Dangerous Ground: or, The Rival Detectives

On this street, in the upper rooms of a rickety two-story house, Papa and Mamma Francoise had set up their household gods after their flight from the scene of Josef Siebel’s murder; the lower floor being inhabited by a family of Italians, who possessed an unlimited number of children and a limited knowledge of English.

It is evening, the evening of the day that has witnessed Van Vernet’s most recent discovery, and Papa and Mamma are at home.

The room is even more squalid than that recently occupied by them, for, besides a three-legged table, two rickety chairs, a horribly-dilapidated stove and two dirty, ragged pallets at opposite sides of the room, furniture there is none.

Perched upon one of the two rickety chairs, his thin legs extended underneath the table and his elbows resting upon it, sits Papa Francoise, lost in the contemplation of a broken glass containing a small quantity of the worst whiskey; and near him, Mamma squats upon the floor before the rusty stove, in which a brisk fire is burning, stirring vigorously at a strong-smelling decoction which is simmering over the coals.

“Come, old woman,” growls Papa, with a self-assertion probably borrowed from the broken glass under his eye, “get that stuff brewed before the gal comes in. And then try and answer my question: what’s to be done with her?”

Mamma Francoise stirs the liquid more vigorously, and takes a careful sip from the iron spoon.

“Ah,” she murmurs, “that’s the stuff. It’s a pity to spoil it.”

She rises slowly, and drawing a bottle from her pocket, pours into the basin a few drops of brown liquid, stirs it again, and then removing the decoction from the fire, pours it into a battered cup, which she sets upon the floor at a distance from the stove.

If one may judge from Mamma’s abstinence, the liquor has been spoiled, for she does not taste it again.

Having thus completed her task, she turns toward one of the pallets, and seating herself thereon lifts her eyes toward Papa.

“What’s to be done with the girl?” she repeats. “That’s the question I’ve asked you often enough, and I never got an answer yet.”

Papa withdraws his gaze from her face, and fixes it once more upon the broken tumbler.

“She ain’t no good to us,” resumes Mamma, “and we can’t have her tied to us always.”

“Nor we can’t turn her adrift,” says Papa, significantly.

“No; we can’t turn her adrift,” replies Mamma. “We can’t afford to keep her, and we can’t afford to let her go.”

“Consequently – ” says Papa.

And then they look at one another in silence.

“We may have to get out of this place at a minute’s warning,” resumes Mamma, after a time, “and how can we expect to dodge the cops with that gal tied to us? You and I can alter our looks, but we can’t alter hers.”

“No,” says Papa, shaking his head, “we can’t alter hers – not now.”

“And if we could, we can’t alter her actions.”

“No; we can’t alter her actions,” agrees Papa, with a cunning leer, “except to make ’em worse.”

And he casts a suggestive glance toward the tin cup on the floor.

“It won’t do,” said Mamma, noting the direction of his glance; “it won’t do to increase the drams. If she got worse, we couldn’t manage her at all. It won’t do to give her any more.”

“And it won’t do to give her any less. Old woman, we’ve just got back to the place we started from.”

Mamma Francoise rests her chin in her ample palm and ponders.

“I think I can see a way,” she begins. Then, at the sound of an uncertain footstep on the rickety stairs, she stops to listen. “That’s her,” she says, a frown darkening her face. “She’s got to be kept off the street.”

She goes to the door, opens it with an angry movement, and peers out into the dark hall.

“Nance, you torment!”

But the head that appears above the stair-railing is not the head of a female, and it is a masculine voice that says, in an undertone:

“Sh-h! Old woman, let me in, and don’t make a fuss.”

The woman starts back and is about to close the door, when something in the appearance of the man arrests her attention.

As he halts at the top of the stairway, the light from the door reveals to her a shock of close-curling, carroty-red hair.

In another moment he stands with a hand on either door-post.

“How are ye’ old uns?” he says, with a grin. “Governor, how are ye?” And then, with a leer, and a lurch which betrays the fact that he is half intoxicated, he adds, in a voice indicative of stupid astonishment: “Why, I’m blowed, the blessed old fakers don’t know their own young un!”

