MRS1 The Under Dogs

by Hulbert Footner

  "But if she wanted help...?"

  Mme. Storey lit a cigarette, and thoughtfully puffed at it. "Bella," she said, "most of us only face the truth about our situation once or twice in a lifetime—some of us never. Suppose it came to this poor girl in the night, lying sleepless on the hard bunk of her cell, and she got up and wrote that letter to me on the spur of the moment. As soon as she sent it out, she would regret it. She'd rather die now than confess she was the girl who had written it."

  "But how can we do anything for her without her co-operation?"

  "I admit it will be difficult. But, perhaps, we can bring her back to a more amenable frame of mind.... The case interests me. It smells of mystery. The inwardness of it was not revealed at the trial. The suggestion that she committed all these thefts single-handed will not hold water. Of course she did the actual lifting of the jewels, but she could not dispose of them without assistance. That business is too highly organised.

  "Then there is this young man she was married to, who shook her so precipitately. That is unusual. Young people generally cleave to each other at such a time. An accusation of theft is nothing to a lover. It seems incredible that the young man should not even feel concern enough to attend her trial.... We will have this George Mullen looked for.

  "Finally, there is Shryock's extraordinary attitude," Mme. Storey went on, more like one thinking aloud. "There's a subtle, astute scoundrel! His connection with the case interests me more than anything else. He was the real prosecutor of the girl. He turned his thumbs down, and she was railroaded.... I've long had my eye on Shryock. I consider him the most sinister and hateful figure on the local scene. I have longed to be able to open up the underground ramifications of his power. It would be odd, wouldn't it, if I was able to get him at last, through the means of an anonymous letter from one of his humblest victims? ... We've made a good bit of money the last year or two, Bella. We can afford to do a piece of work gratis for the good of the community. Oh, decidedly, as long as Shryock is mixed up in this case, I shall not drop it."

  "What is the next move?" I asked.

  "Katherine Couteau Cloke, the well-known prison reformer, is a friend of mine," said Mme. Storey. "She's a sort of unofficial inspector of all the prisons, and makes frequent trips to Woburn. I'll get her to arrange an interview for me with the girl."

  "But if you visited Woburn Prison it would immediately become known," I said. "Even if you went in disguise. Those places are full of spies, Shryock would certainly be informed of your interest in the girl."

  "Oh, Bella, you're so confoundedly prudent!" said Mme. Storey, with pretended impatience. "However, I suppose you're right. You'll have to see the girl, then, and persuade her that we are her friends." She reached for the telephone. "Let us see if we can get hold of Miss Cloke now."

  By great good fortune we caught that busy woman at a loose end, and a few minutes later she was seated beside us in the mellow, inviting living-room; a middle-aged woman, with a plain, strong, good, harassed face. Grace brought her fresh tea, but she refused the chocolate cakes.

  "Ah, what a haven of rest!" she murmured, glancing around the room, and visibly relaxing.

  "You should not wait until you are sent for," said Mme. Storey, smiling.

  Evidently they were tried friends; they looked at each other with eyes of affection. No two women could have been more dissimilar. Miss Cloke was one of the dowdy, plain-spoken sort, that men affect to sneer at, but who accomplish a deal of good in the world. Certainly the prisoners of this state have a lot to thank her for.

  "Did you ever hear of a jewel thief called Melanie Soupert?" asked Mme. Storey. "An old offender."

  "Why, yes," said Miss Cloke at once. "One would not forget that name. Let me see ... she escaped from Woburn Prison two years ago, and was never apprehended. She had influential friends, one supposes."

  "Indeed!" said Mme. Storey; "that's interesting."

  "They can generally catch an escaped prisoner if they really wish to," said Miss Cloke, with the shrug of one who was disillusioned without being embittered.

  "Her influential friends must have abandoned her," said I. "She's been sent up again, on another charge."

  "Oh, I don't know," drawled Mme. Storey; "she may escape again."

  I glanced at my mistress, wondering what theory she was evolving. Her face gave away nothing.

  "Do you remember the circumstances of her escape?" she asked Miss Cloke.

