The Ear in the Wall

by Arthur B. Reeve

  VI

  THE WOMAN DETECTIVE

  Half an hour later, a tall, striking, self-reliant young woman with anengaging smile opened the laboratory door and asked for ProfessorKennedy.

  "Miss Kendall?" Craig inquired, coming forward to meet her.

  She was dark-haired, with regular features and an expression whichshowed a high degree of intelligence. Her clear grey eyes seemed topenetrate and tear the mask off you. It was not only her features andeyes that showed intelligence, but her gown showed that withoutsacrificing neatness she had deliberately toned down the existingfashions which so admirably fitted in with her figure in order that shemight not appear noticeable. It was clever, for if there is anything agood detective must do it is to prevent people from looking twice.

  I knew something of her history already. She had begun on a ratherdifficult case for one of the large agencies and after a few years ofexperience had decided that there was a field for an independent womandetective who would appeal particularly to women themselves. Unaidedshe had fought her way to a position of keen rivalry now with the bestmen in the profession.

  Narrowly I watched Kennedy. Here, I felt instinctively, were the "new"woman and the "new" man, if there are such things. I wondered just howthey would hit it off together. For the moment, at least, Clare Kendallwas an absorbing study, as she greeted us with a frank, jerkystraight-arm handshake.

  "Mr. Carton," she said directly, "has told me that he received ananonymous letter this morning. May I see it?"

  There are times when the so-called "new" woman's assumed masculinebrusqueness is a trifle jarring, as well as often missing the point.But with Clare Kendall one did not feel that she was eternally tryingto assert that she was the equal or the superior of someone else,although she was, as far as the majority of detectives I have met areconcerned. It was rather that she was different; in fact, almost fromthe start I felt that she was indispensable. She seemed to have thatability to go straight to the point at issue, a sort of faculty ofintuition which is often more valuable than anything else, the abilityto feel or sense things for which at first there was no actual proof.No good detective ever lacks that sort of instinct, and Clare Kendall,being a woman, had it in large degree. But she had more. She had theability to go further and get the facts and actual proof; for, as sheoften said during the course of a case, "Woman's intuition may not begood evidence in a court of law, but it is one of the best means to getgood evidence that will convince a court of law."

  "My investigators have been watching that place for some time," sheremarked as she finished the letter. "Of course, having been closely intouch with this sort of thing for several months in my work, I have hadall the opportunity in the world to observe and collect information.The letter does not surprise me."

  "Then you think it is a good tip?" asked Kennedy.

  "Decidedly, although without the letter I should not have startedthere, I think. Still, as nearly as I can gather, there is a rathernondescript crowd connected in one way or another with the Montmartre.For instance, there is a pretty tough character who seems to beconnected with the people there, my investigators tell me. It is afellow named 'Ike the Dropper,' one of those strong-arm men who havemigrated up from the East Side to the White Light District. At least myinvestigators have told me they have seen him there, for I have neverbothered with the place myself. There has been plenty of work elsewherewhich promised immediate results. I'm glad to have a chance to tacklethis place, though, with your help."

  "What do you think of the rest of the letter?" asked Craig.

  "I think I could make a pretty shrewd guess from what I have heard, asto the identity of some of those hinted at. I'm not sure, but I thinkthe lawyer may be a Mr. Kahn, a clever enough attorney who has a largetheatrical clientele and none too savoury a reputation as a localpolitician. The banker may be Mr. Langhorne, although he is not exactlya young man. Still, I know he has been associated with the place. Asfor the club-man I should guess that that was Martin Ogleby."

  Kennedy and I exchanged glances of surprise.

  "As a first step," said Kennedy, at length, "I am going to write aletter to Betty Blackwell, care of the Little Montmartre--or perhapsyou had better do the actual writing of it, Miss Kendall. A woman'shand will look less suspicious."

  "What shall I write?" she asked.

  "Just a few lines. Tell her that you are one of the girls in theoffice, that you have heard she was at the Montmartre--anything. Theactual writing doesn't make any difference. I merely want to see whathappens."

  Miss Kendall quickly wrote a little note and handed it to him.

  "Then direct this envelope," he said, reaching into a drawer of hisdesk and bringing out a plain white one. "And let me seal it."

  Carefully he sealed and stamped the letter and handed it to me to post.

  "You will dine with us, Miss Kendall?" he asked. "Then we will plan thenext step in our campaign."

  "I shall be glad to do so," she replied.

