The Black Eagle Mystery

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  THE BLACK EAGLE MYSTERY BY GERALDINE BONNER

  Author of "The Girl at Central"

  ILLUSTRATED BY FREDERIC DORR STEELE

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK LONDON 1916

  _Copyright 1916, by_ D. APPLETON AND COMPANY _Copyright, 1915, by P. F. Collier & Son, Inc._

  Printed in the United States of America

  _Mr. Harland's body had been found on the sidewalk._]

  CONTENTS

  - FOREWORD - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - CHAPTER I - CHAPTER II - CHAPTER III - CHAPTER IV - CHAPTER V - CHAPTER VI - CHAPTER VII - CHAPTER VIII - CHAPTER IX - CHAPTER X - CHAPTER XI - CHAPTER XII - CHAPTER XIII - CHAPTER XIV - CHAPTER XV - CHAPTER XVI - CHAPTER XVII - CHAPTER XVIII - CHAPTER XIX - CHAPTER XX - CHAPTER XXI

  FOREWORD

  The following story of what has been known as "The Black Eagle Mystery"has been compiled from documents contributed by two persons thoroughlyconversant with the subject. These are Molly Morgenthau Babbitts andJohn Reddy, whose position of inside observers and active participantsmakes it possible for them to give to the public a consecutive anddetailed narrative of this most unusual case.

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Mr. Harland's body had been found on the sidewalk.'Say,' he said, 'you're a live one, aren't you?'It was locked or I would have gone in.'When did they discover it?' she said in a low voice.

  CHAPTER I

  MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

  "Hello!" said Babbitts from the sheets of the morning paper.

  I'll call him Babbitts to you because that's the name you'll rememberhim by--that is if you know about the Hesketh Mystery. I generally callhim "Soapy," the name the reporters gave him, and "Himself," which comesnatural to me, my mother being Irish. Maybe you'll remember that too?And he calls me "Morningdew"--cute, isn't it? It's American for my lastname Morgenthau--I was Molly Morgenthau before I was married.

  In case you _don't_ know about the Hesketh Mystery I'll have to give afew facts to locate us. I was the telephone girl in Longwood, NewJersey, met Babbitts there when he was a reporter for the _Dispatch_--heis yet--and the switchboard lost one of its brightest ornaments. It wastown for us, an apartment on West Ninety-fifth Street, near the Subway,five rooms on a corner, furnished like a Belasco play. If you read theHesketh Mystery you know how I came by that furniture, and if you didn'tyou'll have to stay in ignorance, for I'm too anxious to get on to stopand tell you. Every day at ten Isabella Dabney, a light-colored coon,comes in to do the heavy work and I order her round, throwing a bluffthat I'm used to it and hoping Isabella isn't on.

  We've been married over two years and we're still--Oh, what's the use!But we _do_ get on like a house on fire. I guess in this vast metropolisthere's not a woman got anything on me when it comes to happiness. Itcertainly _is_ wonderful how you bloom out and the mean part of youfades away when someone thinks you're the perfect article, handsewn,silk-lined, made in America.

  And so having taken this little run round the lot, I'll come back toBabbitts with his head in the morning paper saying "Hello!"

  It was a clear, crisp morning in January--sixteenth of the month--and wewere at breakfast. Himself had just got in from Cleveland, where he'dbeen sent to write up the Cheney graft prosecution. It took some minutesto say "How d'ye do"--he'd been away two whole days--and after we'dconcluded the ceremonies I lit into the kitchen to get his breakfastwhile he sat down at his end of the table and dived into the papers. Hisegg was before him and I was setting the coffeepot down at my end whenhe gave that "Hello," loud and startled, with the accent on the "lo."

  "What's up now?" said I, looking over the layout before me to see if I'dforgotten anything.

  "Hollings Harland's committed suicide," came out of the paper.

  "Lord, has he!" said I. "Isn't that awful?" I took up the cream pitcher."Well, what do you make of that--the cream's frozen."

  "Last night at half-past six. Threw himself out of his office window onthe eighteenth story."

