Children of the Whirlwind

CHAPTER XXXVI

Larry caught and whirled around Barney Palmer just as the hand of the escaping Barney was on the knob of the outer door.

“No, you don't, Barney Palmer!” he cried. “You stay right here!”

Startled as Barney was by this appearance of his dearest enemy, he wasted no precious time on mere words. He swung a vicious blow at Larry, intended to remove this barrier to his freedom. But the experienced Larry let it glance off his forearm, and with the need of an instantaneous conclusion he sent a terrific right to Barney's chin. Barney staggered back, fell in a crumpled heap, and lay motionless.

Sparing only the fraction of a second to see that Barney was momentarily out of it, Larry sprang upon Joe Ellison and tried to break the deadly grips Joe held upon Old Jimmie.

“Stop, Joe—stop!” he cried peremptorily. “Your killing Jimmie Carlisle isn't going to help things!”

Without relaxing his holds, Joe turned upon this interferer.

“Larry Brainard! How'd you come in here?”

“I've been here all the time. But, Joe—don't kill Jimmie Carlisle!”

“You keep out—this is my business!” Joe fiercely replied. “If you've been here all the time, then you know what he's done to me, and what he's done to my girl! You know he deserves to have his neck twisted off—and I'm going to twist it off!”

Larry perceived that Joe's sense of tremendous injury had made him for the moment a madman in his rage. Only the most powerful appeal had a chance to bring him back to sanity.

“Listen, Joe—listen!” he cried desperately, straining to hold back the other's furious strength from its destructive purpose. “After what's happened, every one is bound to know that Maggie is your daughter! Understand that, Joe?—every one will know that Maggie is your daughter! It's not going to help you to be charged with murder. And think of this, Joe—what's it going to do to your daughter to have her father a murderer?”

“What's that?” Joe Ellison asked dazedly.

Larry saw that his point had penetrated to the other's reason. So he drove on, repeating what he had said.

“Understand this, Joe?—every one will now know that Maggie is your daughter! You simply can't prevent their knowing that now! Remember how for over fifteen years you've been trying to do the best you could for her! Do you now want to do the worst thing you can do? The worst thing you can do for Maggie is to make her father a murderer!”

“I guess that's right Larry,” he said huskily. “Thanks.”

He pushed the half-strangled Jimmie Carlisle away from him. “You'll get yours in some other way!” he said grimly.

Old Jimmie, staggering, caught the back of a chair for support. He tenderly felt his throat and blinked at Larry and Joe and Maggie. He did not try to say anything. In the meantime Barney had recovered consciousness, had struggled up, and was standing near Old Jimmie. Their recognition that they were sharers of defeat had served to restore something of the sense of alliance between the two.

“Well, anyhow, Larry Brainard,” snarled Barney, “you haven't had anything to do with putting this across!”

It was Joe Ellison who replied. “Larry Brainard has had everything to do with putting this across. He's been beating you all the time from the very beginning, though you may not have known it. And though he's seemed to be out of things for the last few hours, he's been the actual power behind everything that's happened up to this minute. So don't fool yourself—Larry Brainard has beaten you out at every point!”

A sense of triumph glowed within Larry at this. There had been a time when he had wanted the animal satisfaction which would have come from his giving violent physical punishment to these two—particularly to Barney. But he had no desire now for such empty vengeance.

“Well, I guess you've got nothing on me,” Barney growled at them, “so I'll be moving along. Better come, too, Jimmie.”

While he spoke a figure had moved from Larry's closet with the silence of a swift shadow. It's thin hand gripped Barney's shoulder.

“I guess I've got something on you!” it said.

Barney whirled. “Red Hannigan!” he gasped.

“Yes, Red Hannigan!—you stool—you squealer!” said Red Hannigan. “I heard you brag about being Barlow's stool, and I heard everything else you bragged about to Joe Ellison's girl. I'd bump you off right now if I had my gat with me and if I had any chance at a get-away. But I'll be looking after you, and the gang will be looking after you, till you die—the same as you set us after Larry Brainard! No matter what else happens to you, you'll always have that as something extra waiting for you! And when the time comes, we'll get you!”

As silently as he had appeared from the closet, as silently he let himself out of the room. The glowering features of Barney had faded to a pasty white while Hannigan had spoken, and now the hand which tried to bring a handkerchief to his lips shook so that he could hardly find his face. For none knew so well as Barney Palmer how inescapable was this thing which would be hanging over him until the end of his days.

Before any one in the room could speak there came a loud pounding from within the door of the closet Larry and Red Hannigan had not occupied. “Oh, I'd completely forgotten!” exclaimed Maggie—and indeed she had forgotten all that was not immediately connected with the situation created by her father's unexpected entrance. She crossed and unlocked the door, and Barlow stepped out.

