Part 10

“So is mine,” said Lanagan quickly, “and it is this: I will guarantee you, Miss Northrup, the support of the _Enquirer_, and I will secure for you as counsel my personal friend, Mr. William Hadden, the ablest man in the West, to present your case to a jury in the proper manner to secure the acquittal that you are entitled to.”

It was then after one o’clock. We left Leslie at the house to bring the girl to the city prison after she had an opportunity of parting from her family. Leslie was to contrive not to book her before half-past two to save our “exclusive.” By that time the _Times_ and the _Herald_ would be gone to press.

On our hurried trip to the office--where I took vast delight marching in on Sampson with a grin--Lanagan supplied me with the missing links. He spoke of finding a few strands from a manila rope sticking beneath the radiator and of his instant surmise as to the precise way in which the escape had been made. Monahan located Bartlett, Monteagle’s former chauffeur, who had taken a public stand, and from him learned of the rope that Monteagle had in his closet which Bartlett had bought. Lanagan knew from his careful search that the rope was not in the closet when he made his examination, and he promptly concluded that Miss Grace Northrup must have known who committed the crime. She knew the rope was there, according to Bartlett, and Lanagan rightly surmised that she must have known of its disappearance.

Robbery not having been the motive, Lanagan had “rapped” to the theory of a jealous or vengeful woman who had deliberately marred the features after death. His police experience had included a case or two where somewhat similar conditions had been present.

It was from Bartlett that the first tip came on La Pattini, although he did not know, and neither did Lanagan at that time, that she was the sister of Monteagle’s stenographer. All he knew was that until he left Monteagle’s employ she seemed to be the favoured of the alliances that the broker secretly maintained.

Lanagan had discovered that La Pattini had missed her first show on Monday night, and the circumstance was sufficient to stir his suspicions, although it must be confessed that until the development at the home, where her relationship to Miss Northrup was disclosed, nothing positive had been secured against her. The moment the relationship was made clear, both Lanagan and the chief had instantly reached the same conclusion. The “drive” had been made and the confession followed.

“Great, Jack, great,” said Sampson with as much enthusiasm as his thin blood could support. “Gad! What a whaling we gave them! What a whaling!”

The _Enquirer_ had smeared the story over three pages, breaking all make-up rules on type display. It was a clean exclusive in every detail.

“Well, Sampson,” replied Lanagan, “it isn’t much to be proud of at that. Only it’s all in our game. But I’ve given my promise and we’ve got to get that girl acquitted.”

“That’s up to you,” said Sampson. “The paper’s yours.”

VII

THE PENDELTON LEGACY

VII

THE PENDELTON LEGACY

“I have always considered Bannerman,” said Jack Lanagan, deliberately, “the crookedest judge that ever sat on the bench in San Francisco.”

Attorney Haddon, distinguished in criminal practice, thumped his office table.

“Exactly,” he said. “Have felt that way about it myself. But he seems to have a hold on the people. And he makes capital out of the fact that he ever permits a ‘shyster’ lawyer to practise in his court.”

“Simple,” replied Lanagan. “He doesn’t have to. He does business with Fogarty direct. They take dinner two or three times a week at the St. Germain. Other times they use the telephone. Those are things people don’t know. There aren’t many who do outside of myself. But at that I suppose he might get by with the long-eared public with the explanation that ‘Billy’ Fogarty, bail-bond grafter and chief of the ‘shysters,’ was a schoolmate of his, raised on the same street, and a member of one or two fraternal organisations with him. All of which is true.

“Bannerman,” he continued, “doesn’t bother with small cases. He’s after the big stuff. And I have a hunch that somewhere back of this case there is big graft. He has been against us from the start. And by the Lord Harry,” Lanagan had arisen, his black eyes snapping, “I’ve put several men in jail, but here’s one that I’m going to get out. Peters no more murdered that little child of his than I did. It’s an absolute obsession with me that there is some colossal mystery back of the whole thing; some gigantic conspiracy; and Bannerman’s attitude to-day gives me the first direct line to work on I have had. I am going to work on it again at once.”

