import of these things. I myself stood on the
stomach of a thin hypnotized boy of not more than seventeen years of
age, while his head was placed on one chair, his feet on another and no
brace of any kind was put under his body. Yet his stomach held me up.
But, having established the truth of such things for ourselves, we found
no method of doing anything with our knowledge. It was practically
useless in this region, and decidedly taboo.
Another individual who interested me quite as might a book or story was
a Spiritualist, a fat, sluglike Irish type, who came to town about this
time and proved to be immensely successful in getting up large meetings,
entrance to which he charged. Soon there were ugly rumors as to the
orgiastic character of his séances, especially at his home where he
advertised to receive interested spiritualists in private. One day my
noble and nosy city editor set me to the task of ferreting out all this,
with the intention of _sicking_ the moralists on the gentleman and so
driving him out of town. Was it because Mr. Wandell, interested in
morals or at least responding to the local sentiment for a moral city,
considered this man a real menace to St. Louis and so wished to be rid
of him? Not at all. Mr. Wandell cared no more for Mr. Mooney or the
public or its subsurface morals than he cared for the politics of
Beluchistan. In the heart of St. Louis at this very time, in Chestnut
Street, was a large district devoted to just such orgies as this
stranger was supposed to be perpetrating; but this area was never in the
public eye, and you could not, for your life, put it there. The public
apparently did not want it attacked, or if it did there were forces
sufficiently powerful to keep it from obtaining its wishes. The police
were supposed to extract regular payments from one and all in this area,
as Rodenberger, in the little paper he ran, frequently charged, but this
paper had no weight. The most amazing social complications occasionally
led directly to one or another of these houses, as I myself had seen,
but no comment was ever made on the peculiarity of the area as a whole
or its persistence in the face of so much moral sentiment. The vice
crusaders never troubled it, neither did the papers or the churches or
anybody else. But when it came to Mr. Mooney—well, here was an
individual who could be easily and safely attacked, and so—
Mr. Mooney had a large following and many defenders whose animosity or
gullibility led them to look upon him as a personage of great import. He
was unquestionably a shrewd and able manipulator, one of the finest
quacks I ever saw. He would race up and down among the members of his
large audience in his spiritualistic “church meetings,” his fat waxy
eyelids closed, his immense white shirt-front shining, his dress
coattails flying like those of a bustling butler or head-waiter, the
while he exclaimed: “Is there any one here by the name of Peter? Is
there any one here by the name of Augusta? There is an old white-bearded
man here who says he has something to say to Augusta. And Peter—Peter,
your sister says not to marry, that everything now troubling you will
soon come out all right.”
He would open these meetings with spiritual invocations of one kind and
another and pretend the profoundest religiosity and spirituality when as
a matter of fact he was a faker of the most brazen stamp. As Wandell
afterward showed me by clippings and police reports from other cities,
he had been driven from one city to another, cities usually very far
apart so that the news of his troubles might not spread too quickly. His
last resting-place had been Norfolk, Virginia, and before that he had
been in such widely scattered spots as Liverpool, San Francisco, Sydney,
New South Wales. Always he had been immensely successful, drawing large
crowds, taking up collections and doing a private séance business which
must have netted him a tidy sum. Indeed in private life, as I soon
found, he was a gourmet, a sybarite and a riant amorist, laughing in his
sleeve at all his touts and followers.
For some time I was unable to gather any evidence that would convict him
of anything in a direct way. Once he found the _Republic_ to be
unfavorable, he became pugnacious and threatened to assault me if I ever
came near him or his place or attempted to write up anything about him
which was not true! On the other hand, Wandell, being equally determined
to catch him, insisted upon my following him up and exposing him. My
task was not easy. I was compelled to hang about his meetings, trying to
find some one who would tell me something definite against him.
Going to his rooms one day when he was absent, I managed to meet his
landlady who, when I told her that I was from the _Republic_ and wanted
to know something about Mr. Mooney’s visitors, his private conduct and
so forth, asked me to come in. At once I sensed something definite and
important, for I had been there before and had been turned away by this
same woman. But today, for some reason she escorted me very secretly to
a room on the second floor where she closed and locked the door and then
began a long story concerning the peculiar relations which existed
between Mr. Mooney and some of his male and female disciples, especially
the female ones. She finally admitted that she had been watching Mr.
Mooney’s rooms through a keyhole. For weeks past there had been various
visitors whose comings and goings had meant little to her until they
became “so regular,” as she said, and Mr. Mooney so particularly engaged
with them. Then, since Mr. Mooney’s fame had been spreading and the
_Republic_ had begun to attack him, she had become most watchful and
now, as she told me, he was “carrying on” most shamefully with one and
another of his visitors, male and female. Just what these relations were
she at first refused to state, but when I pointed out to her that unless
she could furnish me with other and more convincing proof than her mere
word or charge it would all be of small value, she unbent sufficiently
to fix on one particular woman, whose card and a note addressed to Mr.
Mooney she had evidently purloined from his room. These she produced and
turned over to me with a rousing description of the nature of the
visits.
Armed with the card and note, I immediately proceeded to the west end
where I soon found the house of the lady, determined to see whether she
would admit this soft impeachment, whether I could make her admit it. I
was a little uncertain then as to how I was to go about it. Suppose I
should run into the lady’s husband, I thought, or suppose they should
come down together when I sent in my card? Or suppose that I charged her
with what I knew and she called some one to her aid and had me thrown
out or beaten up? Nevertheless I went nervously up the steps and rang
the bell, whereupon a footman opened the door.
