The Turn of the Balance

III

Sergeant Cragin, a short, red-haired Irishman with a snub nose that with difficulty kept his steel-bowed spectacles before his small, rheumy eyes, had just finished calling the roll of the night detail at the Central Police Station when the superintendent of police, Michael Cleary, unexpectedly appeared in the great drill hall. Cleary stood in the doorway with Inspector McFee; his cap was drawn to his eyebrows, revealing but a patch of his close-cut white hair; his cheeks were red and freshly shaven, his small chin-whiskers newly trimmed. The velvet collar and cuffs of his blue coat, as usual, were carefully brushed, the diamonds on his big gold badge flashed in the dim, shifting light. The men did not often see their chief; he appeared at the station but seldom, spending most of his time, presumably, in his office at the City Hall.

"Men," he said, "I want a word with you–about this Flanagan job. We've got to get the murderers. They're somewhere in town right now. I want you to keep a lookout; run in every suspicious character you see to-night–no matter who he is–run him in. See what I mean? We're going to have a cleaning up. I want you to pull every place that's open after hours. I want you to pinch every crook and gun in town. See what I mean? I won't stand for any nonsense! You fellows have been loafing around now long enough; by God, if something isn't done before morning, some of you'll lose your stars. You've heard me. You've got your orders; now execute them. See what I mean?"

This proceeding was what Cleary called maintaining discipline on the force, and, in delivering his harangue, he had worked himself into a rage; his face was red, his cheeks puffed out. The line of policemen shifted and shuffled; the red faces became still redder, deepening at last to an angry blue.

Cleary, with their anger and resentment following him, left the drill room, descended the stairs, and burst into the detective bureau. The room, like all the rooms in the old building, was large, the ceiling high, and in the shutters of the tall arched windows the dust of years had settled; on the yellow walls were wire racks, in which were thrust photographs of criminals, each card showing a full face, a profile, and a number; there was little else, save some posters offering rewards for fugitives.

The detectives who had been on duty all the day were preparing to leave; those who were to be on duty that night were there; it was the hour when the day force and the night force gathered for a moment, but this evening the usual good nature, the rude joking and badinage were missing; the men were morose and taciturn; in one corner Kouka and Quinn were quarreling. When Cleary halted in the door, as if with some difficulty he had brought himself to a stop, the detectives glanced up.

"Well," Cleary exploded, "that Flanagan job is twenty-four hours old, and you fly cops haven't turned anything up yet. I want you to turn up something. See what I mean? I want you to get busy, damn you, and get busy right away. See what I mean?"

"But, Chief," one of the men began.

Cleary looked at him with an expression of unutterable scorn.

"G-e-t r-i-g-h-t!" he said, drawling out the words in the lowest register of his harsh bass voice. "Get right! See what I mean? Come to cases, you fellows; I want a show-down. You make some arrests before morning or some of you'll quit flyin' and go back to wearin' the clothes. See what I mean?"

He stood glowering a moment, then repeated all he had said, cursed them all again, and left the room, swearing to himself.

Down-stairs, in the front office, the reporters were waiting. Cleary stopped when he saw them, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.

"Do you care to give out anything, Chief, about the Flanagan job?" asked one of the reporters timidly.

"No," said Cleary bluntly.

"Have you any clue?"

Cleary thought a moment.

"We'll have the men to-morrow."

The reporters stepped eagerly forward.

"Any details, Chief?"

"I'd be likely to give 'em to you fellows to print, wouldn't I?" said Cleary sarcastically.

"But–"

"You heard what I said, didn't you? We'll have the men to-morrow. Roll that up in your cigarette and smoke it. See what I mean?"

"Do you care to comment on what the Post said this evening?" asked a representative of that paper.

"What the hell do I care what your dirty, blackmailing sheet says? What the hell do I care?"

Cleary left then, and a moment later they heard his heavy voice through the open window, swearing at the horse as he drove away in his light official wagon.

