The Frame Up
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Richard Harding Davis >> The Frame Up
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The Frame Up
by Richard Harding Davis
When the voice over the telephone promised to name the man who
killed Hermann Banf, District Attorney Wharton was up- town
lunching at Delmonico's. This was contrary to his custom and a
concession to Hamilton Cutler, his distinguished brother-in-law.
That gentleman was interested in a State constabulary bill and had
asked State Senator Bissell to father it. He had suggested to the
senator that, in the legal points involved in the bill, his
brother-in-law would undoubtedly be charmed to advise him. So that
morning, to talk it over, Bissell had come from Albany and, as he
was forced to return the same afternoon, had asked Wharton to lunch
with him up-town near the station.
That in public life there breathed a man with soul so dead who,
were he offered a chance to serve Hamilton Cutler, would not jump
at the chance was outside the experience of the county chairman.
And in so judging his fellow men, with the exception of one man,
the senator was right. The one man was Hamilton Cutler's
brother-in-law.
In the national affairs of his party Hamilton Cutler was one of the
four leaders. In two cabinets he had held office. At a foreign
court as an ambassador his dinners, of which the diplomatic corps
still spoke with emotion, had upheld the dignity of ninety million
Americans. He was rich. The history of his family was the history
of the State. When the Albany boats drew abreast of the old Cutler
mansion on the cast bank of the Hudson the passengers pointed at it
with deference. Even when the search lights pointed at it, it was
with deference. And on Fifth Avenue, as the "Seeing New York" car
passed his town house it slowed respectfully to half speed. When,
apparently for no other reason than that she was good and
beautiful, he had married the sister of a then unknown up State
lawyer, every one felt Hamilton Cutler had made his first mistake.
But, like every thing else into which he entered, for him matrimony
also was a success. The prettiest girl in Utica showed herself
worthy of her distinguished husband. She had given him children as
beautiful as herself; as what Washington calls " a cabinet lady "
she had kept her name out of the newspapers; as Madame
L'Ambassatrice she had put archduchesses at their ease; and after
ten years she was an adoring wife, a devoted mother, and a proud
woman. Her pride was in believing that for every joy she knew she
was indebted entirely to her husband. To owe everything to him, to
feel that through him the blessings flowed, was her ideal of
happiness.
In this ideal her brother did not share. Her delight in a sense of
obligation left him quite cold. No one better than himself knew
that his rapid-fire rise in public favor was due to his own
exertions, to the fact that he had worked very hard, had been
independent, had kept his hands clean, and had worn no man's
collar. Other people believed he owed his advancement to his
brother-in-law. He knew they believed that, and it hurt him. When,
at the annual dinner of the Amen Corner, they burlesqued him as
singing to "Ham" Cutler, "You made me what I am to-day, I hope
you're satisfied," he found that to laugh with the others was
something of an effort. His was a difficult position. He was a
party man; he had always worked inside the organization. The fact
that whenever he ran for an elective office the reformers indorsed
him and the best elements in the opposition parties voted for him
did not shake his loyalty to his own people. And to Hamilton
Cutler, as one of his party leaders, as one of the bosses of the
"invisible government," he was willing to defer. But while he could
give allegiance to his party leaders, and from them was willing to
receive the rewards of office, from a rich brother-in-law he was
not at all willing to accept anything. Still less was he willing
that of the credit he deserved for years of hard work for the
party, of self-denial, and of efficient public service the rich
brother-in-law, should rob him.
His pride was to be known as a self-made man, as the servant only
of the voters. And now that ambition, now that he was district
attorney of New York City, to have it said that the office was the
gift of his brother-in-law was bitter. But he believed the
injustice would soon end. In a month he was coming up for
re-election, and night and day was conducting a campaign that he
hoped would result in a personal victory so complete as to banish
the shadow of his brother-in-law. Were he re-elected by the
majority on which he counted, he would have the party leaders on
their knees. Hamilton Cutler would be forced to come to him. He
would be in line for promotion. He knew the leaders did not want to
promote him, that they considered him too inclined to kick over the
traces; but were he now re-elected, at the next election, either
for mayor or governor, he would be his party's obvious and
legitimate candidate.
