"Torture wouldn't drag it out of me," murmured Jessie.
"Well, if you did let it out, you wouldn't get another chance later," said Mother Simonds coolly.
Jessie sought to give a convincing picture of the stubborn soul humbled at last. She fondled the older woman's plump and shapely hand. "What makes you so good to me?" she murmured. "I'm nottin' to you. What you doing it for?"
"Oh, I took a fancy to you," said Mother Simonds, scarcely troubling to hide the cynical leer now. "I like a girl of spirit.... And I'm getting on. I want companionship. I keep a lodging house for men only, and I thought I'd like a girl around me. If you don't want to live with me as my daughter, you only got to say the word."
"It's more than I could a hoped for," said Jessie.
"Look at me!" said Mother Simonds in quite a different voice. Jessie raised her humble head, and the terrible gray eyes blazed on her. "Listen to me, girl! You're clever and game, and there's no height to which you may not rise—with the help of me and my friends. But you're also a passionate, ignorant fool, and without me you'd be back in your cell within a month. Girls like you are easy meat for the bulls. I stand for organisation and power, and safety. The whole world is yours if you want it. But remember: I am everything to you, and you are next to nothing to me, because there are thousands more like you. Work with me and I'll make you; work against me, and I'll leave you to break of yourself."
Jessie's head went down, and she spread out her hands. "Do what you want with me," she murmured.
Mother Simonds touched the bushy blonde head with two fingers, as it were to confer the accolade, and jumped up quite cheerfully.
"Very well, we understand each other then. You'd best beat it back to your cell, or they'll be blowing the sirens for you and Smitty."
"How will you get out?" asked Jessie solicitously.
Mother Simonds and Smitty both laughed with frank cynicism. "Don't you worry, deary," said the former, jocosely. "I got a magic wand. I can go straight through a two-foot stone wall. For me:
"Stone walls do not a prison make
Or iron bars a cage."
She lifted the heavy trap easily.
CHAPTER XII
THE WARDEN'S GUESTS
The laundry at Woburn was housed in the basement of one of the industrial buildings in the outer prison yard. At midday in July it was, naturally, the hottest spot within the whole circuit of the walls. The greater part of the big rectangle was taken up by the steam laundry which washed the prisoners' clothes, but towards the front of the building where the stairs went up, there was a row of girls engaged on hand work for the household of the Warden, and other prison officials. Conspicuous among them was the tall figure of Jessie Seipp, with her great bush of blonde hair. Since make-up was frowned upon within the prison, she was unable to contrive the same brilliant appearance she had made at her trial; nevertheless, she had smuggled in certain articles of make-up, and she still bore but little resemblance to the self that Nature intended.
The girls had their dinner in the laundry, since it was easier to bring it to them than to march them back to the main prison under guard, and then back to work again. They appreciated the privilege while they ate and talked, even though there were several keepers present, they were able to feel like laundry workers outside. As usual, tall Jessie was the life of the party.
To have work to do, no matter how hard and how disagreeable, with fellow workers to talk to; to take part in the general life of the prison; and to have a cell that was like a stateroom de luxe by comparison with the first hole in the wall, this was a great improvement upon solitary. There was rich material, too, for the student of human nature, Nevertheless, Jessie could not be said to be easy in mind, in spite of her seeming high spirits. She was in the position of one who expects a decisive stroke of fate, but does not know when, nor from what direction. It is hard on the nerves. Jessie had had nothing from Mother Simonds except a single terse message via Smitty:
"Be ready to hop it whenever the word comes through."
One of the hand-workers, a dumpling of a girl called Doll Turner, had part of a newspaper. She said: "Gee! guyls, we're goin' t' have comp'ny. A bunch of them refawmers. Gawd, how I hate the breed!"
"Read it out," said another.
Said Doll in a sing-song: "The Patroon Club, the exclusive upper West Side organisation of women, has taken up the study of prison life in a serious way, and to-morrow (this is yestiddy's papeh) the members are going in a body to inspect Woburn prison, under guidance of Katherine Couteau Cloke..."
