East Texas Register. (Carthage, Tex.), Vol. 20, No. 27, Ed. 1 Friday, July 8, 1921 Page: 3 of 8
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SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER I.—In a New York jewelry
store Philip Severn, United States con-
sular agent, notices a small box which
attracts him. He purchases it. Later he
discovers in a secret compartment a writ-
ing giving a clew to a revolutionary move-
ment in this country seeking to over-
throw the Chilean government. The writ-
ing mentions a rendezvous, and Severn
decides to investigate.
CHAPTER II.—Finding the place men-
tioned in the writing apparently deserted,
Severn visits a saloon in the vicinity.
A woman in the place is met by a man,
seemingly by appointment, and Severn,
his suspicions aroused, follows them.
They go to the designated meeting place,
an abandoned iron foundry.
could transform this woman, this
smiling-faced girl, into a murderess?
Her leaving that weapon behind
would seem to proclaim that the deed
was done in haste, on the spur of the
moment; that it had not been in any
way premeditated and planned. Oth-
erwise she would have guarded
against such danger of discovery.
Why, that carelessness alone might
ruin every hope of escape, might bring
her to the electric chair—it was
damning evidence.
I dare not remain there in the
presence of this grisly spectacle. To
be found would fasten the hideous
crime upon me, while such a story as
I must tell would never be believed. I
CHAPTER III.—At the rendezvous Se-
vern is accepted as one of the conspira-
tors and admitted. He meets a stranger
who appears to recognize him.
CHAPTER IV.—The stranger addresses
■Severn as Harry Daly. The incident plays
into Severn’s hands and he accepts it.
His new acquaintance is a notorious
thief, “Gentleman George” Harris. Con-
cealed, Severn hears the girl he had fol-
lowed address the conspirators. She urges
them to hasten the work of revolution.
CHAPTER V.—Leaving the crowd to
discuss the message she had brought, the
girl discovers Severn listening. She ac-
cepts his explanation of his presence and
makes an appointment to meet him next
day. He tells her his name is Daly. Har-
ris informs him of a scheme he has to
secure a sum amounting to $1,000,000, the
’revolutionary fund, and offers to “split”
with him. Severn accepts the proposition.
CHAPTER VI.—Severn learns it was
his new friend and a "Captain Alva” who
had lost the box which started him on
the trail. Harris tells him the woman is
Marie Gessler. He arranges to meet
Severn next day at Tom Costigan’s sa-
loon. Leaving the building, Severn notices
a stalled automobile a few blocks away.
Investigating, he finds the body of Cap-
tain Alva, stabbed to death with a hatpin
dagger. Securing it, he remembers having
seen it, or one like it, in Marie Gessler’s
hat.
did not know even who she really was,
or where she might be. I cared noth- \
ing for Alva’s death; horrible as its
was, I was conscious of no regret, but1
I must not be mixed up in the affair.
The only thing for me to do was to
disappear, and leave the police to
make their own discovery. And the
knife? the weapon which had done
the deed? What should I do with
that? m
I did not hesitate long.j^f would
protect her from discoverygt I could;
at least until I was myse* convinced
of her guilt. There wa| no longer
the slightest doubt in my mind but
what this was her act. Everything
pointed straight toward her. Yet
there might be a reason, a worthy
cause, and, in any case, she had done
a service to the country. The world
was better off with this conspirator
dead; nor would I denounce the one
who had taken his life. I hid the
knife in a pocket of my coat, and
hastened down the side street toward
the nearest car line, my only desire
being to escape that neighborhood as
swiftly as possible.
By a quarter of three I was safely
in my room at the hotel, for the first
CHAPTER VII.
1 Seek Miss Conrad—The Threads Be-
come Tangled.
