He closed the telephone book with a sharp snap, and again entered the waiting cab. And so now, back in the city, he dismissed it; that peculiar smile on his face as he gave the driver a liberal tip.
The case was complete!
The two parties who had journeyed on June eighth from the Twelfth Street depot had gone directly to the old, abandoned sanatorium, surrounded not only by country and by trees, but by a powerful wall built in the days of cheap masonry and cheaper brick. And frequently, if not daily, one of them — he who had paid off the green taxi driver — was journeying across the city, walking as far as the beginning of the Lincoln Avenue line, transferring at the Fullerton-Lincoln-Halsted junction to Halsted Street, and then going straight southward on that thoroughfare until he reached the heart of the ghetto. Here he was conferring — else rendering some sort of a report — to the present owner of the old sanatorium, no doubt the son of Dr. Leon Flandrau who had run it in the early days.
There was much to be done to-night. But the first thing Darrell did was to visit the small bank where he had deposited the clock. It was a quarter to eight when Darrell entered the little day-and-night bank and, presenting to the uninformed guard in front of the safety-box division his card, removed from one of the private vaults a certain newspaper parcel. And it was as much after eight oclock when he strode up the steps of the Call building — without that parcel, however, under his arm. But in the place of this encumbrance was instead something of a buoyant nature — a resolution born within him by the knowledge that locked in his mind was the biggest crime story that had broken in Chicago for many months.
As he strode into the city room, alive at this hour with the clatter of machines, the impatient calls for Benny Taylor, and the rush of figures in every direction, and came nearer to Crosby’s office, the resolve within him grew greater — greater — greater.
He stepped within the doorway, and Crosby looked up from his desk.
“I wonder if you can spare me a few minutes,” Darrell said to the city editor with a coolness in his voice.
Crosby leaned back in his swivel chair.
‘Of course, Darrell. What can I do for you?”
Darrell closed the door behind him, catching a glimpse as he did so of Feldock leaning back under the light over his mahogany desk, a pipe in his mouth, a copy of a popular magazine in his hands. And his one glimpse of that hateful personage inflamed to white heat the resolution Darrell had just made.
He dropped into the chair which stood at Crosby’s desk. He began to speak. It was a strange story that he told Crosby, a story which held the city editor enthralled. It mentioned no names. It told how a young man of the city had conceived the idea of a great joke, how he had buried himself in wax, how he had been kidnaped after the undertaker had successfully completed the funeral. Bit by bit Darrell detailed the great web. But only one actual name passed his lips: the name of Carl von Tresseler. At length he finished with his tale. He had related what appeared almost to be a fantastic fiction story. Crosby was on his feet, pacing up and down.
“My God, Darrell, it’s the biggest story of the day. Compliments, my boy. Compliments. Congratulations. And you say you have every name, every location, every address involved? Why on earth did you select this way to present it to me?”
“Because,” said Darrell, “I have reached a decision upon something which has been rankling in me for a number of days and nights.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Crosby, you people — and I’m referring to you and the Old Man — played me what I consider a shabby, low trick when you took my name off the feature end of the paper, and ordered me to write my best stories hereafter under the name of that man in there — that contemptible Feldock — that insect who was not content with hurling a covert insult at me in the hearing of yourself and the Old Man, but had to pull an unethical stunt such as the one involved in the Theresa Heinemann interview.
“But I’ve been a newspaper man long enough to know that in my hands to-night is a story that gives me an entrée and a job on any paper in the city. I don’t have to go to a city editor now empty handed. I’ve got the goods. I’ve got the goods. Crosby, the choicest goods I’ve ever had in my career in this game. And now I’m offering it to you just as I intend, if you reject it, to offer it to various other newspapers. Do you want that story? And if so, do you want me to continue writing on this paper under the name of Jeffrey Darrell badly enough to put it into the form of a contract for one year? Or shall I take the story somewhere else? Every detail of it, remember, is locked up in my own brain. The clock, likewise, is locked up in the safe of a friend. Remember that, too, please. And by midnight to-night you haven’t a chance in the world to unearth one quarter of what I’ve already unearthed.”
