With this in mind she walked into the store. A clerk met her; other clerks were attending to a few scattered customers.
“Is Mr. Kasker in?” she asked the young man.
“In his office, miss; to the right, half way down.”
He left her to greet another who entered and Josie walked down the aisle, as directed. The office was raised a step above the main floor and was railed in, with a small swinging gate to allow entrance. This was not the main business office but the proprietor’s special den and his desk was placed so he could overlook the entire establishment, with one glance. Just at present Kasker was engaged in writing, or figuring, for his bushy head was bent low.
Josie opened the gate, walked in and took a chair that stood beside the desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Kasker,” she said sweetly.
He looked up, swept her with a glance and replied:
“What’s the matter? Can’t one of the clerks attend to you? I’m busy.”
“I’ll wait,” was Josie’s quiet reply. “I’d rather deal with you than a clerk.”
He hesitated, laid down his pen and turned his chair toward her. She knew the man, by sight, but if he had ever seen the girl he did not recall the fact. His tone was now direct and businesslike.
“Very well, miss; tell me what I can do for you.”
It had only taken her an instant to formulate her speech.
“I’m interested in the poor children of Dorfield,” she began, “having been sent here as the agent of an organization devoted to clothing our needy little ones. I find, since I have been soliciting subscriptions in Dorfield and investigating the requirements of the poor, that there are a lot of boys, especially, in this city who are in rags, and I want to purchase for them as many outfits as my money will allow. But on account of the war, and its demands on people formerly charitably inclined, I realize my subscription money is altogether too little to do what I wish. That’s too bad, but it’s true. Everywhere they talk war — war — -war and its hardships. The war demands money for taxes, bonds, mess funds, the Red Cross and all sorts of things, and in consequence our poor are being sadly neglected.”
He nodded, somewhat absently, but said nothing. Josie felt her clever bait had not been taken, as she had expected, so she resolved to be more audacious in her remarks.
“It seems a shame,” she said with assumed indignation, “that the poor of the country must starve and be in want, while the money is all devoted to raising an army for the Germans to shoot and mangle.”
He saw the point and answered with a broad smile:
“Is that the alternative, young lady? Must one or the other happen? Well — yes; the soldiers must be killed, God help ‘em! But himmel! We don’t let our kiddies freeze for lack of clothes, do we? See here; they’re taking everything away from us merchants — our profits, our goods, everything! — but the little we got left the kiddies can have. The war is a robber; it destroys; it puts its hand in an honest man’s pocket without asking his consent; all wars do that. The men who make wars have no souls — no mercy. But they make wars. Wars are desperate things and require desperate methods. There is always the price to pay, and the people always pay it. The autocrats of war do not say ‘Please!’ to us; they say ‘Hold up your hands!’ and so — what is there to do but hold up our hands?”
Josie was delighted; she was exultant; Jake Kasker was falling into her trap very swiftly.
“But the little ones,” he continued, suddenly checking himself in his tirade, “must not be made to suffer like the grown-up folks. They, at least, are innocent of it all. Young lady, I’d do more for the kids than I’d do for the war — and I’ll do it willingly, of my own accord. Tell me, then, how much money you got and I’ll give you the boys’ suits at cost price. I’ll do more; for every five suits you buy from me at cost, I’ll throw an extra one in, free — Jake Kasker’s own contribution.”
This offer startled and somewhat dismayed Josie. She had not expected the interview to take such a turn, and Kasker’s generosity seriously involved her, while, at the same time, it proved to her without a doubt that the man was a man. He was loud mouthed and foolish; that was all.
While she gathered her wits to escape from an unpleasant situation, a quick step sounded on the aisle and a man brusquely entered the office and exclaimed:
“Hello, Jake; I’m here again. How’s the suspender stock?”
Kasker gave him a surly look.
“You come pretty often, Abe Kauffman,” he muttered. “Suspenders? Bah! I only buy ‘em once a year, and you come around ev’ry month or so. I don’t think it pays you to keep pesterin’ merchants.”