In truth, the police were wholly at sea. All day the newspapers had been issuing extras giving new details, or repeating old details of the crime. The hatred that had been loosened in the cottage of the Flanagan sisters had, as it were, poured in black streams into the whole people, and the newspapers had gathered up this stream, confined it, and then, with demands for vengeance, poured it out again on the head of the superintendent of police, and he, in turn, maddened and tortured by criticism, had poured out this hatred on the men who were beneath him; and now, at nightfall, they were going out into the dark city, maddened and tormented themselves, ready to pour it on to any one they might encounter. And it was this same hatred that had sickened the breasts of Kouka and Quinn so that, after a friendship of years, they had quarreled, and were quarreling even now up-stairs in the detectives' office.

When he heard of the crime, Kouka realized that if he could discover the murderers of Margaret Flanagan he might come into a notoriety that would be the making of him. And he had wondered how he might achieve this. He had visited Lulu Corners, and all day his mind had been at work, incessantly revolving the subject; he had recalled all the criminals he knew, trying to imagine which of them might have done the deed, trying to decide on which of them he might fasten the crime. For his mind worked like the minds of most policemen–the problem was not necessarily to discover who had committed the crime, but who might have committed it, and this night, with the criticism of the newspapers, and with the abuse of the superintendent, he felt himself more and more driven to the necessity of doing something in order to show that the police were active. And when he heard from Quinn that he had arrested Archie Koerner on Friday, and that Bostwick had ordered him out of the city, he instantly suspected that it was Archie who had murdered Margaret Flanagan. Quinn had laughed at the notion, but this only served to convince Kouka and make him stubborn. The problem then was to find Archie. When Inspector McFee made his details for that night, all with special reference to the Flanagan murder, Kouka asked for a special detail, intimating that he had some clue which he wished to follow alone, and McFee, who was at his wits' end, was willing enough to let Kouka follow his own leading.

The night detail tramped heavily down the dark halls and out into Market Place; the detectives left the building and separated, stealing off in different directions. An hour later, patrol wagons began to roll up to the station; the tenderloin was in a turmoil; saloons, brothels and dives were raided, the night was not half gone before the prison was crowded with miserable men and women, charged with all sorts of crimes, and, when no other charge could be imagined, with suspicion.

Meanwhile, Archie and Curly were trudging through dark side-streets and friendly alleys on their way to Archie's home; for Archie had determined to see his father and his mother once more before he left the city. Archie was armed with a revolver he had procured from Gray.

IV

Kouka visited the tenderloin and learned that Archie had not left town. He learned, too, that he had a companion, and though he could follow the trail no farther, he had decided to watch Archie's home in the chance that the boy might visit it some time during the night. And now, for two hours, in the patience that was part of his stupidity, he had lurked in the black doorway of the grocery. Bolt Street was dark and still. Overhead, low clouds were flying; and the old stool-pigeon, coming later and later each night, as if bad habits were growing on it, had not yet appeared. Now and then, hearing footsteps, Kouka would shrink into the darkest corner of the doorway; the steps would sound louder and louder on the wooden sidewalk, some one would pass, and the steps would gradually fade from his hearing. All this had a curious effect on Kouka's mind. In some doubt at first, the waiting, the watching with one object in view, more and more convinced him that he was right, and in time the idea that Archie was the murderer he sought became definitely fixed. The little house across the street gradually, through the slowly moving hours, took on an aspect that confirmed Kouka's theory; it seemed to be waiting for Archie's coming as expectantly as the detective. During the first hour of his vigil, a shaft of yellow light had streamed out of the kitchen window into the side yard, and Kouka watched this light intently. Finally, at nine o'clock, it was suddenly drawn in, as it were, and the house became dark. After this, the house seemed to enshroud itself with some mysterious tragic apprehension; and Kouka waited, stolidly, patiently, possessed by his theory.

