Kennedy (PI) and Jameson (newspaper reporter) are Reeve's Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. In this book they help Carton,the District Attorney, unravel a tangled web of corruption and criminal activity in their fair city. Carton is running for elections and is trying to clean up the corruption that has ruled the city, especially a few major criminals that have bonded together to keep things lucrative for themselves. One of them is running in the election.
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THE BLACK BOOK
THE SAFE ROBBERY
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
THE SUFFRAGETTE SECRETARY
THE WOMAN DETECTIVE
THE GANG LEADER
THE SHYSTER LAWYER
THE JURY FIXER
THE AFTERNOON DANCE
THE TYPEWRITER CLUE
THE “PORTRAIT PARLE”
THE BEAUTY PARLOUR
THE PHANTOM CIRCUIT
THE SOCIETY SCANDAL
THE WALL STREET WOLF
THE METRIC PHOTOGRAPH
THE DEBACLE OF DORGAN
THE BLOOD CRYSTALS
THE WHITE SLAVE
THE ELECTION NIGHT
“Hello, Jameson, is Kennedy in?”
I glanced up from the evening papers to encounter the square-jawed, alert face of District Attorney Carton in the doorway of our apartment.
“How do you do, Judge?” I exclaimed. “No, but I expect him any second now. Won’t you sit down?”
The District Attorney dropped, rather wearily I thought, into a chair and looked at his watch.
I had made Carton’s acquaintance some years before as a cub reporter on the Star while he was a judge of an inferior court. Our acquaintance had grown through several political campaigns in which I had had assignments that brought me into contact with him. More recently some special writing had led me across his trail again in telling the story of his clean-up of graft in the city. At present his weariness was easily accounted for. He was in the midst of the fight of his life for re-election against the so-called “System,” headed by Boss Dorgan, in which he had gone far in exposing evils that ranged all the way from vice and the drug traffic to bald election frauds.
“I expect a Mrs. Blackwell here in a few minutes,” he remarked, glancing again at his watch. His eye caught the headline of the news story I had been reading and he added quickly, “What do the boys on the Star think of that Blackwell case, anyhow?”
It was, I may say, a case deeply shrouded in mystery—the disappearance without warning of a beautiful young girl, Betty Blackwell, barely eighteen. Her family, the police, and now the District Attorney had sought to solve it in vain. Some had thought it a kidnaping, others a suicide, and others had even hinted at murder. All sorts of theories had been advanced without in the least changing the original dominant note of mystery. Photographs of the young woman had been published broadcast, I knew, without eliciting a word in reply. Young men whom she had known and girls with whom she had been intimate had been questioned without so much as a clue being obtained. Reports that she had been seen had come in from all over the country, as they always do in such cases. All had been investigated and had turned out to be based on nothing more than imagination. The mystery remained unsolved.
“Well,” I replied, “of course there’s a lot of talk now in the papers about aphasia and amnesia and all that stuff. But, you know, we reporters are a sceptical lot. We have to be shown. I can’t say we put much faith in THAT.”
“But what is your explanation? You fellows always have an opinion.
Sometimes I think the newspapermen are our best detectives.”
“I can’t say that we have any opinion in this case—yet,” I returned frankly. “When a girl just simply disappears on Fifth Avenue and there isn’t even the hint of a clue as to any place she went or how, well—oh, there’s Kennedy now. Put it up to him.”
“We were just talking of that Betty Blackwell disappearance case,” resumed Carton, when the greetings were over. “What do you think of it?”
“Think of it?” repeated Kennedy promptly with a keen glance at the District Attorney; “why, Judge, I think of it the same as you evidently do. If you didn’t think it was a case that was in some way connected with your vice and graft investigation, you wouldn’t be here. And if I didn’t feel that it promised surprising results, aside from the interest I always have naturally in solving such mysteries, I wouldn’t be ready to take up the offer which you came here to make.”
“You’re a wizard, Kennedy,” laughed Carton, though it was easily seen that he was both pleased and relieved to think that he had enlisted Craig’s services so easily.
“Not much of a wizard. In the first place, I know the fight you’re making. Also, I know that you wouldn’t go to the police in the present state of armed truce between your office and Headquarters. You want someone outside. Well, I’m more than willing to be that person. The whole thing, in its larger aspects, interests me. Betty Blackwell in particular, arouses my sympathies. That’s all.”
“Exactly, Kennedy. This fight I’m in is going to be the fight of my life. Just now, in addition to everything else, people are looking to me to find Betty Blackwell. Her mother was in to see me today; there isn’t much that she could add to what has already been said. Betty was a most attractive girl. The family is an excellent one, but in reduced circumstances. She had been used to a great deal as a child, but now, since the death of her father, she has had to go to work—and you know what that means to a girl like that.”
