“Nothing easier,” replied Martinson. “We are doing it all the time. Let me see if I can help you just a moment, Mr. Scanlon, in order to make it easier for you. It is very plain to me that you don’t care to tell any more than you can help, and we don’t care to have you tell any more than we absolutely need. We will have to have the name of the city, of course, and the name of either the man or the woman; but not necessarily both of them, unless you want to help us in that way. Sometimes if you give us the name of one party—say the man, for illustration—and the description of the woman—an accurate one—or a photograph, we can tell you after a little while exactly what you want to know. Of course, it’s always better if we have full information. You suit yourself about that. Tell me as much or as little as you please, and I’ll guarantee that we will do our best to serve you, and that you will be satisfied afterward.”
He smiled genially.
“Well, that bein’ the case,” said Butler, finally taking the leap, with many mental reservations, however, “I’ll be plain with you. My name’s not Scanlon. It’s Butler. I live in Philadelphy. There’s a man there, a banker by the name of Cowperwood—Frank A. Cowperwood—”
“Wait a moment,” said Martinson, drawing an ample pad out of his pocket and producing a lead-pencil; “I want to get that. How do you spell it?”
Butler told him.
“Yes; now go on.”
“He has a place in Third Street—Frank A. Cowperwood—any one can show you where it is. He’s just failed there recently.”
“Oh, that’s the man,” interpolated Martinson. “I’ve heard of him. He’s mixed up in some city embezzlement case over there. I suppose the reason you didn’t go to our Philadelphia office is because you didn’t want our local men over there to know anything about it. Isn’t that it?”
“That’s the man, and that’s the reason,” said Butler. “I don’t care to have anything of this known in Philadelphy. That’s why I’m here. This man has a house on Girard Avenue—Nineteen-thirty-seven. You can find that out, too, when you get over there.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Martinson.
“Well, it’s him that I want to know about—him—and a certain woman, or girl, rather.” The old man paused and winced at this necessity of introducing Aileen into the case. He could scarcely think of it—he was so fond of her. He had been so proud of Aileen. A dark, smoldering rage burned in his heart against Cowperwood.
“A relative of yours—possibly, I suppose,” remarked Martinson, tactfully. “You needn’t tell me any more—just give me a description if you wish. We may be able to work from that.” He saw quite clearly what a fine old citizen in his way he was dealing with here, and also that the man was greatly troubled. Butler’s heavy, meditative face showed it. “You can be quite frank with me, Mr. Butler,” he added; “I think I understand. We only want such information as we must have to help you, nothing more.”
“Yes,” said the old man, dourly. “She is a relative. She’s me daughter, in fact. You look to me like a sensible, honest man. I’m her father, and I wouldn’t do anything for the world to harm her. It’s tryin’ to save her I am. It’s him I want.” He suddenly closed one big fist forcefully.
Martinson, who had two daughters of his own, observed the suggestive movement.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Butler,” he observed. “I am a father myself. We’ll do all we can for you. If you can give me an accurate description of her, or let one of my men see her at your house or office, accidentally, of course, I think we can tell you in no time at all if they are meeting with any regularity. That’s all you want to know, is it—just that?”
“That’s all,” said Butler, solemnly.
“Well, that oughtn’t to take any time at all, Mr. Butler—three or four days possibly, if we have any luck—a week, ten days, two weeks. It depends on how long you want us to shadow him in case there is no evidence the first few days.”
“I want to know, however long it takes,” replied Butler, bitterly. “I want to know, if it takes a month or two months or three to find out. I want to know.” The old man got up as he said this, very positive, very rugged. “And don’t send me men that haven’t sinse—lots of it, plase. I want men that are fathers, if you’ve got ’em—and that have sinse enough to hold their tongues—not b’ys.”
“I understand, Mr. Butler,” Martinson replied. “Depend on it, you’ll have the best we have, and you can trust them. They’ll be discreet. You can depend on that. The way I’ll do will be to assign just one man to the case at first, some one you can see for yourself whether you like or not. I’ll not tell him anything. You can talk to him. If you like him, tell him, and he’ll do the rest. Then, if he needs any more help, he can get it. What is your address?”
Butler gave it to him.
“And there’ll be no talk about this?”
“None whatever—I assure you.”
“And when’ll he be comin’ along?”
“To-morrow, if you wish. I have a man I could send to-night. He isn’t here now or I’d have him talk with you. I’ll talk to him, though, and make everything clear. You needn’t worry about anything. Your daughter’s reputation will be safe in his hands.”
“Thank you kindly,” commented Butler, softening the least bit in a gingerly way. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll take it as a great favor, and pay you well.”
“Never mind about that, Mr. Butler,” replied Martinson. “You’re welcome to anything this concern can do for you at its ordinary rates.”
He showed Butler to the door, and the old man went out. He was feeling very depressed over this—very shabby. To think he should have to put detectives on the track of his Aileen, his daughter!
Chapter XXXVI
The very next day there called at Butler’s office a long, preternaturally solemn man of noticeable height and angularity, dark-haired, dark-eyed, sallow, with a face that was long and leathery, and particularly hawk-like, who talked with Butler for over an hour and then departed. That evening he came to the Butler house around dinner- time, and, being shown into Butler’s room, was given a look at Aileen by a ruse. Butler sent for her, standing in the doorway just far enough to one side to yield a good view of her. The detective stood behind one of the heavy curtains which had already been put up for the winter, pretending to look out into the street.
“Did any one drive Sissy this mornin’?” asked Butler of Aileen, inquiring after a favorite family horse. Butler’s plan, in case the detective was seen, was to give the impression that he was a horseman who had come either to buy or to sell. His name was Jonas Alderson, and he looked sufficiently like a horsetrader to be one.
“I don’t think so, father,” replied Aileen. “I didn’t. I’ll find out.”
“Never mind. What I want to know is did you intend using her to-morrow?”
“No, not if you want her. Jerry suits me just as well.”
“Very well, then. Leave her in the stable.” Butler quietly closed the door. Aileen concluded at once that it was a horse conference. She knew he would not dispose of any horse in which she was interested without first consulting her, and so she thought no more about it.
After she was gone Alderson stepped out and declared that he was satisfied. “That’s all I need to know,” he said. “I’ll let you know in a few days if I find out anything.”
He departed, and within thirty-six hours the house and office of Cowperwood, the house of Butler, the office of Harper Steger, Cowperwood’s lawyer, and Cowperwood and Aileen separately and personally were under complete surveillance. It took six men to do it at first, and eventually a seventh, when the second meeting-place, which was located in South Sixth Street, was discovered. All the detectives were from New York. In a week all was known to Alderson. It had been agreed between him and Butler that if Aileen and Cowperwood were discovered to have any particular rendezvous Butler was to be notified some time when she was there, so that he might go immediately and confront her in person, if he wished. He did not intend to kill Cowperwood—and Alderson would have seen to it that he did not in his presence at least, but he would give him a good tongue-lashing, fell him to the floor, in all likelihood, and march Aileen away. There would be no more lying on her part as to whether she was or was not going with Cowperwood. She would not be able to say after that what she would or would not do. Butler
