The Tragedy of Z (7 page)

“The old oil,” growled father, tossing the carbon aside. “Let's see that next one, Patty.”

The third pink sheet was addressed to Warden Magnus of Algonquin Prison and contained a very short message:

D
EAR
W
ARDEN
:

Attached please find a carbon copy of my official recommendations to the State Prison Board concerning promotions in Algonquin Prison for the coming year.

Cordially yours,

J
OEL
F
AWCETT

“My God, did this guy have his finger in the prison pie, too?” exclaimed father. “What is this—a barbecue?”

John Hume said bitterly: “Now you've got an idea of what an octopus this ‘defender of the poor' was. He even attempted to get votes out of prisons by regulating keeper-patronage. How much weight his recommendations to the Board carried I don't know, but even if they meant nothing he managed to give the impression that he was a sort of Haroun-al-Raschid who went about distributing boons among the people. Bah!”

Father shrugged and picked up the fourth carbon, and this time he chuckled. “Poor old sucker! Tarred with the same brush, Patty. Read this. It's hot stuff, all right.” I was surprised to find that this letter was addressed to father's old friend, Governor Bruno, and wondered what the Governor would say when or if he received this brash, disrespectful letter:

D
EAR
B
RUNO
:

I am informed by some friends of mine on Capitol Hill that you have been expressing yourself sort of outspokenly as regards my chances for re-election in Tilden County.

Well, let me tell you this: if Tilden County goes to Hume
—
Hume's nomination is assured
—
the political repercussion may very well affect your own chances of re-election in the future. Tilden is the strategic center of the Valley. You forgot that, didn't you?

I advise you for your own good to think this over with all seriousness before you undermine the character and services of a distinguished senatorial member of your own party.

J. F
AWCETT

“I'm busting out in tears, honestly.” Father tossed the carbons back into the wire basket. “By God, Hume, I'm almost ready to call the dogs off. This son-of-a-so-and-so deserved to get a sticker in his chest.… What's the matter, Patty?”

“There's loads the matter,” I said slowly. “How many carbons were there again, father?”

Hume looked at me sharply.

“Why, four.”

“Well, there are
five
envelopes on the desk!”

I felt a little better at the district attorney's look of dismay, and the avid fingers with which he snatched the little stack of typed envelopes from he desk.

“Miss Thumm's right!” he cried. “Carmichael, how does this happen? How many letters did the Senator dictate?”

The secretary looked honestly surprised. ‘Only four, Mr. Hume. The four of which you've read the carbons.”

Hume shuffled through the envelopes rapidly, handing them to us as he finished examining them. The envelope of the letter to Elihu Clay had been at the top of the pile; it was spattered with thick dried bloodstains. The one beneath it was to the editor of the
Leeds Examiner,
and the word P
ERSONAL
had been typewritten at the corner of the envelope and deeply underscored. The third envelope was addressed to the warden and bore the raised impression of a paper-clip on both ends of the face. The legend:
Ref. Letter File No. 245, Algonquin Promotions,
occupied the lower right-hand corner. The envelope to the Governor was double-sealed with the Senator's personal seal in blue wax, and again the word P
ERSONAL
appeared, also deeply underscored.

But it was at this fifth envelope—the letter for which there was no carbon—that Hume paused for a long inspection, his large eyes intent, his lips puckered in a silent whistle.

“Fanny Kaiser,” he said. “So that's the way the wind blows, eh?” and beckoned us nearer. The address had not been typed; name, local address, and
Leeds, N. Y.,
had been written with black ink in the flourishing hand of a powerful egotist.

‘Who's Fanny Kaiser?” demanded father.

“Ah, one of our leading citizens,” replied the district attorney in an abstracted way as he tore open the envelope. I observed Chief Kenyon stiffen; he stumped quickly over to join us, and several of the men standing about winked at each other in the intimately lascivious way that men adopt when women of easy reputation are mentioned.

