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  “You surely did,” agreed Brayton. “But why must you hear the sound of his voice?”

  Crosby interjected a word here. “I called you in, Darrell, to have you tell the original story concerning yourself and the Blonde Beast to Mr. Brayton and Mr. Feldock.”

  Darrell gazed curiously into the eyes of the managing editor. He wondered why this was being brought up. Did it forecast a discharge at this late date after the thing had taken place? He could not convince himself that this was the fact. Evidently they had been discussing the Blonde Beast case, and called him in to fill out the story. He turned his head slightly to Brayton, and began his explanation.

  “At the battle of Cantigny, Mr. Brayton, I was pretty badly wounded. When I was taken by the Germans, I was moved first to Karlsruhe, then on to the horrible Innesbaden camp over which this Von Tresseler presided. I need not repeat to you what you probably already know; we suffered the horrors of worse than war. Men were beaten and whipped unmercifully by the orders of that young brute. Thrice — so I remember from hearing of my wounded fellow prisoners — he shot down in cold blood prisoners who were too insolent or not cringing enough in their pleas to him for better food. His subordinates did not dare to protest — one of them, too he had shot down in cold blood.

  “The day came when my exchange was effected. My wounds were not healed. They ached frightfully. My limbs were stiff. I was hungry. I stood in the darkness of an eye bandage, not knowing at that time whether I was ever to see again in this life.

  “‘This is Ober Lieutenant von Tresseler speaking to you, my man,’ he said in the best of English to me. ‘You are going to Holland.’ His voice was suave and brutally polite. He must have glanced down at a paper. I heard the scratching of his pen as he wrote out certain words at the bottom of my papers which gave me my freedom from hell. ‘What is your occupation in civil life?’

  “‘I am a journalist,’ I said briefly.

  “‘Add sir to that,’ he ordered insolently. ‘When you address an officer of his imperial majesty’s army, you swine, you will use sir.’ A pause, and then he bit out: ‘I suppose you are going some day to write articles for your American magazines about the conditions of Innesbaden, eh, swine?’

  “‘No articles will be necessary, honored sir,’ I said to him. ‘The tongues of thousands of poor wretches who have been in this camp, and, God willing, will escape it when the Allies go into Berlin, will tell the story of Innesbaden to the world with more pathos than any magazine writer can write it.’

  “I could hear the choked gurgle of rage in his voice,” continued Darrell. “I learned afterward that he was a bit young — he lacked the poise and balance that a few more years might have given him. I heard the pen deposited on his desk with a sharp rap. I felt the paper jammed down in my hand. And then, wounded and sick as I was, hungry and soul weary and physically worn out to the core, the man struck me with all his might in the face with his clenched fist.” Darrell’s face worked convulsively. “Struck me with such smashing force that every fiber in my body cried out with pain — struck me so that my knees crumpled up beneath me — and when next I found myself I was being helped to my feet by a fellow prisoner, and inside of an hour I was on my way to Holland.” He looked about him curiously. “That, gentlemen, is the story of Carl von Tresseler, the Blonde Beast of Bremen, and my own humble self. That is the reason why I felt I must talk to this man in the hotel — to get him to enunciate words — just words of any sort — to see if those haunting intonations were part of the phrases which the Blonde Beast had hurled at me.”

  Brayton nodded slowly. Crosby said nothing. Feldock smoked on his cigar, then he broke the silence.

  “Of course Von Tresseler was pretty well heeled when he fled New York?” In his voice was the faintest suggestion of some sort of unspoken insinuation.

  Darrell gazed at the other suspiciously, trying to fathom the lurking innuendo that lay hidden in the simple query. Then he shook his head.

  “On the contrary, the story of Gus Weigle, the German vaudeville actor in New York, who knew Von Tresseler and who testified before the police hearing there, that Von Tresseler came to him in desperation on the afternoon of the fifteenth of May to borrow fifty dollars, shows that Von Tresseler was down to rock bottom — that he had scarcely enough money to escape New York with the corpse of Matilda Heinemann.”

