Rensselaer Journal, Volume 10, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 March 1901 — THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY

BY RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI,

Author of “An Artist In Crime,” “A Conflict of Evidence,” “A Modern Wizard,” “Final Proof,” Etc. CoplffiflM, 1896, by O. P. Putnam's Sons. AU rights reserved.

(CONTINUED.) Mr. Mitchel followed him until they stood before a stationery store, where, In the window, there were exposed for sale numerous pictures of actresses, among which were several on which was printed, “The Lily of/the Valley,” and a placard announced that they could be bought for 25 cents each. “There you are,” said Preacher Jim. “Buy one and Join the army of her admirers. Are you satisfied?’ “Quite satisfied,” said Mr. Mitchel In peculiar tones, which caused the erimlpAl to eye him keenly. But he was gazing into the face of a human sphinx and learned nothing. “But, look here,” said Preacher Jim, “If you were so interested in tills girl, why did you get Sam to follow the other womab?” “The other woman?” asked Mr. Mitchel, with singular emphasis on the | second word. “Yes, the other woman, Mrs. Morton:” Then, after a pause, as though a new Idea had occurred to him: “Oh, come, now! You don’t actually think Mrs. 'Morton and Lilian Vale are one and the same?” “What if 1 do think so?” “Well, that’s your privilege, of course. Think as you like. It is no business of mine. But, look here, to return to the main point. You are studying crime, are you n^t— not as a detective, but as a criminologist? You would like to unearth the causes which lead to the existence of criminals, would you not?” C “You are by no means a fool,” said Mr. Mitchel. “You have guessed my main interest in the work in hand. You might assist me very much in my studies If you chose.” au wuat manners “You claim to be a born crlmina M and, to use a naturalist’s term, I find you a most interesting specimen. I would very much like to meet the mother of a born criminal.” “You are not lacking in audacity to make such, a request. You wish me to Introduce you to my mother?” . “I should esteem it as a special favor, andj—here he paused and then continued impressively—“you will never regret having allowed me to meet her.” Preacher Jim looked into Mr. Mitchel’s face searyhingly, as though delving -Into the deepest recesses of his brain, seeking the true reading of his character. Presently he extended his hand, saying':""" “Will you shake hands-on that?” Mr. Mitchel promptly, acquiesced, and the criminal continued: “1 believe you are as honest as you are bold. I will trust you. I will grant your request.” They walked along in silence, both men too engrossed In thought to Interrupt the working of their brains by uttering words. Preacher Jim led the way to Mulberry street, stopping a block above what was for so long a time known as “The Bend.” He stood before a narrow, dirty alley which led to a rear tenement. Once more he addressed Mr. Mitchel: - “I seem to be In a queer mood. Why I have brought you here passes my own comprehension. It is a very stupid thing, but I agreed to do it, and I never break my word. Bear that in mind* For good or ill, a promise from Preacher Jim is final and binding. And I promise you now that if ever you use against me or mine any knowledge obtained here, where my poor old mother lives, your life will pay the forfeit. If the terms do not suit you, I will only be too glad to bid you good day.” . "I will go in with you. Your words do not alarm me.” •, ’ “They need not unfess you play the traitor.” Mulberry street is one of the sights of the great metropolis, for many blocks being w'ithin a stone’s throw of Broadway, the great business artery of the city. Millions upon millions’ worth of property are piled in the stores, banks and warerooms that line Broadway, the most important thoroughfare on the American continent. It is therefore natural that its sidewalks should be crowded. Yet, though Mulberry street Is almost as poor as Broadway is rich, the crowds are denser, and is

not an idle throng either, for on a!’, sides are evidences of thrift. All the stores are occupied, every hallway Is converted into a diminutive shop, and there are stands at the curb, and even in the middle of the street, loaded with wares which the peddlers have to offer. The whole district being thus converted into a market place, the purchasers and passersby are forced to thread their way now on the sidewalk, but on the asphalt driveway, over which latter, by the bye, there is never a passageway for horse and wagon.