Abe Kauffman laughed — a big laugh — and sat down in a chair.
“One time you buy, Jake, and other times I come to Dorfield somebody else buys. How do I know you don’t get a run on suspenders some time? And if I don’t visit all my customers, whether they buy or not, they think I neglect ‘em. Who’s this, Jake? Your daughter?”
He turned his bland smile on Josie. He was a short, thickset man with a German cast of countenance. He spoke with a stronger German accent than did Kasker. Though his face persistently smiled, his eyes were half closed and shrewd. When he looked at her, Josie gave a little shudder and slightly drew back.
“Ah, that’s a wrong guess,” said Mr. Kauffman quickly. “I must beg your pardon, my girl. But I meant a compliment to you both. Accept my card, please,” and he drew it from his pocket and handed it to her with a bow.
Josie glanced at it:
“KAUFFMAN SUSPENDER COMPANY,
Chicago.
Abe Kauffman, President.”
“My business does not interest ladies,” he went on in a light tone meant to be jovial. “But with the men — ah! — with the men it’s a hold-up game. Ha, ha, hee! One of our trade jokes. It’s an elastic business; Kauffman’s suspenders keep their wearers in suspense. Ha, ha; pretty good, eh?”
“Do you ever sell any?” asked Josie curiously.
“Do I? Do I, Jake? Ha, ha! But not so many now; the war has ruined the suspender business, like everything else. Kasker can tell you that, miss.”
“Kasker won’t, though,” asserted Jake in a surly tone. The girl, however, was now on another scent.
“Don’t you like the war, then?” Josie asked the salesman.
“Like it?” the eyes half opened with a flash. “Who likes war, then? Does humanity, which bears the burden? For me — myself — I’ll say war is a good thing, but I won’t tell you why or how I profit by it; I’ll only say war is a curse to humanity and if I had the power I’d stop it tomorrow — to-day — this very hour! And, at that, I’d lose by it.”
His voice shook with a passion almost uncontrollable. He half rose from his chair, with clinched fists. But, suddenly remembering himself, or reading the expression on the girl’s face, he sank back again, passed his hand over his face and forced another bland, unmirthful smile.
“I’d hate to be the man who commits his country to war,” he said in mild, regretful tones.
But here, Kasker, who had been frowning darkly on the suspender man, broke in.
“See here, Abe; I don’t allow that kind of talk in my store,” he growled.
“You? You’re like me; you hate the war, Jake.”
“I did once, Abe, but I don’t now. I ain’t got time to hate it. It’s here, and I can’t help it. We’re in the war and we’re going ahead to win it, ‘cause there ain’t no hope in backing down. Stop it? Why, man, we can’t stop it. It’s like a man who is pushed off a high bank into a river; he’s got to swim to a landing on the other side, or else — sink. We Americans ain’t goin’ to sink, Abe Kauffman; we’ll swim over, and land safe. It’s got to be; so it will be.”
“All right. I said, didn’t I, that it won’t hurt my pocket? But it hurts my heart.” (Josie was amazed that he claimed a heart.) “But it’s funny to hear you talk for the war, Jake, when you always hated it.”
“Well, I’ve quit kickin’
till we’re out of the woods. I’m an American, Abe, and the American flag is flying in France. If our boys can’t hold it in the face of the enemy, Jake Kasker will go do it himself!”
Kauffman stood up, casting a glance of scorn on his customer.
“You talk like a fool, Jake; you talk like you was talking for the papers — not honest, but as if someone had scared you.”
“Yes; it’s the fellows like you that scare me,” retorted the clothing merchant. “Ev’ry time you curse the war you’re keeping us from winning the war as quick as we ought to; you’re tripping the soldiers, the government, the President — the whole machine. I’ll admit I don’t like the war, but I’m for it, just the same. Can you figure that out, Abe Kauffman? Once I had more sense than you have, but now I got a better way of thinking. It ain’t for me to say whether the war’s right or not; my country’s honor is at stake, so I’ll back my country to the last ditch.”
Kauffman turned away.
“I guess you don’t need any suspenders,” he said, and walked out of the store.