  Feldock smiled, an irritating, sour smile. “To be quite open and candid,” he said, flicking the ash off of his cigar, “I heard the Blonde Beast case pretty well discussed in the Denver press club on my way out here. The concensus of opinion among the boys there was that Gus Weigle, the actor, lied to the police to help Von Tresseler out. In fact, they hold to the first and earlier police theory — that Von Tresseler had several thousand dollars in actual cash when he fled New York. Furthermore” — he shrugged his shoulders — “it is an open story there that some Chicago newspaper reporter — understand I am merely quoting — cornered Von Tresseler so badly that the only explanation for the escape of the latter is that he split fifty-fifty with the reporter for his twenty minutes’ leeway and his consequent freedom.”

  The covert charge concealed in Feldock’s statement was so staggering a blow, both to Brayton and Crosby, that neither man uttered a word. In fact Crosby opened his lips to speak, but Darrell, from where he sat, could see the barely perceptible flicker of Brayton’s eyes warning the city editor not to interfere in this very embarrassing situation. As for himself, his face burned crimson, then turned ghastly white. For a moment a voluble denunciation sprang to his lips, then suddenly receded, and he said simply, but with a world — a whole universe — of meaning:

  “Feldock, I don’t think you quite realize the gravity of the charge you’re repeating so lightly in this room. If such a statement was made by anyone in the Denver press club, it was made by some renegade newspaper man who has a grudge against Chicago news writers and Chicago sheets. I am the reporter, the only one in fact, who cornered Von Tresseler; and if my own character isn’t sufficient to convince anyone of the baselessness of that charge, then I stand upon the testimony of Gus Weigle before the New York inspector of police; that Von Tresseler was flat broke at the time of the murder. As for your personal doubts of me, Feldock, they don’t interest me.”

  Feldock laughed sourly. “Well — don’t get upset about it, Darrell. You’ve got a great yarn to tell anyway. If ever you’re out of a job, work it up into a monologue — go on the stage clad in bandages and a uniform — have a spotlight thrown on you, and you’ll bring down the house.”

  It was a crude attempt, if attempt it was, to assuage the feelings of the younger man, else to patch up an embarrassing situation — a most crude attempt. Crosby, apparently realizing it, made haste to change the entire subject. He took the floor at once.

  “Well, suppose we all hop to the subject in hand. Mr. Feldock, as you know, Darrell, has made a great name for himself out on the coast. I hardly need to tell you how great — for you read the exchanges as well as I. To-morrow night his contract expires, and he is again allowed to publish feature stories under his own name anywhere east of the Rockies.” As Crosby spoke, he fumbled in the drawer of his desk, withdrawing a typewritten sheet, evidently Feldock’s own copy of the contract in question, and glancing over it hastily continued with his statement.

  “To-morrow night at midnight — and the Call owns the name of Feldock. Now this means that the time has come for the Call to cash in on this, and I am giving you your choice in this matter — a case of leave it or take it. We want to put over — say — a weekly big-crime story, or an exclusive story dealing with the underworld, which we can run under Feldock’s name, pending his picking up the necessary acquaintanceship in this city which will take perhaps several months. I have decided to give to you, rather than any other man on the floor, the honor of writing these stories — in fact, of digging them up if they don’t break of their own accord.” Crosby faltered, evidently not liking his job. “You will proceed to drop the
name of Jeffrey Darrell and write under the name of Marvin Feldock. Likewise your little request for that salary raise last week is hereby granted.”

  “The salary raise be damned!” exploded Darrell. “You mean to tell me that this means that no more stories appear under my name as heretofore?”

  “We can’t have two feature writers of the same type bucking each other,” declared Crosby brusquely. “Likewise not enough news breaks to carry them both. We’ve got to concentrate on the bigger name of the two — and toot that name to the skies.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair,” expostulated the younger man, looking around him. “A little salary raise such as the one I asked for doesn’t pay me to go back into obscurity. I’ve given the Call some good yarns — regular beats they were at that. Now you take and drop me back into anonymity and turn me into a hack for another man.”

  “Haven’t you the good of your own paper at heart?” asked Feldock.

  Darrell looked at him coolly, but essayed no reply. Brayton proved to be the pacifier.

