The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

"Here you are," said the latter briskly, and with a sort of nonchalant
authority. "Come, now, Mex, tell Mr, Keith what you know about the Cora
trial. Go on!" he urged, as the man hesitated. "He's not going to 'use'
you--he doesn't even know who you are or where you're to be found, and I'm
not going to tell him. Speak up, Mex! I tell you I want him to know how
things stand."

Keith by now was acquainted with many of Krafft's proteges, but he had
never met the delectable Mex. Evidently the latter had long known Krafft,
however, for he acknowledged his authority unquestioningly.

"It's like this, boss," he began in a hoarse voice. "You don't know me,
like Mr. Krafft says, but there's plenty that do. I got a lot of infloonce
down here, and when anybody wants anything they know where to come to get
it, which is right to headquarters--here," he slapped his great chest.

"Get on," interrupted Krafft impatiently. "We'll take it for granted that
you are a great man."

Mex looked at him reproachfully, but went on:

"About this Cora trial: they come to me for good, reliable witnesses, and I
got 'em, and drilled 'em. There ain't nobody in it with me for making any
witness watertight."

"How many witnesses?" prompted Krafft.

"Eight," replied Mex promptly.

"How much?"

"Well, they give me five thousand fer to git the job done," admitted Mex,
with some reluctance.

"Hope they got some of it," commented Krafft.

"Who gave you the money?" demanded Keith.

But Krafft interposed.

"Hold on, my son, that isn't ethics at all! You mustn't ask questions like
that, must he, Mex? Very bad form!" He turned to Keith with a crisp air of
decision. "That's what was the matter with your trial; I just thought I'd
show you. Go on, Mex, get out," he commanded that individual, good-
humouredly. "I'm not particularly proud of you, but I suppose I've got to
stand you. Only remember this: Mr. Keith is my friend. Swear him out of the
high seats of heaven--if you can--because that's the nature of you; but let
him walk safely. In other words, no strong-arm work; do you understand?"

The man mumbled and growled something.

"Nonsense, Mex," interrupted Krafft sharply. "Do as I say.

"It's a matter of a tidy sum," blurted out Mex at last.

Krafft laughed.

"You see, you were already marked for the slaughter," he told Keith; then
to Mex:

"Well, you let him alone; he's my friend."

"All right, if you say so," growled the man.

"You're safe--as far as Mex and all his people are concerned," said Krafft
to Keith. "Our word is always good, when given to a friend; isn't it, Mex?"

The man nodded, awkwardly and slouched away.

Keith's depression had given place to anger. He had been beaten by unfair
means; his opponent had cheated at the game, and his opponent enjoyed the
respect of the community as a high-minded, able, dignified member of the
bar. It was unthinkable! A man caught cheating at cards would most
certainly be expelled from any decent club.

"I'll disbar that man if it's the last act of my life!" He cried, "He's not
fit to practise among decent men!"

He left Krafft standing on the corner and smiling quietly, and hurried back
to his office.

XLII

It was unfortunate for everybody that Morrell should have chosen that
particular afternoon to pay one of his periodical calls. Morrell had been
tactful and judicious in his demands. Keith was not particularly afraid of
his story or the effect of it if told, but he disliked intensely the fuss
and bother of explanations and readjustments. It had seemed easier to let
things drift along. The transactions were skilfully veiled, notes were
always given, Morrell was shrewd enough to take care that it did not cost
too much. There existed not the slightest cordiality between the men, but a
tacit assumption of civil relations.

But this afternoon the sight of Morrell, seated with what seemed to Keith a
smug, superior, supercilious confidence in the best of the office chairs,
was more than Keith could stand. He was bursting with anger at the world in
general.

"You here?" he barked at Morrell, without waiting for a greeting. "Well,
I'm sick of you! Get out!"

Morrell stared at him dumbfounded.

"I don't believe I understand," he objected.

"Get out! Get out! Get out! Is that plain enough?" shouted Keith.

Morrell arose with cold dignity.

"I cannot permit--" he began.

Keith turned on him abruptly.

"Look here, don't try to come that rot. I said, get out--and I mean it!"

So menacing was his aspect that Morrell drew back toward the door.

"I suppose you know what this means?" he threatened, an ugly note in his
quiet voice.

"I don't give a damn what it means," rejoined Keith with deadly
earnestness, "and if you don't get out of here I'll throw you out!"

Morrell went hastily.