  That lady shook her head. "There is seldom anything spectacular in the cases where there is collusion. A prisoner turns up missing, and it's often hard to establish just how she did get away. Say a party of prisoners is taken for some special purpose to the outer yard of the prison; an entertainment, or welfare work of some sort. A complaisant keeper turns his back, and a prisoner strolls away, presently to be picked up by a waiting car—sometimes in the outer yard of the prison itself. Under modern, humane methods, escapes are more numerous than they used to be; but we contend that the loss is far outbalanced by the gain in other ways."

  "Can you remember the girl herself?" asked Mme. Storey.

  "Yes," said Miss Cloke slowly, "a handsome, dark girl, with a bold glance.... An incorrigible!" she went on with a sigh. "One of the sort who sets all my work at naught. It's hard to be patient with such a one."

  "Just how do you mean, incorrigible?"

  "You cannot reach her better feelings. With such a prisoner any softening of the iron hand will immediately be taken advantage of; any trust you put in her will be betrayed. Such a one, vain, wilful, and defiant, always becomes a rallying-point for all the rebels in the prison; they make a hero of her."

  "But the better feelings may be there," said Mme. Storey.

  "Oh, certainly! That's what makes it so discouraging. Melanie Soupert is the sort of prisoner that my adversaries throw in my face as proof that my methods are not only mistaken, but positively harmful."

  Mme. Storey told Miss Cloke the circumstances of the trial that day. In conclusion she said: "I suspect that this girl is a cog in some great evil machine. What you say about her having powerful friends confirms it. If I can catch her at the right moment, I hope to be able to save her from the machine, of which she is a victim as well as a part; and through her, to destroy the whole foul business."

  "What is the nature of this machine?" asked Miss Cloke.

  "I don't know," said Mme. Storey frankly. "All I can say so far is that Jim Shryock is in it."

  "Shryock!" cried Miss Cloke with an indignant flash of her honest eyes. "If you could destroy him, you would be conferring a boon on us all! It is Shryock and all he stands for that I am fighting night and day, blindfolded! They strike me in the back! ... I wish you luck with the girl," she went on with a rueful smile, "but...!" She ended with a shake of the head.

  "I'd like Bella to talk to her," said Mme Storey. "How can it be managed?"

  "I go to Woburn next week on my regular visit," said Miss Cloke. "I am often accompanied by students, investigators and what not. Miss Brickley could make one of my party without exciting any remark. We could interview the girl, and I could leave Miss Brickley with her."

  Mme. Storey shook her head. "Too obvious," she said. "If you sought the girl out like that it would excite remark. Woburn is full of spies, I suppose."

  "Oh, my dear, yes!" said Miss Cloke, with her air of philosophic disillusionment.

  "Besides," said Mme. Storey, "if you will forgive me for saying so, I suspect that you, that anything associated with the name of reformer, is like a red rag to this girl."

  "That's true," said Miss Cloke, smiling.

  "Then it would be better not to have Bella introduced to her under your auspices.... Tell me, just what do you do on your visits to Woburn?"

  "I have an assistant there in charge of welfare work. She makes her reports to me, and together we lay out the work for the subsequent month. She recommends individual cases to my attention—generally the incorrigibles; and, as far as time permits, I talk to these
prisoners. I also have to consult with the Warden, and make my recommendations to him, which he takes under advisement."

  "Well, let us not be in too great haste to act," said Mme. Storey. "Make your visit to Woburn next week without Bella. Find out exactly what is Melanle's situation in the prison, and on the basis of that we will make a plan for bringing Bella and her together naturally."

  "Very well," said Miss Cloke; "and shall I drop a hint to the Warden that another rescue of the girl is possible?"

  "Oh, no! no!" said Mme. Storey quickly. "As an escaped prisoner they will already be watching her closely enough. For goodness' sake let her friends get her out, if they are able!"

  Miss Cloke stared at my mistress rather scandalised.

