Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's
death.
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do not download or redistribute this file.
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RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
SCRR-RRATCH—bz-z-z-p'ft—a vote for Rickert— whir-r-r—sptz—clean deal, clean streets, clean house, chase the vermin out of City Hall— scrr-rratch—ppt—"
"Sunny Jim" Roper, mayor, hoisted himself out of his swivel chair and, carefully turning the lights low, crept to the window commanding Bellamy Square and looked out on the scene which spelled menace to his hopes of being elected to a fourth term.
Against the façade of the Commercial House at the other end of the humming square in the heart of the city, a screen for open-air "talkies" was hung. It was proving a novel and effective campaign device. Marking the space cleared for spectators, four loud-speakers on long, slender, steel shafts lifted their gaping mouths above the heads of the crowd and bellowed words in synchronization with the lip-movement of an image on the screen. Mayor Jim leaned far out and, twisting his neck, could catch a glimpse of the two-dimensional orator now holding forth for the edification of the voters. It was as he had thought. De Witt Rickert, his opponent at the forthcoming elections—the fellow who wanted to trip up "Sunny Jim" on his way to a fourth term—was delivering his nightly blast. Same old stuff; clean house; smoke out the bugs in city hall; use insect powder on 'em. It was rough, but effective. "Sunny Jim," good enough politician to admit that a rival might be smart too, nodded and scowled. If the Rickert crowd kept everlastingly at it this way, dinning the "insecticide" idea into the public's wide flapping ears, why, the dum-bells might get the idea through their thick skulls—or their skins—and wake up on election day itching to vote the wrong way.
Mayor Jim clenched his fist. Give him one more term! Only one more. This time he'd make it pay— a million. Somehow, in the last nine years, corruption, graft and all, he himself had not salted it away. A pity if the man who did all the dirty work were to quit broke. Just one more term! Mayor Jim's lips fondled the words: "A million!"
Mayor Jim felt a draft on his neck and, correctly reasoning that a door had been opened in the room behind him, wheeled around.
"What do you want, Louie?" he called to a round, perspiring face wedged in the crack of the hall door.
The owner of the name and the face insinuated himself through the part-opened door apologetically.
"Your missus phoned," said Louie, with the air of one whose duty it is to impart disagreeable news. "She told me to be sure and say you was to come home to dinner. She said it was a special blow-out for the baby."
The mayor nodded abstractly. "I won't forget."
Louie was eaten with curiosity. "I didn't know there was a baby around your place, y'onor."
The mayor grudgingly vouchsafed the information which would send the underling out of the room. "My daughter's arrived for a visit. The baby's hers."
"Boy or girl?"
The mayor screwed up his forehead and shook his head. "Fact is—I don't recall.... Was that all, Louie?"
"No," said Louie. "There's a party outside—a dame —a—a—lady."
"Well," demanded Mayor Jim, quizzically, "dame or lady—which?"
"Honest," hesitated Louie, "I don't know y'onor. I give up. I can't guess 'em any more. Anyway," he offered, "she's pretty slick—and she mentioned Frankie Regan's name."
The mayor took a pose at his desk. "Show her in."
As Louie had indicated, the woman who entered the room and came toward the mayor's desk was not instantly classifiable. She swayed at the hips as she walked and she wore peat gloves. But the mayor was not to be deceived by such small indications of character, having learned by experience that nowadays the daughters of the best learn their manners in gutters— and the daughters of the gutter learn theirs in finishing schools. The visitor sat down sedately. She was dressed in something dark and clinging.
"Don't worry," she spoke. "You can call me by my first name, Violets—Vi to you." She opened her bag and fished out a cigarette. "Smoking permitted?" Mayor Jim flipped flame from a lighter. "Thanks. It's pretty hard to tell where you stand with women these days," she drawled, "isn't it? Well, just to put you at your ease, Mister Mayor, I'm Frankie Regan's girl friend."
The mayor said something—or nothing—in his throat, and waited.
The girl was at her ease. She talked volubly and, a sixth sense told Mayor Jim, at a tangent to whatever was the real cause of her visit.
"Look at that necklace," she inconsequentially exclaimed by way of opening conversation. "You wouldn't believe that a gadget like that could cost fifty dollars, would you? And this dress—look—a hunk o' silk and ten cents worth of phoney diamonds—forty-three dollars at Gandel's—and they called it a bargain sale! It's getting tougher for ladies every day. Do you know," she leaned impressively, "that I'm worth over a thousand as I stand—figuring up what all the junk I'm carrying set me back—and that, if I went into Ernie's Eatery for a hamburger, I'd be thrown out for lack of the price? Yes," she concluded, simply "I need funds— cash—what it takes—so I came here, to where the money grows. I've come to you."