Keith slammed his papers into a drawer, locked it and his office door, and
went directly to the office of the _Bulletin_. There, seated in all the
chairs, perched on the tables and window ledges, he found a representative
group. He recognized most of them, including James King of William,
Coleman, Hossfros, Isaac Bluxome, Talbot Ward, and others. A dead silence
greeted his appearance. He stopped by the door.

"You have, of course, heard the news," he said. "I have come here to state
unequivocally, and for publication, that the Cora trial will be pushed as
rapidly and as strongly as is in the power of the District Attorney's
office. And if legal evidence of corruption can be obtained, proceedings
will at once be inaugurated to indict the bribe givers."

A short silence followed this speech. Several men looked toward one
another. The tension appeared to relax a trifle.

"I am glad to hear this, sir, from your own lips," at last said Coleman
formally, "and I wish you every success."

Another short and rather embarrassed silence fell.

"I should like to state privately to you gentlemen, and not for
publication"--Keith, paused and glanced toward King, who nodded
reassuringly--"that I have evidence, but unfortunately not legal, that
James McDougall has been guilty, either personally or through agents, of
bribery and corruption; and it is my intention to undertake his disbarment
if I can possibly get proper evidence."

"Whether he bribed or didn't bribe, he knew perfectly well that Cora was
guilty," stated King positively. "And he had no right to take the case."

But at that period this was an extreme view, as it still is in the legal
mind.

"I suppose every man has a moral right to a defence," said Coleman
doubtfully. "If every lawyer should refuse to take Cora's case, as you say
McDougall should have refused, why the man would have gone undefended!"

"That's all right," returned King, undaunted, "He ought to have a lawyer--
appointed by the court--to see merely that he gets a fair trial; not a
lawyer--hired, prostituted, at a great price--to try by every technical
means to get him off."

"A lawyer must, by the ethics of his profession, take every case brought
him, I suppose," some one enunciated the ancient doctrine.

"Well, if that is the case," rejoined King hotly, "the law warps the
thinking and the morals of any man who professes it. And if I had a son to
place in life, I most certainly should not put him in a calling that
deliberately trains his mind to see things that way!"

"I am sorry you have so low an opinion," spoke up Keith from the doorway.
"I am afraid I must hold the contrary as to the nobility of my chosen
profession. It can be disgraced, I admit. That it has been disgraced, I
agree. That it can be redeemed, I am going to prove."

He bowed and left the office.

XLIII

Morrell went directly from Keith's office to Keith's house. He was not
particularly angry; for some time he had expected just this result, but
since he had threatened, he intended to accomplish. Finding Nan Keith at
home, he plunged directly at the subject in his most direct and English
fashion. She listened to him steadily until he had finished.

"Is that all?" she then asked him quietly,

"That's all," he acknowledged.

She arose.

"Then I will say, Mr. Morrell, that I do not believe you. I know my husband
thoroughly, and I am beginning to know you. I believe that is my only
comment. Good afternoon."

He made a half attempt to point to her the way to corroborative evidence,
but she swept this superbly aside, Finally he took his correct leave, half
angry, half amused, wholly cynical, for to his mind the reason for her
indifference to the news he brought lay in what he supposed to be her
relations with Ben Sansome.

"Bally ass!" he apostrophized himself. "Might have known how she'd take
it."

His reading of Nan's motives was, of course, incorrect. Her first feeling
was merely a white heat of anger against Morrell, whom she had never liked.
Perhaps after a little this emotion might have carried over into, not
distrust, but an uneasiness as to the main issue; but before she had
arrived at this point Keith came in to deliver an ill-timed warning. As ill
luck would have it, and as such coincidences often come about in the most
perverse fashion, Keith had, down the street, met some malicious fool who
had dropped a laughing remark about Sansome. It was nothing in itself.
Ordinarily, Keith would have paid no attention to it. To-day it clashed
with his mood. Even now his jealousy was not stirred in the least, but his
sense of appearances was irritated. By the time he had reached home he had
worked up a proper indignation.

"Look here, Nan," he blurted out as soon as he had closed the door behind
him, "you're seeing too much of Sansome. Everybody's talking."

"Who is everybody?" she asked very quietly.

"Of course I know it's all right," he blundered ahead tactlessly--the gleam
in her eye should have warned him that he might have omitted that
reassurance--"but just the looks of the thing. And he's such a weak and
wishy-washy little nonentity!"