This name stirred recollections in Jessie Seipp of her other existence, which now seemed so remote. "Dear Katherine!" she thought, "what a shock it would be to her if she recognised me on the way through!" But it was dangerous even to think in this character, and Jessie made haste to say in the derisive drawl that the other girls associated with her:
"Ho-o-oly Mackerel!"
They laughed quietly, with glances askance at the nearest keeper.
Doll continued: "The party will number some forty persons. Two special parlour cars will be attached to the ten o'clock train from Grand Central. Upon arrival in Woburn a collation will be served at the local hotel, and the ladies will then motor to the prison. After an inspection of every department, they will be the guests of Warden Insull for tea, and will depart from Woburn on the return journey at 5.30."
"They'll be eatin' that collation right now," remarked Jessie pensively.
"What's a collation?" asked one.
"Suych me!" said Jessie. "Maybe it's a misprint for collection—collection of eats."
"Well, it'll be a collection of crows all right," said another wit.
After dinner an order was received for a general tidying up of the laundry, and, much against their will, the girls were forced to put on their blouses in the heat. They affected to scorn the coming visitors, but just the same their coming made a welcome break in the monotony. It would give them something to talk about for days to come.
It was about quarter to three when there was heard a bustle overhead, and the procession started to descend the stairs into the laundry, the portly Warden walking first with a very grand lady, who was perhaps the president of the organisation. The others followed after, two by two, quite a lengthy train. Miss Cloke, who was well known to all the girls, was in the second file with the next grandest lady, the vice-president, perhaps. As the handworkers were close to the foot of the stairs, they took them first in their tour.
There were six ironers, each with her board at right angles to the wall and the passage through. Thus while they were at work they could only talk to the backs of each other's necks. Jessie Seipp was the second in line. When Katherine Couteau Cloke passed by she stole a glance into the plain, harassed, and somewhat sad face of her friend. Evidently this "investigation" was an ordeal that the one genuine reformer was obliged to undergo for the sake of the publicity and the funds it brought to her work.
Tall Jessie and her hair attracted considerable attention, and one of the ladies asked audibly of a member of the prison staff who accompanied the party, who she was. He answered, whereupon the lady turned to a friend behind and gasped:
"My dear! That's Jessie Seipp. The girl who attacked poor Mrs. Marquardt!"
Thereafter, they passed it back from one to another as they went along: "That's Jessie Seipp. The one with the hair! Only fancy!"
Jessie attended closely to her ironing, with a sneer curling her lip; for she was thinking that the manners of the unfortunate inmates of Woburn compared very favourably with these ladies. She did not look up again until they had nearly all passed, when a something familiar in the words; "What! Jessie Seipp! You don't say!" caused her sharply to turn her head.
She received a surprise which tried all her self-command, for she found herself looking into the masked gray eyes of "Mother Simonds," who, for the moment, had adopted an expression of foolish benevolence. She had not made the slightest attempt to disguise herself. Her dowdy, well-to-do
appearance was exactly in character with most of the other earnest ladies of the party.
Mother Simonds said to the lady beside her: "I will speak to the poor girl." Taking a step nearer Jessie, she said without batting an eye: "Are you well treated here, my girl?"
"Ain't got no complaint," muttered Jessie sullenly.
"Let me give you a trifle," she said, opening her pocket-book.
It was forbidden to give the prisoners money, but the harmless practice was generally winked at.
Mother Simonds pressed a half-dollar into Jessie's hand, and two other things went with it unseen; to wit, a scrap of paper, and a tiny key. Jessie, grinning, exhibited the coin to the girls and kept the other things concealed. Then it all went into her pocket. The procession passed on.
