The Ear in the Wall

by Arthur B. Reeve

  X

  THE AFTERNOON DANCE

  It was early the following morning that I missed Kennedy from ourapartment. Naturally I guessed from my previous experiences with thatgentleman that he would most likely be found at his laboratory, and Idid not worry, but put the finishing touches on a special article forthe Star which I had promised for that day and had already nearlycompleted.

  Consequently it was not until the forenoon that I sauntered around tothe Chemistry Building. Precisely as I had expected, I found Kennedythere at work.

  I had been there scarcely a quarter of an hour when the door opened andClare Kendall entered with a cheery greeting. It was evident that shehad something to report.

  "The letter to Betty Blackwell which you sent to the Montmartre hascome back, unopened," she announced, taking from her handbag a letterstamped with the post-office form indicating that the addressee couldnot be found and that the letter was returned to the sender. Thestamped hand of the post-office pointed to the upper left-hand cornerwhere Clare had written in a fictitious name and used an address towhich she frequently had mail sent when she wanted it secret.

  "Only on the back," she pursued, turning the letter over, "there aresome queer smudges. What are they? They don't look like dirt."

  Kennedy glanced at it only casually, as if he had fully expected theincident to turn out as it did.

  "Not unopened, Miss Kendall," he commented. "We have already had alittle scientific letter-opening. This was a case of scientificletter-sealing. That was a specially prepared envelope."

  He reached down into his desk and pulled out another, sealed itcarefully, dried it, then held it over a steaming pan of water untilthe gum was softened and it could be opened again. On the back weresmudges just like those on the letter that had been returned.

  "On the thin line of gum on the flap of the envelope," he explained, "Ihave placed first a coating of tannin, over which is the gum. Then onthe part of the envelope to which the flap adheres when it is sealed Iplaced some iron sulphate. When I sealed the envelope so carefully Ibrought the two together separated only by the thin film of gum. Nowwhen steam is applied to soften the gum, the usual method of theletter-opener, the tannin and the sulphate are brought together. Theyrun and leave these blots or dark smudges. So, you see, someone hasbeen found at the Montmartre, even if it is not Betty Blackwellherself, who has interest enough in the case to open a letter to herbefore handing it back to the postman. That shows us that we are on theright trail at least, even if it does not tell us who is at the end ofthe trail. Here's another thing; This 'Marie' is a new one. We mustfind out about her."

  "At the Futurist Tea Room at four this afternoon, when she meets ourgood friend, young Dr. Harris," reminded Clare. "Between cabarets andtea rooms I don't know whether this is work or play."

  "It's work, all right," smiled Kennedy, adding, "at least it would beif it weren't lightened by your help."

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Craig and I left the laboratoryto keep our appointment with Miss Kendall at the Futurist Tea Room,where we hoped to find Dr. Harris's friend "Marie," who seemed to wantto see him so badly.

  A long line of touring and town cars as well as taxicabs bore eloquenttestimony not only to the popularity of this tea room and cabaret, butto the growth of afternoon dancing. One never realizes how large aleisure class there is in the city until after a visit to anything froma baseball game to a matinee--and a dance. People seemed literally tobe flocking to the Futurist. They seemed to like its congeniality, itstone, its "atmosphere."

  As we left our hats to the tender mercies of the "boys" who had thechecking concession we could see that the place was rapidly filling up.

  "If we are to get a table that we want here, we'd better get it now,"remarked Kennedy, slipping the inevitable piece of change to the headwaiter. "If we sit over there in that sort of little bower we can seewhen Miss Kendall arrives and we shall not be so conspicuous ourselves,either."

  The Futurist was not an especially ornate place, although a great dealof money had evidently been expended in fitting it up to attract arecherche clientele.

  Our table, which Kennedy had indicated, was, as he had said, in a sortof little recess, where we could see without being much observedourselves, although that seemed almost an impossibility in such aplace. In fact, I noticed before we had had time to seat ourselves thatwe had already attracted the attention of two show girls who sat downthe aisle and were amusing themselves at watching us by means of amirror. It would not have been very difficult to persuade them todispense with the mirror.

  A moment later Clare Kendall entered and paused at the door an instant,absorbing the gay scene as only a woman and a detective could. Craigrose and advanced to meet her, and as she caught sight of us her facebrightened. The show girls eyed her narrowly and with but slightapproval.

  "We feel more at ease with a lady in the party," remarked Craig, asthey reached the table and I rose to greet her. "Two men alone here arequite as noticeable as two ladies. Walter, I know, was quiteuncomfortable."

