"It was recovered at four o'clock this morning from the person of John McDaniels, whom I was watching in respect to other matters."
Husband and wife exchanged an odd look. "McDaniels?" said the former, "you don't mean the well-known detective?"
"None other," said my mistress.
"Well," said Mr. Sterry, "this grows queerer and queerer. My wife and I have already been to McDaniels' office, and we found it closed."
"Yes," said Mme. Storey dryly. "It would be."
"He enjoyed a considerable reputation among people we know for his success in recovering stolen valuables," said Mr. Sterry.
"Naturally he could get them back, since it was he who had stolen them," said Mme. Storey dryly.
"Incredible!"
"What about the girl who entered our house?" asked Mrs. Sterry.
"I can't tell you anything about her," said my mistress coolly. "One of McDaniels' many tools, I suppose. I content myself with breaking up the traffic."
"And may we take it with us now?" asked Mrs. Sterry eagerly.
"Certainly. If you will give me a receipt to hand to the police."
The conversation became general then, and Mr. Sterry led the way around gracefully to the question of Mme. Storey's fee.
"Not a cent!" she said, when she saw what he would be after.
He insisted. He would not take no for an answer. "I could not rest easy under such an obligation," he said.
"Well," said Mme. Storey, in her large way. "What is it worth to you?"
"Say, twenty thousand?"
"Too much. Halve it, and send a cheque to my friend, Katherine Couteau Cloke for her work in the prisons. That's the worthiest cause I know."
"It shall be done," he said. "But it should come as from you."
"No," she said firmly. "You don't owe me a cent in this case, my dear sir."
As the Sterry's were leaving, Mme. Storey said casually. "By the way, have you discharged the valet?"
"Not yet," said Mr. Sterry, "but of course I shall."
"But consider," said Mme. Storey, "this woman, whoever she may have been, was evidently a high-class thief, and a past-mistress of the art of fascination. How can you blame a simple youth for yielding to the blandishments of such a one? If he is a satisfactory servant in other respects, I'd think it over. This will have taught him a lesson."
"Very well, I will think it over," said Mr. Sterry.
"That was the least I could do for poor Alfred," said my mistress, smiling, when the door closed.
Soon afterwards Melanie came downstairs. The girl looked lovely. To be sure, she was still thin and hollow-eyed as a result of her horrible imprisonment, but a touch of make-up in Grace's skilful hands had done wonders—that and happiness. Mme. Storey's pretty clothes became her wonderfully. As I have remarked before, Melanie had an instinct for nice things and knew how to wear them. She was still shy with us, and said very little, but her eyes were eloquent.
"We're going to have lunch up at my place," said Mme. Storey. "Let's go."
It had previously been agreed between my mistress and I that it would be impracticable to bring about a meeting between Melanie and George at the office, since George must know that that was Mme. Storey's address.
"I've got an errand uptown," I said. "I'll join you later."
Mme. Storey and Melanie went off in one taxicab and I in another. I had myself driven to the little stationery store on Columbus Avenue. I had a good deal of trouble identifying myself to the worthy Mrs. Harvest. She did not care much for the change in my appearance.
"Is George here?" I asked.
"No," she said, "but I think I can get hold of him. Come back in half an hour."
I think he was there all the time, and that this was just a regular formula she had adopted. However, I had myself driven around the Park, and returned later, as she requested. I found the handsome, blond George in the little rear sitting-room. He opened his eyes at the sight of me.
"What's the big idea?" he said.
"Well," said I, "I just got tired of looking like a frump, a has-been, a school-ma'am from the back counties. A friend of mine showed me how to fix myself up. How you like it?"
"It's all right," he said without enthusiasm. For George there was only one woman in the world. Well, my feelings were not hurt.
"What's the news?" he asked with a painful eagerness.
"Nothing special," I said. "I had a bit o' luck, and I want to blow a good-looking fellow to lunch, that's all."
"I ain't exactly advertising myself in public," he objected.
"That's all right," said I. "I know a quiet little place."
"Well, if you want it," he said. "I certainly owe it to you."
We drove down East Sixty-Second Street. There was nothing grand about the exterior of Mme. Storey's charming little house that would intimidate George, but he pointed out that this was obviously no restaurant. "I never said anything about a restaurant," I replied uncandidly. "This is my friend's house."