The re-election was not to be an easy victory. Outside his own
party, to prevent his succeeding himself as district attorney,
Tammany Hall was using every weapon in her armory. The commissioner
of police was a Tammany man, and in the public prints Wharton had
repeatedly declared that Banf, his star witness against the police,
had been killed by the police, and that they had prevented the
discovery of his murderer. For this the wigwam wanted his scalp,
and to get it had raked his public and private life, had used
threats and bribes, and with women had tried to trap him into a
scandal. But "Big Tim" Meehan, the lieutenant the Hall had detailed
to destroy Wharton, had reported back that for their purpose his
record was useless, that bribes and threats only flattered him, and
that the traps set for him he had smilingly side- stepped. This was
the situation a month before election day when, to oblige his
brother-in-law, Wharton was up-town at Delmonico's lunching with
Senator Bissell.
Down-town at the office, Rumson, the assistant district attorney,
was on his way to lunch when the telephone-girl halted him. Her
voice was lowered and betrayed almost human interest.
From the corner of her mouth she whispered: "This man has a note
for Mr. Wharton--says if he don't get it quick it'll be too
late--says it will tell him who killed 'Heimie' Banf!"
The young man and the girl looked at each other and smiled. Their
experience had not tended to make them credulous. Had he lived,
Hermann Banf would have been, for Wharton, the star witness against
a ring of corrupt police officials. In consequence his murder was
more than the taking off of a shady and disreputable citizen. It
was a blow struck at the high office of the district attorney, at
the grand jury, and the law. But, so far, whoever struck the blow
had escaped punishment, and though for a month, ceaselessly, by
night and day "the office" and the police had sought him, he was
still at large, still "unknown." There had been hundreds of clews.
They had been furnished by the detectives of the city and county
and of the private agencies, by amateurs, by news- papers, by
members of the underworld with a score to pay off or to gain favor.
But no clew had led anywhere. When, in hoarse whispers, the last
one had been confided to him by his detectives, Wharton had
protested indignantly.
"Stop bringing me clews!" he exclaimed. "I want the man. I can't
electrocute a clew!"
So when, after all other efforts, over the telephone a strange
voice offered to deliver the murderer, Rumson was skeptical. He
motioned the girl to switch to the desk telephone.
"Assistant District Attorney Rumson speaking," he said. "What can
I do for you?"'
Before the answer came, as though the speaker were choosing his
words, there was a pause. It lasted so long that Rumson exclaimed
sharply:
"Hello," he called. "Do you want to speak to me, or do you want to
speak to me?"
"I've gotta letter for the district attorney," said the voice. "I'm
to give it to nobody but him. It's about Banf. He must get it
quick, or it'll be too late."
"Who are you?" demanded Rumson. "Where are you speaking from?"
The man at the other end of the wire ignored the questions.
"Where'll Wharton be for the next twenty minutes? "
"If I tell you, "parried Rumson, "will you bring the letter at
once?" The voice exclaimed indignantly:
"Bring nothing! I'll send it by district messenger. You're wasting
time trying to reach me. It's the LETTER you want. It tells----"
the voice broke with an oath and instantly began again: "I can't
talk over a phone. I tell you, it's life or death. If you lose out,
it's your own fault. Where can I find Wharton?"
"At Delmonico's," answered Rumson. "He'll be there until two
o'clock." "Delmonico's! That's Forty-fort Street?" "Right," said
Rumson. "Tell the messenger----" He heard the receiver slam upon
the hook. With the light of the hunter in his eyes, he turned to
the girl.
"They can laugh," he cried, "but I believe we've hooked something.
I'm going after it." In the waiting-room he found the detectives.
"Hewitt, " he ordered, "take the subway and whip up to Delmonico's.
Talk to the taxi-starter till a messenger-boy brings a letter for
the D. A. Let the boy deliver the note, and then trail him till he
reports to the man he got it from. Bring the man here. If it's a
district messenger and he doesn't report, but goes straight back to
the office, find out who gave him the note; get his description.
Then meet me at Delmonico's."
Rumson called up that restaurant and had Wharton come to the phone.