  "To say nothing of the fact which you omitted," I retaliated, "that itis a pleasure to be with Miss Kendall--even if we must talk shop allthe time."

  Clare smiled, for her quick intuition had already taken in anddismissed as of no importance the two show girls. We ordered as amatter of course, then settled back for a long interval until thewaiter out of the goodness of his heart might retrieve whatever waspossible from the mob of servitors where refreshments were dispensed.

  "Opposite us," whispered Clare, resting her chin on her interlockedfingers and her elbows on the tip-edge of the table, "do you see thatathletic-looking young lady, who seems to be ready for anything fromtea to tango? Well, the man with her is Martin Ogleby."

  Ogleby was of the tall, sloping-shouldered variety, whom one can see onthe Avenue and in the clubs and hotels in such numbers that it almostseems that there must be an establishment for turning them out, evendown to a trademark concealed somewhere about them, "Made in England."Only Ogleby seemed a little different in the respect that one felt thatif all the others were stamped by the same die, he was the die, atleast. Compared to him many of the others took on the appearance ofspurious counterfeits.

  "Dr. Harris," Craig whispered, indicating to us the direction with hiseyes.

  Outside on a settee, we could see in the corridor a man waiting,restless and ill at ease. Now and then he looked covertly at his watchas if he expected someone who was late and he wondered if anythingcould be amiss.

  Just then a superbly gowned woman alighted from a cab. The starterbowed as if she were familiar. It was evident that this was the womanfor whom Harris waited, the "Marie" of the letter.

  She was a carefully groomed woman, as artificial as French heels. Yetindeed it was that studied artificiality which constituted her chiefattraction. As Harris greeted her I noted that Clare was amazed at thedaring cut of her gown, which excited comment even at the Futurist.

  Her smooth, full, well-rounded face with its dark olive skin and just afaint trace of colour on either cheek, her snappy hazel eyes whose firewas heightened by the penciling of the eyebrows, all were a marvel ofthe dexterity of her artificial beautifier. And yet in spite of allthere was an air of unextinguishable coarseness about her which it wasdifficult to describe, but easy to feel. "Her lips are too thick andher mouth too large," remarked Clare, "and yet in some incomprehensibleway she gives you the impression of daintiness. What is it?"

  "The woman is frankly deceptive from the tip of her aigrette to thetoes of her shoes," observed Craig.

  "And yet," smiled Clare, watching with interest the little stir herarrival had made among the revellers, "you can see that she is the envyof every woman here who has slaved and toiled for that same effectwithout approaching within miles of it or attracting one quarter thenotice for her pains that this woman receives."

  Dr. Harris was evidently in his element at the attention which hiscompanion attracted. They seemed to be on very good terms i
ndeed, andone felt that Bohemianism could go no further.

  They paused, fortunately, at a just vacated table around an "L" from usand sat down. For once waiters seemed to vie in serving rather than inneglecting.

  By this time I had gained the impression that the Futurist was all thatits name implied--not up to the minute, but decidedly ahead of it.There was an exotic flavour to the place, a peculiar fascination, thatwas foreign rather than American, at seeing demi-monde and decencyrubbing elbows. I felt sure that a large percentage of the women therewere really young married women, whose first step downward was trulynothing worse than saying they had been at their whist clubs when inreality it was tango and tea. What the end might be to one who let thefascination blind her perspective I could imagine.

  Dr. Harris and "Marie" were nearer the dancing floor than we were, butseemed oblivious to it. Now and then as the music changed we couldcatch a word or two.

  He was evidently making an effort to be gay, to counteract the feelingwhich she had concealed as she came in, but which had the upper handnow that they were seated.

  "Won't you dance?" I heard him say.

  "No, Harry. I came here to tell you about how things are going."

  There was a harshness about her voice which I recognized as belongingexclusively to one class of women in the city. She lowered it as shewent on talking earnestly.

  "It looks as though someone has squealed, but who--" I caught in thefragmentary lulls of the revelry.

  "I didn't know it was as bad as that," Dr. Harris remarked.

  They talked almost in whispers for several moments while I strained myears to catch a syllable, but without success. What were they talkingabout? Was it about Dopey Jack? Or did they know something about BettyBlackwell? Perhaps it was about the Black Book. Even when the musicstopped they talked without dropping a word.