“Chief Barlow!” exclaimed the astonished Larry, and all the other men gazed at the Chief of Detectives with an equal surprise.

“He is part of my frame-up,” Maggie explained at large. “I wanted both the police and Larry's old friends to know the truth at first hand—and clear him before I went away.”

“Wasn't that Red Hannigan who just spoke?” were Barlow's first words.

“Yes,” said Larry.

Barney, and Old Jimmie as well, had perked up at the appearance of Barlow, as though at aid which had come just in time. But Barlow turned upon Barney a cold police eye.

“I heard you brag that you were my stool. That's a lie.”

“Why—why—Chief—” Barney stammered. He had counted upon help here, where there had existed mutually advantageous relations for so long.

“I heard you say you had my protection. That's another lie. You've squealed on a few people, but I've never given you a thing.”

Barney gasped at this. He knew, as every one in the room also knew, that Barlow was lying. But Barlow held all the cards. Rough and ruthless police politician that he was, he made it his business always to hold the highest cards. As sick of soul as a man can be, Barney realized that Barlow was doing exactly what Barlow always did—was swinging to the side that had the most evidence and that would prove most advantageous to him. And Barney realized that he was suffering the appointed fate of all stool-pigeons who are found out by their fellow criminals to be stool-pigeons. Such informers are of no further use, and according to the police code they must be given punishment so severe as to dissipate any unhealthy belief on the public's part that there could ever have been any alliance between the two.

“I've used this young lady who seems to have been Jimmie Carlisle's daughter and now seems to be the daughter of this old-timer Joe Ellison, for a little private sleuthing on my own hook,” Barlow went on—for it was the instinct of the man to claim the conception and leadership of any idea in whose development he had a part. He spoke in a brusque tone—as why should he not, since he was addressing an audience he lumped together as just so many crooks? “Through this little stunt I pulled to-night, I've got on to your curves, Barney Palmer. And yours, too, Jimmie Carlisle. And I'm going to run the pair of you in.”

This was too much for Barney Palmer. Even though he knew that his position as a stool, who was known to be a stool, was without hope whatever, he went utterly to pieces.

“For God's sake, Chief,” he burst out frantically, “you're not going to treat me like that! You could get me out of this easy! Think of all I've done for you! For God's sake, Chief—for God's sake—”

“Shut up!” ordered Barlow, doubling a big fist.

Chokingly Barney obeyed. Old Jimmie, coward though he was, and lacking entirely Barney's quality of a bravo, had accepted the situation with the twitching calm of one to whom the worst has often happened. “Shut up,” repeated Barlow, “and get it fixed in your beans that I'm going to run you two in.”

“Run them in because of this Sherwood affair?” asked Larry.

“Surest thing you know. I've got all the evidence I seed.”

“But—” Larry was beginning protestingly, when the doorbell rang again. Maggie opened the door, and there entered Miss Sherwood, with Hunt just behind her, and Dick just behind him, and Casey and Gavegan following these three. All in the room were surprised at this invasion with the sole exception of Joe Ellison.

“When Mr. Dick spoke over the 'phone about your coming,” he said to Miss Sherwood, “I asked you not to do it.”

Barlow was prompt to speak, and the sudden change in his voice would have been amazing to those who do not know how the little great men of the Police Department, and other little great men, can alter their tones. He had recognized Miss Sherwood at once, as would any one else at all acquainted with influential New York.

“Miss Sherwood, I believe,” he said, essaying a slight bow.

“Yes. Though I fear I have not the pleasure of knowing you.”

“Deputy Barlow, head of the Detective Bureau of the Police Department,” he informed her. “Entirely at your service.”

“Just what is going on here?” she queried. “I know a part of what has happened”—she was addressing herself particularly to Maggie and Larry—“for Dick telephoned me about seven, and I came right into town. He told me everything he knew—which threw a different light on a lot of events—and Dick telephoned at about nine that I was coming over. But something more seems to have happened.”

“Miss Sherwood, it's like—” began Barlow.

“Just a second, Chief,” Larry interrupted. Larry knew what a sensational story this would be as it had developed—and he knew in advance just how it would be seized upon and played up by the newspapers. And Larry did not want unpleasant publicity for his friends (three in that room were trying to make a fresh start in life), nor for those who had been his friends. “Chief, do you want to make an arrest on a charge which will involve every person in this room in a sensational story? Of course I know most of us here don't weigh anything with you. But why drag Miss Sherwood, who is innocent in every way, into a criminal story that will serve to cheapen her and every decent person involved? Besides, it can only be a conspiracy charge, and there's more than a probability that you can't prove your case. So why make an arrest that will drag in Miss Sherwood?”