Yet, except for a- veyy occasional family row, the scene is almost invariably orderly. The whole is picturesque from the very quaintness of the surroundings. It all seems so foreign to an American city, not even the English language being heard as one walks by. I say the scene is picturesque, but,, alas, not the women! Raphael and Correggio have taught us how beautiful the daughters of Italy mav be, but they could not have found their models in such a locality, where children of 14 are attired like elderly women and look older than they are, with their colorless cheeks and sunken eyes, which seek the pavement because of the stoop in their backs from carrying burdens. How could beauty thrive here? Mr. Mitchel took in the general scene at a glance as he turned into the alley, leaving the kaleidoscopic array of color behind him and passing into the gloom beyond, where all seemed colorless. “Be careful where you walk,” came a warning from Preacher Jim just in time to prevent Mr. Mitchel from treading upon an infant crawling along toward the street in a state of nudity which would have attracted attention anywhere but in this neighborhood, where children who are nearly full grown are often clothed with but a single garment. At the end of the alley was a court, BO called by courtesy, being in truth but little wider than the alley itself. At the back rose up gauntly between the main houses and the rising sun a tall structure, erected in comparatively recent times that the greedy owner of the ground might squeeze a few more dollars from the pockets of the outcasts whose only hope of happiness in this great “new land” is to herd with those who can at least comprehend their own tongue. What matter if this back tenement shut off both: light and air from the 20 or 30 families living in the front houses? If you should speak to the landlord about it, he would reply: “I do not compel them to remain. If they do not like it, let them move. This is a free country.” A free country! Aye, truly! Very free when a price is put upon the very air! An iron stairway running up the outside of the back tenement did double service, serving both as entrance way for the lodgers and as a fire escape, an economic method of obeying the law which demands that these poor devils shall at least not be burned alive. And, since the fire escape must be placed on the outside, why waste valuable—that is to say, rentable —space by erecting stairways within? Mr. Mitchel followed Preacher Jim up to the third floor, where they rested a moment on the landing while awaiting some response from a loud knocking upon the door. “The old woman keeps her latch on to keep out intrusive visitors.” explained Preacher Jim as he repeated his summons. But after some time, there being still no sound from within, he turned the knob. To his surprise, the door yielded, and he led the way in. “She’s out, I guess,” he said, “or the door wouldn’t be open. She’s got no way to lock it on the outside. The lock’s broken. It’s dark enough in here, isn’t it?” It was dark enough, though Mr. Mitchel observed that the one window in the room was obscured by neither blind, shutter nor shade. No light entered, because there was no light that could find a way in. “I’ll strike a light,” said the criminal. “Have you a match?” Mr. Mitchel handed him his match safe, and in a few minutes a smoky lamp was dimly illuminating the room. “What have we here?” exclaimed Mr. Mitchel as soon as he could make out anything in the room. Then, advancing, he leaned down and examined the abject which had attracted his atten-