“Franzy!” Mamma Francoise starts forward, a look of mingled doubt and anxiety upon her face. “Franzy! No, it can’t be Franzy!”

“Why can’t it be? Ain’t ten years in limbo enough? Or ain’t I growed as handsome as ye expected to see me?” Then coming into the room, and peering closely into the faces of the two: “I’m blessed if I don’t resemble the rest of the family, anyhow.”

The two Francoises drew close together, and scrutinized the new-comer keenly, doubtfully, with suspicion.

Ten years ago, their son, Franzy, then a beardless boy of seventeen, and a worthy child of his parents, had reluctantly turned his back upon the outer world and assumed a prison garb, to serve out a twenty years’ sentence for the crime of manslaughter.

Ten years had elapsed and this man, just such a man as their boy must have become, stands before them and claims them for his parents.

There is little trace of the old Franz, save the carroty hair, the color of the eyes, the devil-may-care manner, and the reckless speech. And after a prolonged gaze, Papa says, still hesitatingly:

“Franzy! is it really Franzy?”

The new claimant to parental affection flings out his hand with a fierce gesture, and a horrible oath breaks from his lips.

“Is it really Franzy?” he cries, derisively. “Who else do ye think would be likely to claim yer kinship? I’ve put in ten years in the stripes, an’ I’m about as proud of ye as I was of my ball and chain. I’ve taken the trouble ter hunt ye up, with the police hot on my trail; maybe ye don’t want ter own the son as might a-been a decent man but for yer teachin’. Well, I ain’t partikeler; I’ll take myself out of yer quarters.”

He turns about with a firm, resentful movement, and Mamma Francoise springs forward with a look of conviction on her hard face.

“Anybody’d know ye after that blow out,” she says with a grin. “Ye’re the same old sixpence, Franzy; let’s have a look at ye.”

She lays a hand upon his arm, and he turns back half reluctantly.

“Wot’s struck ye?” he asks, resentfully. “Maybe it’s occurred to ye that I may have got a bit o’ money about me. If that’s yer lay, ye’re left. An’ I may as well tell ye that if ye can’t help a fellow to a little of the necessary, there’s no good o’ my stoppin’ here.”

And shaking her hand from his arm, this affectionate Prodigal strides past her, and peers eagerly into the broken glass upon the table.

“Empty, of course,” he mutters; “I might a-known it.”

Then his eyes fix upon the tin cup containing Mamma’s choice brew. Striding forward, he seizes it, smells its contents, and with a grunt of satisfaction raises it to his lips.

In an instant Mamma Francoise springs forward, and seizing the cup with both hands, holds it away from his mouth.

“Stop, Franz! you mustn’t drink that.”

A string of oaths rolls from his lips, and he wrests the cup from her hand, spilling half its contents in the act.

“Stop, Franzy!” calls Papa, excitedly; “that stuff won’t be good for you.”

And hurrying to one of the pallets he draws from under it a bottle, which, together with the broken tumbler, he presents to the angry young man.

“Here, Franzy, drink this.”

But the Prodigal shakes off his father’s persuasive touch, and again seizes upon the cup of warm liquor.

“Franzy!” cries Papa, in a tremor of fear, “drop that; it’s doctored.”

The Prodigal moves a step backward, and slowly lowers the cup.

“Oh!” he ejaculates, musingly, “it’s doctored! Wot are ye up to, old uns? If it’s a doctored dose, I don’t want it – not yet. Come, sit down and let’s talk matters over.”

Taking the bottle from the old man’s hand, he goes back to the table, seats himself on the chair recently occupied by the elder Francoise, motioning that worthy to occupy the only remaining chair. And courtesy being an unknown quality among the Francoises, the three are soon grouped about the table, Mamma accommodating herself as best she can.

“Franzy,” says Mamma, after refreshing herself from the bottle, which goes from hand to hand; “before you worry any more about that medicine, an’ who it’s for, tell us how came yer out?”

“How came I out? Easy enough. There was three of us; we worked for it five months ahead, and one of us had a pal outside. Pass up the bottle, old top, while I explain.”

Having refreshed himself from the bottle, he begins his story, interluding it with innumerable oaths, and allotting to himself a full share of the daring and dangerous feats accompanying the escape.