He asked his chief to wait until a letter he believed to be of
great importance was delivered to him. He explained, but, of
necessity, somewhat sketchily. "It sounds to me," commented his
chief, "like a plot of yours to get a lunch up- town."
"Invitation!" cried Rumson. "I'll be with you in ten minutes."
After Rumson had joined Wharton and Bissell the note arrived. It
was brought to the restaurant by a messenger-boy, who said that in
answer to a call from a saloon on Sixth Avenue he had received it
from a young man in ready-to-wear clothes and a green hat. When
Hewitt, the detective, asked what the young man looked like, the
boy said he looked like a young man in ready-to-wear clothes and a
green hat. But when the note was read the identity of the man who
delivered it ceased to be of importance. The paper on which it was
written was without stamped address or monogram, and carried with
it the mixed odors of the drug-store at which it had been
purchased. The handwriting was that of a woman, and what she had
written was: "If the district attorney will come at once, and
alone, to Kessler's Cafe, on the Boston Post Road, near the city
line, he will be told who killed Hermann Banf. If he don't come in
an hour, it will be too late. If he brings anybody with him, he
won't be told anything. Leave your car in the road and walk up the
drive. Ida Earle."
Hewitt, who had sent away the messenger-boy and had been called in
to give expert advice, was enthusiastic.
"Mr. District Attorney," he cried, "that's no crank letter. This
Earle woman is wise. You got to take her as a serious proposition.
She wouldn't make that play if she couldn't get away with it."
"Who is she?" asked Wharton.
To the police, the detective assured them, Ida Earle had been known
for years. When she was young she had been under the protection of
a man high in the ranks of Tammany, and, in consequence, with her
different ventures the Police had never interfered. She now was
proprietress of the road-house in the note described as Kessler's
Cafe. It was a place for joy- riders. There was a cabaret, a hall
for public dancing, and rooms for very private suppers.
In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was
exclusive, but in all other respects its reputation was of the
worst. In situation it was lonely, and from other houses separated
by a quarter of a mile of dying trees and vacant lots.
The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but
lately, through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had
been relaid. It was patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle
policemen. "But this," continued the detective eagerly, "is where
we win out. The road-house is an old farmhouse built over, with the
barns changed into garages. They stand on the edge of a wood. It's
about as big as a city block. If we come in through the woods from
the rear, the garages will hide us. Nobody in the house can see us,
but we won't be a hundred yards away. You've only to blow a police
whistle and we'll be with you."
"You mean I ought to go?" said Wharton.
Rumson exclaimed incredulously: "You got to go!"
"It looks to me," objected Bissell, "like a plot to get you there
alone and rap you on the head." "Not with that note inviting him
there," protested Hewitt, "and signed by Earle herself."
"You don't know she signed it?" objected the senator.
"I know her," returned the detective. "I know she's no fool. It's
her place, and she wouldn't let them pull off any rough stuff
there--not against the D. A. anyway"
The D. A. was rereading the note. "Might this be it?" he asked.
"Suppose it's a trick to mix me up in a scandal? You say the place
is disreputable. Suppose they're planning to compromise me just
before election. They've tried it already several times."
"You've still got the note, If persisted Hewitt. "It proves why you
went there. And the senator, too. He can testify. And we won't be
hundred yards away. And," he added grudgingly, "you have Nolan."
Nolan was the spoiled child of 'the office.' He was the district
attorney's pet. Although still young, he had scored as a detective
and as a driver of racing-cars. As Wharton's chauffeur he now
doubled the parts.
"What Nolan testified wouldn't be any help," said Wharton. "They
would say it was just a story he invented to save me."
"Then square yourself this way," urged Rumson. "Send a note now by
hand to Ham Cutler and one to your sister. Tell them you're going
to Ida Earle's--and why--tell them you're afraid it's a frame-up,
and for them to keep your notes as evidence. And enclose the one
from her."
Wharton nodded in approval, and, while he wrote, Rumson and the
detective planned how, without those inside the road- house being
aware of their presence, they might be near it.