  "Eighteenth story!--that's some fall. I've got to take this cream outwith a spoon." I spooned up some, all white spikes and edges, wonderingif it would chill his coffee which he likes piping hot. "Darling, do youmind waiting a little while I warm up the cream?"

  "Darn the cream! What rotten luck that I was away. I suppose they putEddie Saunders on it, sounds like his flat-footed style. Listen to this:'The body struck the pavement with a violent impact.' That's the way hedescribes the fall of a man from the top of a skyscraper. Gee, whywasn't I here?"

  "But, dearie," I said, passing him his cup, "Saunders would have done itif you _had_ been here. You don't do suicides."

  "I do this one. Hollings Harland, one of the big corporation lawyers ofNew York."

  "Oh," I said, "he's an important person."

  "Rather. A top liner in his profession."

  "Why did he commit suicide?"

  "Caught in the Copper Pool, they think here."

  With the cup at his lips he went on reading over its edge.

  "Does it taste all right?" I asked and he grunted something that wouldhave been "A 1" if it hadn't dropped into the coffee and been drowned.

  My mind at rest about him I could give it to the morning sensation.

  "What's the Copper Pool?" I asked.

  "A badly named weapon to jack up prices and gouge the public, youngwoman. Just like a corner in hats. Suppose you could buy up all thespring hats, you could pretty near name your own figure on them,couldn't you?"

  "They do that now without a corner," I said sadly.

  "Well, they can't in copper. The Pool means that a bunch of financiershave put up millions to corner the copper market and skyrocket theprice."

  "Oh, he lost all his money in it and got desperate and jumped out."

  "Um--from the hall window in the Black Eagle Building."

  That made it come nearer, the way things do when someone you know is onthe ground.

  "Why that's where Iola Barry works--in Miss Whitehall's office on theseventeenth floor."

  Babbitts' eyes shifted from the paper to his loving spouse:

  "That's so. I'd forgotten it. Just one story below. I wonder if Iola wasthere."

  "I guess not, she goes home at six. It's a good thing she wasn't. She'sa hysterical, timid little rat. Being round when a thing like thathappened would have broke her up more than a spell of sickness."

  Iola Barry was a chum of mine. Four years ago, before I was transferredto New Jersey, we'd been girls together in the same exchange, and thoughI didn't see much of her when I was Central in Longwood, since I'd comeback we'd met up and renewed the old friendship. Having the fatalityhappen so close to her fanned my interest considerable and I reachedacross and picked up one of the papers.

  The first thing my eye lit on was a picture of Hollings Harland--a finelooking, smooth-shaven man.

  When I saw the two long columns about him I realized what an importantperson he was and why Babbitts was so mad he'd missed the detail.Besides his own picture there was one of his house--an elegant residenceon Riverside Drive, full of pictures and statuary, and a library he'dtaken years to collect. Then there was all about him and his life. Hewas forty-six years of age and though small in stature, a fine physicalspecimen, never showing, no matter how hard h
e worked, a sign of nervesor weariness. In his boyhood he'd come from a town up state, and risenfrom the bottom to the top, "cleaving his way up," the paper had it, "byhis brilliant mind, indomitable will and tireless energy." Three yearsbefore, his wife had died and since then he'd retired from society,devoting himself entirely to business.

  Toward the end of the article came a lot of stuff about the Copper Pool,and the names of the other men in it--he seemed to be in it too. Therewas only one of these I'd ever heard of--Johnston Barker--which didn'tprove that I knew much, as everybody had heard of him. He was one of thebig figures of finance, millionaire, magnate, plutocrat, the kind thatone paper calls, "A malefactor of great wealth," and its rival, "One ofour most distinguished and public-spirited citizens." That places himbetter than a font of type. He was in the Copper Pool up to hisneck--the head of it as far as I could make out.

  I had just got through with that part--it wasn't interesting--and wasreading what had happened before the suicide when Babbitts spoke:

  "Harland seems to have had a scene in his office with Johnston Barker inthe afternoon."

  I looked up from my sheet and said:

  "I've just been reading about it here. It tells how Barker came to seehim and they had some kind of row."