Charley Peters, a machinist, twenty-five years of age, had been held to answer by Bannerman that day to the higher court on a charge of murder for slaying his week old son. It was a case that had attracted wide attention when several organisations of women’s clubs took a stand against Peters.

He had married, as was brought out at the preliminary hearing, a woman of the night life, who had made him, to all report, a capable wife. Originally from Oakland, after the marriage he had moved to an isolated little home in the outskirts of the Potrero, where neither he nor his wife were known. Before their child was born they had been overheard by a passing neighbour in a violent quarrel. Peters freely admitted the quarrel, but explained that, on the particular night in question, he had been over-wrought with a particularly hard day’s labour, returned home wearied and worried to find a statement from the doctor for a large amount, and for a moment had become resentful at having another mouth to feed with nothing but debt before him. The quarrel, he said, was quickly made up and the relations of the two were happy up to and after the child was born.

But the prosecuting attorney had made great use of the evidence, Bannerman ruling consistently against the objections of Haddon.

The dead child had been found by a crone, who was ministering to Mrs. Peters. She had placed it in a cot in a room adjacent to the mother’s room, and had left both mother and child asleep at about six-thirty o’clock while she went out to attend to some small purchases. She returned at about a quarter to seven to find Peters just home from his work and sitting by his wife’s bed. She was asleep. It was not for some little time later that the beldame, going to the child’s cot, discovered that it was dead. Her first suppressed cry had been heard by the acute ears of the mother, even in sleep, and she awakened from slumber to call for her babe. In the excitement that followed with the husband and the beldame she became alarmed and, arising, made her way to the adjoining room to discover the dreadful truth. She sank rapidly after the shock and died within a few days.

It was not until the doctor, coming on a call to attend the mother, examined the child, that the marks of strangulation were discovered on its little throat. The police were promptly notified. After one night’s detention the old woman was freed of suspicion and the police hand fell on Peters.

He protested that he had entered the house not fifteen minutes before the old woman, had found both mother and babe asleep, as he supposed, and had sat down by his wife’s side to watch, until the nurse returned.

Such were the principal facts.

Lanagan, working from a stubborn conviction of Peters’ innocence, had devoted much attention to the case. Finally, when the police brought Peters to trial, Lanagan had enlisted the services of Haddon to defend him. Lanagan had known Haddon for a good many years; known him when he was a young prosecutor in the police courts. He had given him many friendly “boosts” in those days. Haddon had never forgotten. He was frank to admit that it was the newspaper men at police headquarters, constantly “featuring” him in the police news, who gave him his real start.

After Bannerman had ruled as a committing magistrate, binding Peters over to trial for murder, Lanagan had walked to Haddon’s office, reviewing the events of the day.

It was his own conviction, as well as that of Haddon, that in all fairness, from the evidence presented, Bannerman should have dismissed the charge. That he should have held Peters as guilty gave Lanagan a freshened enthusiasm in Peters’ behalf; because it appeared to Lanagan that Bannerman was acting under powerful pressure in finding such a holding, even with the sentiment created by neurotic women in favour of a conviction.

“I’ll keep you posted on developments,” said Lanagan, as he left Haddon’s office, cheerfully helping himself to a fist-full of the cigars which that discriminating smoker imported for his own use. “I may need your service later.

“Sampson,” he said to his city editor a few moments later, “there’s something funny about that Peters case, in spite of their holding him to answer. Haddon thinks as I do. I’m going to tackle it again.”

“Tear into it, Jack,” said Sampson. “You haven’t turned much up lately, anyhow. Think you are going stale.”

“We’ll see,” said Lanagan briefly.

The St. Germain, in the days before the fire, had a public entrance on Stockton street and a private entrance on O’Farrell. Directly across from the private entrance was a cigar stand, and there Lanagan loitered for an hour or more.

“If I’m right in this thing,” he said, “Bannerman and Fogarty will be getting together to talk over the situation. And if they do I’ll let them know pretty pronto that we suspect a nigger in the woodpile somewhere and see if I can’t start them to covering up in a fashion that I can follow.”