  “Don’t be foolish, Darrell. You’re the best man in the place to write this particular kind of story. It means much to the Call. After Mr. Feldock has made his début in our pages, and appears long enough under this plan so that he can assume the reins, I’ll see that you get something better.” His voice grew just a bit hard and unyielding. “This is the best proposition we can offer. If you don’t care for the arrangement, then the only thing for you to do is to terminate your connection with the Call. I presume Crosby can get Canfield, Krell, Presby, or one of the others to do the stories.”

  A pause followed, then Crosby interpolated a meaningful remark.

  “And of course, Darrell, you’ll recall that by your own contact with us, while you can carry your services over to any other paper, you cannot carry your name at present. Please consider this fact in making any decisions.”

  Darrell leaned back in his chair, hot under the collar, although perhaps as much at Feldock’s unwarranted and petty repetition of the baseless slander the latter had heard, as at this development in Darrell’s own affairs. But he managed, in spite of his anger, to think quickly and clearly. He could quit — just as Brayton said; but remembering how Andrew Domar, his friend, one of the best newspaper men in New York, had been out of work in Chicago for weeks and weeks, refused a berth on the other papers on the plea that they must take on their own best men first, a sense of cold, calm logic came to his rescue. This was no time to quit a berth in the newspaper game. He had to eat — clothe himself — to pay for his quarters. He could at least thank his stars that there was no little wife — not even a sweetheart — whose plans teetered daily on the precarious ledge offered by the policies and bigger plans of a big newspaper. He sighed. Jeffrey Darrell, he perceived plainly, if he were to remain in weekly contact with the glorious American institution known as the pay envelope, must remain on the Call, sinking down into the murky waters of anonymity and rising to the flags and band under the mantle of Marvin Feldock. He smiled a faint smile.

  “I guess you people win,” he said briefly. “I have to eat.”

  Crosby appeared relieved that the situation had cleared up. “You ought to be able to buy a little more food, any way, with your raise,” he commented dryly.

  Brayton looked at his watch.

  “I think that’s all then,” he said pointedly. “Like to see you in private for a minute, Crosby, then I’m off for home.” Both Feldock and Darrell arose. Brayton turned to the latter. “Now, Darrell, with that tremendous acquaintanceship of yours you’re in a position to dig us up some good stories. Suppose you canvass your usual sources, and get everything primed for a bully yarn as soon as it breaks. Let’s see — ” He turned to Feldock. “You’ve been doing a good many Chinatown stories on the Despatch, haven’t you, Mr. Feldock?”

  “Lots of them,” said Feldock promptly. “I believe I know Frisco’s Chinatown better than any man in that city.”

  Brayton turned to Darrell again.

  “Well, don’t overlook that phase of Mr. Feldock’s work, Darrell. Do everything you can now to get everything ready so that we can come out with a good flare.” And by the motion of his head the interview was plainly over.

  Back in the city room Feldock proceeded to his desk by one of the big windows, the rich mahogany flat-top desk which had originally been brought in for the use of the nephew of Brayton himself, that same young man having lasted, however, only about two weeks.

  Darrell started for his own badly warped and splintered desk with its rickety typewriter, but instead went into the telephone booth. There, in turn, almost reluctantly and almost a bit defiantly, he called up a number of persons and after a brief chat with each of them requested the same thing: that at the least occurrence which looked to them anywhere near like a piece of news, they would ring him personally at the Call. Then he called Chi Tsung Liang.

  “Mo Kee, Mist’ Chi’s sec’tary, speakin’,” came the voice, and Darrell smiled as he recalled the lean, saffron-faced servant of the big man who acted as valet, houseman, cook, and, in fact, everything but secretary.

  “Mr. Chi there, Mo Kee? This is Jeffrey Darrell, Tom’s friend.”

  “I call ‘im, Mist’ Darr’ll. You wait, eh?” A pause, and then the voice of an older man, a voice that was filled with the infinite wisdom and patience of the Orient came upon the wire.

  “Mr. Chi Tsung Liang,” he said sonorously.

  “This is Jeff Darrell, Mr. Chi. There isn’t much of importance that I’m calling up about, but I’ve a hunch that something in your section ought to be breaking pretty soon now, everything’s been so quiet. I hope you haven’t forgotten me, Mr. Chi, and if you get any inside stuff you’ll hand it on to me.”