  "Read it," said Babbitts. "I want to get the whole thing before I godowntown."

  I read out:

  "According to Della Franks and John Jerome, Harland's stenographer and head clerk, Johnston Barker called on Harland at half-past five that afternoon. The lawyer's offices are a suite of three rooms, one opening from the other. The last of these rooms was used as a private office and into this Harland conducted his visitor, closing the door. Miss Franks was in the middle room working at her typewriter, Mr. Jerome at his desk near-by. While so occupied they say they heard the men in the private office begin talking loudly. The sound of the typewriter drowned the words but both Miss Franks and Mr. Jerome agree that the voices were those of people in angry dispute. Presently they dropped and shortly after Mr. Harland came out. Miss Franks says the time was a few minutes after six, as she had just consulted a wrist watch she wore. Both clerks admitting that they were curious, looked at Mr. Harland and agree in describing him as pale, though otherwise giving no sign of anger or disturbance. He stopped at Jerome's desk and said quietly: 'I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't go till I come,' and left the office.

  "Miss Franks and Mr. Jerome remained where they were. Miss Franks completed her work and then, having a dinner engagement with Mr. Jerome, sat on, waiting for Mr. Harland's return. In this way a half hour passed, the two clerks chatting together, impatient to be off. It was a quarter to seven and both were wondering what was delaying their employer when the desk telephone rang. Jerome answered it and heard from the janitor on the street level that Mr. Harland's body had been found on the sidewalk crushed to a shapeless mass. On hearing this, Miss Franks, uttering piercing cries, rose and rushed into the hall followed by Jerome. They rang frantically for the elevator which didn't come. There are only two cars in the building, and that afternoon the express had broken and was not running. Getting no answer to his summons Jerome dashed to the hall window and throwing it up looked down on to the street, which even from that height, he could see was black with people. Miss Franks, who when interviewed was still hysterical, stood by the elevators pressing the buttons. In their excitement both of them forgot Mr. Barker who when they left was still in the back office."

  "Um," said Babbitts. "Is that all about Barker?"

  I looked down the column.

  "No--there's some more in another place. Here: 'Johnston Barker, whoseinterview with Harland is supposed to have driven the desperate lawyerto suicide, was not found in his house last night. Repeated telephonecalls throughout the evening only elicited the answer that Mr. Barkerwas not at home and it was not known where he was.' Then there's a lotabout him and his connection with the Copper Pool. Do you want to hearit?"

  "No, I know all that. Pretty grisly business. But I don't see whyBarker's lying low. Why the devil doesn't he show up?"

  "Perhaps he doesn't like the notoriety. Does it say in your paper toothat they couldn't find him?"

  "About the same. Looks to me as if there was a nigger in the woodpilesomewhere."

  "Maybe he never expected the man would kill himself and he's prostratedwith horror at what he's responsible for."

  Babbitts threw down his paper with a sarcastic grin:

  "I guess it takes more than that to prostrate Johnston Barker. You don'trise from nothing to be one of the plutocrats of America and keep yourconscience in cotton wool."

  I turned the page of my paper and there, staring at me, was a picture ofthe man we were talking about.

  "Here he is," I said, "on the inside page," and then read: "'JohnstonBarker, whose interview with Hollings Harland is thought to haveprecipitated the suicide and who was not to be found last evening at hishome or club.'"

  Babbitts came round and looked over my shoulder:

  "Did you ever see a harder, more forceful mug? Look at the nose--like abeak. Men with noses like that always seem to me like birds of prey."

  The picture did have that look. The face was thin, one of those narrow,lean ones with a few deep lines like folds in the skin. The nose was, asBabbitts said, a regular beak, like a curved scimitar, big and hooked. Asort of military-looking, white moustache hid the mouth, and the eyesbehind glasses were keen and dark. I guess you'd have called it quite ahandsome face, if it hadn't been for the grim, hard expression--like itbelonged to some sort of fighter who wouldn't give you any mercy if youstood in his way.

  "It takes a feller like that to make millions in these trust-bustingdays," said Babbitts.