  The music started again. There was no mistaking the appeal that therocking whirl of the rhythmic dance made. From the side of the tablewhere Kennedy was seated he could catch an occasional glimpse of theface of Marie. I noticed that he had torn a blank page off the back ofthe menu and with a stub of a pencil was half idly writing.

  At the top he had placed the word, "Nose," followed by "straight, withnostrils a trifle flaring," and some other words I could not quitecatch. Beneath that he had written "Ears," which in turn was followedby some words which he was setting down carefully. Eyes, chin, andmouth followed, until I began to realize that he was making a sort ofscientific analysis of the woman's features.

  "I shall need some more--" I caught as the music softened unexpectedly.

  A singer on the little platform was varying the programme now by a soloand I shifted my chair so as to get a better view and at the same timealso a look at the table around the corner from us.

  As I did so I saw Dr. Harris reach into his breast pocket and take outa little package which he quickly handed to Marie. As their hands met,their eyes met also. I fancied that the doctor struggled todemagnetize, so to speak, the look which she gave him.

  "You'll come to see me--afterwards?" she asked, dropping the littlepackage into her handbag of gold mesh and rattling the variousaccoutrements of beautification which tinkled next to it.

  Harris nodded.

  "You're a life saver to some--" floated over to me from Marie.

  The solo had been completed and the applause was dying away.

  "... tells me he needs ... badly off ... don't forget to see ..."

  The words came in intervals. What they meant I did not know, but Istrove to remember them. Evidently Marie and a host of others weredepending on Harris for something. At any rate, it seemed, now that shehad talked she felt easier in mind, as one does after carrying a weighta long time in secret.

  "Tanguez-vous?" he asked as the orchestra struck up again.

  "Yes--thank you, Harry--just one."

  We watched the couple attentively as they were alternately lost andfound in the dizzy swaying mass. The music became wilder and they threwthemselves into the abandon of the dance.

  They had been absorbed so much in each other and the unburdening ofwhatever it was she had wanted to tell him, that neither had noticedthe other couple on the other side of the floor whose presence haddivided our own attention.

  Martin Ogleby and his partner were not dancing. It was warm and theywere among the lucky ones who had succeeded in getting somethingbesides a cheque from the waiters. Two tall glasses of ginger ale witha long curl of lemon peel sepentining through the cracked ice stoodbefore them.

  The dance had brought Dr. Harris and Marie squarely around to within afew feet of where Ogleby was sitting. As Harris swung around she facedOgleby in such a way that he could not avoid her, nor could she havepossibly missed seeing him.

  For a moment their eyes met. Not a muscle in either face moved. It wasas if they were perfect strangers. She turned and murmured something toher partner. Ogleby leaned over, without the least confusion, and madea witty remark to his partner. It was over in a minute. The acting ofboth could not have been better if they had deliberately practisedtheir parts. What did it mean?

  As the dance concluded I saw Ogleby glance hastily over in thedirection of Marie. He gave a quick smile of recognition, as much as tosay "Thank you."

  It was evident now that both Dr. Harris and Marie, whoever she was,were getting ready to leave. As they rose to move to the door, Kennedyquickly paid our own cheque, leaving the change to the waiter, andwithout seeming to do so we followed them.

  Harris was standing near the starter with his hat off, apparentlymaking his adieux. Deftly Kennedy managed to slip in behind so as to benext in line for a cab.

  "Walter and I will follow Harris if they separate," he whispered toClare Kendall. "You follow the woman."

  The afternoon was verging toward dinner and people were literallybribing the taxicab starter. Our own cab stood next in line behind thatwhich Harris had called.

  "I have certainly enjoyed this little glimpse of Bohemia," commentedKennedy to Miss Kendall as we waited. "I shouldn't mind if detectivework took me more often to afternoon dances. There, they are going downthe steps. Here's the cab I called. Let me know how things turn out.Goodbye. Here--chauffeur, around that way--where that other cab isgoing--the lady will tell you where to drive."

  Harris hesitated a moment as if considering whether to take a cabhimself, then slowly turned and strolled down the street.

  We followed, slowly also. There was something unreal about the brightafternoon sunshine after the atmosphere of the Futurist Tea Room, whereeverything had been done to promote the illusion of night.

  Harris walked along meditatively, crossing one street after another,not as if debating where he was going, but rather in no great hurry toget there.

  Instead of going down Broadway he swerved into Seventh Avenue, thenafter a few blocks turned into a side street, quickened his pace, andat last dived down into a basement under a saloon.