Carton laid down a new photograph which the newspapers had not printed yet. Betty Blackwell was slender, petite, chic. Her dark hair was carefully groomed, and there was an air with which she wore her clothes and carried herself, even in a portrait, which showed that she was no ordinary girl.
Her soft brown eyes had that magnetic look which is dangerous to their owner if she does not know how to control it, eyes that arrested one’s gaze, invited notice. Even the lens must have felt the spell. It had caught, also, the soft richness of the skin of her oval face and full throat and neck. Indeed one could not help remarking that she was really the girl to grace a fortune. Only a turn of the hand of that fickle goddess had prevented her from doing so.
I had picked up one of the evening papers and was looking at the newspaper half-tone which more than failed to do justice to her. Just then my eye happened on an item which I had been about to discuss with Carton when Kennedy entered.
“As a scientist, does the amnesia theory appeal to you, Craig?” I asked. “Now, here is an explanation by one of the special writers, headed, ‘Personalities Lost Through Amnesia.’ Listen.”
The article was brief:
Mysterious disappearances, such as that of Betty Blackwell, have alarmed the public and baffled the police before this—disappearances that have in their suddenness, apparent lack of purpose, and inexplicability much in common with her case. Leaving out of account the class of disappearances for their own convenience—embezzlers, blackmailers, and so forth—there is still a large number of recorded cases where the subjects have dropped out of sight without apparent cause or reason and have left behind them untarnished reputations and solvent back accounts. Of these, a small percentage are found to have met with violence; others have been victims of suicidal mania, and sooner or later a clue has come to light which has established the fact. The dead are often easier to find than the living.
Of the remaining small proportion, there are on record, however, a number of carefully authenticated cases where the subject has been the victim of a sudden and complete loss of memory.
This dislocation of memory is a variety of aphasia known as amnesia, and when the memory is recurrently lost and restored, we have alternating personality. The Society for Psychical Research and many eminent psychologists, among them the late William James, Dr. Weir Mitchell, Dr. Hodgson of Boston, and Dr. A. E. Osborn of San Francisco, have reported many cases of alternating personality.
Studious efforts are being made to understand and to explain the strange type of mental phenomena exhibited in these cases, but as yet no one has given a clear and comprehensive explanation of them. Such cases are by no means always connected with disappearances, and exhaustive studies have been made of types of alternating personality that have from first to last been carefully watched by scientists of the first rank.
The variety known as the ambulatory type, where the patient suddenly loses all knowledge of his own identity and of the past and takes himself off, leaving no trace or clue, is the variety which the present case of Miss Blackwell seems to suggest.
There followed a number of most interesting cases and an elaborate argument by the writer to show that Betty Blackwell was a victim of this psychological aberration, that she was, in other words, “a vanisher.”
I laid down the paper with a questioning look at Kennedy.
“As a scientist,” he replied deliberately, “the theory, of course, does appeal to me, especially in the ingenious way in which that writer applied it. However, as a detective"—he shook his head slowly—"I must deal with facts—not speculations. It leaves much to be explained, to say the least.”
Just then the door buzzer sounded and Carton himself sprang to answer it.
“That’s Mrs. Blackwell now—her mother. I told her that I was going to take the case to you, Kennedy, and took the liberty of asking her to come up here to meet you. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Blackwell. Let me introduce Professor Kennedy and Mr. Jameson, of whom I spoke to you.”
She bowed and murmured a tremulous greeting. Kennedy placed a chair for her and she thanked him.
Mrs. Blackwell was a slender little woman in black, well past middle age. Her face and dress spoke of years of economy, even of privation, but her manner was plainly that of a woman of gentle breeding and former luxury. She was precisely of the type of decayed gentlewoman that one meets often in the city, especially at some of the middle-class boarding-houses.
Deeply as the disappearance of her daughter had affected her, Mrs. Blackwell was facing it bravely. That was her nature. One could imagine that only when Betty was actually found would this plucky little woman collapse. Instinctively, one felt that she claimed his assistance in the unequal fight she was waging against the complexities of modern life for which she had been so ill prepared.
“I do hope you will be able to find my daughter,” she began, controlling her voice with an effort. “Mr. Carton has been so kind, more than kind, I am sure, in getting your aid. The police seem to be able to do nothing. They make out reports, put me off, tell me they are making progress—but they don’t find Betty.”
There was a tragic pathos in the way she said it.
“Betty was such a good girl, too,” she went on, her emotions rising.
“Oh, I was so proud of her when she got her position down in Wall
Street, with the broker, Mr. Langhorne.”