Kessler's Cafe lay in the Seventy-ninth Police Precinct. In
taxi-cabs they arranged to start at once and proceed down White
Plains Avenue, which parallels the Boston Road, until they were on
a line with Kessler's, but from it hidden by the woods and the
garages. A walk of a quarter of a mile across lots and under cover
of the trees would bring them to within a hundred yards of the
house.
Wharton was to give them a start of half an hour. That he might
know they were on watch, they agreed, after they dismissed the
taxi-cabs, to send one of them into the Boston Post Road past the
road-house. When it was directly in front of the cafe, the
chauffeur would throw away into the road an empty cigarette-case.
From the cigar-stand they selected a cigarette box of a startling
yellow. At half a mile it was conspicuous.
"When you see this in the road," explained Rumson, "you'll know
we're on the job. And after you're inside, if you need us, you've
only to go to a rear window and wave."
"If they mean to do him up," growled Bissell, "he won't get to a
rear window."
"He can always tell them we're outside," said Rumson----"and they
are extremely likely to believe him. Do you want a gun?"
"No," said the D. A.
"Better have mine,"' urged Hewitt.
"I have my own," explained the D. A.
Rumson and Hewitt set off in taxi-cabs and, a half-hour later,
Wharton followed. As he sank back against the cushions of the big
touring-car he felt a pleasing thrill of excitement, and as he
passed the traffic police, and they saluted mechanically, he
smiled. Had they guessed his errand their interest in his progress
would have been less perfunctory. In half an hour he might know
that the police killed Banf; in half an hour he himself might walk
into a trap they had, in turn, staged for him. As the car ran
swiftly through the clean October air, and the wind and sun
alternately chilled and warmed his blood, Wharton considered these
possibilities.
He could not believe the woman Earle would lend herself to any plot
to do him bodily harm. She was a responsible person. In her own
world she was as important a figure as was the district attorney in
his. Her allies were the man "higher up " in Tammany and the police
of the upper ranks of the uniformed force. And of the higher office
of the district attorney she possessed an intimate and respectful
knowledge. It was not to be considered that against the prosecuting
attorney such a woman would wage war. So the thought that upon his
person any assault was meditated Wharton dismissed as
unintelligent. That it was upon his reputation the attack was
planned seemed much more probable. But that contingency he had
foreseen and so, he believed, forestalled. There then remained only
the possibility that the offer in the letter was genuine. It seemed
quite too good to be true. For, as he asked himself, on the very
eve of an election, why should Tammany, or a friend of Tammany,
place in his possession the information that to the Tammany
candidate would bring inevitable defeat. He felt that the way they
were playing into his hands was too open, too generous. If their
object was to lead him into a trap, of all baits they might use the
promise to tell him who killed Banf was the one certain to attract
him. It made their invitation to walk into the parlor almost too
obvious. But were the offer not genuine, there was a condition
attached to it that puzzled him. It was not the condition that
stipulated he should come alone. His experience had taught him many
will confess, or betray, to the district attorney who, to a deputy,
will tell nothing. The condition that puzzled him was the one that
insisted he should come at once or it would be "too late."
Why was haste so imperative? Why, if he delayed, would he be "too
late"? Was the man he sought about to escape from his jurisdiction,
was he dying, and was it his wish to make a death-bed confession;
or was he so reluctant to speak that delay might cause him to
reconsider and remain silent?
With these questions in his mind, the minutes quickly passed, and
it was with a thrill of excitement Wharton saw that Nolan had left
the Zoological Gardens on the right and turned into the Boston
Road. It had but lately been completed and to Wharton was
unfamiliar. On either side of the unscarred roadway still lay
scattered the uprooted trees and boulders that had blocked its
progress, and abandoned by the contractors were empty tar-barrels,
cement-sacks, tool-sheds, and forges. Nor was the surrounding
landscape less raw and unlovely. Toward the Sound stretched vacant
lots covered with ash heaps; to the left a few old and broken
houses set among the glass-covered cold frames of truck-farms.
The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness. And when
an automobile sign told him he was "10 miles from Columbus Circle,"
he felt that from the New York he knew he was much farther. Two
miles up the road his car overhauled a bicycle policeman, and
Wharton halted him.