A tense silence followed Darrell’s ultimatum. It was a silence in which Crosby surveyed the younger man with a strange look in his own eyes. In that look was neither anger nor reproach. It was a questioning gaze. The silence grew oppressive. Crosby spoke. His voice was quiet, low, firm.
“Jeff Darrell, I’m going to say a few things to you now. And they may not sound pleasant to your ears.” He paused a bare second and then went on. “You’ve been a pretty honorable chap, Darrell, in the months you’ve been with the Call. And I’m going to tell you frankly now that neither the Call nor myself is going to accede to your demands — for that’s all they are. Darrell, you’re deliberately holding us up simply because you’ve got the goods to do it with. And in doing that, you’re no better than a thug with a gun in his hand. Of course you can go to any paper in the city with that story and get in big. But that’s neither here nor there. In fact, it’s not the question at all.” He stood, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking down at Darrell. “Darrell, whose time did you work out that story on? Whose money have you been using while you’ve been footloose on that yarn?”
Darrell’s face suddenly reddened.
“But I got the initial tip from a personal friend of mine in Chinatown,” he said.
“Never mind that,” said Crosby patiently. “Answer my question, please. Whose money and whose time furnished that story, Darrell?”
Darrell laughed uneasily.
“I suppose you allude to the fact that I drew ahead on you last night on both salary and expenses?”
“Exactly,” was Crosby’s reply. “That and nothing more. Darrell, if after using our time, our connections, our badges, our offices, our money, you proceed to carry that story to another paper, you’re a whelp, the lowest dog that lives, and you’ve lost even a speaking acquaintance with honor. Darrell, you’re going to give us that story complete — and we, likewise, are going to run it under the name of Marvin Feldock. In other words, his name gets the credit just as you, the Old Man, and I agreed a week ago to-morrow night. This is no threat. Understand that, please. It is the prediction that a man who really possesses honor can clearly see where honor lies. Now what have you got to say about the question?”
Darrell sat where he was a long time. He bit his under lip. The ethical phase of the question had not struck him until Crosby had flung it boldly into his face. He knew that he himself held all the cards, but he knew too now that Crosby held a bigger trump card than any — the point of honor involved. At length he spoke, bitterly.
“You win, Mr. Crosby. Get your friend Inspector Notman on the wire. Get whatever men you want to detail on the case. I’m going to write out for you all the names, addresses, locations and details of every point in the story. Furthermore, I’ll write you the story myself to-night as soon as we gather in the principals. I’ll give Feldock the biggest send-off he’s ever got — as big as any paper in the Middle West could give him. And after I’ve written it I’m done. I resign from the Calll, to take effect at dead line to-night.”
He rose, strode from the office and went straight to his typewriter in the city room to fill out the names and addresses connected with his story of stories. He was hurt, recriminative, mortified, as much to think that he had forgotten what Crosby had been
obliged to point out to him — his honor — as anything else. He felt suddenly glad that he was to resign to-night — that after the presses had begun to carry his story he would be done with the Call for good.
True, it threw him on the streets empty handed, without even a card to carry to another paper. And of all times — now that there was a girl in the case — a girl with great, tender eyes! But his lips tightened into a hard line as he finally drew his paper from his platen with a staccato click. There were still some points about this story that he wanted to settle in his own mind. Their settlement involved the calling of a man in Chicago. That man was Chi Tsung Liang. Then he was done with the Call — and done for good.
He walked into Crosby’s office and laid the typewritten notations on the city editor’s desk.
CHAPTER XXII
A Man in a Red-brown Beard
CROSBY already had the phone drawn over to him as Darrell entered the private office with the typewritten list of names. He was talking rapidly into the transmitter:
“Yes, Bob, we’ve unearthed an astonishing criminal case. And to handle it with fairness to us, I’ll have to ask a favor of you that I asked once before in our friendship. Here it is. If this thing pans out — and there’s no doubt it will, for the reporter who handled it has worked it out like an algebraic problem — I suggest that we hold the hearings here in the Call office, as we did once before. Yes, the old linotype room adjoins my office, so we’ll have space galore. Entrance to it is through the same old alley door, and up the rear stairway. Good. Then you’ll be over in fifteen minutes. I’ll have the story gone over again entirely for you by the man who worked it out. I intend to hold back the dead line if necessary to throw it into print to-night. See you later.”