“It’s plain that ye ain’t read the papers,” he concludes. “Ye’d know all about it, if ye had.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

FRANZY FRANCOISE’S GALLANTRY

While this reunited family, warmed to cordiality by the contents of the aforementioned bottle, exchanged confidences, the evening wore on.

Franz had related the story of his escape and his subsequent adventures, and finished by telling them how, by the merest accident, he had espied Mamma and Nance upon their return from the Warburton mansion; and how, at the risk of being detained by a too-zealous “cop,” he had followed them, and so discovered their present abode.

In exchange for this interesting story, Papa had briefly sketched the outline of the career run by himself and Mamma during the ten years of their son’s absence, up to the time of their retreat from the scene of the Siebel tragedy.

“We were doing a good business,” sighed Papa, dolefully, “a very good business, in that house. But one night there were two or three there with – goods, and while the old woman and I were attending to business, the others got into a fuss – ah. We had no hand in it, the old woman and me, but there was a man killed, and it wasn’t safe to stay there, Franzy.”

“Umph!” muttered the hopeful son; “who did the killin’?”

Papa glanced uneasily at the old woman, and then replied:

“We don’t know, Franzy. The fight began when we were out of the room, and – we don’t know.”

“That’s a pity; wasn’t there any reward?”

“Yes, boy,” said Mamma, eagerly; “a big reward. An’ if we could tell who did the thing, we would be rich.”

“Somebody got arrested, of course?”

“N – no, Franzy; nobody’s been arrested – not yet.”

“Oh, they’re a-lookin’ fer somebody on suspicion? I say, old top, if nobody knows who struck the blow, seems to me ye’re runnin’ a little risk yerself. S’pose they should run yer to earth, eh?”

“We’ve been careful, Franzy.”

“S’pose ye have – look here, old un, don’t ye see yer chance?”

“How, Franzy?”

“How! If I was you, I’d clear my own skirts, and git that reward.”

“How? how?”

“I’d know who did the killin’.”

And he leaned forward, took the bottle from Mamma’s reluctant hand, and drained it to the last drop, while Papa and Mamma looked into each other’s eyes, some new thought sending a flush of excitement to the face of each.

“Ah, Franzy,” murmured Mamma, casting upon him a look of pride, such as a tiger might bestow upon her cub, “ye’ll be a blessin’ to yer old mother yet!”

Then she turns her head and listens, while Franz, casting a wistful look at the now empty bottle, rises to his feet the movement betraying the fact that he is physically intoxicated, although his head as yet seems so clear.

Again footsteps approach, and Mamma hastens to the door, listens a moment, opens it cautiously, and peers out.

“It’s that gal,” she mutters, setting the door wide open. “Come in, you Nance! Where have you been, making yourself a nuisance?”

Then she falls back a pace, staring stupidly at the strangely-assorted couple who stand in the doorway.

A girl, a woman, young or old you can hardly tell which; with a face scarcely human, so bleared are the eyes, so sodden, besotted and maudlin the entire countenance; clad in foul rags and smeared with dirt, she reels as she advances, and clings to the supporting arm of a black-robed Sister of Mercy, who towers above her tall and slender, and who looks upon them all with sweet, brave eyes, and speaks with sorrowful dignity:

“My duty called me into your street, madam, and I found this poor creature surrounded by boisterous children, and striving to free herself from them. They tell me that this is her home; is she your daughter?”

A look of anger gleams in Mamma’s eyes, but she suppresses her wrath and answers:

“No; she’s not our daughter, but she’s a fine trouble to us, just the same. Nance, let go the lady, and git out of the way.”

With a whine of fear, the girl drops the arm of the Sister, and turns away. But her new-found friend restrains her, and with a hand resting upon her arm, again addresses Mamma:

“They tell me that this girl’s mind has been destroyed by liquor, and that still you permit her to drink. This cannot be overlooked. She is not your child, you say; may I not take her to our hospital?”

These are charitable words, but they bring Papa Francoise suddenly to his feet, and cause Mamma’s true nature to assert itself.

Springing forward with a cry of rage, she seizes the arm of the girl, Nance, drags her from the Sister’s side, and pushes her toward the nearest pallet with such violence that the reeling girl falls to the floor, where she lies trembling with fear and whimpering piteously.