The message inside, like the address on the envelope, was in longhand. The same pompous scrawl.… Hume began to read aloud, but at the first word stopped, cast a lightning glance at someone beyond my line of vision, and continued reading to himself. His eyes brightened. Then he drew Kenyon, father, and myself aside and, turning his back on the others, permitted us to read the letter, cautioning us with a little shake of his head to read to ourselves.

There was no salutation. The note began abruptly, and was unsigned.

Suspect my wire being tapped by C. Don't use phone. Am writing Ira now to inform him of change of plan in line with our talk and your suggestion of yesterday.

Sit tight and keep a stiff upper lip. We aren't licked yet. And send Maizie around. Have a little idea for friend H.

“Fawcett's fist?” asked father.

“No doubt about it. Now, what do you think of that, eh?”

“C,”
muttered Kenyon. “Cripes, he doesn't mean this—?” He looked sidewise out of his fishy little eyes at Carmichael, who was standing across the room talking quietly to Jeremy Clay.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” murmured Hume. “Well, well! I thought there was something a little queer about friend secretary.” He jerked his head toward one of the detectives in the doorway. The man sauntered over, as bored as a duchess at her hundredth court. “Take some of the boys and go over the wiring in the house,” said Hume in a low voice. “Telephone wires. Right away.”

The man nodded and sauntered away.

“Mr. Hume,” I demanded, “who is Maizie?”

The corners of his mouth crinkled. “I have a definite idea that Maizie is a young lady of great talent in a certain field.”

“I see. Why the dickens don't you say what you mean, Mr. Hume? I'm of age. And by ‘friend H' I suppose Senator Fawcett meant yourself?”

He shrugged. “It would seem so. I imagine my generous opponent meant to demonstrate by what is popularly known as the ‘frame' that John Hume isn't the meticulous moralist he claims to be. Maizie undoubtedly was meant to be dished up for my delectation, to compromise me. Those things have been done before, you know, and I haven't the faintest doubt that there would have been plenty of witnesses to testify to my—er—lechery.”

“How nicely you say that, Mr. Hume!” I retorted sweetly. “Are you married?”

He smiled. “Why—are you applying for the position?”

At this moment the detective who had been sent to investigate the telephone wires returned, sparing me the painful necessity of replying.

“Installation's all right, Mr. Hume. Outside of this room, anyway. I'll take a peek at the wires here——”

“Hold on,” said Hume hurriedly. He raised his voice. “Oh, Carmichael.” The man looked up. “That will be all for the moment. Please wait outside.”

Imperturbably, Carmichael left the room. The detective at once examined the wires leading from the desk to the box, and tinkered with the box itself for a long time.

“Hard to say,” he reported, rising. “It looks all right, but if I were you, Mr. Hume, I'd get somebody from the telephone company down here to make an expert examination.”

Hume nodded, and I said: “And another thing, Mr. Hume. Why not open these envelopes? It's barely possible the letters
don't
match the carbons.”

He regarded me with his clear eyes, smiled, and picked up the envelopes again. But all the messages were identical with the carbons we had read. The district attorney seemed particularly interested in the enclosure of the letter to Algonquin Prison, attached to the original of the Senator's message by a paper-clip. This enclosure listed a number of names as recommended for promotion. He studied the list with an embittered eye, and then tossed it aside.

“Nothing. So much for your hunch, Miss Thumm.” I was thoughtful as the district attorney picked up the telephone on the desk.

“Information? District Attorney Hume. Get me the house 'phone of Fanny Kaiser. Local.” He waited quietly. “Thanks,” he said, and called a number. He stood there waiting, and we could hear the steady buzz of the central operator's ring. “No answer. Hmm!” He replaced the receiver on its hook. ‘That's one of our first jobs—interrogating Miss Fanny Kaiser,” and he rubbed his hands together in a boyish, if grim, way.

I moved a bit to get closer to the desk. Not two feet to one side, within arm's-reach of the chair in which the dead man had sat, was a coffee-table. On this table stood an electric percolator and a cup and saucer on a tray. With curious fingers I touched the side of the percolator; it was still warm. I looked into the cup; there were coffee-grounds on the muddy bottom.