And then, it must have been after ten o'clock, Kouka, who had heard no footsteps and no sound whatever, suddenly, across the street, saw two figures. They stopped, opened the low gate, stepped on to the stoop and knocked. Their summons was answered almost immediately; the door opened, and, in the light that suddenly filled the door-frame, Kouka recognized Archie Koerner; a woman, his mother, doubtless, stood just inside; he heard her give a little cry, then Archie put out his arms and bent toward her; then he went in, his companion following, and the door was closed. In another moment the shaft of light shot out into the side yard again.

Kouka was exultant, happy; he experienced an intense satisfaction; already he realized something of the distinction that would be his the next morning, when the little world he knew would hail him as the man who, all alone, had brought the murderers of that poor old Flanagan woman to the vengeance of the people's law.

And yet, he must be cautious; he knew what yeggs were; he knew how readily they would shoot and how well, and he did not care to risk his own body, and the chance of missing his prey besides, by engaging two bad men alone. Bad men they were, to Kouka, and nothing else; they had come suddenly to impersonate to him all the evil in the world, just as, though unknown, they or some two men impersonated all evil to all the people of the city and the county, whereas Kouka felt himself to be a good man whose mission it was to crush this badness out of the world. He must preserve himself, as must all good men, and he ran down the street, opened a patrolmen's box, called up the precinct station, and gave the alarm. Then he hurried back; the shaft of light was still streaming out into the side yard, its rays, like some luminous vapor, flowing palpably from the small window and slanting downward to be absorbed in the dark earth.

He heard the roll of wheels, the urge of straining horses; the patrol wagon stopped at the corner; he heard the harness rattle and one of the horses blow softly through its delicate fluttering nostrils; a moment later, the squad of policemen came out of the gloom; three of the men were in civilian attire, the other six were in uniform.

Kouka received his little command with his big, heavy hand upraised for silence. It was a fine moment for him; he felt the glow of authority; he felt like an inspector; perhaps this night's work would make an inspector of him; he had never had such an opportunity before. He must evolve a plan, and he paused, scowled, as he felt a commander should who, confronted by a crisis, was thinking. Presently he laid his plan before them; it was profound, strategical. The officers in uniform were to surround the house, but in a certain way; he explained this way. Three of them were to go to the right and cover the ground from the corner of the house to the shaft of light that streamed from the window, the others were to extend themselves around the other way, coming as far as the lighted window; then no one would be exposed.

"You'll go with me," said Kouka to the plain-clothes men. He said it darkly, with a sinister eye, implying that their work was to be heavy and dangerous.

"Don't shoot until I give the command."

They went across the street, bending low, almost crouching, stealing as softly as they could in their great heavy boots, gripping their revolvers nervously, filled with fear. Inside the gate, they surrounded the house.

Kouka led the way, motioning the others behind him with his hand. He stepped on to the low stoop, but stood at one side lest Archie shoot through the door. He stood as a reconnoitering burglar stands at one side of a window, out of range; cautiously he put forth his hand, knocked, and hastily jerked his hand away … He knocked twice, three times … After a while the door opened slowly, and Kouka saw Mrs. Koerner standing within, holding a lamp. Kouka instantly pushed his knee inside the door, and shouldered his way into the room. The three officers followed, displaying their revolvers.

"It's all off," said Kouka. "The house is surrounded. Where is he?"

Mrs. Koerner did not speak; she could not. Her face was white, the lamp shook in her hand; its yellow flame licked the rattling chimney, the reek of the oil filled the room. Finally she got to the table and with relief set the lamp down among the trinkets Archie had brought from the Philippines.

"Aw come, old woman!" said Kouka, seizing her by the arm fiercely. "Come, don't give us any of the bull con. Where is he?"