  Fifteen minutes later I had dropped the letter in the drop of a branchof the general post-office to ensure its more prompt delivery, and itwas on its way through the mails to accomplish the purpose Kennedy mayhave contemplated.

  "Just now it is more important for us to become acquainted with thisLittle Montmartre," he remarked. "I suppose, Miss Kendall, we maydepend on you to join us?"

  "Indeed you may," she replied energetically. "There is nothing that wewould welcome more than evidence that would lead to the closing of thatplace."

  Kennedy seemed to be impressed by the frankness and energy of the youngwoman.

  "Perhaps if we three should go there, hire a private dining-room, andlook about without making any move against the place that would excitesuspicion, we might at least find out what it is that we are fighting.Of course we must dine somewhere, and up there at the same time we canplan our campaign."

  "I think that would be ripping," she laughed, as the humour of thesituation dawned on her. "Why, we shall be laying our plans right inthe heart of the enemy's country and they will never realize it.Perhaps, too, we may get a glimpse of some of those people mentioned inthe anonymous letter."

  To Clare Kendall it was simply another phase of the game which she hadbeen playing against the forces of evil in the city.

  The Little Montmartre was, as I already knew, one of the smaller hotelsin a side street just off Broadway, eight or ten stories in height, ofmodern construction, and for all the world exactly like a score ofother of the smaller hostelries of the famous city of hotels.

  Clare, Craig, and myself pulled up before the entrance in a taxicab,that seeming to be the accepted method of entering with eclat. A boyopened the door. I jumped out and settled with the driver without ademur at the usual overcharge, while Craig assisted Clare.

  Laughing and chatting, we entered the bronze plate-glass doors andwalked slowly down a richly carpeted corridor. It was elegantlyfurnished and decorated with large palms set at intervals, quite theequal in luxuriousness, though on a smaller scale, of any of the largerand well-known hotels. Beautifully marked marbles and expensivehangings greeted the eye at every turn. Faultlessly liveried servantssolicitously waited about for tips.

  Craig and Clare, who were slightly ahead of me, turned quickly into alittle alcove, or reception room and Craig placed a chair for her.Farther down the corridor I could see the office, and beyond a largemain dining-room from which strains of music came and now and then thebuzz of conversation and laughter from gay parties at the immaculatelywhite tables.

  "Boy," called Kennedy quietly, catching the eye of a passing bell hopand unostentatiously slipping a quarter into his hand, which closedover the coin almost automatically, "the head waiter, please.Oh--er--by the way--what is his name?"

  "Julius," returned the boy, to whom the proceeding seemed to presentnothing novel, although the whole atmosphere of the place was beyondhis years. "I'll get him in a minute, sir. He's in the maindining-room. He's having some trouble with the cabaret singers. One ofthem is
late--as usual."

  We sat in the easy chairs watching the people passing and repassing inthe corridor. There was no effort at concealment here.

  A few minutes later Julius appeared, a young man, tall and rathergood-looking, suave and easy. A word or two with Kennedy followed,during which a greenback changed hands--in fact that seemed to be theopen sesame to everything here--and we were in the elevator decorouslyescorted by the polished Julius.

  The door of the elevator shut noiselessly and it shot up to the nextfloor. Julius preceded us down the thickly carpeted corridor leadingthe way to a large apartment, or rather a suite of rooms, as handsomelyfurnished as any in other hotels. He switched on the lights and leftus, with the remark, "When you want the waiter or anything, just pressthe button."

  In the largest of the rooms was a dining-table and several chairs ofJacobean oak. A heavy sideboard and serving-table stood againstopposite walls. Another, smaller room was furnished very attractivelyas a sitting-room. Deep, easy chairs stood in the corners and a wide,capacious davenport stretched across one wall. In another nook was alittle divan or cosy corner.

  Electric bulbs burned pinkly in the chandeliers and on silvercandelabra on the table, giving a half light that was very romantic andfascinating. From a curtained window that opened upon an interior courtwe could catch strains from the cabaret singers below in the maindining-room. Everything was new and bright.

  Kennedy pressed the button and a waiter brought a menu, imposing inlength and breath-taking in rates.

  "The cost of vice seems to have gone up with the cost of living,"remarked Miss Kendall, as the waiter disappeared as silently as he hadresponded to the bell. It was a phrase that stuck in my head, so aptwas it in describing the anomalous state of things we found as the caseunrolled.

  Craig ordered, now and then consulting Clare about some detail. Thecare and attention devoted to us could not have been more punctiliousif it had been an elaborate dinner party.