He hung up and swung about in his chair.
“Inspector Notman is willing to hold all hearings of arrested men to-night in the office here so as to prevent all chances of leakage. It pays to have friends on the force, eh, Darrell?” He ran his eyes quickly over the list of names. “Ah — urn — yes — yes. Good for you, Darrell. It’s a humdinger, all right, all right.” He looked up. “Now I think Notman will arrange for wholesale arrests and the raid of that dump out in the weeds as soon as he hears all the details of the story. So first let’s decide on which of our men we’ll use to cover all the branches of it. We’ll take no chances on any but the old hands on this yarn. Let’s see.” He took up the assignment book and scanned it hurriedly. “Goff, the camera man, is in the building. Good. Also young Heyley his assistant. Heyley is young, but we can trust him absolutely. And there’s Rodson, Hunter, and Farley, all out there in the city room hammering away. Bronman — no, I won’t risk him. Not been here long enough. There’s Elkins — he’s over at the Chicago Athletic Club on a piffling story — I’ll have him back here in a jiffy.
“There’ll be yourself of course. I think, so long as you’ve been over the ground once, you’d better go out with whatever raiding party Notman sends to Lincoln Road. Goff and his camera, also Rodson, can go along with your party. Feldock I’ll send out with the party that makes the arrest of this myterious Dr. Victor Flandrau. Interesting things may develop there, and chances are they’ll have Flandrau back here first of all. If so, Feldock can get his copy under way. And get the clock over here, Darrell, right away. Now how about the girl in the case? Can we get her over here — or at least a good picture of her?”
Darrell nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ll get her on the phone. Her ankle has allowed her to walk since this morning.” A faint smile illumined his face, then he became serious once more. “Well, while Notman and his men are getting over here, and you’re bringing the men together, I’ll be ringing up a couple of people and tending to some private matters. I’ll be back with you inside of fifteen minutes or so, and I’ll have the clock with me.” He fumbled in his pockets. “Here are the keys to Napoleon Foy’s laundry. They belong to Corrigan. And here’s a photo of John Cooper Jarndyce — property of the Call. Here’s the torn green taxi cab ticket. And here’s the key to John Cooper Jarndyce’s bungalow.”
He left Crosby without a further word, and proceeding down the steps of the Call building went into a public telegraph office on Market Street, where he stepped into the telephone booth in the corner of the room.
“Hello, Mo Kee. This is Jeff Darrell speaking. Your master, Chi Tsung Liang, was supposed to get back from Philadelphia Thursday night, according to Mrs. Chi’s statement to me last Monday. This is Thursday night. Is he back yet?”
“Sure he back,” announced Mo Kee. “Mist’ Chi joos got in f’um Pheedephia ‘bout hour ago. You keep tight hold wire. I go get ‘im.” And sixty seconds later the cultivated, courteous tones of Chi Tsung Liang himself were emanating from the receiver.
For perhaps ten minutes Darrell talked with his Chinese friend, and when he hung up his face bore a queerly puzzled look. Somewhat dazed, he leaned against the directory shelf in the booth thinking, and finally again raised the receiver. This time he called a number which was that of a far-from-unimportant office in the county building — an office which he had called many times during the past years.
After stating his official position, Darrell asked a number of questions of the man at the other end of the wire. To each of his questions he received replies, the last taken directly from a record book of some sort. At last he hung up and his face was stern as he emerged from the booth and proceeded directly to the desk which was placed in the telegraph office for the benefit of customers. Dropping down in the chair in front of it, he penned two long messages. He carried them to the counter, over to which a one-legged telegraph operator, crutch in hand, eyeshade over his eyes, hobbled quickly. He greeted Darrell with a friendly nod.