  It was a wretched neighbourhood, one of those which reminds one of thelife of an animal undergoing a metamorphosis. Once it had evidentlybeen a rather nice residential section. The movement of populationuptown had left it stranded to the real estate speculators, lessdesirable to live in, but more valuable for the future. The moving inof anyone who could be got to live there had led to rapid deteriorationand a mixed population of whites and negroes against the day when theupward sweep of business should bring the final transformation intooffice and loft buildings. But for the present it was decaying, out ofrepair, a mass of cheap rooming-houses, tenements, and mixed races.

  The joint into which Harris had gone was the only evidence of anythinglike prosperity on the block, and that evidence was confined to the twoentrances on the street, one leading into the ground floor and theother down a flight of steps to the basement.

  "Do you want to go in?" asked Kennedy in a tone that indicated that hehimself was going.

  Just then a negro, dazzling in the whiteness of his collar and thebrilliancy of his checked suit, came up t
he stairs accompanied by alight mulatto.

  "It's a black and tan joint," Craig went on, "at leastdownstairs--negro cabaret, and all that sort of thing."

  "I'm game," I replied.

  We stumbled down the worn steps, past a swinging door near which stoodthe proprietor with a careful eye on arrivals and departures. The placewas deceiving from the outside. It really extended through two houses,and even at this early hour it was fairly crowded.

  There were negroes of all degrees of shading, down to those who werealmost white. Scattered about at the various tables were perhaps half adozen white women, tawdry imitations of the faster set at the Futuristwhich we had just left, the leftovers of a previous generation in theTenderloin. There was also a fair sprinkling of white men, equallydegraded. White men and coloured women, white women and coloured men,chatted here and there, but for the most part the habitues werenegroes. At any rate the levelling down seemed to have producedsomething like an equality of races in viciousness.

  As we sat down at a table, Kennedy remarked: "They used to drift downto Chinatown, a good many of these relics. You used to see them in theold 'suicide halls' of the Bowery, too. But that is all passing awaynow. Reform and agitation have closed up those old dives. Now they tryto veneer it over with electric lights and bright varnish, but Isuppose it comes to the same thing. After they are cast off Broadway,the next step lower is the black and tan joint. After that it issuicide, unless it is death."

  "I don't think this is any improvement over the--the bad old days," Iventured.

  Kennedy shook his head in agreement. "There's Harris, down there in theback, talking to someone, a white man, alone."

  A waiter came over to us grinning, for we had assumed the role ofsightseers.

  "Who is that, 'way back there, with his chair tipped to the wall,talking to the man with his back to us?" asked Kennedy.

  "Ike the Dropper, sah," informed the waiter with obvious pride thatsuch a celebrity should be harboured here.

  I looked with a feeling akin to awe at the famous character who, incommon with many others of his type, had migrated uptown from theproverbial haunts of the gunmen on the East Side in search of pasturesnew and untroubled.

  Ike the Dropper may have once been a strong-arm man, but at present Iknew that he was chiefly noted for the fact, and he and his kind werereputed to be living on the earnings of women to whom they weresupposed to afford "protection." I reflected on the passing glories ofbrutality which had sunk so low.

  There were noise and life a plenty here. At a discordant box of a pianoa negro performer was playing with a keen appreciation of time if ofnothing else, and two others with voices that might not have beenunpopular in a decent minstrel show were rendering a popular air. Theywore battered straw hats and a make-up which was intended to begrotesque.

  From time to time, as the pianist was moved, he played snatches of thesame music as that which we had heard at the Futurist, and between usand Harris and Ike the Dropper several couples were one-stepping, eachin their own sweet way. As the music became more lively their dancingcame more and more to resemble some of the almost brutal Apache dancesof Paris, in that the man seemed to exert sheer force and the womanagility in avoiding him. It was an entirely new phase of afternoondancing, an entirely new "leisure class," this strange combination ofBohemia and Senegambia.

  At a table next to us, so near that we could almost rub elbows withthem, sat a white man and a white woman. They had been talking in lowtones, but I could catch whole sentences now and then, for they seemedto be making no extraordinary effort at concealment.

  "He was framing a sucker to get away with a whole front," I heard theman say, "or with a poke or a souper, but instead he got dropped by aflatty and was canned for a sleep."

  "Two dips--pickpockets," whispered Craig. "Someone was trying to takeeverything a victim had, or at least his pocketbook or watch, butinstead he was arrested by a detective and locked up over night."

  "Good work," I laughed. "You are 'some' translator."