I grasped the thing in my hand,
holding it up incredulously into what-
ever faint light I could find. There
was no question as to its identity; I
could not doubt. This was the same
peculiar ornament I had observed that
evening in the girl’s hat, or else its
exact mate. I recalled the quaint
shape of the miniature hilt too clearly
to be mistaken. Then this car was the
-one in which she had departed with
Gustave Alva two hours-before. What
had occurred in the meanwhile? Some-
thing serious evidently. The dagger
on the floor would indicate a struggle,
or at least a hasty departure from the
vehicle.
I stood staring at it, slowly compre-
hending the probable meaning of those
dark stains on the blade.- Their na-
ture could not be determined in so
dim a light, yet when I touched them
with my finger it became discolored.
My God! could it be blood? Blood! it
was blood; then this had been a scene
of tragedy, of awful crime perhaps.
The discovery sickened me but I had
to go on. I wrenched open the for-
ward door anjd peered fearfully with-
in. I could not but know instantly
what I saw—a dim, huddled form
leaning forward across the steering-
wheel, one hand yet on the spokes,
with head dangling helplessly, upheld
only by contact with the windshield.
I knew the man was dead before I
touched the cold hand; his very pos-
ture told that—and how he had died;
instantly, from a stab in the back. I
could not see his features, the dark-
ness hid them, but desperation drove
me to pass my hand over the con-
cealed face; the upturned mustache,
the exposed teeth, grinning ironically
In death, left no doubt as to who he
was—the Chilean soldier and attache,
Captain Alva. The awful horror of it
paralyzed my very brain. She must
have done this! That girl must have
killed him! But why? for what rea-
son? for what purpose? Could it have
been in answer to insult? Had the
man dared to press his advances once
they were alone? and had she re-
sisted? I would not question his in-
clination, yet this was not possible.
The knife lay on the floor behind him,
just as plucked, blood-stained, from
the wound. The girl, then, was not
even riding beside him; she could not
be to have dealt such a blow—she
must have been alone in the rear seat.
There in the dark, unnoticed by the
man driving, she had leaned forward,
and driven that sharp blade unerring-
ly home to the heart. He had sus-
jPected nothing in time to raise even
!an arm in self-defense. Then, dazed,
.frightened by her terrible deed, for-
gctfnl even of the knife in her terror,
! she had dashed it to the floor and fled
into the darkness, leaving the rear
; door open behind her.
That was the story; that must be
the story. My mind pictured the scene
’ip all its horror._Yet what could ac-
time feeling a sense of real security.
Yet it was not to sleep. I did not
even undress, except to remove my
wet outer-garments before flinging my-
self on the bed. My brain wouldn’t
rest, and I lay there staring up at the
ceiling, while mind reviewed over
and over again ^ery incident of the
night, and plannecSfor the morning.
How would the murder of Alva affect
the plot I had started to overcome?
Would it continue under some other
leadership? Who? And the money?
what would become of that? What
readjustment of plans would Harris
consider necessary? Once I knew his
conception of the situation, I could
better regulate my own action. Mean-
while the only safe course was to re-
main still, and profess ignorance.
Then I had the engagement at 247 Le
Compte street—that might reveal
something of importance to help me
solve the problem.
I got up, removed the dagger from
my pocket, and examined it in the
electric light. It was a toy weapon,
yet sufficiently dangerous, for all that,
and I looked at it with a sense of hor-
ror. How could a woman have ever
thrust even that keen blade with one
blow through to the heart? Yet the
evidence was before me. Those dark
stains were blood—human blood—
dried now, but unmistakable in their
proof of crime. I washed the steel,
leaving the blade bright and polished;
then wrapped it carefully, and hid it
away at the very bottom of my bag,
locking the latter against possible in-
spection by a curious maid. I felt re-
lieved once I had the weapon out of
sight.