Her sense of justice aroused by this, she sprang to the defence of Sansome.

"You are quite mistaken there," she said with dignity. "Men of that type
are never understood by men of yours. He is my friend--and yours. And he
has been very kind to both of us."

"Well, just the same, you ought not to get yourself talked about," repeated
Keith stubbornly.

"Do you distrust me?" she demanded.

"Heavens, no! But you don't realize how it looks to others. He's coming
here morning, noon, and night."

"It seems to me I may be the best judge of my own conduct."

"Well," said Keith deliberately, "I don't know that you are. You must
remember that you are my wife, and that you bear my name. I have something
to say about it. I'm telling you; but if you cannot manage the matter
properly, I'll just have to drop a hint to Sansome."

At that she blazed out.

"Do that and you will regret it to the last day of your life!" she flared.
"If you'd be as careful with the name of Keith as I am, it would not
suffer!"

"What do you mean by that?" he asked? after a blank pause.

She had not intended to use that weapon, but now she persisted placidly.

"I mean that if our name has been talked about, it has not been because of
any action of mine."

His heart was beating wildly. In the multiplicity of fighting interests he
had actually forgotten (for the moment) all about his office visitor. But
he, too, had pluck.

"I see you have had a call from our friend Morrell," he ventured.

"Well!" she challenged.

Her head was back, and her breath was short. This crisis had come upon them
swiftly, unexpectedly, unwanted by either. Now it loomed over them in a
terrible, because unknown, portent. Each realized that a misstep might mean
irreparable consequences, but each felt constrained to go on. The situation
must now be developed. Keith, faced with this new problem, lost his heat,
and became cool, careful, wary, as when in court his faculties marshalled
themselves. Nan, on the other hand, while well in control of her mind,
poised on a brink.

"I don't know what he told you," said Keith, the blood suffusing his face
and spreading over his ears and neck, "but I'm going to tell you everything
he would be justified in telling you. One evening a number of years ago, in
company with a crowd, I went inside the doors of a disreputable place, and
immediately came out again. It was part of a spree, and harmless. That was
all there was to it. You believe me?" In spite of his iron control, a deep
note of anxiety vibrated in his voice as he proffered the question.

Her heart gave a leap for pride as he made this confession, his face very
red, but his head back, She knew he spoke the truth, the whole truth.

"Of course I believe you," she said, trying to speak naturally, but with a
mad impulse to laugh or cry. She swallowed, gripped her nerves, and went
on. "But, naturally," she told him,

"I consider myself as good a custodian of the family reputation as
yourself."

There the matter rested. By mutual but tacit consent they withdrew
cautiously from the debated ground, each curiously haunted by a feeling
that catastrophe had been fortunately and narrowly averted.

XLIV

Keith immediately moved for a retrial, and began anew his heartbreaking
labours in forcing a way to definite action through the thorn thicket of
technicalities. At the same time, on his own account, and very secretly, he
commenced a search for evidence against the attorneys for the defence. By
now he possessed certain private agents of his own whom he considered
trustworthy.

Early in his investigations he abandoned hope of getting direct evidence
against McDougall himself. That astute lawyer had been careful to have
nothing whatever to do with actual bribery or corruption, and he was crafty
enough to disassociate himself from direct dealing with agents. Indeed,
Keith himself was in some slight doubt as to whether McDougall had any
actual detailed knowledge of the underground workings at all. But
McDougall's. associates were a different matter. Here, little by little,
real evidence began to accumulate, until Keith felt that he could, with
reasonable excuse, move for an official investigation. To his genuine grief
Calhoun Bennett seemed to be heavily involved. He could not forget that the
young Southerner had been one of his earliest friends in the city, nor had
he ever tried to forget the real liking he had felt for him. It was not
difficult to recognize that according to his code Cal Bennett had merely
played the game as the game was played, carrying out zealously the
intentions of his superiors, availing himself of time-honoured methods,
wholeheartedly fighting for his own side. Yet there could be no doubt that
he had made himself criminally liable. Keith brooded much over the
situation, but got nowhere, and so resolutely pushed it into the back of
his mind in favour of the need of the moment.

But quietly as he conducted his investigations, some rumour of them
escaped. One afternoon he received a call from Bennett. The young man was
evidently a little embarrassed, but intent on getting at the matter.