Kasker gave a sigh of relief and sat down again.
“Now, young lady,” he began, “we’ll talk about — ”
“Excuse me,” said Josie hastily. “I’m going, now; but I’ll be back. I want to see you again, Mr. Kasker.”
She ran down the aisle to the door, looked up and down the street and saw the thick-set form of the suspender salesman just disappearing around the corner to the south. Instantly she stepped out. Josie was an expert in the art of shadowing.
CHAPTER XVI
MRS. CHARLEWORTH
When Mary Louise reached home that evening she was surprised to find a note from Josie which said:
“I’ve decided to change my boarding place for a week or so, although I shall miss Aunt Sally’s cooking and a lot of other comforts. But this is business. If you meet me in the street, don’t recognize me unless I’m quite alone. We’ve quarrelled, if anyone asks you. Pretty soon we’ll make up again and be friends. Of course, you’ll realize I’m working on our case, which grows interesting. So keep mum and behave.”
“I wish I knew where she’s gone,” was Mary Louise’s anxious comment, as she showed the note to Gran’pa Jim.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” advised the colonel. “Josie possesses the rare faculty of being able to take care of herself under all circumstances. Had she not been so peculiarly trained by her detective father I would feel it a duty to search for her, but she is not like other girls and wouldn’t thank us for interfering, I’m sure.”
“I can’t see the necessity of her being so mysterious about it,” declared the girl. “Josie ought to know I’m worthy of her confidence. And she said, just the other day, that we’re partners.”
“You must be the silent partner, then,” said her grandfather, smiling at her vexed expression. “Josie is also worthy of confidence. She may blunder, but if so, she’ll blunder cleverly. I advise you to be patient with her.”
“Well, I’ll try, Gran’pa. When we see her again she will probably know something important,” said Mary Louise resignedly.
As for little, red-headed Josie O’Gorman, she walked into the office of the Mansion House that afternoon, lugging a battered suit-case borrowed from Aunt Sally, and asked the clerk at the desk for weekly rates for room and board. The clerk spoke to Mr. Boyle, the proprietor, who examined the girl critically.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“New York,” answered Josie. “I’m a newspaper woman, but the war cost me my job, because the papers are all obliged to cut down their forces. So I came here to get work.”
“The war affects Dorfield, too, and we’ve only two papers,” said the man. “But your business isn’t my business, in any event. I suppose you can pay in advance?”
“For a week, anyhow,” she returned; “perhaps two weeks: If the papers can’t use me, I’ll try for some other work.”
“Know anybody here?”
“I know Colonel Hathaway, but I’m not on good terms with his granddaughter, Mary Louise. We had a fight over the war. Give me a quiet room, not too high up. This place looks like a fire-trap.”
As she spoke, she signed her name on the register and opened her purse.
Boyle looked over his keyboard.
“Give me 47, if you can,” said Josie carelessly. She had swiftly run her eye over the hotel register. “Forty-seven is always my lucky number.”
“It’s taken,” said the clerk.
“Well, 43 is the next best,” asserted Josie. “I made forty-three dollars the last week I was in New York. Is 43 taken, also?”
“No,” said Boyle, “but I can do better by you. Forty-three is a small room and has only one window.”
“Just the thing!” declared Josie. “I hate big rooms.”
He assigned her to room 43 and after she had paid a week in advance a bellboy showed her to the tiny apartment and carried her suitcase.
“Number 45’ll be vacant in a day or two,” remarked the boy, as he unlocked her door. “Kauffman has it now, but he won’t stay long. He’s a suspender drummer and comes about every month — sometimes oftener — and always has 45. When he goes, I’ll let you know, so you can speak for it. Forty-five is one of our best rooms.”
“Thank you,” said Josie, and tipped him a quarter.
As she opened her suitcase and settled herself in the room, she reflected on the meeting in Kasker’s store which had led her to make this queer move.