The morning papers contained no
reference to the tragedy—the body of
the dead man had not been found in
time. There would be noise enough
when it was, no doubt, for Alva must
have been widely known and ranked
as of some importance. Even if his
identity was never established, if no
suspicion was aroused as to his posi-
tion, and secret work In this country,
yet the very mystery of the case would
create a sensation. But perhaps he
had papers on his person of value. I
regretted not having searched his
pockets. Then the conviction came
that possibly here might be the true
solution of the murder—a desire to se-
cure some documents the man carried.
I went down to Costigan’s place on
foot, not being entirely certain of the
exact location. It was an ordinary
comer saloon, with a stairway leading
to rooms above. In the morning hours
the barroom was nearly deserted, but
the man at the bar, looking me over
cautiously, said that “Mr. Parker” had
already gone out, and had left no
word as to when he would return. I
was rather glad, yet I left a tele-
phone number, with a request that I
be called whenever he came back. I
waited impatiently for the call in my
room, but none came. It dawned upon
me that in all probability Harris was
frantically endeavoring to find the
whereabouts of Alva, as yet having no
suspicion of his death. I telephoned
Costigan’s, but “Mr. Parker” had not
returned. '
I sent out for a noon edition, eager-
ly scanning its columns, but finding
nothing. Surely the deserted car,
with its grim burden, must have been
discovered before this. The police
must have suppressed the news to en-
able them to work in secret; they
might have found some evidence in
the dead man’s pockets, or in the dark
recesses of the car, by which they still
hoped to capt«?e the assassin.
I remember eating in a basement
restaurant, where I was totally un-
known, and then departing for the
rendezvous on Le Compte street. I
approached the number given with
serious misgivings. If the police were
actually on the trail, some knowledge
of this place might be in their posses-
sion, and I could not be too cautious.
There was no outward sign of any
surveillance as I turned into the
block; indeed except for a grocery
truck before one of the houses, and
an organ-grinder at the farther cor-
ner, entertaining a group of children,
the street was entirely deserted. Mus-
tering my courage, and with a feeling
of deep excitement, I advanced up
the steps of the house numbered 247,
and, finding refuge in the outer vesti-
bule, rang the bell. I heard no dis-
tant tinkle, but within a moment or
two the door opened a crack, held in
“Well, What Is It?” She Snapped.
that position by a chain, and the face
of a middle-aged woman peered out
at me.
“Well, what is it?” she snapped, in
no encouraging tone.
“I should like to see Miss Conrad,” I
began apologetically. “I have an ap-
pointment with her.”
“Not here yer ain’t, young man, for
there ain’t nobody by that name in
this house.”
“Are you sure? This is 247, is it
not? That was the number given me.
She was to be^here at two o’clock.”
“This yere is 247 all right. I ain’t
denyin’ that,” the voice more acid
than ever, “but there ain’t no Miss
Conrad yere; so that’s all there is
akrnt it.”
^But there must be.”
“Must be nuthin’! I guess I know.
I’ve been yere seventeen years, an’
ther never was nobody of that name
ever in this house. Besides, I’m house-
cleanin’ and can’t stand yere talkin’
all day.”
“Do you know a man named
Krantz?” I flung at her desperately,
in a last effort to arouse some re-
sponse, “Adolph Krantz.”
“No, I don’t; ther ain’t none of
those people yere, I tell yer.”
The door slapped shut in my face,
and I heard a bolt shot into place—
the interview was ended.
I stared a moment at the blank door
in bewilderment; then turned away,
and slowly retraced my steps to the
street. So the young woman had de-
liberately lied to me; had merely been
amusing herself at my expense; had
sent me on this wild goose chase so
that she might laugh over my sim-
plicity. But was this true? If so,
how was I to account for the strange
coincident that both she and Harris
had named the same number, and
street? It could not have occurred
merely through chance. Something
must have happened in the mean-
while to overthrow all her plans, and
to cause this rabid housekeeper to
even deny her very existence. And I
held the key of explanation—the mur-
der of Alva.