  "Well," he remarked, as the waiter at last closed the door of theprivate dining-room to give the order in downstairs in the kitchen,"the Little Montmartre makes a brave showing. I suppose it will be sometime before the dinner arrives, though. There is certainly somepiquancy to this," he added, looking about at the furnishings.

  "Yes," remarked Miss Kendall, "risque from the moment you enter thedoor."

  She said it with an impersonal tone as if there were completedetachment between herself as an observer and as a guest of theMontmartre.

  "Miss Kendall," asked Kennedy, "did you notice anything particularlydownstairs? I'd like to check up my own impressions by yours."

  "I noticed that Titian beauty in the hotel office as we left thereception room and entered the elevator."

  Craig smiled.

  "So did I. I thought you would be both woman enough and detectiveenough to notice her. Well, I suppose if a man likes that sort of girlthat's the sort of girl he likes. That's point number one. But did younotice anything else--as we came in, for instance?"

  "No--except that everything seems to be a matter of scientificmanagement here to get the most out of the suckers. This is no placefor a piker. It all seems to run so smoothly, too. Still, I'm sure thatour investigators might get something on the place if they kept rightafter it, although on the surface it doesn't look as if any law wasbeing openly violated here. What do you mean? What is your point numbertwo?"

  "In the front window," resumed Craig, "just as you enter, I noticed oneof those little oblong signs printed neatly in black on white--'Dr.Vernon Harris, M. D.' You recall that the letter said something about adoctor who was very friendly with that clique the writer mentioned?It's even money that this Harris is the one the writer meant. I supposehe is the 'house physician' of this gilded palace."

  Clare nodded appreciatively. "Quite right," she agreed. "Just how doyou think he might be involved?"

  "Of course I can't say. But I think, without going any further, that aman like that in a place like this will bear watching anyway, withoutour needing more than the fact that he is here. Naturally we don't knowanything about him as a doctor, but he must have some training; and inan environment like this--well, a little training may be a dangerousthing."

  "The letter said something about drugs," mused Clare.

  "Yes," added Kennedy. "As you know, alcohol is absolutely necessary toa thing like this. Girls must keep gay and attractive; they must meetmen with a bright, unfaltering look, and alcohol just dulls the edge ofconscience. Besides, look over that wine list--it fills the till of theMontmartre, judging by the prices. But then, alcohol palls when thepace is as swift as it seems to be here. Even more essential are drugs.You know, after all, it is no wonder so many drug fiends and drunkardsare created by this life. Now, a doctor who is not over-scrupulous, andhe would have to be not over-scrupulous to be here at all, would find agold mine in the dispensing of drugs and the toning up of drug fiendsand others who have been going the pace too rapidly."

  "Yes," she said. "We have found that some of these doctors are a greatfactor in the life of various sections of the city where they hang out.I know one who is deeply in the local politics and boasts that anyresort that patronizes him is immune. Yes, that's a good point aboutDr. Harris."

  "I suppose your investigators have had more or less to do with watchingthe progress of drug habits?" ventured Craig.

  "Very much," she replied, catching the drift of his remarks. "We havefound, for instance, that there are a great many cases where it seemsthat drugs have been used in luring young and innocent girls. Not theold knockout drops--chloral, you know--but modern drugs, not sopowerful, perhaps, but more insidious, and in that respect, I suppose,more dangerous. There are cocaine fiends, opium smokers; oh, lots ofthem. But those we find in the slums mostly. Still, I suppose there areall kinds of drugs up here in the White Light District--belladonna tokeep the eyes bright, arsenic to whiten the complexion, and so on."

  "Yes," asserted Craig. "This section of the city may not be so brutalin its drug taking as others, but it is here--yes, and it is over onFifth Avenue, too, right in society. Before we get through I'm surewe'll both learn much more than we even dream of now."

  The door opened after a discreet tap from the waiter and the lavishdinner which Craig had ordered appeared. The door stayed open for amoment as the bus boy carried in the dishes. A rustle of skirts and lowmusical laughter was wafted in to us and we caught a glimpse of anothergay party passing down the hall.

  "How many private dining-rooms are there?" asked Craig of the waiter.

  "Just this one, sir, and the next one, which is smaller," replied themodel waiter, with the air of one who could be blind and deaf and dumbif he chose.

  "Oh, then we were lucky to get this."

  "Yes, sir. It is really best to telephone first to Julius to make sureand have one of the rooms reserved, sir."