Kouka held to her arm; he shook her and swore. Mrs. Koerner swallowed, managed to say something, but in German. And then instantly the four officers, as if seized by some savage, irresistible impulse, began to rummage and ransack the house. They tore about the little parlor, entered the little bedroom that had been Gusta's; they looked everywhere, in the most unlikely places, turning up mats, chairs, pulling off the bed-clothes. Then they burst into the room behind. Suddenly they halted and huddled in a group.

There, in the center of the room, stood old man Koerner, clad in his red flannel underclothes, in which he must have slept. He had an air of having just got out of bed; his white hair was tumbled, and he leaned on one crutch, as if one crutch were all that was necessary in dishabille. Below the stump of his amputated leg the red flannel leg of his drawers was tied into a knot. He presented a grotesque appearance, like some aged fiend. Under the white bush of his eyebrows, under his touseled white hair, his eyes gleamed fiercely.

"Vat de hell ails you fellers?"

"We want Archie," said Kouka, "and, by God, we're going to have him, dead or alive." He used the words of the advertised reward. "Where is he?"

Kouka and the other officers glanced apprehensively about the room, as if Archie and Curly might start out of some corner, or out of the floor, but in the end their glances came always back to Koerner, standing there in his red flannels, on one crutch and one leg, the red knot of the leg of his drawers dangling between.

"You vant Archie, huh?" asked Koerner. "Dot's it, aind't it–Archie–my poy Archie?"

"Yes, Archie, and we want him quick."

"Vat you want mit him, huh?"

"It's none of your business what we want with him," Kouka replied with an oath. "Where is he? Hurry up!"

"You bin a detective, huh? Dot's it, a detective?"

"Yes."

"You got some bapers for him?"

"That's my business," said Kouka, advancing menacingly toward Koerner. "You tell where he is or I'll run the whole family in. Here," he said suddenly, a thought having occurred to him, "put 'em under arrest, both of 'em!"

The old man shuffled backward, leaned against the table for support and raised his crutch for protection.

"You better look oudt, Mis'er Detective," said Koerner. "You'd better look oudt. Py Gott–"

Kouka stopped, considered, then changed his mind.

"Look here, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It's no use. We know Archie's here and we want him."

"He's not here," suddenly spoke Mrs. Koerner beside him. "He's not here!"

"The hell he ain't!" said Kouka. "I saw him come in–ten minutes ago. Search the house, men." And the rummaging began again.

The men were about to enter the little room where Koerner slept: it was dark in there and one of them took the lamp.

"Look oudt!" Koerner said suddenly. "Look oudt! You go in dere if you vant to, but, py Gott, don't blame me if–"

The men suddenly halted and stepped back.

"Go on in!" commanded Kouka. "What do you want to stand there for? Are you afraid?"

Then they went, ransacked that room, threw everything into disorder and came out.

"No one there," they reported in relief.

They searched the whole house over again, and old man Koerner stood by on one leg and his crutch, with a strange, amused smile on his yellow face. At last, Kouka, lifting his black visage, looked at the ceiling, sought some way as if to an upper story, found none, and then began to swear again, cursing the old man and his wife. Finally he said to the officers:

"He's been kidding us."

Then he called his men, dashed out of the house, and with a dark lantern began seeking signs in the back yard. Near the rear fence he discovered footprints in the soft earth; they climbed over and found other footprints in the mud of the alley.

"Here they went!" cried Kouka.

V

Archie had stood for a moment in his mother's embrace; he had felt her cheek against his; he had heard her voice again. He was forgetful of everything–of Curly's presence, of all he had ever been made to suffer by himself and by others. He knew that his mother's eyes were closed and that tears were squeezing through the lids; he felt his own tears coming, but it did not matter–in that moment he could cry without being made ashamed. It was a supreme moment for him, a moment when all he had been, all he had done, all he had not done, made no difference; no questions now, no reproaches, no accusations, not even forgiveness, for there was no need of forgiveness; a moment merely of love, an incredible moment, working a miracle in which men would not believe, having lost belief in Love. It was a moment that suffused his whole being with a new, surging life, out of which–