There could be no moment for examining the paper so favourable as the present, when all attention was upon the visitors; Jessie unfolded it in her pocket, and took it out concealed within her palm. In prison one becomes adept at that sort of thing. The scrap was covered with infinitesimal but perfectly clear handwriting. Jessie read:
"Wait for about forty-five minutes. Choose a moment when you are unobserved to carry some completed work to its proper basket. Pick up the basket, and carry it to the hoist. Tell the hoist-man the doctor has sent for his wash. Tell any one who may stop you the same thing. Cross the yard to the back door of the doctor's house, but turn aside on the path that leads to the Warden's. Give the basket to the cook. When her back is turned, slide up the back stairs. On the first bedroom floor the two rooms on the left as you face the front have been set aside for the lady visitors. In the front room you will find a small brown valise on the bed. It has initials: N. S. Open it with the key. Further instructions inside."
"Amazing woman!" thought Jessie. "Every detail of the laundry routine is familiar to her, and, presumably, all the other departments of the prison also!" Squeezing up the paper, Jessie put it in her mouth and chewed it to a pulp, then spat it out.
She considered what was before her. The manager of the laundry paid but little attention to the hand-workers, and the keepers probably would not interfere with the carrying out of so natural-seeming an errand. The one to look out for was Sarah Rekar, the head hand-worker, an old trusty, who was responsible for the others. Unfortunately, Sarah's ironing table was immediately behind Jessie. Somehow, she must be got out of the way for a moment.
There was a new girl on the hand work, a quiet little thing called Hannah, between whom and Jessie there existed one of those unexpressed bonds of sympathy. Jessie carried some completed work to the baskets, timing her act so that she would meet Hannah there. Out of the corner of her mouth she whispered to the girl:
"At half-past three keep old Sarah busy for a minute, will you?"
The girl gave her an eloquent look, but said nothing.
They had no clocks or watches, but such was the iron routine of the prison, that at any hour of the day the girls could have told you the time almost to a minute. Hannah's table was the last of the six. At half-past three she began to whimper and complain:
"I can't make these pleats lie down. The more I iron 'em the worse they get."
Jessie heard Sarah, behind her, put down her iron with a sigh. With a fast-beating heart, Jessie gave her a minute to get to Hannah's table and to apply herself to the pleats: then she quietly picked up what work she had completed and carried it to the baskets. Each girl did the work of one household at a time, and Jessie's at the moment was for the purchasing agent, but that didn't make any difference; she walked off with the basket, taking care not to look behind her. The hoist was beyond the stairs. She made the fateful corner without hearing any hail from behind her. The hoist-man looked at her grimly.
"Doctor sent for his wash," said Jessie.
"A-ah," said the hoist-man, "ain't yer legs good? How about the stairs?"
Jessie smiled at him, and gave her blonde mop a toss. "It's hot," she said. "Be a sport and take me up. Don't cost you nottin'."
"Oh, well, you're a good-lookin' girl," he said. "Step in."
Jessie crossed the outer enclosure of the prison at a sober pace. There were plenty of people there on one errand or another, but the spectacle of a trusty carrying a basket of wash towards the official residences was an ordinary one. The blood was pounding in Jessie's ears. How much time could she count on? The girls would help her out some. When Sarah came back to her table and said: "Where's Jessie?" they would be ready with an excuse that would keep her quiet for a minute or two.
What would Sarah do when she did become suspicious? Sarah was crabbed, but at heart she wasn't a bad sort. Jessie knew she would have done all she could to keep one of the girls from making a break, but if she found her gone, maybe she'd give her a few minutes' chance. Or maybe Sarah was fixed. Jessie had gathered from her instructions that the cook at the Warden's was fixed.
In an open space behind the Warden's house a row of eight motor-cars was drawn up waiting to carry the ladies back to the station. "Shall I be in one of those when it drives out through the gates?" she asked herself.
She reached the doctor's back premises without being accosted. She was safer now, for the path between the doctor's house and the Warden's lay behind some ornamental shrubbery. But she was again exposed for a moment as she climbed the Warden's back steps. In order to save time, she ventured to open the kitchen door and walk in.