It was about dusk when he suddenly crossed the street and went in at the private door. Fogarty had entered a few minutes before. Lanagan did not worry about Bannerman. He would take the front door, with his high silk hat and his frock coat and his exaggerated impeccability. That old French restaurant had turned up more than one good story in its day, and the upper floor steward was one of Lanagan’s numerous “leaks” in the night life district.

A dollar to the steward and he had been told the number of the room where Bannerman was dining. He knocked at the door, as the waiter might, gently. It was Fogarty who half-opened it. Lanagan caught a glimpse of Bannerman, who passed the plate in the church on Sundays, with a dry Martini nicely poised at his lips. A champagne cooler stood comfortably by. Fogarty for a moment seemed about to close the door, but was quick-witted enough not to do so.

“Want me, Jack?” he asked, suavely. He was of the full-fed type of saloon man, a sort of a near-broker in appearance. “Come on in and join us.”

“Thanks,” said Lanagan, shortly. “Just ate. I was curious to see who Bannerman was dining with. That’s all.”

The dry Martini struck the table suddenly and slopped over. “What a miserable, weak sister of a crook!” thought Lanagan. “I can admire a big crook, but this breed!”

“Why, my dear Mr. Lanagan!” exclaimed Bannerman, coming forward so hastily his napkin trailed behind him from his collar, where it had been tucked. “I just met my old friend William quite accidentally. We went to school together, you know. I seldom see him nowadays.”

To hear the notorious “Billy” Fogarty called William made Lanagan smile. Fogarty himself had difficulty repressing his grin.

“Judge,” said Lanagan, smoothly, “you lie. Don’t try to peddle any of that stuff on me. You see him about three times a week right here in this room, and you regulate your court calendar by what he tells you. I had very particular reasons for wondering whether you were here to-night. I see you are. So-long, Billy. Enjoy that wine, Judge. But you better order another Martini.”

Before either could make reply he backed away from the door and left the café.

“Pretty fair start,” he muttered to himself, grimly. “A judge with Bannerman’s appreciation of newspapers will have a lively understanding of the mess I caught him in. If there is anything wrong here, there will be a get-together of some sort quick.”

His thoughts swung back to the case in hand.

“The man who was big enough to take that woman away from the night life and make her his wife, was not the man who was killing their child,” he repeated to himself, with stubborn reiteration. And yet there could not be found hitherto the slightest sherd of motive on the part of anyone else to account for the killing.

And yet, so far as Lanagan’s investigations had gone on the case, Peters’ record was found to be ordinary enough, and neither in his life nor that of his family was there anything irregular to be discovered that would create the barest suspicion of any person seeking to strike at him through the child. There could be found not the slightest sherd of motive on the part of anyone else to account for the killing.

The life of the wife began with the meeting with Peters. What her heritage was or her history before that time, proved a problem absolutely insoluble to Lanagan and the police: although the police, for their part, did little save work to fasten the crime on the husband, even the brilliant Leslie, greatest chief of his time, taking that line.

The records of the night life are unwritten, save where the requiescat is inscribed when a callous deputy coroner blots the entry at the morgue. Who she was before she came into the brooding shadow of the night lights was a secret that, if any of the wastrels there knew, they guarded. It is more than likely that they did not know. It is a great, wide way, the entrance there. She had come by that way one of a multitude; into the shadows and out. Whether she went out for happiness or ill, whether to a free life or a sombre death, few there cared to ask, even if they recalled her at all.

Ceaselessly Lanagan had searched that district. He could trace her back to the time when Peters met her and no further. That incident had made some trifling stir merely because the “guy who got ‘copped’ on Gracie” had taken her away and really married her; or so they had heard.

Otherwise she had come into that Tenderloin district as many of her transitory sisters, with a suit case; but whether from far or near no one could say.

The influences that were eager to land Peters in the penitentiary were unquestionably the same that murdered the child; so Lanagan argued under the spell of his new theory. They had not slain the mother, directly; but they may have shrewdly calculated the effect upon her, in her precarious condition, of the death of the child: knowledge of which could scarcely be kept from her.

