The moment when, at his trial, the two faces again confronted each other across a space no wider than that which had separated them on the dread occasion in Seventeenth Street, is said to have been one of the most dramatic in the annals of that ancient court room.
DETECTIVE: KIRAH POLLY
PLANTED
James Oppenheim
IF REMEMBERED AT ALL TODAY, the major achievements of James Oppenheim (1882–1932) are in areas unrelated to writing detective fiction specifically and fiction more generally.
He founded the literary magazine The Seven Arts and was its primary editor for a year (1916–1917) until he was forced out due to his relentless opposition to American involvement in World War I. Oppenheim’s fellow editors were Waldo Frank, George Jean Nathan, Louis Untermeyer, and Paul Rosenfeld, and important contributors to its pages included Sherwood Anderson, Van Wyck Brooks, Robert Frost, D. H. Lawrence, and Amy Lowell.
Oppenheim was a socialist who wrote about labor troubles in his novel The Nine-Tenths (1911) and in his famous poem “Bread and Roses” (1911), a title now associated with the 1912 textile workers’ strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts. The poem was later set to music in 1976 by Mimi Fariña and again in 1990 by John Denver.
The theme of women’s rights appeared in some of his works, but his wife divorced him shortly after he published Idle Wives (1914); possible cause and effect are not known.
A popular poet and short story writer in his day, he contributed work to most of the major magazines of the time, including American Magazine, American Mercury, Century, McClure’s, Collier’s, Harper’s, Hearst’s, and New Republic.
In “Planted” (which had the better title of “Mrs. Judas” in the April 1916 issue of England’s The Story-Teller), Oppenheim created an odd character who in many ways was a throwback to the Victorian era. Ki Polly used her feminine wiles to capture a criminal, letting him fall in love with her, kissing him, but later treating him in a motherly way since she is twelve years older than he is. She appears to be fearless, a necessary element of being a female detective (though it is unclear if she is a private eye or a member of the police force).
“Planted” was originally published in the September 1915 issue of McClure’s Magazine.
Planted
JAMES OPPENHEIM
AS MRS. POLLY TURNED THE CORNER and came up Manhattan Avenue, she thought she saw a face at one of her windows; and she thought it was the face of Ray Levine. This was very disturbing, especially as it was after midnight, the street was deserted, and she was tired.
Her four-room flat was on the ground floor, and a gas-lamp on the pavement before it brightened the windows. What she saw was a momentary reflection, a gray shadow that assumed the shape of a man’s face and then vanished. She may have been mistaken.
Nevertheless she did not dare pause, but walked on to the stoop. Even then, to wait too long would inform the intruder that he had been seen. But if it was Ray Levine! Her heart gave a bound. Seven backward years were bridged, and she and Ray were standing near each other in the court-room, and Ray was full of bitter contempt. Luckily, he was handcuffed to an officer.
“Detective, eh? And catch a man with a kiss? Well, Ki, I hate just one thing, and that’s treachery. When I get out—so help me—I’ll put a bullet through your heart, Mrs. Judas.”
This was not the usual sort of threat; but the young man meant it with all his soul. In spite of her native courage, her heart sickened. In a flash, she saw herself in Ray’s big touring car at Niagara Falls, and felt his lips close upon hers. She had indeed betrayed him with a kiss. She had torn out his story—how he had been temporary agent of an express company in a Long Island town, and how he had taken thirty thousand dollars for Flo, that wicked woman of the Tenderloin. She had saved him from Flo, only to land him in prison.
“Perhaps he loved you, Ki,” she thought; “perhaps you—you loved him a bit. You sickly fool, is this the end of it, now?”
There was one last hope. She looked eagerly up and down the empty street. But the houses gazed vacantly on the vacant pavements, and in the distance the mist floated smotheringly, closing her in, accentuating her loneliness. Nevertheless, a plain-clothes man might be hidden in some doorway nearby; for on this day of Ray’s release he would doubtless be shadowed by Headquarters. Then, too, the Chief may have remembered Ray’s threat, in which case the house would be well watched.
She hesitated for a moment. Should she go around the corner to the drug store and telephone to Headquarters? Ray would notice this, and get away; and she had no intention of letting him off. Should she, then, take the risk and go in boldly? To open the door might easily mean the end.
She stood there at the foot of the stoop, a woman alone, tapping one high-heeled shoe on the stone step, swinging the silver mesh bag, which was fat with her “make-up.” She had spent the evening working along Broadway, and looked and felt the part. Her clear blue eyes were brilliant with the drinks she had had to take; her cheeks red with rouge; her hat startling with its red feathers; and her stout, tightly-laced body appareled in vivid blue.
After the excitement of the evening, she had the sense of ebb-tide: disgust with herself and her work; that gnawing loneliness she always felt as she returned home to the empty flat; that sense of impending disaster.