“Lew,” said the reporter, “I want you to push these two messages through, no matter how the traffic on the wires stands. I’ll not forget you if you do. Make ‘em both ‘Answer prepaid,’ with return address ‘Jeffrey Darrell, care of the Call.’ Shoot the replies, if any, to me over at the paper. I’ll drop in to-night after we go to press and settle up the bill in full.”
“O.K.,” said he with the crutch. “Traffic’s light to-night. I’ll put ‘em both on the wires within ten minutes.”
Again Darrell imprisoned himself in the telephone booth where already he had rung two separate numbers, but in response to the number he now called the smooth, girlish tones of Iris, in the Rita Thorne apartment, answered the wire.
“Honey girl,” he said hurriedly, “I have but the fraction of a moment to talk to you, but I want you to take a taxicab to-night and come directly to the Call. We believe here that the case is at an end, and we expect to throw the whole story into the morning edition. I want you to bring the very nicest photograph of yourself that you have — two of them if you have them. Now can you get in touch with Catherwood?”
“Catherwood,” she said, “dropped in just an hour ago on his way to the depot. He was leaving Chicago within thirty minutes, going to New York for his employer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Darrell, “but after all we don’t really need him. Except a picture of him. Have you a photograph of Catherwood?”
“Yes, Jeffrey. A splendid one.”
“Good enough then. Bring that one with your own. Now, honey girl, get here — say — around eleven o’clock or so, as everybody working on the story will be busy up until at least that time.”
And with a hurried good-by, they each hung up, and Darrell turned his footsteps this time toward Charley Gibbons’ cigar store on the corner, where he emerged a minute later, headed for the Call building, and carrying under his arm the newspaper-wrapped clock which the cigar man had placed in his safe for Darrell, pending his set-to with his city editor.
Arriving in the city room, Darrell went at once to his typewriter, where, running in a sheet of blank paper, he wrote out upon it a single line of black type. Taking from his pocket a crisp ten-dollar bill, he inclosed it with the sheet, and sealed them both in an envelope which he ad
dressed with a single name. With it in his hand he walked over to young Dunbar, a callow cub who sat blinking in front of his typewriter.
“Dunbar, I want you to do me a favor. When the bearer of yon name appears within hailing distance of your eyes, I wish you would hand unto him this note, and tell him that Mr. Darrell sent it to him.”
Young Dunbar gazed at it.
“Benny Taylor, eh? The kid. Sure I’ll give it to him. The kid went upstairs to the morgue a few minutes ago, and I suppose he’s reading Old Sleuth’ in one of the corners of the hallway.” He stowed it away in his breast pocket.
Whereupon Darrell took himself at last into Crosby’s office.
Goff, the camera man was there. Also his assistant, young Heyley. Elkins, the veteran police reporter, puffed away on his customary black cigar. Rodson, Feldock, Farley, and Hunter were all seated on chairs around Crosby’s desk. The room was beginning to be thick with smoke. An air of expectancy permeated the entire space inclosed by the four walls. And as Darrell closed the door behind him, Inspector Notman of the detective bureau, tall, ungainly, his hair cut low on his temples, his equally dark mustache with slightly drooping ends, but his general stolidity of appearance belied by his black eyes that literally snapped with vigor and fire, strode, through the door which connected with the old linotype room and in turn with the alley. At the shoulders of the big figure followed Corrigan and Burns, his satellites. Whereupon Crosby rose and going to each door in turn, clicked the keys in their respective locks.
“Sit down, inspector. Chairs over there by the wall. Draw them up to the desk here. The rest of you the same. I want you all to hear the most amazing yarn you’ve heard for a long time. I predict that Mr. Feldock’s name goes on the Chicago map to-morrow morning with a bang. Likewise I predict that we’re all going to be mighty busy during the next few hours. Goff, I hope our camera is in a No. 1 condition, for you’re going to take many a picture to-night. Same with you, Heyley. All right, Darrell. Start from the beginning now, and using the names and addresses you’ve given me on this sheet, tell us all the entire story once more.”
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