Barlow had a mind which functioned with amazing rapidity on matters pertaining to his own interest. He realized on the instant how it might count for him in the future if he were in a position to ask a favor of a person of Miss Sherwood's standing; and he spoke without hesitation:

“I don't know anything about this Sherwood matter. If anyone ever asks me, they'll not get a word.”

There was swift relief on the faces of Barney and Old Jimmie; to be instantly dispelled by Chief Barlow's next statement which followed his last with only a pause for breath:

“The main thing we want is to stick these two crooks away.” He turned on Barney and Old Jimmie. “I've just learned you two fellows are the birds I want for that Gregory stock business. I've got you for fair on that. It'll hold you a hundred times tighter than any conspiracy charge. Casey, Gavegan—hustle these two crooks out of here.”

The next moment Casey and Gavegan had handcuffs on the prisoners and were leading them out.

“Good for you, Larry,” Casey whispered warmly as he went by with Barney. “I knew you were going to win out, though it might be an extra-inning game!”

At the door Barlow paused. “I hope I've done everything all right, Miss Sherwood?”

“Yes—as far as I know, Mr. Barlow.”

Again Barlow started out, and again turned. “And you, Brainard,” he said, rather grudgingly, “I guess you needn't worry any about that charge against you. It'll be dropped.”

And with that Barlow followed his men and his prisoners out of the room.

Then for a moment there was silence. As Larry saw and felt that moment, it was a moment so large that words would only make a faltering failure in trying to express it. He himself was suddenly free of all clouds and all dangers. He had succeeded in what he had been trying to do with Maggie. A father and a daughter were meeting, with each knowing their relationship, for the first time. There was so much to be said, among all of them, that could only be said as souls relaxed and got acquainted with each other.

It was so strained, so stupendous a moment that it would quickly have become awkward and anti-climacteric but for the tact of Miss Sherwood.

“Mr. Brainard,” she began, in her smiling, direct manner, with a touch of brisk commonplace in it which helped relieve the tension, “I want to apologize to you for the way I treated you late this afternoon. As I said, I've just had a talk with Dick and he's told me everything—except some things we may all have to tell each other later. I was entirely in the wrong, and you were entirely in the right. And the way you've handled things seems to have given Dick just that shock which you said he needed to awaken him to be the man it's in him to be. I'm sure we all congratulate you.”

She gave Larry no chance to respond. She knew the danger, in such an emotional crisis as this, of any let-up. So she went right on in her brisk tone of ingratiating authority.

“I guess we've all been through too much to talk. You are all coming right home with me. Mr. Brainard and Mr. Ellison live there, I'm their boss, and they've got to come. And you've got to come, Miss Ellison, if you don't want to offend me. I won't take 'no.' Besides, your place is near your father. Wear what you have on; in a half a minute you can put enough in a bag to last until to-morrow. To-morrow we'll send in for the rest of your things—whatever you want—and send a note to your Miss Grierson, paying her off. You and your father will have my car,” she concluded, “Mr. Brainard and Dick will ride in Dick's car, and Mr. Hunt will take me.”

And as she ordered, so was it.

For fifteen minutes—perhaps half an hour—after it rolled away from the Grantham Hotel there was absolute stillness in Miss Sherwood's limousine, which she had assigned to Maggie and her father. Maggie was near emotional collapse from what she had been through; and now she was sitting tight in one corner, away from the dark shadow in the other corner that was her newly discovered father who had cared for her so much that he had sought to erase from her mind all knowledge of his existence. She wanted to say something—do something; she was torn with a poignant hunger. But she was so filled with pulsing desires and fears that she was impotent to express any of the million things within her.

And so they rode on, dark shadows, almost half the width of the deeply cushioned seat between them. Thus they had ridden along Jackson Avenue, almost into Flushing, when the silence was broken by the first words of the journey. They were husky words, yearning and afraid of their own sound, and were spoken by Maggie's father.

“I—I don't know what to call you. Will—will Maggie do?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I'm—I'm not much,” the husky voice ventured on; “but what you said about going away—for my sake—do you think you need to do it?”

“I've made—such a mess of myself,” she choked out.

“Other people were to blame,” he said. “And out of it all, I think you're going to be what—what I dreamed you were. And—and—”

There was another stifling silence. “Yes?” she prompted.

“I wanted to keep out of your life—for your sake,” he went on in his strained, suppressed voice. “But—but if you're not ashamed of me now that you know all”—in the darkness his groping hand closed upon hers—“I wish you wouldn't—go away from me, Maggie.”

And then the surging, incoherent thing in her that bad been struggling to say itself this last half-hour, suddenly found its voice in a single word:

“Father!” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck.

“Maggie!” he sobbed, crushing her to him.

All the way to Cedar Crest they said not another word; just clung to each other in the darkness, sobbing—the first miraculous embrace of a father and daughter who had each found that which they had never expected to have.