Beyond all doubt here was both
cause and effect. The girl had intend-
ed to either see me herself, or by
proxy in the form of this mysterious
Miss Conrad. But what had since
occurred had compelled a sudden
change in plans, a necessity for con-
cealing her escape. There was no
way in which she could notify me, but
she might very easily have telephoned
to her landlady. And, if the place
was what I suspicioned it to be, she
might have every confidence that her
secret would be guarded.
I glanced up at the front of the
house, searching the windows, but
without results. The curtains were
closely drawn to keep out the sun,
and the place appeared forlorn and
deserted. At the delicatessen shop on
the corner I gained a gleam of light,
but merely enough to strengthen my
former judgment. The keeper, a flax-
en-haired Swede, was loquacious
enough, but had only been in business
there a few weeks.
“247 Le Compte, you say. Yes, she
takes roomers; some are men, and
some are women. They Come in here
and buy, but I never ask the names; it
was all cash. »g why should I care?
Sometimes 1 tnem call names—
sure; but never Conrad. The woman
what keeps the house? Wait and I
tell you; it is on the books; ah! you
read as she wrote it for me—Mrs. Au-
gusta Waldron; maybe a widow?
What you think? Bah, she never like
anything I have to sell. I care noth-
ing for trade with her—a cat this Mrs.
Augusta Waldron.”
I left him with the familiar sound
of the name ringing in my ears—the
whole thing was traveling in a circle,
and the circle was growing continual-
ly more compact. Blindly, I wa#
stumbling up against it here and
there most unexpectedly. Augusta
Waldron, beyond doubt, was Ivan Wal-
dron’s wife. No wonder her house
was designated the meeting place for
those people.
I returned to the hotel. Only as I
Stood before the door did I realize
that the newsboys were calling out,
“Extra! All about the murder!” I
felt that my face was white, and that
hy hand shook, yet I hastily bought
copies of half a dozen sheets, shoving
them into my pockets.
The reports were mostly alike, ex-
ceedingly brief and unsatisfactory, ex-
cept that they conveyed the impres-
sion that thus far the police possessed
no real clue as to the perpetrator of
the crime. No one connected with
the meeting the night before was men-
tioned in any article, nor was any sus-
picion of such a meeting mentioned. I
read the last line with a distinct feel-
ing of relief, dropping the paper on
the floor.
They had discovered no clue, noth-
ing whatever to work upon. The In-
terior of the car had yielded no evi-
dence of its former occupant, the only
reference being to mud on the floor.
Outside all footprints had been ob-
literated by the falling rain. 'No one
in the neighborhood had heard a
sound, or witnessed any movement.
The whole affair was shrouded in mys-
tery.
What, under these conditions, was
my duty? What could I either do, or
say, to clarify this tragedy, and bring
the guilty to justice? I sat there for
an hour thinking and smoking, en-
deavoring to answer these queries. I
could study out no clear way to any
confession, which would not directly
involve myself in the toils of the po-
lice, or else implicate Marie Gessler,
so as to make any defense on her part
almost impossible. No doubt she was
guilty, yet I could not drive myself to
openly charge her with the crime.
There must be some extenuating cir-
cumstances, some unknown cause,
which had led to the act. I could not
forget her face, her manner, the clear,
womanly look of her eye—she was no
murderess, and it was not in my heart
to denounce her as such. Besides, if
I took this responsibility it would
only serve to shield other crimes of
more importance than the violent
death of this Chilean revolutionary—
the murder perhaps of many innocent
victims, and the destruction of much
valuable property. For Alva’s death
would hardly stop the plotting already
on foot. The money was still here in
New York ready to be used; the propa-
gandists at Washington would never
permit it to long lie idle. They would
find somewhere another leader, and I
alone seemed to be in a position to
balk their hellish purpose. Perhaps
it was even by their orders that Alva
had thus been put out of the way.
He had acted too slowly, and sus-
picion might have been aroused as to
his real purpose. On every side I was
assailed with doubts.