“Let us suppose, then,” mused Lanagan, “let us suppose that someone wanted the child out of the way and now wants the husband out of the way. It would be possible to hang him for that crime. In the present state of the public mind, and with Bannerman holding him to answer for murder, life is the least he will get. What happens? The child of ‘Gracie Dubois’ is dead. The husband is, or soon will be, civilly dead. She is dead: but that does not appear to have a moving cause. Why the child’s death and the father’s imprisonment? Undoubtedly so that someone may profit. But who? Who, concealed back of the shadows of the night lights, kept grim watch on ‘Gracie Dubois’? Who was concerned with the fate of that poor wretched girl anxious only for redemption, for a decent life? What ‘dead hand’ is it that has slain her issue and blighted her poor hopes for happiness and her passionate ambition for motherhood?”

And Bannerman, with his high silk hat and his frock coat and his impeccable respectability, came before him insistently; Bannerman, with his dry Martini and his quart of wine and his vis-a-vis dinner with “William” Fogarty.

Many thoughts that apparently flash into the mind spontaneously are but the products of a chain of thought carried consistently over a period of time.

It was so with Lanagan and his sudden theory of the “dead hand”; of a case that in some manner reverted back to a will or to an inheritance. He was rather surprised that the thought had not occurred sooner; but he had been busied with other thoughts and theories, and it was not until the way had been cleared that, in its logical time, that theory had suddenly struck him with conviction. And obviously it was the only theory that had not as yet been exploited by him; that some place back in the earlier life of that poor waif of the night life there might lie the solution of the crime--financial reasons for desiring to be rid of her progeny and her natural legatee, her husband.

The question intruded: why was not the husband murdered as well? There might be many reasons, but one would answer: his imprisonment would suffice even if he were not executed; and if he managed to avoid any penalty, there would be time enough to see him.

And leading back to that “dead hand” theory of his, Lanagan could see but two links: Bannerman and Fogarty.

From the neighbourhood of the St. Germain he got me on the wire.

“Cover Fogarty’s,” he said. “Pick up some of the bunch and drop in casually. Keep your eye on him if he’s there, and who he talks to. Spend money and get soberly drunk, if necessary to allay any suspicion that he is being watched. Get Sampson on the ’phone by ten o’clock. There may be a message for you.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was all about, but Lanagan’s voice was as snappy as a drill master. I went to the reporter’s room at police headquarters and led a bunch to Fogarty’s to rattle the dice for a round or two. It was pay night and money was free. If Fogarty, after he came in, had any suspicions of me--he knew that Lanagan and I always worked together--they were soon allayed. The dice rolled blithely for an hour or two with one of the boys dropping out occasionally to “cover” the police beat for the others while the play went on.

But nothing happened and I slipped away to get Sampson on the ’phone. It was ten o’clock. He was didactic as usual, and as irritatingly brief: “Report to Lanagan. Room 802 Fairmont. Take the back stairs and make the room above all things without being seen.”

That same old tingle that always shot up my spine when Lanagan was calling me in on the smash of one of his grand climaxes, shivered up to my hair roots. In a general way I knew the quest he was on, but that his search should have led him to the Fairmont hotel, on the very crest of aristocratic Nob Hill, was sufficient without further information to set my imagination humming.

The door was open and I entered, noiselessly. Lanagan was lying on the bed, smoking. He jumped up.

“Here,” he said quickly, indicating a chair drawn up before the door leading to the adjoining room--they were suite rooms but used separately. “Sit there until I get back and take notes on what you hear. Keep your ear glued to that hole.”

He had cut with his pocket knife an inch hole in the panelling of the door. He had whittled it so nicely that it was not quite cut entirely through. “You will find you can hear everything that is said in an ordinary tone of voice. There’s no one in there now. An Englishman named Holmes has the room. Pretty soon I expect him and Larry Leighton in there with a girl. I am going out and get hold of Leslie. Lock the door after me and keep your ears open for us when we get back. I won’t knock, but will turn the handle once or twice.”