“Tell Mr. Kennedy just what you told me of her disappearance,” put in
Again Mrs. Blackwell controlled her feelings. “I don’t know much about it,” she faltered, “but last Saturday, when she left the office early, she said she was going to do some shopping on Fifth Avenue. I know she went there, did shop a bit, then walked on the Avenue several blocks. But after that there is no trace of her.”
“You have heard nothing, have no idea where she might have gone—even for a time?” queried Kennedy.
He asked it with a keen look at the face of Mrs. Blackwell. I recalled one case where a girl had disappeared in which Kennedy had always asserted that if the family had been perfectly frank at the start much more might have been accomplished in unravelling the mystery.
There was evident sincerity in Mrs. Blackwell as she replied quickly, “Absolutely none. Another girl from the office was with her part of the time, then left her to take the subway. We don’t live far uptown. It wouldn’t have taken Betty long to get home, even if she had walked, after that, through a crowded street, too.”
“Of course, she may have met a friend, may have gone somewhere with the friend,” put in Kennedy, as if trying out the remark to see what effect it might have.
“Where could she go?” asked Mrs. Blackwell in naive surprise, looking at him with a counterpart of the eyes we had seen in the picture. “I hope you don’t think that Betty—-”
The little widow was on the verge of tears again at the mere hint that her daughter might have had friends that were not all, perhaps, that they should be.
Carton came to the rescue. “Miss Blackwell,” he interposed, “was a very attractive girl, very. She had hosts of admirers, as every attractive girl must have. Most of them, all of them, as far as Mrs. Blackwell knows and I have been able to find out, were young men at the office where she worked, or friends of that sort—not the ordinary clerk, but of the rising, younger, self-made generation. Still, they don’t seem to have interested her particularly as far as I have been able to discover. She merely liked them. There is absolutely nothing known to point to the fact that she was any different from thousands of girls in that respect. She was vivacious, full of fun and life, a girl any fellow would have been more than proud to take to a dance. She was ambitious, I suppose, but nothing more.”
“Betty was not a bad girl,” asserted Mrs. Blackwell vehemently. “She was a good girl. I don’t believe there was much, in fact anything important, on which she did not make me her confidante. Yes, she was ambitious. So am I. I have always hoped that Betty would bring our family—her younger sister—back to the station where we were before the panic wiped out our fortune and killed my husband. That is all.”
“Yes,” added Carton, “nothing at all is known that would make one think that she was what young men call a ‘good fellow’ with them.”
Kennedy looked up, but said nothing. I thought I could read the unspoken word on his lips, as he glanced from Carton to Mrs. Blackwell, “known.”
She had risen and was facing us.
“Is there no one in all this great city,” appealed the distracted little woman with outstretched arms, “who can find my daughter? Is it possible that a girl can disappear in broad daylight in the streets and never be heard of again? Oh, won’t you find her? Tell me she is safe—that she is still the little girl I—-”
Her voice failed and she was crying softly in her lace handkerchief. It was touching and I saw that Kennedy was deeply moved, although at once to his practical mind the thought must have occurred that nothing was to be gained by further questions of Mrs. Blackwell.
“Believe me, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said in a low tone, taking her hand,
“I will do all that is in my power to find her.”
“Thank you,” murmured the mother, overcome.
A moment later, however, she had recovered her composure to some degree and rose to go. There was a flattering look of relief on her face which in itself must have been ample reward to Craig, a retainer worth more to him in a case like this than money.
“I’m going back to my office,” remarked Carton. “If I learn anything, I shall let you know.”
The District Attorney went out with Mrs. Blackwell. Busy as he was, he had time to turn aside to help this bereaved woman, and I admired him for it.
“Do you think it is one of those cases like some that Carton has uncovered on the East Side and among girls newly arrived in the city?” I asked Craig when the door was shut.
“Can’t say,” he returned, in an abstracted study.
“It’s awful if it is,” I pursued. “And if it is, I suppose all that will result from it will be a momentary thrill of the newspaper-readers, and then they will fall back on the old saying that after all it is only a result of human nature that such things happen—they always have happened and always will—that old line of talk.”
“That sort of thing is NOT a result of human nature,” returned Kennedy earnestly. “It’s a System. I mean to say that if it should turn out to be connected with the vice investigations of Carton, and not a case of aphasia, such a disappearance you would find to be due to the persistent, cunning, and unprincipled exploitation of young girls.
“No, Walter, it is not that women are weak or that men are inherently vicious. That doesn’t account for a case like this. Then, too, some mawkish people to-day are fond of putting the whole evil on low wages as a cause. It isn’t that—alone. It isn’t even lack of education or of moral training. Human nature is not so bad in the mass as some good people think. No, don’t you, as a reporter, see it? It is big business, in its way, that Carton is fighting—big business in the commercialized ruin of girls, such, perhaps, as Betty Blackwell—a vicious system that enmeshes even those who are its tools. I’m glad if I can have a chance to help smash it.