Yet, even if I held silent, I knew
not in which direction to turn. I had
apparently lost all touch with the
girl. She had failed me completely—
either by accident, or design. Her ap-
pointment with me had served to re-
veal only one fact which might prove
of importance—247 Le Compte street
was undoubtedly a link in the chain
of the conspiracy; it was the home of
Ivan Waldron. Once I told this dis-
covery to Harris the way might be
opened to closer investigation. But
what had become of Harris? It was
already approaching six o’clock, and
the man had not telephoned me. Sure-
ly he must be aware by this time of
the murder of Alva; the uselessness
of seeking longer to find him alive.
Was he also endeavoring to avoid me?
was his purpose deceit? or had some
suspicion arisen in his mind as to my
really being Harry Daly?
Aroused by this possibility, and un-
able to remain quiet longer, I slipped
a revolver from the depths of my bag
Into a coat pocket, and departed again
for Costigan’s, determined to learn the
truth. I approached the same bar-
tender with whom I had spoken in the
morning, and he must have recalled
me at once, for, without answering
my question, he turned and called out
to a heavily set, red-faced fellow at
the lower end of the bar.
“Dan, here is that guy who was
asking for Parker. He ain’t heard
nuthin’ from him.”
The other came forward, elbowing
his way roughly through the crowd,
and looked me searchingly in the face.
“I’m Costigan,** he said shortly. “They
tell me you’re hunting Parker. Difl
you have an appointment with him?*’
“Yes; he was to meet me here this
morning. Then I left a telephone
number, but he hasn’t called me.”
“He ain’t been back; that’s the rea-
son. Come along with me; I want a
private word with you.”
I followed him rather doubtfully, al-
though his words and actions ap-
peared friendly enough in a gruff way.
He led the way to a closed door at the
end of the bar, which, when opened,
disclosed a small business office, con-
taining merely a desk and two chairs.
To his rather gruff invitation to sit
down, I accepted one of these, chew-
ing at the cigar between my teeth, and
endeavoring to appear quite at ease.
Costigan, aftSr securing the do'or, seat-
ed himself ire the desk, turning his
swivel chair about so as to face me,
his freckled hands on his knees.
“George told me about you this
morning,” he began. “At least I sup-
pose you’re the lad; your name Daly?"
I nodded, greatly relieved, but un-
willing to trust my voice. The man
did not know me; had no suspicion.
“Glad ter meet yer,” and Costigan
filled a pipe, and touched a match to
the tobacco without removing his
steady gaze from my face. “We never
had no dealings together, but if yer
tied up with George, it’s quite likely
we will have. He an* I hav’ been
pardners fer a long while. He’s a h—1
of a good guy.”
“We just ran into each other acci-
dentally,” I explained, feeling that he
expected me to say something. “Got
onto the trail of the same boodle. He
told you, I suppose?”
“No, he didn’t. Just said he’d run
onto you, and that you were liable to
turn a trick together. George don’t
slop over; that ain’t his style.”
“But he spoke about me?"
“Well, yes, in a way. But it wa’n’t
no more than I told yer. He had to
go out afore you got 'round, so he
said you was cornin’, an’ for me to be
decent to yer whenever yer blowed
In.”
“How long was he to be gone?”
“That’s what’s got my goat,” Cos-
tigan admitted grimly. “He said he’d
be back in an hour, but he ain’t
showed up since, ner sent any word.
I don’t want to shove my nose into
your affairs, but I’m gettin’ a little
nervous ’bout George, that’s a fact.”
Somehow the fellow gave me the
impression of being square—honest
according to his lights—and intensely
loyal to his friends. Of course, I
could not inform him as to the whole
story, but it might be of benefit to
give him some inkling of the situa-
tion.
“There’s no harm, so far as I can
see, in telling you a part of the plan,
Mr. Costigan,” I replied slowly, en-
deavoring to guard my words careful-
ly. “I know Harris has eve
dence in you, so I’ll take a
We’re both on to a million-dollar
•—easy money, it looks like—”
“The h—1! that’s some boodle!”
citedly leaning forward.