“This comes of letting you wander around, eh?” hisses Mamma, with a fierce glance at the prostrate girl. Then turning to the Sister of Mercy, she cries: “That gal is my charge, and I’m able to take care of her. Your hospital prayers wouldn’t do her any good.”

As she speaks, Papa moves stealthily forward and touches her elbow.

“Hold your tongue, you old fool,” he whispers sharply.

Then to the Sister he says, with fawning obsequiousness:

“You see, lady, the poor girl is my wife’s niece, and she was born with a drunkard’s appetite. We have to give her drink, but we couldn’t hear of sending the poor child to a hospital; oh, no!”

Since the entrance of the Sister and Nance, Franz has apparently been engaged in steadying both his legs and his intellect. He now comes forward with a lurch, and inquires with tipsy gravity:

“Wot’s the row? Anythin’ as I kin help out?”

“Only a little word about our Nance, my boy,” replies Mamma, who has mastered, outwardly, her fit of rage. “The charitable lady wants our Nance.”

“The lady is very kind,” chimes in Papa; “but we can’t spare Nance, poor girl.”

“Can’t we?” queries Franz, aggressively, turning to look at the prostrate girl. “Now, why can’t we spare her? I kin spare her; who’s she, anyhow? Here you, Nance, git up.”

“Now, Franzy,” – begins Mamma.

“S’h-h, my boy,” – whispers Papa, appealingly.

But he roughly repulses Mamma’s extended hand.

“Let up, old woman,” he says, coarsely; and then, pushing her aside, he addresses the Sister:

“I say, what – er – ye want – er – her for, any’ow?”

The Sister turns away, and addresses herself once more to Mamma.

“I cannot understand why that girl may not have proper care,” she says, sternly. “If her intellect has been shattered by the use of liquor, this is not the place for her,” pointing her remark by a glance at Franz and the empty bottle. “Body and soul will both be sacrificed here. I shall not let this matter rest, and if I find that you have no legal authority – ”

But again fury overmasters prudence. Mamma springs toward her with a yell of rage.

“Ah, you cat-o’-the-world,” she cries, “go home with yer pious cant! The gal’s – ”

The words die away in a gurgle; the hand of Franz, roughly pressed against her mouth, has stopped her utterance.

“Oh, get out, old woman!” he exclaims, pushing her away and steadying himself after the effort. “Ye’re gittin’ too familiar, ye air.”

Then seeing that the Sister, convinced of her inability to reason with the unreasonable, had turned to go, he cried out:

“Hold on, mum; if ye want that gal, ye kin have her. I’m runnin’ this.”

“I shall not forget that poor creature,” says the Sister, still addressing Mamma and ignoring Franz; “and if I find that she is not – ”

She leaves the sentence unfinished, for Mamma darts toward her with extended clutches, and is only restrained by Papa’s stoutest efforts, aided by the hand of Franz, which once more comes forcibly in contact with the virago’s mouth, just as it opens to pour forth fresh imprecations.

To linger is worse than folly, and the Sister, casting a pitying glance toward the girl, who is now slowly struggling up, turns away and goes sadly out from the horrible place.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FRANZ FRANCOISE BELLIGERENT

After the departure of the Sister of Mercy, an unnatural silence brooded over the room; a silence, not a stillness, for Mamma Francoise, uttering no word, dragged the unfortunate Nance to one of the pallets, forced the remainder of the warm liquor down her throat, and then pushed her back upon the pallet, where she lay a dirty, moveless, stupid heap of wretched humanity.

Then Mamma seated herself upon the one unoccupied stool, and glared alternately at the two men.

Papa Francoise was evidently both disturbed and alarmed at this visit from the Sister of Mercy, and he seemed intent upon solving some new problem propounded to him by the scene just ended.

Franz leered and lounged, with seeming indifference to all his surroundings. His recent potations were evidently taking effect, for after a few moments, during which he made very visible efforts to look alert, and interested in the discussion which, as he seemed vaguely to realize, was impending, he brought himself unsteadily to his feet, staggered across the room, and flinging himself upon the unoccupied pallet, muttered some incoherent words and subsided into stillness and slumber.