“What’s the lay?” I asked.

“No time to talk now,” he flung back over his shoulder, and was gone.

It was probably twenty minutes later when the occupants of the adjoining room entered. There were two men and a woman. I could distinguish perfectly Leighton’s sonorous voice. He had been a lawyer of standing in years gone by, but lately had been involved in one or two transactions a trifle “shady” in character, chiefly pertaining to the administration of estates; but nothing had ever been proved against him nor had the matter ever got into such shape that the papers could use it. So far as the general public was concerned, he stood well enough.

“I felt I could not be wrong,” Leighton was saying. “And I am glad that you are satisfied. It must be a source of great satisfaction to you, Miss Pendelton, to be restored to your name and inheritance.”

“I am only sorry now it did not happen before poor father went,” the girl replied, with a tremble in her voice, and I fancied she was crying.

“Personally,” it was the Englishman’s voice, “I am satisfied of the identity. But of course my principals in London will also have to be satisfied. It would be best to leave at once, I think, for England. For the sake of the Pendelton name we must work secretly and quietly. I would not want the matter in the public prints for the world.”

I was listening with such intentness that it was some time before the soft and insistent grating of the doorknob caught my attention. I tiptoed to the door. Lanagan entered. In another moment Leslie came in and after a few moments of interval, Brady and Wilson, two of Leslie’s steadiest thief-takers, stepped in softly. There was big game afoot of some sort!

Leslie had his ear to the door. He remained there for some time, and then motioned Brady, who took his turn, followed by Wilson.

Lanagan was sitting on a corner of the little table, swinging his feet lazily, but following every move made by the officers, and watching every shade of expression in their faces. Leslie took another turn and a half smile played over Lanagan’s face as that veteran Chief finally stepped over to him and put out his hand. Lanagan gripped it. Not a word was spoken. Motioning to Brady and Wilson, Leslie stepped out and we followed.

He rapped on the door to the adjoining room. Leighton opened it, a look of enquiry on his rotund features. As swiftly as though a swab had been rubbed over it, his look of enquiry shaded into one of alarm, as he recognised Leslie. We filed in and Wilson snapped the lock behind him and stood at the door, Brady walking quickly to the window and taking his position there. Not a word had as yet been spoken. Leighton stood as though stupefied. The Englishman, a dapper, well-dressed man of probably forty, smoking a cigarette at ease, raised his brows as we entered, but said nothing.

On the edge of the bed the girl was sitting, her wide eyes following Leslie. It was evident that she knew him by sight. Her resemblance to Mrs. Peters was striking. Both were women of that blonde, doll-faced type so frequently found in the night life.

“Leighton,” said Leslie, “the jig is up.”

Leighton sank into a chair. The Chief went to the connecting door, tapped for a moment, and then jabbed his knife through Lanagan’s ear hole.

“See?” he said, laconically. “We’ve been listening there for thirty minutes. Gertrude Pendelton is dead; you know she is dead and her child with her. And this woman here,” turning sharply to the girl, “knows that she is not Gertrude Pendelton. She knows perfectly well that she is playing a crooked ‘lost heir’ case for you, Leighton.”

As though he had been a jack in the box, Holmes jumped to his feet.

“Heavens, Sir!” he cried, “why, what are you saying! Who are you?”

Leslie threw back his coat, displaying his diamond-studded shield.

“Chief of Police Leslie of San Francisco,” He said, shortly.

With a swift movement the girl’s hand went to her corsage and in a flash Lanagan had hurtled across the room and a tiny dagger spun to the floor. She threw herself back upon the bed, crying in sudden hysteria:

“You might have let me done it! You might have let me done it!” she wailed bitterly. Lanagan was wrapping up his hand. He had got the point of the dagger through the ball of his thumb in the rush. She jumped up again and threw herself at the feet of Leslie.

“It’s my first crooked trick, so help me, Chief! He dragged me into it! What was I to do? It looked easy and it was a way out of the Tenderloin!”