The mayor stiffened. "Frank's a good friend of mine," he began what was to be an elaborate and tactful refusal, "but I don't see why."
"I've come to tell you why," interrupted Vi, sharply; and then leaned forward, hard glitter in her eyes, her voice tuned low.
"Somebody beat up Judge Berkeley last night. You've heard?"
The mayor squirmed. "I've heard that some hoodlum—"
"Yes, a darkey. They found the judge bleeding on the sidewalk in front of his house and they've pinched the shine he fired from a gardener's job last week.
To his own surprise, Mayor Jim found himself attacking the accused negro with a prosecutor's fervor.
"The fellow was heard to swear he'd get even. He loaded up on two-bit gin and left one of those mills over behind the south depot raving that he was going to get the judge. An hour later, Judge Berkeley is found beaten unconscious. It's a pretty clear case."
"Clear as corn. But sometimes you never can tell." The girl sagged into an insolently easy posture in her chair. "You see, I get around a little, and I was in a "speak" last night with Frankie, and in came a bunch from the South Side and talk of this and that—politics, you know—and I do some listening and—well, I hear that Rickert and his high-class crowd have you and your bunch worried. Because I know enough about how Frankie and you pull together to know that if Frankie's worried—why, you're worried, too. Put it this way: if Frankie Regan can't deliver the South Side on election day, you may carry your weight beautifully but you won't carry this city. Right? Well—to get back to cases: the darkey didn't do that job on Judge Berkeley."
Mayor Jim struck one of his more effective official attitudes and banged the desk with his fist. "Really, this rigmarole makes no sense."
"Doesn't it?" drawled the girl. "If the darkey didn't beat up the judge—why then, somebody else did."
Mayor Jim opened his mouth to utter a pompous phrase and was suddenly struck by a flash of understanding, so that, for an instant, he remained staring at the girl, agape.
"Yes," he finally said, "I'm pretty slow. I must be getting old." He darted a look toward the door and drew closer to the girl. "So it was Frankie who beat him up?"
The girl nodded. "And anybody who remembers back a few years would know why Frankie did it. The judge gave him five years for that gasworks thing back in '15—and you know how Frankie loved jail!"
"He figured the darkey would be blamed?" probed Mayor Jim.
"Sure. He was in the gin-mill and heard the shine doing all that talking and he saw his chance—just like I saw mine."
"Your chance?" queried the mayor.
"I'll say you're getting old," jeered the girl. "My chance to collect—see? My information's worth money. The Rickert bunch would pay."
Mayor Jim's face assumed an expression of horrified surprise—and this time the grimace was a reflection of an emotion honestly felt.
"You're Frankie's sweetheart—his pal. And here you are talking about selling him out—just like that— like you'd sell a dress."
"Get me right. I like Frankie. But I'm getting to be a great big girl and I want money of my own."
"Well," said the mayor, calm and cold now, "I'm waiting. Get to the point. How much?"
Both heard the sounds in the outer office, the exchange of greetings between Louie and a newcomer, steps which approached the mayor's door, and both were turned in their seats, staring, when an unlovely gentleman encased in lovely clothes bounced in.
"Hello, Jim," he greeted, and then noted the girl. "What's up, Vi? What you doing here?"
"Love and kisses, Frankie," returned the girl without surface sign of any perturbation. "I dropped in to ask his honor a question."
Mayor Jim rose and folded his short arms. "Your lady friend has a heart problem and she came to me for a mother's advice: where to sell you out to the best profit."
In Mr. Regan's world, surprises were many and he met them all with a leering calm. He hoisted himself onto the mayor's desk, crossed his legs and carefully tented the pants-crease over a knee.
"Did I talk in my sleep?" he grinningly asked the girl; then turned to mayor Jim. "Judge Berkeley—accident? Uh-huh, I thought so. Well, you can't trust the dames. They're out for the cash, first—last—all the time."
"I hated to do it, Frankie." All things considered, Miss Day deemed it proper to sniff a bit. "But I just had to. I never get any spending money, and I need it bad. Don't blame me."
"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Regan, easily. "Make all you can. What's her price, Jim?"
"She was just coming to that when you walked in."
Both men turned and looked at the girl. She nibbled at a polished indigo nail and furrowed her brow. "I did some figuring and—seeing we're all friends — why, how about five thousand?"