She shivered, looked quickly up and down the street again, heard, as it were, the silence of sleep on the city; and then, with heart pounding against her ribs, walked boldly up the stoop, pushed open the outer door, unlocked the inner door, and so entered the dark hall. It smelled of the dirty steam-heated carpet and the accumulated vapors of several suppers. She went to her door, listened, and scolded herself:
“Come, Ki. No worse to go tonight than any other night. But be a good fellow to the end; be a sport, old girl!” With that, she slipped the key into the lock, and with great care pushed the door open a little. Light from the street-lamp outside came in broad shafts through the windows, so that the crowded room was visible. All looked right: the Morris chair beside the center table; the couch in the corner; the photographs on the wall. She heard not the smallest sound.
All at once an anger at her own weakness nerved her. She flung up her head and walked in, leaving the door behind her open. She looked neither to right nor left, but went to the crowded mantel, found a match-box, and struck a match. That was the crucial moment, as she stood there, illuminated, distinct, with the tiny blaze flinging jumping shadows on the wall.
Nothing happened. And a moment later she had reached up, and the lamp on the table blazed. Then she looked about her. She was alone in the room; but the dining-room behind was in darkness, and was effectually screened by the tube-bead curtains that hung in the doorway in dusty silence.
Nevertheless she felt that she was a target; and, humming under her breath to forget her thoughts, she went to the door, shut it tight, the lock clicking, and then with swift steps returned to the mantel and seized the telephone.
“Spring 3100,” she said in a low voice. “Send police if they don’t answer quick….Yes—yes….Oh, Headquarters? That you, Croly?” She laughed softly. “Yes, this is Mrs. Polly. I’m home….Yes; you’re right—it’s about Levine….Good enough. Shadowed him, eh?…Three men? Good!…No, I didn’t see the one on the street….Other in the yard?…Yes, sure, the roof. So you traced him to this house. Well, he can’t get away, then….I’ll call you up. Good luck! So long!”
She set the telephone down, and stood a moment, hesitating. Then she had a bright idea. Again she put the transmitter to her lips.
“Murray Hill 7109….Yes.”
She waited in silence; and a curious thought came to her—so trivial and absurd, she almost laughed aloud. Two nights before she had heard mice. She was not afraid of mice, but she was of rats; and these little fellows made such a noise that she concluded they were rats. In terror she sat up in her bed, and, not knowing what to do, she
began to “meow” like a cat, her voice rising and rising, until suddenly she remembered that others in the house might hear her and think she was possessed of a devil.
“Yes,” she thought, with a slight shiver; “I’m so scared I’ve got to think of funny things.”
She felt as if her body were much too large and bullets much too small.
Suddenly she put her lips to the transmitter again.
“7109?…Yes. I want to speak to Flo….Oh, that you, Flo? This is Kirah Polly….I’m home, yes. Flo, I want you to jump in your clothes and come here quick….Yes, here. Ray Levine is out….He is. Now, see here, kid; if you don’t do this for me, you’re done for. Besides, you loved the boy, didn’t you, dear?…Listen. You know, he threatened to kill me when he got loose. Well, Headquarters has shadowed him: he’s close by; and only you can save him. Come quick, now, sweetheart, and catch him before he ruins himself. Take him away. He wrecked himself for you, you know….You will? Bless your heart, Flo! Take a taxi.”
The room was steeped in brooding silence. The lamp burned with a slight purr, as of a cat drowsing; sirens were echoes in the far misty night. Mrs. Polly was almost afraid to stir, afraid to hear the rustle of her dress. But she carefully pulled the hat-pins from her hat, laid the hat on the couch, gave her hair a dab or two, and glanced at herself in the mirror.
“My!” she said to herself, “but you look gone, Ki. Rouge on snow.” Then slowly she went to the Morris chair, sank into it, and folded her hands in her lap.
She was facing the tube-bead curtains, trying with her sharp eyes to see what lay behind them. She could see nothing. She waited.
She had the strange sensation of sitting in the electric chair and waiting for the annihilating current to be turned on—the killing “juice.” Then suddenly the shock went through her, and she sat up. There were two definite steps; a hand parted the curtains; and Levine stepped through.
Their eyes met. Neither really saw the other—they only felt. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind Mrs. Polly was telling herself that he looked old and fagged, though his black eyes had lost none of their glitter and his black hair was untouched with gray. He was fairly tall and wiry; and he looked dangerous.
He stood; she sat; neither looked away.
“How did you get in?” she asked under her breath.
Then, to her amazement, she saw that he did not hold a revolver. Somehow, this increased rather than allayed her sense of crisis.
He stepped into the room.
“You left your door unlatched,” he said.
He had difficulty in speaking.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You expected me, anyway.”
“I’m never surprised.”
“Well,” he muttered, staring hard at her, “I heard what you said over the ’phone.”
“What of it?” she questioned, returning his gaze.
“Nothing of it. What are you sitting there for?”
“What are you standing there for?”
“Just be careful what you say, Ki.”
“And what you do, Ray!”
She met his eyes again; and the power of her clear glance shook him. He looked around the room, muttering.
“Where do you keep your gun?”
“I don’t need any gun,” she answered very calmly.