“Who is it you wish to see?”
I told him.
“Have you an appointment with her?”
“No, but I’m from the _Republic_, and you tell her that it is very
important for her to see me. We have an article about her and a certain
Mr. Mooney which we propose to print in the morning, and I think she
will want to see me about it.” I stared at him with a great deal of
effrontery. He finally closed the door, leaving me outside, but soon
returned and said: “You may come in.”
I walked into a large, heavily furnished reception-room, representing
the best Western taste of the time, in which I nosed about thinking how
fine it all was and wondering how I was to proceed about all this once
she appeared. Suppose she proved to be a fierce and contentious soul
well able to hold her own, or suppose there was some mistake about this
letter or the statement of the landlady! As I was walking up and down,
quite troubled as to just what I should say, I heard the rustle of silk
skirts. I turned just as a vigorous and well-dressed woman of thirty-odd
swept into the room. She was rather smart, bronze-haired, pink-fleshed,
not in the least nervous or disturbed.
“You wish to see me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“About what, please?”
“I am from the _Republic_,” I began. “We have a rather startling story
about you and Mr. Mooney. It appears that his place has been watched and
that you——”
“A story about me?” she interrupted with an air of hauteur, seeming to
have no idea of what I was driving at. “And about a Mr. Who? Mooney, you
say? What kind of a story is it? Why do you come to me about it? Why, I
don’t even know the man!”
“Oh, but I think you do,” I replied, thinking of the letter and card in
my pocket. “As a matter of fact, I know that you do. At the office right
now we have a card and a letter of yours to Mr. Mooney, which the
_Republic_ proposes to publish along with some other matter unless some
satisfactory explanation as to why it should not be printed can be made.
We are conducting a campaign against Mr. Mooney, as you probably know.”
I have often thought of this scene as a fine illustration of the crass,
rough force of life, its queer non-moral tangles, bluster, bluff, lies,
make-believe. Beginning by accusing me of attempted blackmail, and
adding that she would inform her husband and that I must leave the house
at once or be thrown out, she glared until I replied that I would leave
but that I had her letter to Mr. Mooney, that there were witnesses who
would testify as to what had happened between her and Mr. Mooney and
that unless she proceeded to see my city editor at once the whole thing
would be written up for the next day’s paper. Then of a sudden she
collapsed. Her face blanched, her body trembled, and she, a healthy,
vigorous woman, dropped to her knees before me, seized my hands and coat
and began pleading with me in an agonized voice.
“But you wouldn’t do that! My husband! My home! My social position! My
children! My God, you wouldn’t have me driven out of my own home! If he
came here now! Oh, my God, tell me what I am to do! Tell me that you
won’t do anything—that the _Republic_ won’t! I’ll give you anything you
want. Oh, you couldn’t be so heartless! Maybe I have done wrong—but
think of what will happen to me if you do this!”
I stared at her in amazement. Never had I been the center of such an
astonishing scene. On the instant I felt a mingled sense of triumph and
extreme pity. Thoughts as to whether I should tell the _Republic_ what I
knew, whether if I did it would have the cruelty to expose this woman,
whether she would or could be made to pay blackmail by any one raced
through my mind. I was sorry and yet amused. Always this thought of
blackmail, of which I heard considerable in newspaper work but of which
I never had any proof, troubled me. If I exposed her, what then? Would
Wandell hound her? If I did not would he discover that I was suppressing
the news and so discharge me? Pity for her was plainly mingled with a
sense of having achieved another newspaper beat. Now, assuredly, the
_Republic_ could make this erratic individual move on. To her I
proceeded to make plain that I personally was helpless, a mere reporter
who of himself could do nothing. If she wished she could see Mr.
Wandell, who could help her if he chose, and I gave her his home
address, knowing that he would not be at his office at this time of day,
but hoping to see him myself before she did. Weeping and moaning, she
raced upstairs, leaving me to make my way out as best I might. Once out
I meditated on this effrontery and the hard, cold work I was capable of
doing. Surely this was a dreadful thing to have done. Had I the right?
Was it fair? Suppose I had been the victim? Still I congratulated myself
upon having done a very clever piece of work for which I should be
highly complimented.
The lady must have proceeded at once to my city editor for when I
returned to the office he was there; he called me to him at once.
“Great God! What have you been doing now? Of all men I have ever known,
you can get me into more trouble in a half-hour than any other man could
in a year! Here I was, sitting peacefully at home, and up comes my wife
telling me there’s a weeping woman in the parlor who had just driven up
to see me. Down I go and she grabs my hands, falls on her knees and
begins telling me about some letters we have, that her life will be
ruined if we publish them. Do you want to get me sued for divorce?” he
went on, cackling and chortling in his impish way. “What the hell are
those letters, anyhow? Where are they? What’s this story you’ve dug up
now? Who is this woman? You’re the damnedest man I ever saw!” and he
cackled some more. I handed over the letter and he proceeded to look it
over with considerable gusto. As I could see, he was pleased beyond
measure.
I told my story, and he was intensely interested but seemed to meditate
on its character for some time. What happened after that between him and
the woman I was never able to make out. But one thing is sure: the story
was never published, not this incident. An hour or two later, seeing me
enter the office after my dinner, he called me in and began:
“You leave this with me now and drop the story for the present. There
are other ways to get Mooney,” and sure enough, in a few days Mr. Mooney
suddenly left town. It was a curious procedure to me, but at least Mr.
Mooney was soon gone—and——
But figure it out for yourself.
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