  I looked at our neighbours with a certain amount of respect. Were theyframing up something themselves? At any rate I felt that I would rathersee them here and know what they were than to be jostled by them in astreet car. The sleek proprietor kept a careful eye on them and I knewthat a sort of unwritten law would prevent them from trying on anythingthat would endanger their welcome in a joint none too savoury already.

  Nevertheless I was quite interested in the bits of pickpocket argotthat floated across to us, expressions like "crossing the mit,""nipping a slang," a "mouthpiece," "making a holler" and innumerableother choice bits as unintelligible to me as "Beowulf."

  After a few minutes the woman got up and went out, leaving the manstill sitting at the table. Of course it was none of my business whatthey were doing, I suppose, but I could not help being interested.

  That diversion being ended, I joined Kennedy in his scrutiny of Harrisand his choice friend. Of course at our distance it was absolutelyimpossible to gain any idea of what they were talking about, and indeedour chief concern was not to attract any attention. Whatever it was,they were very earnest about it and paid no attention to us.

  The dancing had ceased and the two "artists" were entertaining theselect audience with some choice bits of ragtime. We could see Ike theDropper and Dr. Harris still talking.

  Suddenly Kennedy nudged me. I looked up in time to see Dr. Harris reachinto his inside breast pocket again and quietly slip out a package muchlike that which we had already seen him hand to Marie at the Futurist.Ike took it, looked at it a moment with some satisfaction, then stuffedit down carefully into the right-hand outside pocket of his coat.

  "I wonder what that is that Harris seems to be passing out to them?"mused Craig.

  "Drugs, perhaps," I ventured offhand.

  "Maybe. I'd like to know for certain."

  Just then Harris and Ike rose and walked down on the other side of theplace toward the door. Kennedy turned his head so that even if theyshould look in our direction they would not see his face. I did thesame. Fortunately neither seemed interested in the other occupants.Harris having evidently fulfilled his mission, whether of deliveringthe package or receiving news which Ike seemed to be pouring into hisear, had but one thought, to escape from a place which was evidentlydistasteful to him. At the door they paused for a moment and spoke withthe proprietor. He nodded reassuringly once or twice to Dr. Harris,much to the relief, I thought, of that gentleman.

  Kennedy was chafing under the restraint which kept him in thebackground and prevented any of his wizardry of mechanicaleavesdropping. I fancied that his roving eye was considering variousmeans of utilizing his seemingly inexhaustible ingenuity if occasionshould arise.

  At last Harris managed to shake hands good-bye and disappeared up thesteps to the sidewalk still followed by Ike.

  Kennedy leaned over and looked the "dip" sitting alone back of ussquarely in the face.

  "Would you like to make twenty-five dollars--just like that?" he askedwith a quick gesture that accorded very well with the slang.

  The man looked at him very suspiciously, as if considering what kind ofnew game this was.

  "That was your gun moll who just went out, wasn't it?" pursued Kennedywith assurance.

  "Aw, come off. Whatyer givin' us?" responded the man half angrily.

  "Don't stall. I know. I'm not one of the bulls, either. It's just aplain proposition. Will you or won't you take twenty-five of easymoney?"

  Kennedy's manner seemed to mystify him. For a moment he looked us over,then seemed to decide that we were all right.

  "How?" he asked in a harsh but not wholly ungracious whisper. "I'll tipyer off if the boss is lookin'. He don't like no frame-ups in here."

  "You saw Ike the Dropper go out with that man?"

  "The guy with the glasses?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  "The guy with the glasses gave Ike a little package which Ike put intothe right-hand outside pocket of his coat. Now it's
worth twenty-fivebeans to me to get that package--get me?"

  "I gotyer. Slip me a five now and the other twenty if I get it."

  Kennedy appeared to consider.

  "I'm on the level," pursued the dip. "Me and the goil is in hard luckwith a mouthpiece who wants fifty bucks to beat the case for one of thebest tools we ever had in our mob that they got right to-day."

  "From that I take it that one of your pals needs fifty dollars for alawyer to get him out of jail. Well, I'll take a chance. Bring thepackage to me at--well, the Prince Henry cafe. I'll be there at seveno'clock."

  The pickpocket nodded, slid from his place and sidled out of the jointwithout attracting any attention.

  "What's the lay?" I asked.

  "Oh, I just want that package, that's all. Come on, Walter. We might aswell go before any of these yellow girls speak to us and frame upsomething on us."

  The proprietor bowed as much as to say, "Come again and bring yourfriends."