  "He looks as if he could corner copper and anything else that took hisfancy," I answered.

  "If he's really flown the coop there'll be the devil to pay in WallStreet." He gave my shoulder a pat. "Well, we'll see today and thesooner I get on the scene of action the sooner I'll know. Good-by, myMorningdew.--Kiss me and speed me on my perilous way."

  After he'd gone I tidied up the place, had the morning powwow withIsabella, and then drifted into the parlor. The sun was slanting brightthrough the windows and as I stood looking out at the thin covering ofice, glittering here and there on the roofs--there'd been rain beforethe frost--I got the idea I ought to go down and see Iola. She was afrail, high-strung little body and what had happened last night in theBlack Eagle Building would put a crimp in her nerves for days to come,especially as just now she had worries of her own. Clara, her sisterwith whom she lived, had gone into the hair business--not selling it,brushing it on ladies' heads--and hadn't done well, so Iola was the mainsupport of the two of them. Three years ago she'd left the telephonecompany to better herself, studying typing and stenography, and at firstshe'd had a hard time, getting into offices where the men were so fiercethey scared her so she couldn't work, or so affectionate they scared herso she resigned her job. Then at last she landed a good place at MissWhitehall's--Carol Whitehall, who had a real-estate scheme--villas andcottages out in New Jersey.

  Now while you think of me in my blue serge suit and squirrel furs, witha red wing in my hat and a bunch of cherries pinned on my neckpiece,flashing under the city in the subway, I'll tell you about CarolWhitehall. She's important in this story--I guess you'd call her theheroine--for though the capital "I"s are thick in it, you've got to seethat letter as nothing more than a hand holding a pen.

  The first I heard of Miss Whitehall was nearly two years back from theCressets, friends of mine who live on a farm out Longwood way where Iwas once Central. She and her mother--a widow lady--came there fromsomewhere in the Middle West and bought the Azalea Woods Farm, a finerich stretch of land, back in the hills behind Azalea village. They weregoing to run it themselves, having, the gossip said, independent meansand liking the simple life. The neighbors, high and low, soon got
acquainted with them and found them nice genteel ladies, the mother veryquiet and dignified, but Miss Carol a live wire and as handsome as apicture.

  They'd been in the place about a year when the railroad threw out abranch that crossed over the hills near their land. This increased itsvalue immensely and folks were wondering if they'd sell out--they hadseveral offers--when it was announced that they were going to start avilla site company to be called the Azalea Woods Estates. In the Autumnwhen I was down at the Cressets--Soapy and I go there for Sundayssometimes--the Cresset boys had been over in their new Ford car, andsaid what were once open fields were all laid out in roads with littlespindly trees planted along the edges. There was a swell station, whitewith a corrugated red roof, and several houses up, some stucco like thestation and others low and squatty in the bungalow style.

  It was a big undertaking and there was a good deal of talk, no onesupposing the Whitehalls had money enough to break out in such a roomyway, but when it came down to brass tacks, nobody had any realinformation about them. For all Longwood and Azalea knew they might havebeen cutting off coupons ever since they came.

  As soon as the Azalea Woods Estates started they moved to town. Iolatold me they had a nice little flat on the East Side and the officeswere the swellest she'd ever been employed in. I'd never been in them,though I sometimes went to the Black Eagle Building and took Iola out tolunch. I didn't like to go up, having no business there, and used totelephone her in the morning and make the date, then hang round theentrance hall till she came down.

  Besides Miss Whitehall and Iola there was a managing clerk, AnthonyFord. I'd never seen him no more than I had Miss Whitehall, but I'dheard a lot about him. After Iola'd told me what a good-looker he wasand how he'd come swinging in in the morning, always jolly and full ofcompliments, I got a hunch that she was getting too interested in him.She said she wasn't--did you ever know a girl who didn't?--and when Iasked her point blank, ruffled up like a wet hen and snapped out:

  "Molly Babbitts, ain't I been in business long enough to know I got tokeep my heart locked up in the office safe?"

  And I couldn't help answering:

  "Well, don't give away the combination till you're good and sure it'sthe right man that's asking for it."