He sneered. “A detective without a gun!”
She leaned forward suddenly, and spoke with menacing authority:
“Now you sit down, Ray! Sit down!”
He clenched his fists and took a step toward her.
“Ki,” he burst out, “I stand just so much, and then——”
“You sit!” she added sharply.
“Well, I won’t sit down.”
“Do,” she said. “For, when you stand, I can see that you tremble like a child—tremble before a woman.”
His dark face grew menacing. He was really handsome; but now there were lines like scars about his mouth.
“Say that again!” he breathed.
“Why!” she exclaimed. “Do you still love me?”
He drew back a little, as if she had struck him.
“Love you?”
“You’re shaking like a custard. Are you a man?”
“Love—you?” he repeated. Then he sneered. “If I could hate any one worse than I hate you——”
“It’s all the same,” she said.
“What’s the same?”
“Loving—hating. They bind you to the other person. Perhaps you want a drink to steady yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t stand still. Why not sit down?”
“And if I don’t?”
“I won’t open my mouth again until you do!” She sat back complacently. He stared at her, and then began walking uncertainly about the room. He went to the mantel, and toyed with some of the papers on it. He studied some photographs on the wall. Once or twice he came toward her, and then withdrew.
At last he leaned a fist on the table and looked at her.
“What’s your game?” he burst out.
She met his glance without a quiver.
They were silent; the room was desperately still.
“Ki,” he began, between his teeth, “I say!”
He stopped. She said nothing.
“Huh!” he laughed sneeringly. “All right!”
Slowly she rose, and at once he became alert. She turned from him and went to a corner of the room. He followed swiftly.
“See here.” He raised his voice. “What’s this? No signaling, Ki!”
She stooped swiftly over a chair, and drew up a doily with a threaded needle sticking through it. She turned toward him, smiling, went back to her chair, sat down, and began to sew.
He stood behind her, amazed.
“Just as you want,” he said; and there was a new menace in his voice. She heard him step away, and then draw down the shades of the windows. He came back softly, and leaned over her. She could almost feel his hands closing around her throat; but she embroidered steadily.
“By God!” he burst out.
A moment later he passed her, and sat down on a chair near her.
She leaned toward him, smiling.
“Now we can talk.”
“You wicked devil!” he exclaimed.
She smiled at him.
“Am I so wicked, Ray?”
There was something so humanly intimate about this that he started. But he stiffened again.
She went on embroidering, and spoke musingly.
“Flo,” she said, “was wicked—with those green eyes of hers, and that heaving bosom, and the hundred devils in her when the lid was lifted. She’s the innocence that drives men mad and destroys them. She’s as beautiful as ever, and the men—crazy as ever.”
“What do you tell me that for, Ki?” he asked gruffly.
“You loved her once.”
“I was insane—insane,” he muttered angrily.
“And—what are you now?” she asked him slowly.
His nostrils quivered, his breath came quickly.
“Now,” he said, “I’m an ex-convict—thanks to you, Ki.”
“Thanks to yourself.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to Flo.”
“To you, I say.”
“To the law, I say!”
“Well,” he said, in a trembling, childish voice, “I just won’t have this any longer—you rotten——”
“Are you crying?” she burst out.
He bit on his lips, screwed up his face, turned from her.
“You damnable woman, I’ll have my revenge on you—I will! Ruined my life. Seven years of hell. Can’t you see what you did to me?”
He choked down a sob and turn
ed toward her swiftly, slipping his hand in his jacket pocket.
Her heart missed a beat; but she spoke calmly.
“You never knew how I found you in Niagara, did you, Ray?”
“What’s that?” he snapped.
“It was fairly clever.” She smiled up at him. “You never would have thought of it yourself.”
“Thought of what?”
“You see, Ray, all they gave me was your photograph, and the rumor that you were in Niagara. So, when I got off the train, I made for the line-up of chauffeurs. And I said to them that my younger brother had come into a large fortune, and I was afraid he was blowing it on some woman. Had they seen a young man around, answering to description, who was making the coin spin? I went down the line. It was no, until I came to a private car. ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘that must be the man. He bought a car yesterday—a big black shining touring car. He’ll be hanging out in Piddy’s Inn.’ So he took me to you.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“And in cold blood you went ahead?”
“How else should a detective go ahead?”
“Yes! But to make love to me—to take advantage of being a woman!”
“You took advantage of being a temporary agent, and unbonded.”
“Yes. But to play with love!”
“How about Flo?”
He sat silent. Her voice lowered:
“You got out this morning, didn’t you, son?”
“Son!” he sneered. “That’s not what you called me then.”
“What did I call you then?”
His face darkened.
“I suppose you don’t remember!”
“It’s seven years ago.”
“So, you didn’t even care for me. It was all acting!” He shut his eyes, clenching his fists, breathing between his teeth. He seemed to hate himself. “First one woman ruined me, then another. But I learned one thing in prison.”
“What was that?”
He rose slowly, his hand in his pocket, and took a step toward her.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 29