“It don’t come every day. I’ll not
explain details, or how the two of us
run together on the trail, and agreed
to split the pot. That’s our business,
you’ll admit.”
“Sure;.what was it? A bank j<?b?”
“Better than that—South Amerl
revolution fund; coin sec
from London to pay for
maybe a murder or so. It
bundle, and what we heed
our hands on it. We kno1
stuff is, but we’re still scouting
for a chance to grab
yet.”
“I see. Ain’t b'
the gink who’s got to pay it out.
That’s what George is a-tracin’ out
now, I suppose?”
“No doubt that is what he started
after this morning—shadowing the
fellows to whom it was to be paid.
What gets me is, why he doesn’t re-
turn—the guy is dead.”
“Judas Priest! How do you know
that? What’s happened?”
“Why, it’s in all the papers; he was
murdered last night over in Jersey
City—stabbed through the back in an
automobile. You saw it, didn’t you?”
“H—1! that guy? He was a Chilean
captain, or something. Yer don’t
that maybe George bumped hi;
do yer?”
“No; I know he didn’t; Harris was
with me all last evening.”
“And you haven’t any notion who
did?”
I shook my head negatively. Costi-
gan sat for some moments, his chin
cupped in his huge fist, his pipe ex-
tinguished and his forehead creased
in thought. Then he looked up sud-
denly, a strange light in his eyes.
“Say, Daly,” he asked in a hoarse
whisper, “do you know if there was a
Russian Jew mixed up in this affair
anywhere?”
Do you
know why
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To seal in
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It’s toasted.
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ollar pow*
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Taxi Prices
Marsha, Texas
Hotels 25c 1 Passenger in Tour
1 passenger............... $ .50
2 passengers ............ $ .50
3 passengers............ $ .75
4 passengers............ $1.00
TRUNKS
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2 trunks.................. $ .50
3 trunks.................. $ .75
4 trunks .................. $1.00
Hauling
Country
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ALLISON
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Butler’s
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CHAPTER VIII.*
A Friend at the McAlpin—The
ger Ha
His unexpected
me. In a way it was
the vague suspicion
pursuing me ever since
ernoon. Somewhere there wa
terious hand operating—but whose
hand?
“A Russian Jew?” I questioned.
“Why should you ask that?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. Maybe it don’t
amount to nothin’ an’ then again it
might give us the right steer. A
low they caft ‘Sly Levy’—he’s a che;
thief, a dip mostly—blew in yere
night with a note for Harris. He
it with one o’ the night barkeepg’an’
seemed ter be in a h—1 of a hurry ter
have It delivered. The d—d thing was
sealed, but not stamped, an’ there
wa’n’t no address on It either. So I
didn't tnlnx It was no ^penitentiary
sentence to pry it open, usin’ a bit of
steam to loosen up the flap. But I
ddin’t find much, only two lines spelled
out in print letters. ‘Where you met
K, eight tomorrow. Don’t fail; im-
portant. I. W: That was every d—n
word. Do you make anything of
that?”
“Yes, I do,” I said heartily. “It’s part
of this job. I’ll explain after a bit.
What did you do then?”
“Sealed it up, an’ give it back to
Joe. I didn’t see no harm in it. Do
you happen to know who this ‘I. W.’
stands for?”
“I can make a mighty good guess,
Costigan—a Russian Jew, all right;
Ivan Waldron.”
The scowl on his face remained
fir^d: evidently the parse was un-
Holt
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(Continued on page 4)
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East Texas Register. (Carthage, Tex.), Vol. 20, No. 27, Ed. 1 Friday, July 8, 1921, newspaper, July 8, 1921; Carthage, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth638275/m1/3/: accessed July 6, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Stephen F. Austin East Texas Research Center.