Part 1 (1/2)
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 amba.s.sador 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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sed 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 Was.h.i.+ngton calls ”a cabinet lady” she had kept her name out of the newspapers; as Madame L'Amba.s.satrice she had put archd.u.c.h.esses 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 a.s.sistant 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 hoa.r.s.e 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.
”a.s.sistant 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:
”h.e.l.lo,” 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 n.o.body 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?”