“Now, I’ll tell you what I want you to do, just so that we can start this thing with a clear understanding of what it amounts to. I want you to look up just what the situation is. I know there is an army of ‘vanishers’ in New York. I want to know something about them in the mass. Can’t you dig up something from your Star connections?”
Kennedy had some matters concerning other cases to clear up before he felt free to devote his whole time to this. As there was nothing we could do immediately, I spent some time getting at the facts he wanted. Indeed, it did not take me long to discover that the disappearance of Betty Blackwell, in spite of the prominence it had been given, was by no means an isolated case. I found that the Star alone had chronicled scores of such disappearances during the past few months, cases of girls who had simply been swallowed up in the big city. They were the daughters of neither the rich nor of the poor, most of them, but girls rather in ordinary circumstances.
Even the police records showed upward of a thousand missing young girls, ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-one years and I knew that the police lists scarcely approximated the total number of missing persons in the great city, especially in those cases where a hesitancy on the part of parents and relatives often concealed the loss from public records.
I came away with the impression that there were literally hundreds of cases every bit as baffling as that of Betty Blackwell, of young girls who had left absolutely no trace behind, who had made no preparations for departure and of whom few had been heard from since they disappeared. Many from homes of refinement and even high financial standing had disappeared, leaving no clues behind. It was not alone the daughters of the poor that were affected—it was all society.
Many reasons, I found, had been assigned for the disappearances. I knew that there must be many causes at work, that no one cause could be responsible for all or perhaps a majority of the cases. There were suicides and murders and elopements, family troubles, poverty, desire for freedom and adventure; innumerable complex causes, even down to kidnapping.
The question was, however, which of these causes had been in operation in the case of Betty Blackwell? Where had she gone? Where had this whole army of vanishers disappeared? Were these disappearances merely accidents—or was there an epidemic of amnesia? I could bring myself to no such conclusions, but was forced to answer my own queries in lieu of an answer from Kennedy, by propounding another. Was there an organized band?
And, after I had tried to reason it all out, I still found myself back at the original question, as I rejoined Kennedy at the laboratory, “Where had they all—where had Betty Blackwell gone?”
I had scarcely finished pouring out my suspicions to Kennedy when the telephone rang.
It was Carton on the wire, in a state of unsuppressed excitement. Kennedy answered the call himself, but the conversation was brief and, to me, unenlightening, until he hung up the receiver.
“Dorgan—the Boss,” he exclaimed, “has just found a detectaphone in his private dining-room at Gastron’s.”
At once I saw the importance of the news and for the moment it obscured even the case of Betty Blackwell.
Dorgan was the political boss of the city at that time, apparently entrenched, with an organization that seemed impregnable. I knew him as a big, bullnecked fellow, taciturn to the point of surliness, owing his influence to his ability to “deliver the goods” in the shape of graft of all sorts, the archenemy of Carton, a type of politician who now is rapidly passing.
“Carton wants to see us immediately at his office,” added Craig, jamming his hat on his head. “Come on.”
Without waiting for further comment or answer from me, Kennedy, caught by the infectious excitement of Carton’s message, dashed from our apartment and a few minutes later we were whirling downtown on the subway.
“You know, I suppose,” he whispered rather hoarsely above the rumble and roar of the train, but so as not to be overheard, “that Dorgan always has kept a suite of rooms at Gastron’s, on Fifth Avenue, for dinners and conferences.”
I nodded. Some of the things that must have gone on in the secret suite in the fashionable restaurant I knew would make interesting reading, if the walls had ears.
“Apparently he must have found out about the eavesdropping in time and nipped it,” pursued Kennedy.
“What do you mean?” I asked, for I had not been able to gather much from the one-sided conversation over the telephone, and the lightning change from the case of Betty Blackwell to this had left me somewhat bewildered. “What has he done?”
“Smashed the transmitter of the machine,” replied Kennedy tersely. “Cut the wires.”
“Where did it lead?” I asked. “How do you know?”
Kennedy shook his head. Either he did not know, yet, or he felt that the subway was no place in which to continue the conversation beyond the mere skeleton that he had given me.
We finished the ride in comparative silence and hurried into Carton’s office down in the Criminal Courts Building.
Carton greeted us cordially, with an air of intense relief, as if he were glad to have been able to turn to Kennedy in the growing perplexities that beset him.
What surprised me most, however, was that, seated beside his desk, in an easy chair, was a striking looking woman, not exactly young, but of an age that is perhaps more interesting than youth, certainly more sophisticated. She, too, I noticed, had a tense, excited expression on her face. As Kennedy and I entered she had looked us over searchingly.