tion. “Why, it is a woman!” he cried. “And she is hurt! There Is l.lood here!” “Blood!” cried Preacher Jim, aroused to a sudden state of excitement which astonished Mr. Mitchel. He brought the lamp and, stooping down, turned the woman over, so that the dim light fell upon her face. Then, witli the enraged cry of a wild beast, he jumped up, crying: “It Is my mother, my mother! She has been murdered—murdered, I tell you! I will kill the man who did this! Do you hear? I will kill him! I will tear his heart out with these hands W’hile it is yet warm! You think I could not, do you?” He leaned over Mr. Mitchel menacingly, his eyes ablaze with fury, and it seemed that but a move, a wmrd, might make him vent his rage at once in some bloody act. But much of the danger was not even apprehended by Mr. Mitchel, for he was looking down, examining the woman, trying to find whether the beating of her heart had ceased. At this juncture, perhaps just in time to save himself from the effects of the temporary mania into which his companion had been plunged by the sight of his mother’s blood, he looked up and said: “She is not dead! flpr heart bents’” Preacher Jim was instantly transformed. He set down his lamp and dropped to the floor, where on his knees he hastily felt for the heart’s beating, then placed his ear close to hear its throb, meanwhile speaking hysterically: “Not dead! Thank God! Let me see! Let me see! You might be lying to me! Where is the heart; There, I have it! I have it! Yes, yes, it is beating! Let me listen! Sh-h-h-h! Yes, I hear it! She’s alive, alive! We are in time! But that blood—where dot's it come from? She is bleeding to death, man, don’t you see? She is bleeding to death! It is dreadful to see your mother bleeding like that! What can we do?” “She has fallen and struck her head,” said Mr. Mitchel. “She has lost a great deal of blood and has fainted. That is all, I think, The wound is not bad but It may need a few stitches, You go for a doctor, and I will take care of her while you are away. I have had some experience with wounds, and I promise you that your mother will be alive when you return. Hurry, now, and bring a doctor.” .“A doctor? Yes, you are right. I will bring one. You say you can keep her alive until I return? That is your promise. Very good. I‘will hold you to it strictly, mind. If she dies, I will hold you to account, and then—well, then you will know what it means to have Preacher Jim after you!” With a wild laugh he rushed from the room and could be heard going down the stairway in leaps. CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF MARGARET CRANE. After Preacher Jim’s departure Mr. Mitchel bent down beside the woman and was about to lift her up, with the intention of placing her upon the rude cot which served, as a bed, when she moved feebly, groaned and then called in low tones for water. He found some in a pitcher which boasted neither handle nor spout and filled a tin cup which stood on a shelf. Raising the woman gently, he placed the cup to her lips, and she swallowed a little water, which seemed to revive her, for she stretched out her hands and cried: “Where am 1? Where am I?” “In your own home,” replied Mr. Mitchel. “Why is it so dark? Why don’t you light the lamp?” “The lamp is lighted. See! It is on the table.” “Then it’s true, it’s true! It all comes back to me.” With these words she fell back, moaning and groaning, and It was some time before she could be made to speak again. “What is true?” asked Mr. Mitchel. “What has happened to you?” “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Only help me up first.” Mr. Mitchel assisted her to rise, but she uttered a wild shriek of pain, which made him fear that she had suffered some internal Injury, and therefore he quickly carried her over to the cot and placed her in a recumbent position, that she might be at ease, if possible. She rolled over and lay groaning for some minutes, but soon grew quiet again and then asked for some more water. “And just put a drop of whisky in it,” she added. “It braces me up when I feels bad. It’s in the brown bottle.”

The bottle was easily found on the shelf, and the draft did indeed add to her strength, for she would have risen again had not Mr. Mitchel prevented her. “You must lie still, or the pain will come again,” said he. “Oh, yes! I forgot.” She was silent for a moment, then added wearily: “It don’t matter. I’m dying anyway, so what’s the odds?” “You are not going to die, my good woman,” said Mr. Mitchel. “You must not have such notions. But tell me what happened to you.” “I was up stairs to see a neighbor, and coming down I went blind all of a sudden”— “You went blind ?” “Yes. My eyes have been bad for a long time, and the sight just went from me. I guess it ain’t coming back neither, for I’m blind now. But it won’t matter for a day or two, if I live as long as that, which ain’t likely.” “It is dreadful, of course, to lose one’s sight, but why do you say that you are dying?” “Because I am; that’s why. When I lost my sight, I staggered like, and then I fell down the stairs to the landing outside my own door. I managed to crawl in, but then the blood choked me, and I fainted, I guess.” “Why, what are you saying? How could the blood from your head choke you?” “Yes; I know my head’s cut, too, but that ain’t the main trouble. Something’s broken inside of me, and a lot of blood came up into my mouth, and that's what choked me.” “Some small vessel perhaps,” said Mr. Mitchel reassuringly. “It emptied itself, and then the hemorrhage ceased, It has not come on again, which is a favorable symptom. We have sent for a doctor, and he will take proper care of you. Meanwhile take some more whisky. It will sustain you until he reaches here.” “I’ll take the whisky because I like it, more’s the pity. But it’s not the doctor I want; it’s a priest,” “Why do you want a priest I” “Because I have something on my mind that must be told before I die. So bring a priest.” Mr. Mitchel could not resist the temptation to say: “If you have anything to tell, confide it to me.” “Are you a priest?” “No, but I am your son’s friend.” “Then you are a crook, and no crook is ever a true friend.” “You are wrong. I am not a crook. I am a gentleman.” “Ha, ha!” she laughed. “There are gentlemen crooks and crooked, gentlemen. If I could only see your face, I could tell. You couldn’t fool Old Mag. Wait! Give me your hands. So!” She took his proffered hand and felt it with both of hers and then added: “As fine as silk. You’re gentleman born anyway. I’ll trust you. I must tell somebody, for I doubt if I’ll live through the night. Besides, if Matthew came back he’d stop me.” “Who is Matthew?” “My son.” “But is not his name Jim—Preacher Jim?” “Yes; you are right—Jim, of course. I was thinkiflg of something else. Now give me some more whisky, and I’ll tell you the story.” ‘“Here it is. Take some from time to’time. I suppose you are used to it?” “Used to it? Why, I’ve drunk enough in my time to swim in. And why not? When a good girl goes to the bad, she must either drown herself or her conscience. That’s nature.” “Then you mean that such was your misfortune?” “You wait now! Don’t hurry me. I’ll tell it best my own way. You’ll see why I tell you when you’ve heard all. I was born in New England, no matter just where. It was on a farm, and my people were strict Puritans—too strict maybe; leastways it proved so in my case. I was just wild after the boys, in an innocent sort of way, you know. While a child I wanted to play with them, when I grew to be a girl I wanted a sweetheart, and when I came to be a woman I longed for some one to love me. I wanted a lover like the men I had read about in books, the novels, that I had to steal out of the bookcase and read in the hayloft In the barn, for all that sort of thingboys, sweethearts, lovers and novels—my people kept from me as far as they could. “So what wonder whep I met a handsome city chap one day in the woods that I found it easy to answer him when he spoke to me? What wonder that when I heard his smooth, soft talk I was charmed? How easy it was for a simple country girl like me to be