  "You think I am very immoral," said Mme. Storey, laughing. "And so I am. But through this girl I could much better reach her masters, couldn't I, if she were free, and in close touch with her? What you ought to do is to drop a hint to the Warden that in this case the ends of justice would best be served by letting the girl escape. But that would be too unmoral, wouldn't it? So we'll just let matters take their course."

  CHAPTER IV

  IN WOBURN PRISON

  Behold me, ten days later, established as a probationary nurse in the infirmary attached to the Woburn prison for females. The direction of the infirmary was so largely independent of that of the prison proper, we felt that I could take this job without exciting suspicion. My general ineptitude as a nurse would furnish a perfectly reasonable excuse for discharging me after I had got what I wanted.

  The plan suggested itself upon our receiving Miss Cloke's report of Melanie's situation in the prison. She had been put in solitary confinement upon her arrival. After wild fits of hysteria, she had fallen into an apathetic state in which she could neither eat nor sleep, and her health had really begun to suffer. It was a simple matter to arrange for her transfer to the infirmary, where she would probably have been sent anyway. As a precautionary measure, the transfer was delayed until after I was already on the job. Nobody was taken into the secret except the Warden, the doctor, and the head nurse.

  At the last moment, the plan was almost upset by the fact that, for some reason or other, Melanie suddenly recovered her interest in life. However, she was sent to the infirmary "for observation." She made no objection, of course, since it was much more comfortable there than in her cell.

  The infirmary was contained in a separate building, in the outer prison yard, and had no connection with the cell block. The outer yard, with the handsome residences of the officials, the grass, flower-beds, etc., did not suggest a prison, except for the encircling wall. The ground floor of the infirmary building was given up to an assembly room, and the two wards were on the second floor. There were two nurses on duty in each ward, and a male orderly out on the landing. At the foot of the stairs there was a steel gate, with two keepers on guard. The windows were all barred. So it was safe enough. I felt like a prisoner myself, once I was inside.

  I was just a supernumerary to the two regular nurses in my ward. They were not in the secret, and they treated me like a real probationer. Hardest job on earth. Heavens! how I had to work. All the laborious and menial tasks in connection with sickness fell to my share. I prayed that this might not last long. It was understood that I must find my own opportunities of talking with Melanie; but in order to facilitate it, she was to be put in a sort of cubicle at the end of the ward. She was still technically, "in solitary."

  Melanie was brought to the infirmary on the morning of the day after I had entered on my duties there. She was able to walk, of course. The head nurse delivered her to the ward nurse at the door of our ward. In the gray prison dress she made a much less brilliant figure than in the court-room; she looked thinner and her colour was bad. Nevertheless, she was in the highest spirits. When the door closed after the head nurse, she made an impudent face in her direction that caused such of the patients as were well enough, to giggle with laughter.

  Melanie swaggered down the ward, chin up and hand on hip. "Hallo, girls!" she cried to the patients. "What's the good word? Looks to me as if you wanted a bit of cheering in here. Well, I'm the baby that can supply it. There's always somepin doin' where I am. I'm Melanie Soupert. (She pronounced it Soupairr). Guess you heard of me, eh? the warden's plague, the keeper's pest, the worst girl in Woburn! Down with the reformers!"

  The patients received this with hilarity, of course. The ward nurse looked sour, but said nothing. One of the first rules of the infirmary was, that the quickest way to subdue an obstreperous patient was to ignore her.

  I was told off to see that Melanie undressed and got into bed. She did not require any actual assistance. In the cubicle she continued to shout pleasantries over the top of the partition to the girls outside.

  "Hey, there! you with the pink boojewar cap at the end of the row! You look like a live one when you're up. What's your name?"

  The answer came back: "Sarah Mitchell from Syracuse."

  Said Melanie: "Well, Syracuse Sarah, you and me'll be pals, eh? We'll liven things up around this dump. Who's askeared of a lot of nurses? What are you in for, Sarah?"

  "Stickin' up a cigar-stand."

  "Small stuff! Small stuff!" said Melanie scornfully. "I lifted a pearl necklace worth thirty thou. I wouldn't bother with nothing smaller."