In the quaint and unusual interior, his instinct recognised something rare and fine. He scowled suspiciously, but manlike, hated to betray any reluctance before a woman. He followed me upstairs to the amusing 1850 living-room that looks toward the little garden in the rear. Mme. Storey was waiting there. Melanie had been spirited out of sight.
"Do you recognise your friend, Jessie Seipp?" asked my mistress, holding out her hand with a smile.
"No!" he said bluntly. "But... but... Yes, I do! What does it mean? What is the game?"
"The game is over. I am Rosika Storey, and this is Bella Brickley, my secretary."
A trapped look came into his face. His wary glance flashed around the room, calculating the chances of escape.
"We don't want you," said Mme. Storey. "John McDaniels and Kate Pullen were our marks. They are behind the bars."
"And Melanie? Melanie?" he cried, wild with anxiety.
"Look behind you," she said.
Melanie was in the doorway. I have already told you how beautiful the girl was when her ordinarily hard expression was softened. She looked now like another Rosalind, boyish and tender.
George looked at her as if he beheld her in a dream—a world of wistfulness in his eyes. He was afraid to put his dream to the test. "Melanie ... Melanie," he whispered in a kind of terror.
She smiled enchantingly.
They approached each other slowly. He was hushed with emotion. "Melanie ... is it really all right?" he whispered.
Mme. Storey and I could stand no more. We were already at the door. "Lunch is in the room underneath this," she called hack over her shoulder. "Come down when you like."
Black Kate died of heart disease while awaiting trial. I doubt if there was a soul on earth to lament her passing. We never did learn precisely what she had made Melanie suffer during her imprisonment. The very recollection of that time was a torment to the girl, and we avoided any reference to it.
In the cellar of that ugly little house on Varick Street, two human skeletons were discovered buried in the earth. These murders, for murders they certainly were, could not be proved against John McDaniels, but he was convicted on a score of counts, and received in the aggregate sentences far exceeding the years he can expect on earth. Nor is he ever likely to receive a pardon. "The blackest criminal ever tried in our courts!" the District-Attorney termed him, nor did anybody feel that the description was overdrawn.
The only thing I regretted was the escape of Skinny Sam. When I voiced my regret, Mme. Storey said, smiling soberly:
"But, Bella, I couldn't single out Sam from amongst the other inmates just because he was a horrible little wretch, and I despised him. I was faced by a difficult moral problem, my dear. Strictly speaking, I ought to have handed them all over to the State, but I had appealed to their friendliness, and if, after that, I had betrayed them, I could never have looked myself in the face. The only possible distinction I could make was between slaves and slave-drivers. I caught the drivers, and gave the slaves a chance."
Poor old Pap was found wandering the streets in a half-crazed condition, a day or two after, and was returned to Sing Sing to serve out an old sentence. Mme. Storey subsequently exerted her influence to secure a pardon for him. She has supported him ever since in a suitable home.
We never saw Bill Combs again. I suspect he was too much of a man ever to come to a woman cap in hand. Nor did we ever hear of Fingy Silo or Tim Holder. Presumably, all three of them succeeded in keeping out of jail, or we should have known of it. Some time later Sam was arrested for robbing a woman under peculiarly atrocious circumstances—just what you might expect. It went hard with him, for he had an old sentence to serve in addition. We did not feel obliged to interfere in this case. He had had his chance.
Abell did come to see us—in fact, under another name, he is working for Mme. Storey at this moment. She has never had cause to regret giving him a chance. He is one of the best men we have. We were the means of bringing about a reunion between him and his beloved family, one of the most touching scenes I ever beheld. George Mullen is making a place as a master-electrician, and Melanie is raising a family.
As for myself, in regard to these three: Abell, George, and Melanie, I count them among my best friends. I would trust them further than anybody I know. They have been through the fire. They are honest from conviction, not from inertia. In all three of them I find an almost painful punctiliousness. They might be said to lean over backwards in their determination to be straight.
[End of
The Under Dogs
by Hulbert Footner]
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Title:
The Under Dogs
Author:
Footner, Hulbert (1879-1944)
Author of preface:
Anonymous
Date of first publication:
1925
Edition used as base for this ebook:
London: Collins, [1931]
Date first posted:
9 March 2010
Date last updated:
9 March 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #498
This ebook was produced by: Al Haines
This ePub Edition was produced by: Alexander Inglis for Mobileread Forum, July, 2010. Original publication title page from Boston Library scan at Archive.org added 2010.