“Let me present Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson, Mrs. Ogleby,” said Carton quickly. “Both of them know as much about how experts use those little mechanical eavesdroppers as anyone—except the inventor.”
We bowed and waited for an explanation.
“You understand,” continued Carton slowly to us in a tone that enjoined secrecy, “Mrs. Ogleby, who is a friend of Mr. Murtha, Dorgan’s right-hand man, naturally is alarmed and doesn’t want her name to appear in this thing.”
“Oh—it is terrible—terrible,” Mrs. Ogleby chimed in in great agitation. “I don’t care about anything else. But, my reputation—it will be ruined if they connect my name with the case. As soon as I heard of it—I thought of you, Mr. Carton. I came here immediately. There must be some way in which you can protect me—some way that you can get along without using—”
“But, my dear Mrs. Ogleby,” interrupted the District Attorney, “I have told you half a dozen times, I think, that I didn’t put the detectaphone in—”
“Yes, but you will get the record,” she persisted excitedly. “Can’t you do something?” she pleaded.
I fancied that she said it with the air of one who almost had some right in the matter.
“Mrs. Ogleby,” reiterated Carton earnestly, “I will do all I can—on my word of honour—to protect your name, but—”
He paused and looked at us helplessly.
“What was it that was overheard?” asked Craig point-blank, watching
Mrs. Ogleby’s face carefully.
“Why,” she replied nervously, “there was a big dinner last night which Mr. Dorgan gave at Gastron’s. Mr. Murtha took me and—oh—there were lots of others—” She stopped suddenly.
“Yes,” prompted Kennedy. “Who else was there?”
She was on her guard, however. Evidently she had come to Carton for one purpose and that was solely to protect herself against the scandal which she thought might attach to having been present at one of the rather notorious little affairs of the Boss.
“Really,” she answered, colouring slightly, “I can’t tell you. I mustn’t say a word about who was there—or anything about it. Good heavens—it is bad enough as it is—to think that my name may be dragged into politics and all sorts of false stories set in motion about me. You must protect me, Mr. Carton, you must.”
“How did you find out about the detectaphone being there?” asked
“Why,” she replied evasively, “I thought it was just an ordinary little social dinner. That’s what Mr. Murtha told me it was. I didn’t think anyone outside was interested in it or in who was there or what went on. But, this morning, a—a friend—called me up and told me—something that made me think others besides those invited knew of it, knew too much.”
She paused, then resumed hastily to forestall questioning, “I began to think it over myself, and the more I thought of it, the stranger it seemed that anyone else, outside, should know. I began to wonder how it leaked out, for I understood that it was a strictly private affair. I asked Mr. Murtha and he told Mr. Dorgan. Mr. Dorgan at once guessed that there had been something queer. He looked about his rooms there, and, sure enough, they found the detectaphone concealed in the wall. I can’t tell any more,” she added, facing Carton and using her bewitching eyes to their best advantage. “I can’t ask you to shield Mr. Dorgan and Mr. Murtha. They are your opponents. But I have done nothing to you, Mr. Carton. You must suppress—that part of it—about me. Why, it would ruin—-”
She cut her words short. But I knew what she meant, and to a certain extent I could understand, if not sympathize with her. Her husband, Martin Ogleby, club-man and man about town, had a reputation none too savoury. But, man-like, I knew, he would condone not even the appearance of anything that caused gossip in his wife’s actions. I could understand how desperate she felt.
“But, my dear lady,” repeated Carton, in a manner that showed that he felt keenly, for some reason or other, the appeal she was making to him, “must I say again that I had nothing whatever to do with it? I have sent for Mr. Kennedy and—-”
“Nothing—on your honour?” she asked, facing him squarely.
“Nothing—on my honour,” he asserted frankly.
She appeared to be dazed. Apparently all along she had assumed that Carton must be the person to see, that he alone could do anything for her, would do something.
Her face paled as she met his earnest look. She had risen and now, half chagrined, half frightened, she stood irresolute. Her lips quivered and tears stood in her eyes as she realized that, instead of protecting herself by her confidence, she had, perhaps, made matters worse by telling an outsider.
Carton, too, had risen and in a low voice which we could not overhear was trying to reassure her.
In her confusion she was moving toward the door, utterly oblivious, now, to us. Carton tactfully took her arm and led her to a private entrance that opened from his office down the corridor and out of sight of the watchful eyes of the reporters and attendants in the outer hall.
I did not understand just what it was all about, but I could see
Kennedy’s eye following Carton keenly.
“What was that—a plant?” he asked, still trying to read Carton’s face, as he returned to us alone a moment later. “Did she come to see whether you got the record?”