She was talking to practical gentlemen—men who contemplated the giving or taking of a bribe as they would any other business expenditure. Mr. Regan continued to swing his leg. Mayor Jim pursed his lips and coughed discreetly. Miss Day found it necessary to repeat herself:
"Five grand, and I forget what I heard."
"It's not the money," said Mayor Jim, slowly, almost meditatively. "No, I don't object to the price."
Mr. Regan's leg stopped swinging. "Object?" he cried, betrayed into something as near an evidence of surprise as he had ever known. "There's no question about your paying, is there? After all I've done for you? All I'm going to do for you?"
Mr. Regan was shocked into a display of weakness. He pleaded his worth. "Listen, I've got the South Side mob where we want them. I placed that two grand yesterday where it'll do the most good. The boys'll come in strong at the finish. You can count on coming down to the swell precincts with 15,000 votes to the good. Ain't that good work?" he pleaded, anxiously; and subsided into a tremulous whine. "I don't want to go back to that jail! That jail gives me the willies. And now you're stalling about coming across with a little dough to keep me out of a jam!"
"Not about paying, Frank, but—That darkey over in the jail. He'll get the limit. How about his being in jail?"
Mr. Regan's jaw dropped two inches. He stared at Mayor Jim in stupid amazement. "Well, I'll be—worrying about a shine!" Then he guffawed. "Why, Jim, those black boys—they just love jail!"
Mayor Jim picked up his hat. The girl named Vi leapt to her feet tigerishly. "How about my money?" she challenged, shrilly.
Mayor Jim circled around her on his way to the door. "You don't suppose I carry sums like that around with me, do you? And you know I won't give a check. Don't worry, you'll get your money. Be here after dinner. Make it a bit late—say nine."
The girl looked irresolutely from one man to the other.
"Jim's right, Vi," put in Regan. "You'll have to wait. You'll get the five bills."
DOWN below, in the street, Mayor Jim could face the
prospect of family dinner with a calm that was almost
pleasant. On most evenings he found some pretext for
staying downtown to dine. Tonight he was glad to turn up
Cedar Street and put distance between himself and Bellamy
Square.
Mayor Jim's wife was waiting for him on the veranda. She was small and tired, with a once pretty face worn by work and worry. Tonight, had he been the sort to notice such things, he could have discovered an unaccustomed light in her faded eyes.
"Is supper ready?" he mechanically inquired.
"It's been ready an hour," she replied. "We kept the baby awake."
"Is—it going to eat with us?" he asked, in some alarm.
"I thought you'd like it, just the first evening," she said, as if begging pardon for a fault. "And—oh, father—you haven't forgotten—he's a boy; your grandson!"
"That's right, that's right," the mayor pumped up heartiness. "Well, it'll be fine for you, having a kid around the house again."
He wondered what his daughter would look like. She would be a stranger to his eyes. Somehow, that worried him, and the thought that he had put his own child out of his mind for many years effected a restraint in his manner when a tall, young woman, modish, at odds with the atmosphere of this rusty old house, came out on the stairs and greeted him as: "Dad."
"Glad to see you, Beth," he said.
"Glad to be here, dad," she replied, unemotionally, and presented her cheek for a duty peck. Yes, she was a stranger.
Then, from behind the screen of the young mother's skirts came a small figure—a little boy about four, smiling, sturdy, rosy and puffing with the excitement of travel and contact with new friends.
The boy looked up unwinkingly and held out a chubby hand.
"Hello, grinfeather."
"Grandfather," some one corrected in a loud whisper.
"Hello, granfezzer," repeated the child and, moved by infantile sense of humor, broke into piping laughter.
Throughout the dinner, the mayor was able, unaccountably, to evoke that piping laugh again and again. Apparently, there was about him something intrinsically funny to childish eyes. And the mayor found himself relishing the fact that he had but to open his mouth or make a familiar gesture to cause a baby to shout with glee.
After the meal, when the family congregated on the front porch, the mayor broke a habit of years and failed to set down his coffee cup with the remark which had become ritual: "Well, I have to go back for an hour or two."
Instead, he lingered, cuddling his grandson in his lap. The little boy was feeling the back of Mayor Jim's hairy hand.
"I know why you name's granfezzer," he confided. "Because you got fezzers on your hand." And, on a note of deeper confidence still: "Granfezzer, I like it at your house."
Mayor Jim clutched the child closer. He shut his teeth tightly and looked out at the city—his home town—the town that hated him and was fighting him tooth and nail. This boy might have come home to a different grandfather. Mayor Jim wished, for a moment, that he had. Then, in the distance, he heard the courthouse clock strike eight. He sat rigid for a moment, sick to his very soul. The clock was warning him that he must rise and return to face the ugly issue created by the years of his ruthless reign. He gently put the boy down and rose.