  Craig made a mental note of the information. The party in the next roomwere hilariously ordering, mostly from the wine list. None of us hadrecognized any of them, nor had they paid much attention to us.

  Craig had eaten little, although the food was very good.

  "It's a shame to come here and not see the whole place," he remarked."I wonder if you would excuse me while I drop downstairs to look overthings there--perhaps ingratiate myself with that Titian? Tell MissKendall about our visit to Langhorne's office while I am gone, Walter."

  There was not much that I could tell except the bare facts, but Ithought that Miss Kendall seemed especially interested in the broker'sreticence about his stenographer.

  I had scarcely finished when Craig returned. A glance at his face toldme that even in this brief time something had happened.

  "Did you meet the Titian?" I asked.

  "Yes. She is the stenographer and sometimes works the switchboard ofthe telephone. I happened to strike the office while the clerk was atdinner and she was alone. While I was talking to her I was lookingabout and my eye happened to fall on one of the letter boxes back ofthe desk, marked 'Dr. Harr
is.' Well, at once I had an overwhelmingdesire to get a note which I saw sticking in it. So I called up atelephone number, just as a blind, and while she was at the switchboardI slipped the note into my pocket. Here it is."

  He had laid an envelope down before us. It was in a woman's hand,written hastily.

  "I'd like to know what was in it without Dr. Harris knowing it," heremarked. "Now, the secret service agents abroad have raisedletter-opening to a fine art. Some kinds of paper can be steamed openwithout leaving a trace, and then they follow that simple operation byreburnishing the flap with a bone instrument. But that won't do. Itmight make this ink run."

  Among the ornaments were several with flat wooden bases. Kennedy tookone and placed it on the edge of the table, which was perfectly square.Then he placed the envelope between the table and the base.

  "When other methods fail," he went on, "they place the envelope betweentwo pieces of wood with the edges projecting about a thirty-second ofan inch."

  He had first flattened the edge of the envelope, then roughened it, andfinally slit it open.

  "Scientific letter-opening," he remarked, as he pulled out a littlenote written on the hotel paper. It read:

  DEAR HARRY:

  Called you up twice and then dropped into the hotel, but you seem to beout all the time. Have something VERY IMPORTANT to tell you. Shall bebusy to-night and in the morning, but will be at the dansant at theFuturist Tea Room to-morrow afternoon about four. Be sure to be there.

  MARIE.

  "I shall," commented Kennedy. "Now the question is, how to seal up thisletter so that he won't know it has been opened. I saw some of thisvery strong mucilage in the office. Ring the bell, Walter. I'll getthat impervious waiter to borrow it for a moment."

  Five minutes later he had applied a hair line of the strong, colourlessgum to the inside of the envelope and had united the edges underpressure between the two pieces of wood. As soon as it was dry heexcused himself again and went back to the office, where he managed tosecure an opportunity to stick the letter back in the box and chat fora few minutes longer with the Titian.

  "There's a wild cabaret down in the main dining-room," he reported onhis return. "I think we might just as well have a glimpse of it beforewe go."

  Kennedy paid the cheque, which by this time had mounted like ataximeter running wild, and we drifted into the dining-room, a ratherattractive hall, panelled in Flemish oak with artificial flowers andleaves about, and here and there a little bird concealed in a cage inthe paper foliage.

  As cabarets go, it was not bad, although I could imagine how wild itmight become in the evening or on special occasion.

  "That Dr. Harris interests me," remarked Kennedy across the table atus. "We must get something in writing from him in some way. And thenthere's that girl in the office, too. She seems to be right in with allthese people here."

  Evidently the cabaret had little of interest to Miss Kendall, who,after a glance that took in the whole dining-room and disclosed nonethere in the gay crowd who, as far as we could see, had any relation tothe case, seemed bored.

  Craig noticed it and at once rose to go.

  As we passed out and into the corridor, Miss Kendall turned andwhispered, "Look over at the desk--Dr. Harris."

  Sure enough, chatting with the stenographer was a man with one of thoseblack bags which doctors carry. He was a young man in appearance, oneof those whom one sees in the White Light District, with unnaturallybright eyes which speak of late hours and a fast pace. He wore a flowerin his buttonhole--a very fetching touch with some women. Debonair,dapper, dashing, his face was not one readily forgotten. As we passedhurriedly I observed that he had torn open the note and had thrown theenvelope, unsuspectingly, into the basket.