“No—I don’t think so,” replied Carton quickly. “No, I think that was all on the level—her part of it.”
“But who did put in the instrument, really—did you?” asked Kennedy, still quizzing.
“No,” exclaimed Carton hastily, this time meeting Craig’s eye frankly. “No. I wish I had. Why—the fact is, I don’t know who did—no one seems to know, yet, evidently. But,” he added, leaning forward and speaking rapidly, “I think I could give a shrewd guess.”
Kennedy said nothing, but nodded encouragingly.
“I think,” continued Carton impressively, “that it must have been
Langhorne and the Wall Street crowd he represents.”
“Langhorne,” repeated Kennedy, his mind working rapidly. “Why, it was his stenographer that Miss Blackwell was. Why do you suspect Langhorne?”
“Because,” exclaimed Carton, more excited than ever at Kennedy’s quick deduction, bringing his fist down on the desk to emphasize his own suspicion, “because they aren’t getting their share of the graft that Dorgan is passing out—probably are sore, and think that if they can get something on the Boss or some of those who are close to him, they may force him to take them into partnership in the deals.”
Carton looked from Kennedy to me, to see what impression his theory made. On me at least it did make an impression. Hartley Langhorne, I knew, was a Wall Street broker and speculator who dealt in real estate, securities, in fact in anything that would appeal to a plunger as promising a quick and easy return.
Kennedy made no direct comment on the theory. “In what shape is the record, do you suppose?” he asked merely.
“I gathered from Mrs. Ogleby,” returned Carton watchfully, “that it had been taken down by a stenographer at the receiving end of the detectaphone, transcribed in typewriting, and loosely bound in a book of limp black leather. Oh,” he concluded, “Dorgan would give almost anything to find out what is in that little record, you may be sure. Perhaps even, rather than have such a thing out, he would come to terms with Langhorne.”
Kennedy said nothing. He was merely absorbing the case as Carton presented it.
“Don’t you see?” continued the District Attorney, pacing his office and gazing now and then out of the window, “here’s this record hidden away somewhere in the city. If I could only get it—I’d win my fight against Dorgan—and Mrs. Ogleby need not suffer for her mistake in coming to me, at all.”
He was apparently thinking aloud. Kennedy did not attempt to quiz him. He was considering the importance of the situation. For, as I have said, it was at the height of the political campaign in which Carton had been renominated independently by the Reform League—of which, more later.
“You don’t think that Langhorne is really in the inner ring, then?” questioned Craig.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, then,” I put in hastily, “can’t you approach him or someone close to him, and get—-”
“Say,” interrupted Carton, “anything that took place in that private dining-room at Gastron’s would be just as likely to incriminate Langhorne and some of his crowd as not. It is a difference in degree of graft—that is all. They don’t want an open fight. It was just a piece of finesse on Langhorne’s part. You may be sure of that. No, neither of them wants a fight. That’s the last thing. They’re both afraid. What Langhorne wanted was a line on Dorgan. And we should never have known anything about this Black Book, if some of the women, I suppose, hadn’t talked too much. Mrs. Ogleby added two and two and got five. She thought it must be I who put the instrument in.”
Carton was growing more and more excited again, “It’s exasperating,” he continued. “There’s the record—somewhere—if I could only get it. Think of it, Kennedy—an election going on and never so much talk about graft and vice before!”
“What was in the book—mostly, do you imagine?” asked Craig, still imperturbable.
Carton shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, almost anything. For instance, you know, Dorgan has just put through a new scheme of city planning—with the able assistance of some theoretical reformers. That will be a big piece of real estate graft, unless I am mistaken. Langhorne and his crowd know it. They don’t want to be frozen out.”
As they talked, I had been revolving the thing over in my head. Dorgan’s little parties, as reported privately among the men on the Star whom I knew, were notorious. The more I considered, the more possible phases of the problem I thought of. It was not even impossible that in some way it might bear on the Betty Blackwell case.
“Do you think Dorgan and Murtha are hunting the book as anxiously as—some others?” I ventured.
“You have heard of the character of some of those dinners?” answered Carton by asking another question, then went on: “Why, Dorgan has had some of our leading lawyers, financiers, and legislators there. He usually surrounds them with brilliant, clever women, as unscrupulous as himself, and—well—you can imagine the result. Poor little Mrs. Ogleby,” he added sympathetically. “They could twist her any way they chose for their purposes.”
My own impression had been that Mrs. Ogleby was better able to take care of herself than his words gave her credit for, but I said nothing.
Carton paused before the window and gazed out at the Bridge of Sighs that led from his building across to the city prison.