fooled by the sort of polished scamp that he was! He made me promise to meet him again the next day, and I hardly slept that night for wishing that the sun would rise again. But this part of the story is awfully old. What’s the use of going over it again? The days went by, and the summer flew past. The nuts came, and the leaves turned, and at last my lover went away back to that great place, the city. Then my dream ended suddenly, and I prayed to God that my sin might not find me out; that, whatever I was in reality, I might still be able to pass among my people as the innocent Puritan maiden that they all thought me. The preachers tell us that our prayers will be heard in heaven and answered, but I guess that the prayers of the sinners are not recorded. At any rate, mine were either unheard or unheeded, and so one dreadful night I left my home and my people and followed niy lover to the great metropolis, to lose my own identity and become first Margaret Crane and finally Old Mag.” Mr. Mitchell listened attentively and observed that as the woman proceeded the coarseness of both her manner and speech disappeared and she spoke with more refinement. Evidently in the early days she had been a cherished daughter, and the present roughnesses were but as scratches on a jewel. In thinking of her youth she returned to her old manner of speech. As she paused at this point he gave her more to drink, and presently she resumed: “There in the country I had thought that my lover was a paragon, a very hero. I believed all the boasting stories that he told me and made a God of him in my heart. When I found him in the city, at first he passed me by as though he did not know me and then, suddenly changing his mind, came up to me and pretended that he had not recognized me. He took me to a fine house and gave me fine clothes, and he made me promises, all the promises that such men usually make to such girls. None of these were kept, not even the simple one of providing me with maintenance, for he soon tired of his pretty country girl and left me to care for myself as best I might. But I did not begin this to talk about myself. What wrong I did to myself I have suffered for. I have suffered so much that I have no fear of punishment hereafter. If there is a God, he will have pity, for he must be just. If there is no God, then death is the common end of all. saint, and sinner

alike. But the wrong that I did to my Child—that is the great thing to think of now, as I have thought of It these many years.” “And wlmt was that?” “What greater wrong can woman do to man than to bring him into the world without a name? Ah, you can think of none! Well, let me tell you that there is a greater, deeper wrong than even that. It is to bequeath to him the heritage of sin and crime. That I have done.” Mr. Mitchel now found the story Increasing ip Interest. Preacher Jim was a study which had attracted him more than he w’ould have believed possible. Now that he was to be enlightened as to the man’s heredity he was doubly attentive and hoped that the woman’s strength would hold out to the enid of her narrative. “The sin lb handed down to him from both of his parents, for in a case like this the woman must be culpable as well as the man, though heaven knows that, if innocence aud ignorance can ever be a good plea, then I might hold myself guiltless. The crime is from his father, who was a beast. Remember what I tell you and mark it as the truth—he was a beast, a cruel, selfish beast.” “In what way did you learn this? Was he brutal in his treatment of you? Did he offer von violence?” fro WB CONTINUED.)

"Why it is a woman!” he cried.