  And so on. And so on. Melanie paid not the slightest attention to me. It was a little too soon for me to make myself known to her. So I just stood there, and when the ward nurse had gone, smiled in a way to suggest to her that she could count on my secret sympathy in her defiance of the authorities.

  She broke off her repartee to say to me: "Say, Sis, can you wangle me a butt?"

  For a moment I felt blank—then I got it. Could I get her a cigarette. "I'm new here," I murmured. "I don't know the ropes."

  "Oh, we'll soon break you in. We'll soon break you in," she said cheerfully.

  This loud, impudent cheerfulness was merely her prison pose, of course. It had nothing to do with the real girl. One would have to dig deep for that. Those flashing dark eyes of hers suggested infinite possibilities. Just as on the former occasion, I felt myself strongly drawn to her. She was dead game, and that quality in man or woman is hard to resist. Moreover, she was a beautiful young creature. The coarse nightgown, and hideous gray jacket could not hide it.

  One of the night nurses wanted to go to a picture show in the prison, and I volunteered to remain on duty until ten o'clock. The ill patients fell asleep early, and Melanie, who was not at all ill, and extremely lively and wideawake, was dependent on me for her amusement. The ward nurse encouraged me to remain with her, as otherwise she would sing in a loud voice, or shout over the wall of the cubicle. Thus everything worked out to my advantage.

  I sat on the foot of the high hospital cot, swinging my feet; and while she joshed me, I debated how best to open my business with her. My heart was beating fast; it is always breathlessly exciting to give the handle of life a turn, not knowing what sort of a tune is coming out of the box. With too much thinking of what I ought to say, I could say nothing. Meanwhile, the precious moments were flying. Finally I approached it this way:

  "You're not sick. How did you come to get in the infirmary?"

  "Oh, I was sick two days ago," said Melanie. "These officials always get round to a thing after it's over."

  "What was the matter with you?"

  "Melancholia," she said, grinning.

  "Not much sign of it now?"

  "Oh, I had a bit of good news, kid," she said, with her eyes shining, and her voice scaling up joyfully.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  But she instantly repented of the peep she had given me into her heart. "Oh, me mother-in-law went into a coma, and has lost the use of her tongue," she drawled mockingly.

  "I'll tell you how you happened to get here," I said boldly. "I arranged it."

  She stared at me in the purest amazement.

  "I'm no nurse," I said.


  "What the hell are you, then?"

  "Private secretary to Madame Storey."

  Melanie became very still. She had dropped all pose. She paled a little, and searched my face with deep, grave eyes. She said nothing at all.

  "It was arranged to have you sent to the infirmary, so you and I could talk without exciting any suspicion, Mme. Storey sent me to see you about the letter you wrote her."

  Still that silence. Her dark eyes, a little widened, remained fixed on my face with an inscrutable expression. Stilled like that, her face was wonderfully soft and touching. A long, long silence. Finally her eyes fell, and she elaborately smoothed the bedspread with one hand. Evidently some sort of struggle was going on within her. The silence made me extremely uneasy; but it seemed best to me to let her work out the problem without interruption.

  At last she said in low tones without looking at me: "You get me wrong, kid. I'm no fist with the pen."

  "Perhaps not," I said. "But you wrote this letter."

  "Was it signed with my name?" she asked cunningly.

  "No," I said.

  "Then how did she know it was from me?"

  "Nobody can deceive her," I said. "She sees to the bottom of a thing."

  "Oh, yes, I've heard of those know-it-all people," she said with a painful sneer.

  I waited again, hoping to see her better nature assert itself.

  "What was in the letter?" she asked with pretended innocence.

  "What's the use?" I said. "You know."

  Another silence while her lashes lay on her cheeks. Then, apparently, she made up her mind. With a toss of her bobbed head she said in a louder, harsher tone. "I don't get it, kid. I don't get it at all. I don't know why the hell anybody should write to Mme. Storey about me. I've got nothing to complain of."

  I was deeply disappointed. When Melanie became profane, you felt that you had lost her. But I wasn't going to give up yet. "You asked her to help you," I said. "She wishes to help you. Are you going to turn it down."