“What a record that Black Book must hold!” he exclaimed meditatively. “Why, if it was only that I could ‘get’ Murtha—I’d be happy,” he added, turning to us.
Murtha, as I have said, was Boss Dorgan’s right bower, a clever and unscrupulous politician and leader in a district where he succeeded somehow or other in absolutely crushing opposition. I had run across him now and then in the course of my newspaper career and, aside from his well-known character in delivering the “goods” to the organization whenever it was necessary, I had found him a most interesting character.
It was due to such men as Murtha that the organization kept its grip, though one wave of reform after another lashed its fury on it. For Murtha understood his people. He worked at politics every hour—whether it was patting the babies of the district on the head, or bailing their fathers out of jail, handing out shoes to the shiftless or judiciously distributing coal and ice to the deserving.
Yet I had seen enough to know the inherent viciousness of the circle—of how the organization took dollars from the people with one concealed hand and distributed pennies from the other hand, held aloft and in the spotlight. Again and again, Kennedy and I in our excursions into scientific warfare on crime in the underworld had run squarely up against the refined as well as the debased creatures of the “System.” Pyramided on what looked like open-handed charity and good-fellowship we had seen vice and crime of all degrees.
And yet, somehow or other, I must confess to a sort of admiration for Murtha and his stamp—if for nothing else than because of the frankness with which he did what he sought to do. Neither Kennedy nor I could be accused of undue sympathy with the System, yet, like many who had been brought in close contact with it, it had earned our respect in many ways.
And so, I contemplated the situation with more than ordinary interest. Carton wanted the Black Book to use in order to win his political fight for a clean city and to prosecute the grafters. Dorgan wanted it in order to suppress and thus protect himself and Murtha. Mrs. Ogleby wanted it to save her good name and prevent even the appearance of scandal. Langhorne wanted it in order to coerce Dorgan to share in the graft, yet was afraid of Carton also.
Was ever a situation of such peculiar, mixed motives?
“I would move heaven and earth for that Black Book!” exclaimed Carton finally, turning from the window and facing us.
Kennedy, too, had risen.
“You can count on me, then, Carton,” he said simply, as the recollection of the many fights in which we had stood shoulder to shoulder with the young District Attorney came over him.
A moment later Carton had us each by the hand.
“Thank you,” he cried. “I knew you fellows would be with me.”
IT WAS LATE THAT NIGHT that Kennedy and I left Carton after laying out a campaign and setting in motion various forces, official and unofficial, which might serve to keep us in touch with what Dorgan and the organization were doing.
Not until the following morning, however, did anything new develop in such a way that we could work on it.
Kennedy had picked up the morning papers which had been left at the door of our apartment and was hastily running his eye over the headlines on the first page, as was his custom.
“By Jove, Walter,” I heard him exclaim. “What do you think of that—a robbery below the deadline—and in Langhorne’s office, too.”
I hurried out of my room and glanced at the papers, also. Sure enough, there it was:
SAFE ROBBED IN WALL ST. OFFICE
Door Into Office of Langhorne & Westlake, Brokers, Forced and Safe
One of the strangest robberies ever perpetrated was pulled off last night in the office of Langhorne & Westlake, the brokers, at——-Wall Street, some time during the regular closing time of the office and eight o’clock.
Mr. Langhorne had returned to his office after dining with some friends in order to work on some papers. When he arrived, about eight o’clock, he found that the door had been forced. The office was in darkness, but when he switched on the lights it was discovered that the office safe had been entered.
Nothing was said about the manner in which the safe robbery was perpetrated, but it is understood to have been very peculiar. So far no details have been announced and the robbery was not reported to the police until a late hour.
Mr. Langhorne, when seen by the reporters, stated positively that nothing of great value had been taken and that the firm would not suffer in any way as a result of the robbery.
One of the stenographers in the office, Miss Betty Blackwell, who acted as private secretary to Mr. Langhorne, is missing and the case has already attracted wide attention. Whether or not her disappearance had anything to do with the robbery is not known.
“Naturally he would not report it to the police,” commented Kennedy; “that is, if it had anything to do with that Black Book, as I am sure that it must have had.”
“It was certainly a most peculiar affair if it did not,” I remarked.
“There must be some way of finding that out. It’s strange about Betty
Kennedy was turning something over in his mind. “Of course,” he remarked, “we don’t want to come out into the open just yet, but it would be interesting to know what happened down there at Langhorne’s. Have you any objection to going down with me and posing as a reporter from the Star?”
“None whatever,” I returned.
We stopped at the laboratory on the campus of the University where Craig still retained his professorship. Kennedy secured a rather bulky piece of apparatus, which, as nearly as I can describe, consisted of a steel frame, which could be attached by screws to any wooden table. It contained a lower plate which could move forward and back, two lateral uprights stiffened by curved braces, and a cross piece of steel attached by strong bolts to the tops of the posts. In the face of the machine was a dial with a pointer.