"Is there a road-house called Kessler's beyond here?" he asked.
"On the left, farther up, "the officer told him, and added: "You
can't miss it ' Mr. Wharton; there's no other house near it."
"You know me," said the D.A. "Then you'll understand what I want
you to do. I've agreed to go to that house alone. If they see you
pass they may think I'm not playing fair. So stop here.
The man nodded and dismounted.
"But," added the district attorney, as the car started forward
again, "If you hear shots, I don't care how fast you come."
The officer grinned.
"Better let me trail along now," he called; "that's a tough joint."
But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the
man still stood where they had parted.
Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as
it passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel, and with his
thumb motioned behind him.
"That's one of the men," said Nolan,"that started with Mr. Rumson
and Hewitt from Delmonico's."
Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been
no hitch, smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of
them on the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he
recognized the signal and knew that within call were friends.
The yellow cigarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden
building of two stories. It was linked to the road by a curving
driveway marked on either side by whitewashed stones.
On verandas enclosed In glass Wharton saw white-covered tables
under red candle-shade and, protruding from one end of the house
and hung with electric lights in paper lanterns, a pavilion for
dancing. In the rear of the house stood sheds and a thick tangle of
trees on which the autumn leaves showed yellow painted fingers and
arrows pointing, and an electric sign, proclaimed to all who passed
that this was Kessler's. In spite of its reputation, the house wore
the aspect of the commonplace. In evidence nothing flaunted,
nothing threatened From a dozen other inns along the Pelham Parkway
and the Boston Post Road it was no way to be distinguished.
As directed In the note, Wharton left the car in the road." For
five minutes stay where yo are," he ordered Nolan; "then go to the
bar and get a drink. Don't talk to any one or they'll think you're
trying to get information. Work around to the back of the house.
Stand where I can see you from the window. I may want you to carry
a message to Mr. Rumson.
On foot Wharton walked up the curved drive-way, and if from the
house his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the
second story the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the
verandas were empty. Nor, not even after he had mounted to the
veranda and stepped inside the house, was there any sign that his
visit was expected. He stood in a hall, and in front of him rose a
broad flight of stairs that he guessed led to the private
supper-rooms. On his left was the restaurant.
Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as
though resting in preparation for those to come, it an air of
peaceful inactivity. At a table a maitre d'ho'tel was composing the
menu for the evening, against the walls three colored waiters
lounged sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a pale youth with
drugged eyes was with one hand picking an accompaniment. As Wharton
paused uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a
shrill, nasal tenor raised his voice and sang:
"And from the time the rooster calls I'll wear my overalls,
And you, a simple gingham gown. So, if you're strong for a
shower of rice, We two could make a paradise Of any One-Horse
Town."
At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself
from his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor,
Wharton heard his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman
descending the stairs. It was apparent that when young she had been
beautiful, and, in spite of an expression in her eyes of hardness
and distrust, which seemed habitual, she was still handsome. She
was without a hat and wearing a house dress of decorous shades and
in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built up in artificial
waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered deep with
rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious care.
But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and
powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the
perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.
"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you
please come this way?"
That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious,
for, as she spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the
stairs. After an instant of hesitation, Wharton followed.
As well as his mind, his body was now acutely alive and vigilant.
Both physically and mentally he moved on tiptoe. For whatever
surprise, for whatever ambush might lie in wait, he was prepared.
At the top of the stairs he found a wide hall along which on both
sides were many doors. The one directly facing the stairs stood
open. At one side of this the woman halted and with a gesture of
the jewelled fingers invited him to enter.
"My sitting-room," she said. As Wharton remained motionless she
substituted: " My office."
Peering into the room, Wharton found it suited to both titles. He
saw comfortable chairs, vases filled with autumn leaves, in silver
frames photographs, and between two open windows a business-like
roller-top desk on which was a hand telephone. In plain sight
through the windows he beheld the garage and behind it the tops of
trees. To summon Rumson, to keep in touch with Nolan, he need only
step to one of these windows and beckon. The strategic position of
the room appealed, and with a bow of the head he passed in front of
his hostess and entered it. He continued to take note of his
surroundings.