“Hold up,” insisted Sara. “Now see here: the Negroes have been thoroughly aroused and are bitterly resentful at the Klan meeting, the lynching of the porter, and Matthew Towns’ incarceration. His release would be a big political asset to the man who pulled it off. And if you are the man and the white political and business world know that your new popularity strengthens your machine and delivers them votes when wanted, and that instead of dealing with a dozen would-be bosses, they can just see you—why, Sammy, you’d own black Chicago!”
“Sounds pretty—but—”
“On the other hand, who would object? I have been talking to the porters and railroad men and to others. They say the judge was reluctant to sentence Towns, but saw no legal escape. The railroad and the Pullman Company owe him millions and were willing to reward him handsomely if he had escaped the law. The Klan owes several hundred lives to him. None of these will actively oppose a pardon. It remains only to get one of them actually to ask for it.”
“Well—one, which one?” grinned Sammy, touching Sara’s fingers as he reached for another cigar.
“The Klan.”
“Are you crazy!”
“I think not. Consider; the Klan is at once criminal and victim. Its recent activities have been too open and bombastic. It has suffered political reverses both north and south. It is accused of mere ‘nigger-baiting.’ Would it not be a grand wide gesture of tolerance for the Klan to ask freedom for Towns? Something like donations to Negro churches, only bigger and with more advertising value.”
“Well, sure; if they had that kind of sense.”
“They’ve got all kinds of sense. Now again, there is something funny about that lynching. I’ve heard a lot of talk. Towns has let out bits of a strange story, and the porters say he was wild and bitter about the lynching. Suppose, now I’m only guessing—Towns knows more than he has told about this woman and her carrying on. If so, she might be glad to help him. A favor for keeping his mouth shut. I mention this, because she has married since the Klan convention and her husband is a high official of the Klan.”
Sammy still didn’t see much in the scheme, but he had a great respect for Sara’s shrewdness.
“Well what do you propose?” he asked.
“I propose to go to Joliet again and have a long talk with Towns. Then I’m going to drop down to Washington. I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ll need a letter of introduction from somebody of importance in Chicago to this woman, Mrs. Therwald.”
II
It was a lovely February day as Sara walked down Sixteenth Street, Washington—clear, cool, with silvery sunshine. Sara was appropriately garbed in a squirrel coat and hat, pearl-gray hose, and gray suede slippers. Her gloves matched her eyes, and her manner was sedate. She walked down to Pennsylvania Avenue, looked at the White House casually, and then sauntered on to the New Willard. Her color was so imperceptible that she walked in unhindered and strolled through the lobby. Mrs. Therwald was not in, she was informed by the room clerk. She talked with a bellboy, and when Mrs. Therwald entered, observed her from afar, carefully and at her leisure. She was a big florid woman, boldly handsome, but beginning to show age. About a quarter of an hour after she had taken the elevator, Sara sent up her card and letter of introduction from the wife of a prominent white Chicago politician.
Mrs. Therwald received her. She was a woman thoroughly bored with life, and Sara looked like a pleasant interlude. They were soon chatting easily. Sara intimated that she wrote for magazines and newspapers and that she had come to see the wife of a celebrity.
“Oh, no—we’re nothing.”
“Oh, yes—the Klan is a power and bound to grow—if it acts wisely.”
“I really don’t know much about it. My husband is the one interested.”
“I know—and that brings me to the second object of my visit-Matthew Towns.”
Mrs. Therwald was silent several seconds—and then: “Matthew Towns? Who—”
“Of course you would not remember,” said Sara hastily, for she had noticed that pause, and the tone of the question did not carry conviction. “I mean the porter who was sent to the penitentiary for the attempted wreck of the Klan Special.”
“Oh, that—scoundrel.”
“Yes, There is, as perhaps you know, a great deal of talk about his silence. He must know—lots of things. I think it rather fine in him to shield—others. I hope he won’t break down in jail and talk.”
Mrs. Therwald started perceptibly.
“Talk about what?” she asked almost sharply.
Sara was quite satisfied and continued easily.
“Well, about the black conspirators against the Ku Klux Klan—or the white ones, because they are more likely to be white. Or he might gossip and just stir up trouble. But I think he’s too big for all that. You know, I saw him and talked to him—really handsome, for a colored man. Oh, by the by—but of course not. I was going to ask if by any possibility you had seen him on the train.”
“I—I really don’t know.”
“Of course you wouldn’t remember definitely. But to come to the point of my visit: certain highly placed persons are convinced from new evidence, which cannot be published, that Towns is a victim and not a criminal. They are therefore seeking to have Towns pardoned, and I thought how fine it would be if you could induce your husband and some other high officials of the Klan to sign the petition. How grateful he would be! I think it would be the biggest and fairest gesture the Klan ever made, and frankly, many people are saying so. In that case, if he is a conspirator, he could be watched and traced and his helpers found. And then, too, think of his gratitude to you!”
Sara left the petition with Mrs. Therwald, and they talked on pleasantly and casually for another half-hour. Miss Andrews “would stay to tea”?