“A fool for luck, they say,” she muttered. “I wonder what intuition induced me to interview Jake Kasker. The clothing merchant isn’t a bad fellow,” she continued to herself, looking over the notes she had made on her tablets. “He didn’t make a single disloyal speech. Hates the war, and I can’t blame him for that, but wants to fight it to a finish. Now, the other man — Kauffman — hates the war, too, but he did not make any remark that was especially objectionable; but that man’s face betrayed more than his words, and some of his words puzzled me. Kauffman said, at two different times, that the war would make him money. There’s only one way a man like him can make money out of the war, and that is — by serving the Kaiser. I suppose he thought we wouldn’t catch that idea, or he’d been more careful what he said. All criminals are reckless in little ways; that’s how they betray themselves and give us a chance to catch them. However, I haven’t caught this fellow yet, and he’s tricky enough to give me a long chase unless I act boldly and get my evidence before he suspects I’m on his trail. That must be my programme — to act quickly and lose no time.”
Kauffman saw her when she entered the hotel dining room for dinner that evening, and he walked straight over to her table and sat down opposite her.
“Met again!” he said with his broad smile. “You selling something?”
“Brains,” returned Josie composedly.
“Good! Did Jake Kasker buy any of you?”
“I’ve all my stock on hand, sir. I’m a newspaper woman — special writer or advertising expert. Quit New York last week and came on here.”
“Wasn’t New York good enough for you?” he asked, after ordering his dinner of the waitress.
“I’m too independent to suit the metropolitan journals. I couldn’t endorse their gumshoe policies. For instance, they wanted me to eulogize President Wilson and his cabinet, rave over the beauties of the war and denounce any congressman or private individual who dares think for himself,” explained Josie, eating her soup the while. “So — I’m looking for another job.”
Kauffman maintained silence, studying the bill-of-fare. When he was served he busied himself eating, but between the slits of his half-closed eyes he regarded the girl furtively from, time to time. His talkative mood had curiously evaporated. He was thoughtful. Only when Josie was preparing to leave the table did he resume the conversation.
“What did you think of Jake Kasker’s kind of patriotism?” he asked.
“Oh; the clothing man? I didn’t pay much attention. Never m
et Kasker before, you know. Isn’t he like most of the rabble, thinking what he’s told to think and saying what he’s told to say?”
She waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. Even this clever lead did not get a rise out of Abe Kauffman. Indeed, he seemed to suspect a trap, for when she rose and walked out of the dining room she noticed that his smile had grown ironical.
On reaching her room through the dimly lighted passage, Josie refrained from turning on her own lights, but she threw open her one little window and leaned out. The window faced a narrow, unlighted alley at the rear of the hotel. One window of Room 45, next to her, opened on an iron fire-escape that reached to within a few feet of the ground. Josie smiled, withdrew her head and sat in the dark of her room for hours, with a patience possible only through long training.
At ten o’clock Kauffman entered his room. She could distinctly hear him moving about. A little later he went away, walking boldly down the corridor to the elevator.
Josie rose and slipped on her hat and coat.
Leaving the hotel, Kauffman made his way down the street to Broadway, Dorfield’s main thoroughfare. He wore a soft hat and carried a cane. The few people he passed paid no attention to him. Steadily proceeding, he left the business district and after a while turned abruptly to the right.
This was one of the principal residence sections of the city. Kauffman turned the various corners with a confidence that denoted his perfect acquaintance with the route. But presently his pace slowed and he came to a halt opposite an imposing mansion set far back in ample grounds, beautifully cared for and filled with rare shrubbery.
Only for a moment, however, did the man hesitate — just long enough to cast a glance up and down the deserted street, which was fairly well lighted. No one being in sight, he stepped from the sidewalk to the lawn, and keeping the grass under his feet, noiselessly made his way through the shrubbery to the south side of the residence. Here a conservatory formed a wing which jutted into the grounds.
The German softly approached, mounted the three steps leading to a glass door, and rapped upon the sash in a peculiar manner. Almost immediately the door was opened by a woman, who beckoned him in. The conservatory was unlighted save by a mellow drift that filtered through the plants from a doorway beyond, leading to the main house.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 620