"Look heah, Keith," he began, dropping into a chair, and leaning both arms
on the table opposite Keith, "I don't want to say anything offensive, or
make any disagreeable implications, or insult you by false suspicions, but
there are various persistent rumours about, and I thought I'd better come
to you direct."

"Fire away, Cal," said Keith.

"Well, it's just this: they do say yo're tryin' to fasten a criminal charge
of bribery on me. You and I have been friends--and still are, I hope--but
if yo're goin' gunnin' foh me, I want to know it."

His face was slightly flushed, but his fine dark eyes looked hopefully to
his friend for denial. Keith was genuinely distressed. He moved an inkwell
to and fro, and did not look up; but his voice was steady and determined as
he replied:

"I'm not gunning for you, Cal, and I wish to heaven you weren't mixed up in
this mess." He looked up. "But I _am_ gunning for crooked work in this Cora
case!"

Bennett took his arms from the table, and sat erect.

"Do you mean to imply, suh, that I am guilty of crooked work?" he inquired,
a new edge of formality in his voice.

"No, no, of course not!" hastened Keith. "I hadn't thought of you in that
connection! I am just looking the whole matter up----"

"Well, suh, I strongly advise you to drop it," interrupted Bennett curtly.

"But why?"

"It isn't ethical. You will find great resentment among yo' colleagues of
the bar at the implication conveyed by yo' so-called investigation, suh."

Calhoun Bennett had become stiff and formal. Keith still tried desperately
to be reasonable and conciliatory.

"But if there proves to be nothing out of the way," he urged, "surely no
one could have anything to fear or object to."

"Nobody has anything to fear in any case," said Bennett, "but any
gentleman--and I, most decidedly--would object to the implication."

At this Keith, stiffened a little in his turn.

"I am sorry we differ on that point, I have good reason to believe there
has been crooked work somewhere in this Cora trial. I do not know who has
done it; I accuse nobody; but in the public office I hold it seems my plain
duty to investigate."

"Yo' public duty is to prosecute, that is all," argued Bennett. "It is the
duty of the grand jury to investigate or to order investigations."

Here spoke the spirit of the law, for technically Bennett was correct.

"Whatever the rigid interpretation"--Keith found himself uttering heresy--
"I still feel it my duty to deal personally with whatever seems to me
unjustly to interfere with, proper convictions." Then he stopped, aghast at
the tremendous step he had taken. For to a man trained as was Keith, in a
time when all men were created for the law, and not the law for men, in a
society where the lawyer was considered the greatest citizen, and subtle
technicality paramount to justice or commonsense, this was a tremendous
step. At that moment, and by that spontaneous and unconsidered statement,
Keith, unknown to himself, passed from one side to the other in the great
social struggle that was impending.

"I wa'n you, suh," Bennett was repeating, "yo' course will not meet with
the approval of the members of the bar."

"I am sorry, Cal," said Keith sadly.

Bennett rose, bowed stiffly, and turned to the door. But suddenly he
whirled back, his face alight with feeling,

"Oh, see heah, Milt, be sensible!" he cried. "I know just how yo're feelin'
now. Yo're sore, and I don't blame you. You put ap a hard fight, and though
you got licked, I don't mind tellin' you that the whole bar appreciates
yo're brilliant work. You must remember you had to play a lone hand against
pretty big men--the biggest we've got! We all appreciate the odds. Cora has
lots of friends. You'll never convict him, Milt; but go in again for
another trial, if it will do yo're feelin's any good, with our best wishes.
Only don't let gettin' licked make you so sore! Don't go buttin' yo're haid
at yo're friends! Be a spo't!"

A half hour ago this appeal might have gained a response if not a practical
effect, but the spiritual transformation in Keith was complete.

"I'm sorry," he replied simply, "but I must go ahead in my own way."

Calhoun Bennett's face lost its glow, and his tall figure stiffened.

"I must wa'n you not to bring my name into this," said he. "I do not intend
to have my reputation sacrificed to yo' strait-laced Yankee conscience. If
my name is ever mentioned, I shall hold you responsible, _personally_
responsible. You understand, suh?"

He stood stiff and straight, staring at Keith. Keith did not stir. After a
moment Calhoun Bennett went out.

XLV

After this interview Keith experienced a marked and formal coldness from
nearly all of his old associates, Those with whom he came into direct
personal contact showed him scrupulous politeness, but confined their
conversation to the briefest necessary words, and quit him as soon as
possible. He found himself very much alone, for at this period he had lost
the confidence of one faction and had not yet gained that of the other.