My theory was climbing like the rope of the Hindu fakir! I fervently hoped that it would prove more permanent. For if this were true …

I turned away with the triumph in my eyes, I am afraid, plainly visible; and District Attorney Hume regarded me almost with anger. I believe he meant either to rebuke me or question me, when something occurred which altered the entire course of the investigation.

5. THE SIXTH LETTER

Its discovery was retarded for a little while.

From the corridor outside came a buzzing and shuffling of feet, and the next moment one of Kenyon's men in the doorway muttered apologetically and stepped aside, genuflecting as if he were in the presence of royalty. All conversation ceased; and I wondered who this mighty individual might be who was able to make a stolid creature cloaked in authority give ground.

But the man who appeared in the doorway an instant later was scarcely formidable in appearance. He was a rosy, totally bald little old man with the curved applecheeks usually associated with indulgent grandfathers, and a comfortable little paunch that hung over his thighs like a benediction. His clothes did not fit, and his topcoat was rather the worse for wear.

And then I noticed his eyes, and instantly reformed my first impression of him. This man was a force to be reckoned with in any company. The blue slits below his brows framed two chips of ice; hard, merciless, the eyes of a sage whose knowledge was all evil. They were more than merely cunning; they were omnipotently satanic. And they became the more terrible because of the cheery smile on his grandfather-cheeks, and the carefully senile bob and wag of his pink skull.

I was astounded to observe John Hume—the reformer, cross the room and seize the fat dimpled little hands of the old man with every evidence of respect and pleasure. Was he acting? It did not seem possible that he could have escaped analyzing the pitiless chill of the old man's eyes. But perhaps his own youth and etnergy and righteousness were as false as the newcomer's smiles.… I glanced at father, but could detect nothing critical on his dead, ugly, honest face.

“Just heard the news,” piped the little old man in a childish treble. “Terrible, John, terrible. I hurried over as soon as I could. Any progress?”

“Precious little,” said Hume, abashed. He piloted the newcomer across the room. “Miss Thumm, may I present the man who holds my political future in his hands?—Rufus Cotton. And this, Rufe, is Inspector Thumm of New York.”

Rufus Cotton ducked, and smiled, and clasped my hands, and said: “This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear,” and then his fat cheeks sagged and he added: “Terrible thing, this,” and turned to father, still retaining my hand. I disengaged is as inoffensively as I could, and he seemed not to notice. “So this is the great Inspector Thumm! Heard of you, Inspector, heard of you. My old friend in the City, Commissioner Burbage—your time, wasn't he?—used to talk at great length about you.”

“Hrrumph,” said father, pleased as Punch. “You're the man who's behind Hume, hey? I've heard of you, too, Cotton.”

“Yes,” squealed Rufus Cotton, “John is going to be the next Senator from Tilden County. I'm doing my little bit to put him over. And now this thing—dead, dear!” He clucked like an old hen, and all the while his eyes, with their glittering venom, did not flicker. “Now, if you'll excus eme, Inspector, and you, my dear,” he continued, turning to me and beaming, “John and I will talk this thing over. Terrible thing, as I say. May have an important bearing on the political situation.…” Still babbling, he drew the young district attorney aside; and for some minutes they stood with their heads together conversing in an earnest undertone. I noticed that Hume did most of the talking, and the old politician's head wagged very sharply from time to time, and he kept his remarkable eyes on his young protégé's face.… My opinion of this young political knight-in-armor underwent a change. It had struck me before, and it struck me now with even greater force, that the death of Senator Fawcett was a stroke of incalculable good fortune for Hume, Cotton, and the party they represented. It was bound, with its implication of revelations about the murdered man's true character, to insure the election of the reform candidate. No one the Fawcett party might put up for Senator in the confusion following this catastrophe could possibly live down in the eyes of the electorate this crushing blow to their prestige.

And then I caught a signal from father, and went quickly to his side. The discovery …

I should have known, and I said bitterly to myself: “Patience Thumm, you're a prime damned fool!” when I saw what was occupying father.