  “Chi Tsung Liang, Jeffrey Darrell, does not forget his good friends,” came the smooth, melodious voice. “Just so soon as something of interest to your countrymen rises among my countrymen — breaks, as you term it — Jeffrey will be the recipient of a quick telephone call from Chi Tsung Liang. Rest assured. And how is your honorable health, Jeffrey Darrell?”

  “Excellent, Mr. Chi. And yours — also that of your gracious wife, Mrs. O Ming Chi?”

  “O Ming Chi and Chi Tsung Liang live in happiness and peace — tinged with the memories of our Thomas to whom you were so good, Jeffrey Darrell.” He paused. A few friendly amenities followed on both sides and finally Darrell hung up. He emerged from the hot telephone booth, and threaded his way back thoughtfully toward his desk. The way was now paved, due to the many possible news sources he had interviewed, for a story for Marvin Feldock. Whatever Crosby and Brayton might think of him, they should not be able to say that so long as he was in the employ of the Call, he had failed to exert his efforts and his best ones at that. But as he stood looking down absently at his battered machine, a sharp, peremptory call came from that direction of the mahogany desk occupied by the Western god, Feldock of the Despatch.

  “Step this way, please, Darrell.”

  Darrell, his lingering curiosity getting the better of his asperity at the commanding tone of voice, made his way over to the other’s desk.

  “Got something started toward a story or two, eh?”

  “Yes. I’ve interviewed a number of people who have given me splendid leads in the past.” It was an effort to be polite to this man, but Darrell achieved it.

  “Very good. Put everything you know on the lookout. As soon as you get a promising tip phoned in, hop to it, dig it out, and write it up. You’re a promising youngster yourself and you write well. A word or two however, if you please. I understand you’ve been allowed to send your own stuff to the linotypes without Crosby’s O.K. This will cease now. As soon as you’ve finished any copy supposed to run under my name, put it on my desk. I shall wish to make certain revisions on what you turn out. It is very likely that I shall require you to rewrite various portions. Remember, please, then, that from to-day on I want to see every line that you write. That’s all. You may go now.”


  Darrell gazed down at the monument of pomposity and self-approbation who dictated so succinctly his future course. Now, for the first time, he was able to realize that Marvin Feldock, the great star of the West, had been put into the saddle of his own former glory, such as it was. And now, more than ever, he was able to realize that life was going to be well-nigh unlivable for the versatile — and consequently luckless — writer on the Call who for the coming months must write the impotent Feldock’s news stories for him. He wondered how long that writer would continue to be Jeffrey Darrell. Then he sighed deeply and turned back in the direction of his desk.

  CHAPTER V

  The Letter from London

  IT was a bright Monday morning, just an hour before noontime, that Napoleon Foy, sorting out soiled linen in his one-man laundry, made the discovery which caused him to wrinkle up his placid brows and ponder deeply over the ways of the white man and his brothers.

  In his spotlessly clean undershirt, his brow contracted under his sleek, short-cut, black hair, his high, yellow cheek bones tinged with a touch of pink, he was now staring down at the bundle of three shirts, six collars, and three handkerchiefs which had been brought in late Saturday night while he and Charley Yat Gong, from up the street, had been playing a friendly game of hui-hui-sip-soo in the spacious back room which housed all the living and working paraphernalia of Napoleon Foy’s daily life. For across one of the handkerchiefs was penciled a crudely written message. To Napoleon Foy it was merely a piece of writing in a strange tongue, but had the big-boned Chinese been able to read anything other than the crudest rudiments of English, he might have perused the following words:

  “JOHN CHINAMAN: Take this message at once to Miss Rita Thorne, The Bradbury, somewhere on Independence Boulevard, Chicago, and collect $50 for yourself. R.T.: Pay John $50. You have letter from London. Secure immediately old alarm clock owned by uncle described in letter. Remember there were two similar clocks, one formerly used by servant. Pay anything — up to $2,000 cash you have — to get the right one of the two. Lock it fast in downtown safety vault. Then notify Catherwood you have clock and hold all cards. Try secondhand furniture store man named Schimski, North Wells Street. If not then clock is in possession of one Rees, on Grady Court. Make great haste. Do not delay. When you have it safe and fast tell C. Until then yours truly remains defunct.