"I'd like to stay, but I've got an appointment at the office," he gently told his wife and went in for his hat. She was waiting for him on the garden walk as he left.
"Father," she said, a new gladness and life in her voice, "I've just loved your being so grand with the baby. There's only one thing—"
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked in alarm.
"Oh, no. But you did forget something. I know, you're terribly busy always. But the child—somebody said something about a present, and he's been waiting all evening for you to give it to him. He's such a little man. He didn't say anything, but—he was promised a jumping jack."
"A jumping jack!" Mayor Jim marveled to hear himself repeat the silly words. Then, brusquely, he turned away. "I'll look around," he gruffly promised. If he had lingered any longer he might have shown his wife that his voice was unsteady and his eyes wet and that would have shamed him intolerably. He fled.
As he walked up Cedar Street, rain began to fall. He did not hurry his step. Rather, he lagged, having somehow no liking for events ahead.
For a moment, after he entered his office, he thought he was to have the respite of a few minutes alone. Then, from the shadows came the voice of the woman, Vi.
"I got here early. I wasn't taking any chances on missing you."
Mayor Jim shivered, straightened his shoulders and switched on lights. He took a wallet from his pocket. "I've got the money here. You understand what I'm buying."
"Oh, sure," broke in the woman, her eager eyes on the pocketbook. "I'm a tramp but my word's good. I'll keep my mouth shut."
Some one ran through the outer office, and plunged into the mayor's room. It was Frank Regan. His gay plumage hung limp with the rain. Water dripped from his hat, from beneath which his face, deathly pale and wet with sweat and rain together, looked out like some evil thing.
"Have you paid it?" he cried. "For God's sake, hurry up and pay it! Give her the dough. Vi—you won't tell—swear you won't " He paused for breath, leaning against the table for support.
They stared wonderingly at the limp, pitiable figure before them. The door of the outer room had opened and Louie had come in, but no one noticed him until he stood at the inner door. Then Regan jumped up and tried in vain to shut him out.
"Get out of here," he cried, wildly. "You're not wanted here. This is a private affair. Get out!"
But Louie stood unmoved just inside the door.
"I'll only be a minute," he said, in apology. "There's something happened I thought you'd want to know at once, y'onor." He paused to wipe the rain from his face. "It's about Judge Berkeley," he went on, slowly. "He— he just died."
The mayor swung slowly in his chair; it creaked mournfully.
"From the beating he got last night?" he asked.
"Sure," Louie answered. "Of course. It seems he was hurt inside somewhere." He paused. "I'll just be going," he finished.
THE silence following his departure was for a time
unbroken, save for the lashing of the rain at the windows.
Then the woman began to cry softly. Regan moved nearer
her.
"Well, Vi," he whined. "Things have changed. Prices have gone up, I guess. Five's not enough, eh? What do you say to ten? How does that suit you? Ten thousand? What do you say?"
"I don't know," moaned the woman. "I'm afraid. I never thought of this. I'm afraid."
Regan groaned and turned to Mayor Jim. "See me through this," he whimpered, "for God's sake help me through it. They're over there to lynch the man who did it. Stand by me. For years I've stood by you."
The courthouse bell rang out sharply above the roar of the rain. Regan uttered a cry, his knees gave way, he fell sobbing to the floor.
"Pay her," he screamed. "Pay her."
But the woman drew away, shivering.
"I'm afraid," she droned. "I'm afraid."
The door opened, and Louie again rushed in.
"Y'honor! They're ringing the courthouse bell," he shouted. "Don't you hear them? They're going to lynch the darkey."
"Lynch him?" repeated the mayor, thickly. "Why then—it's up to me."
He walked to the window and saw through the mist and the rain a great crowd gathered in front of the Commercial House. Men were coming on the run from all directions. He turned to Regan.
"Frank," he said, calmly, "I've worked some pretty low deals. You know that—you suggested most of them. But this—this won't do. I'm sorry—it's an awful mix-up. But you've got to go."
"Go," cried Regan. "Go! What d'you mean? Pay her the money. He's only a shine "
"He's a man, I suppose," said the mayor. "Now listen to what I have to say. You've got something coming from me. Tonight I'm paying off an old score. The Chicago train leaves at nine—in fifteen minutes. There's another train south in twelve minutes. If I was you I'd be on one of 'em— and I wouldn't let any one see me boarding it, either. Twenty minutes, Frank. Then I'm through with you forever."
"Through with me!" screamed Regan, ashen now. "I won't go! Haven't I done your dirty work for years? Now pay me the price."