The cook was not surprised by her intrusion. She was another trusty, an Irishwoman of great girth. There was an all-comprehensive twinkle in her eye.
"Here's the wash," said Jessie.
"Sure, darlin'," said the other, taking the basket; and Jessie was well assured that its contents would never be found again. "We're havin' a big party," she went on. "Stop a minute, and I'll fetch you a little cake."
Before leaving the kitchen, she glanced expressively at a certain door. She scarcely needed to point it out, because this door had a step outside it, which signified clearly enough that the rest of the stairs would be found behind it. The cook went through a swing door into a pantry presumably, and Jessie slipped through the other door as softly as a snake and got it closed behind her.
On the first landing there was another door. Jessie listened behind it; then opened it a crack and listened; then peeped out. There was no one stirring on that floor. From below she heard the voices of the family on the porch. She flitted like a shadow along the hall and gained the first bedroom on the left. The light wraps and personal belongings of the ladies were strewn about the room, and there were more in the adjoining room. She found the brown valise on the bed, and carried it into the bathroom which was between the two rooms with a little sob of relief. The more dangerous part was over.
The valise contained a change of clothing, of course. The instructions which accompanied it were brief:
"Wrap up the prison dress in the paper, so if I have to open the valise the stuff won't give me away. Draw your hair down close with the hair net. Don't put on too much make-up. When you're ready, wait in the bedroom until we all get there. You can tell some story about having come back sooner. When we go downstairs, keep your mouth shut as much as possible, and watch how the others eat."
Jessie smiled to herself at the final instructions. She destroyed the paper.
Ten minutes later an elegant young lady issued out of the bathroom. What Jessie had to guard against was looking too elegant—for Mother Simonds. The dress was one of those straight silk slips which fit every woman, and are becoming to all—that is, all under a hundred and fifty. With it went a little crush sport hat, very smart, and the daintiest of shoes and stockings. The shoes were too big, but that would scarcely be noticed. For a final touch a pair of heavy rimmed glasses had been supplied to lend Jessie the earnest look characteristic of the ladies.
But she had no more than seated herself by the window to manicure her nails, when the door of the room opened and the Warden's wife entered. Swallowing a gasp, Jessie arose with her most charming smile.
"
I hope you won't think I'm an intruder. It was so hot, I got a little faint. I left the others in the clothing-shop, and came back."
Now Jessie had command of the manner of a much greater lady than the Warden's wife, and that good soul was instantly impressed by it. "Why didn't you let me know?" she said solicitously.
Jessie remembered that the family porch was at the side of the house, and therefore conceivably out of sight of anybody entering the front door. "Oh, it was nothing," she said. "I didn't want to trouble anybody. We are giving you trouble enough—so many of us! The door was open, and I took the liberty of coming right in."
"That was right," said the Warden's wife. "How do you feel now?"
"Quite all right," said Jessie.
"Do come downstairs and wait with us. It's cooler on the porch."
They descended the stairs chatting amicably. Jessie complimented the Warden's wife upon her house, and the latter referred humorously to the drawbacks of living in a prison. At any rate there was no servant problem there.
On the porch they found the wives of other prison officials. Mrs. Insull hesitated. "I have forgotten your name," she murmured.
"Mrs. Boker," said Jessie.
She was introduced all around in due form.
"I met some Bokers at Upper Saranac," remarked the doctor's wife. "I think the initial was W. N."
"Distant cousins of my husband's," said Jessie carelessly. "We scarcely know them."
She was in great form; filled with a deep, inward amusement at the quaint situation.
The other ladies were not long in returning. They proceeded directly upstairs to titivate for tea. Only the Warden came around on the porch. Mother Simonds would have her moment of anxiety upstairs when she found no Jessie; but that couldn't be helped. Jessie had locked the brown valise as a precaution against possible snoopers.
MRS1 The Under Dogs Page 10