His investigations encountered always increasing difficulties. In his own
department he could obtain little assistance. A dead inertia opposed all
his efforts. Nevertheless, he went ahead doggedly, using Krafft and some of
Krafft's proteges to considerable effect.

But soon pressure was brought on him from a new direction: his opponents
struck at him through his home.

For some days Nan had been aware of a changed atmosphere in the society she
frequented and had heretofore led. The change was subtle, defied analysis,
but was to the woman's sensitive instincts indubitable. At first she had
been inclined to consider it subjective, to imagine that something wrong
with herself must be projecting itself through her imagination; but finally
she realized that the impression was well based. In people's attitude there
was nothing overt; it was rather a withdrawl of intimacy, a puzzling touch
of formality. She seemed overnight to have lost in popularity.

Truth to tell, she paid little attention to this. By now she was
experienced enough in human nature to understand and to be able to gauge
the slight fluctuations, the ebbs and flows of esteem, the kaleidoscopic
shiftings and realignments of the elements of frivolous and formal society.
Mrs. Brown had hired away Mrs. Smith's best servant; for an hour they
looked askance on Mrs. Brown; then, the episode forgotten, Mrs. Brown's
cork bobbed to the surface company of all the other corks. It was very
trivial. Besides, just at this moment, Nan was wholly occupied with
preparations for her first "afternoon" of the year. She intended as usual
to give three of these formal affairs, and from them the season took its
tone. The list was necessarily far from exclusive, but Nan made up for that
by the care she gave her most original arrangements. She prided herself on
doing things simply, but with a difference, calling heavily on her
resources of correspondence, her memory, and her very good imagination for
some novelty of food or entertainment. At the first of these receptions,
too, she wore always for the first time some new and marvellous toilet
straight from Paris, the style of which had not been shown to even her most
intimate friends. This year, for example, she had done the most obvious
and, therefore, the most unlikely thing: she had turned to the
contemporaneous Spanish for her theme. Nobody had thought of that. The
Colonial, the Moorish, the German, the Russian, the Hungarian--all the rest
of the individual or "picturesque"--but nobody had thought to look next
door. Nan had decorated the rooms with yellow and red, hung the walls with
riatas, strings of red peppers and the like, obtained Spanish guitar
players, and added enough fiery Mexican dishes to the more digestible
refreshments to emphasize the Spanish flavour. She wore a dress of golden
satin, a wreath of coral flowers about her hair, and morocco slippers
matched in hue.

The afternoon was fine. People were slow in coming. A few of the
nondescripts that must be invited on such occasions put in an appearance,
responded hastily to their hostess's greeting, and wandered about furtively
but interminably. Patricia Sherwood, who had come early, circulated nobly,
trying to break up the frozen little groups, but in vain. The time passed.
More non-descripts--and not a soul else! As five o'clock neared, a cold
fear clutched at Nan's heart. No one was coming!

She worked hard to cover with light graciousness the cold-hearted dismay
that filled her breast as the party dragged its weary length away. All her
elaborate preparations and decorations seemed to mock her. The Spanish
orchestra tinkled away gayly until she felt she could throw something at
them; the caterer's servants served solemnly the awed nondescripts. Nan's
cheeks burned and her throat choked with unshed tears. She could not bear
to look at Patsy Sherwood, who remained tactfully distant.

About five-thirty the door opened to admit a little group, at the sight of
whom Nan uttered a short, hysterical chuckle. Then she glided to meet them,
both hands outstretched in welcome, Mrs. Sherwood watched her with
admiration. Nan was game.

There were three in the party: Mrs. Morrell, Sally Warner, and Mrs.
Scattergood. Sally Warner was of the gushing type of tall, rather
desiccated femininity who always knows you so much better than you know
her, who cultivates you every moment for a week and forgets you for months
on end, who is hard up and worldly and therefore calculating, whose job is
to amuse people and who will therefore sacrifice her best, perhaps not most
useful, friend to an epigram, whose wit is barbed, who has a fine nose for
trouble, and who is always in at the death. Mrs. Scattergood was a small
blond woman, high voiced, precise in manner, very positive in her
statements which she delivered in a drawling tone, humourless, inquisitive
about petty affairs, the sort of "good woman" with whom no fault can be
found, but who drives men to crime. Mrs. Morrell we know.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28