Mayor Jim took hold of him by his narrow shoulders, and looked him coolly in the eyes.
"Sit here and let them do this thing?" he asked. "Is that the price you mean? It's too high, Frank. It's too high. Twenty minutes, Frank. That's my offer. I stay and hold the bag. You'd better take it."
He stopped and listened.
Shouted orders came up from the street; there followed the noisy tread of many feet out of step. All over the town women hiding behind locked doors heard it, and screamed. A terrified, hunted negro, crouching in the corner of a narrow cell, heard it, and began a prayer to his long-forgotten God. Mr. Regan also heard it, and tears of rage and terror ran down his pale face.
The mayor glanced at his watch.
"Ten minutes to nine, Frank," he said. "You haven't time to waste."
MR. REGAN'S mouth opened and shut several times, but he
did not speak. He fell into a chair beside the table, and
buried his face in his hands.
"I'm afraid," he shuddered, unconsciously repeating the woman's words. "I'm afraid. I'm sick."
The mayor shifted uneasily. The cry of a great crowd came from the direction of the jail. He ran to the door, past the woman, an abject heap in the corner.
He shook her and pointed at her lover.
"Get him out of town!" he screamed in her ear. She nodded vacantly and stared after Mayor Jim as he disappeared.
He ran as fast as he could, across Main Street, and through the wet park. The rain was falling very softly now. As he passed beneath the arc lights he looked pudgy and pathetic and funny all at once, waddling along on his short fat legs.
The yard of the jail was tightly packed with madmen. Mad himself at sight of them, Roper pried into them, pulled them apart, struck out wildly, and finally found himself on the steps facing the mob. They recognized him with an angry shout.
"Go back," he cried. "You're crazy! This man didn't kill Judge Berkeley. I can prove he didn't. There's a woman named Violet Day will swear to it. You're all wrong."
He saw that the two leaders wore masks and that the rain had plastered them to their faces, which looked like grinning skulls in the half light. He drew back from them in sudden terror.
"He didn't do it," he cried again.
"Who did?" shouted a voice in the distance.
He staggered back against the door in the horrible silence that followed. They were waiting for his answer.
"I—I can't tell," he stammered. "I'll tell tomorrow. Wait till tomorrow."
There, he faced the silent ranks and knew this was the turning point. He saw them falter; a half-hearted hope rose within him. Then from far in the rear came a jeer:
"Save the shine if you can. He's got a vote."
Mayor Jim knew he had lost.
"The negro's got a vote!" The refrain was taken up, and howled. A stone whizzed close to his head, and another. They came up the steps toward him, and he thought of the darkey in the jail as he faced them. It was five minutes past nine; during one of the lulls in the shouting he had heard the whistle of a train.
"Go back," he shouted. "I'll tell! I'll tell! He's been my best friend. You know that. You know why I don't want to tell. It was Frank—it was Regan—he did it! I don't know where he is—you can hang me in his place!"
He sank down on the steps. For a moment the crowd was hushed; then it drew back. No one questioned his word. One by one the men whose hands had itched for the feel of a rope slunk off, ashamed, into the night.
He rose wearily from the wet, stone steps and crept back to his office. Louie was there alone; in the air there was such an odor of perfume as might linger after a lady named Vi.
"I met them on the stairs," Louie said, "going down them like mad. Frank said you was—he called you some pretty strong names. What did he mean?"
The mayor walked to the window and stood bare-headed in the cool breeze that swept in with the rain.
"Those men over in the jail-yard," he mused, "they used to be my friends, Louie—long ago. I went to school with them once. And tonight when I was doing the first decent thing of my political life—when I was saving a life, they said I was trying for the negro vote. That's what they think of me. Will they ever know different, Louie? Will they ever figure it out—that I just threw a million away?"
Louie looked at his boss uncomprehendingly. Nor could he understand why Mayor Jim smiled with his next words.
"When we get kicked out of here, Louie"—the mayor made a sweeping gesture taking in the room from which he had ruled the city for nearly twelve years—"when we leave here, have you got some place to go? Make your plans, Louie—make your plans."
"Why, y'onor!" grieved Louie. "Ain't we gonna win?"
"Win!" cried "Sunny Jim" on a note of positive glee. "Win? Louie, I've just won defeat!"
And Mayor "Sunny Jim" smartly clapped on his hat and marched for the door. On the threshold, he paused.
"Louie," he said, "you wouldn't happen to know—is there any place open at this hour where I could get one of those what-you-may-call-its for a baby? You know, Louie—the doojigger on a string—a jumping jack?"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.