Kennedy quickly took the apparatus apart and made it up into two packages so that between us we could carry it easily, and at about the time that Wall Street offices were opening we were on our way downtown.
Langhorne proved to be a tall, rather slim, man of what might be called youngish middle age. One did not have to be introduced to him to read his character or his occupation. Every line of his faultlessly fitting clothes and every expression of his keen and carefully cared-for face betokened the plunger, the man who lived by his wits and found the process both fascinating and congenial.
“Mr. Langhorne,” began Kennedy, after I had taken upon myself the duty of introducing ourselves as reporters, “we are preparing an article for our paper about a new apparatus which the Star has imported especially from Paris. It is a machine invented by Monsieur Bertillon just before he died, for the purpose of furnishing exact measurements of the muscular efforts exerted in the violent entry of a door or desk by making it possible to reproduce the traces of the work that a burglar has left on doors and articles of furniture. We’ve been waiting for a case that the instrument would fit into and it seemed to us that perhaps it might be of some use to you in getting at the real robber of your office. Would you mind if we made an attempt to apply it?”
Langhorne could not very well refuse to allow us to try the thing, though it was plainly evident that he did not want to talk and did not relish the publicity that the news of the morning had brought him.
Kennedy had laid the apparatus down on a table as he spoke and was assembling the parts which he had separated in order to carry it.
“These are the marks on the door, I presume?” he continued, examining some indentations of the woodwork near the lock.
“The door was open when you returned?” asked Kennedy.
“Closed,” replied Langhorne briefly. “Before I put the key into the lock, I turned the knob, as I have a habit of doing. Instead of catching, it yielded and the door swung open without any trouble.”
He repeated the story substantially as we had already read it in the papers.
Kennedy had taken a step or two into the office, and was now facing the safe. It was not a large safe, but was one of the most modern construction and was supposed to be burglar proof.
“And you say you lost practically nothing?” persisted Craig.
“Nothing of importance,” reiterated Langhorne.
Kennedy had been watching him closely. The man was at least baffling. There was nothing excited or perturbed about his manner. Indeed, one might easily have thought that it was not his safe at all that had been robbed. I wondered whether, after all, he had had the Black Book. Certainly, I felt, if he had lost it he was very cool about the loss.
Craig had by this time reached the safe itself. In spite of Langhorne’s reluctance, his assurance had taken Kennedy even up to the point which he wished. He was examining the safe.
On the front it showed no evidence of having been “souped” or drilled. There was not a mark on it. Nor, as we learned later from the police, was there any evidence of a finger-print having been left by the burglar.
Langhorne now but ill concealed his interest. It was natural, too, for here he had one of the most modern of small strong-boxes, built up of the latest chrome steel and designed to withstand any reasonable assault of cracksman or fire.
I was on the point of inquiring how on earth it had been possible to rob the safe, when Kennedy, standing on a chair, as Langhorne directed, uttered a low exclamation.
I craned my neck to look also.
There, in the very top of the safe, yawned a huge hole large enough to thrust one’s arm through, with something to spare.
As I looked at the yawning dark hole in the top of what had been only a short time ago a safe worthy of the latest state of the art, it seemed incomprehensible.
Try as I could to reason it out, I could find no explanation. How it had been possible for a burglar to make such an opening in the little more than two hours between closing and the arrival of Langhorne after dinner, I could not even guess. As far as I knew it would have taken many long hours of patient labour with the finest bits to have made anything at all comparable to the destruction which we saw before us.
A score of questions were on my lips, but I said nothing, although I could not help noticing the strange look on Langhorne’s face. It plainly showed that he would like to have known what had taken place during the two or more hours when his office had been unguarded, yet was averse to betraying any such interest.
Mystified as I was by what I saw, I was even more amazed at the cool manner in which Kennedy passed it all by.
He seemed merely to be giving the hole in the top of the safe a passing glance, as though it was of no importance that someone should have in such an incredibly short time made a hole through which one might easily reach his arm and secure anything he wanted out of the interior of the powerful little safe.
Langhorne, too, seemed surprised at Kennedy’s matter of fact passing by of what was almost beyond the range of possibility.
“After all,” remarked Kennedy, “it is not the safe that we care to study so much as the door. For one thing, I want to make sure whether the marks show a genuine breaking and entering or whether they were placed there afterwards merely to cover the trail, supposing someone had used a key to get into the office.”
The remark suggested many things to me. Was it that he meant to imply that, after all, the missing Betty Blackwell had had something to do with it? In fact, could the thing have been done by a woman?
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