The eyes of the old woman followed his movements with anxious interest, and when he seemed at last lost to all ordinary sound, she arose and carried her stool across to where Papa, leaning against the table, still meditated.

“Sit down,” she said, in low, peremptory tones, and pushing the stool lately vacated by Franz toward her spouse; “sit down. We’re in a pretty mess, ain’t we?”

Papa seated himself and favored her with a vacant stare.

“Eh!” he said, absently; “what’s to be done?”

Mamma cast a quick look toward her recumbent Prodigal, and leaned forward until her lips touched the old man’s ear.

“Mind this,” she hissed; “he ain’t to know too much. He’s got the devil in him; it won’t do to put ourselves under his thumb.”

“Don’t you worry,” retorted Papa, in the same sharp whisper, “I ain’t anxious to be rode by the two of ye; Franzy’s too much like his ma. It won’t do to let him know everything.”

Mamma gave a derisive sniff, a sort of acknowledgment of the compliment – one of the only kind ever paid her by her worser half, – and then said:

“Franzy’ll be a big help to us, if we can keep him away from the cops. But you an’ me has planned too long to let him step in now an’ take things out of our hands. He’s too reckless; we wouldn’t move fast enough to suit him, an’ – he’d make us trouble.”

“Yes,” assented the old man, “he’d have things his own way, or he’d make us trouble; he always did.”

Mamma arose, stirred the smouldering fire, and resuming her seat, began afresh:

“Now, then, we’ve got to decide about that gal. She can’t go to no hospital?”

“No; she can’t.”

“And she can’t stay with us. It was a big risk before; now that Franzy is back, it’s a bigger risk.”

“That’s so.” Papa wrinkled his brows for a moment and then said: “See here, old woman, Franz’ll be bound ter know something about that gal when he gits his head clear.”

“I s’pose so.”

“Well, s’pose we tell him about her.”

“What for?”

“Ter satisfy him, an’ ter git his help.”

“His help?” muttered Mamma. “That might do.”

Suddenly Papa lifted a warning finger. “Hush,” he whispered; “there’s somebody outside o’ that door.”

A low, firm knock put a period to his sentence. Mamma made a sign which meant caution, and then creeping noiselessly to the door, listened. No sound could be heard from without, and after another moment of waiting she called sharply:

“Who’s there?”

“Open de do’; I’s got a message fo’ yo’.”

The voice, and the unmistakable African dialect, reassured the pair, whose only dread was the police; and to barricade their doors against chance visitors was no part of the Francoise policy.

Mamma glided toward the pallet where lay her returned Prodigal, and bent above him.

His face was turned outward toward the door, and putting two strong hands beneath his shoulders, she applied her strength to the task of rolling him over, drew a ragged blanket well up about him, and left him lying thus, his face to the wall and completely hidden from whoever might enter.

Then she went boldly to the door, and opening it wide, stood face to face with a tall African, black as ebony, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth, poorly concealed underneath a shabby outer garment. He bowed to Mamma as obsequiously as if she were a duchess, and this garret her drawing-room, and stepping inside, closed the door behind him.

“You will excuse me,” he said, politely, “but my business is private, and some one might come up the stairs.”

“What do you want?”

The incautious words were uttered by Papa Francoise, who, noting the entire absence of his negro accent, arose hastily, his face full of alarm.

The African smiled blandly.

“I assumed my accent in order to reassure you, sir,” he said, coolly. “You might not have admitted me if you had thought me a white man, and I am sent by your patron.”

“By our patron!” Mamma echoed his words in skeptical surprise.

“Yes; I am his servant.”

Papa and Mamma gazed at each other blankly and drew nearer together.

“He has sent you this note,” pursued the nonchalant fellow, keeping his eyes fixed upon Mamma’s face while he drew from his pocket a folded paper. “And I am to take your answer.”

Papa took the proffered note reluctantly, glanced at the superscription, and suddenly changed his manner.

“That is not directed to me,” he cried, sharply. “You have made a mistake.”

“It is directed to Papa Francoise.”

Papa peered closer at the superscription. “Yes; I think that’s it. It’s not my name; it’s not for me.”

“My dear sir, I know you too well. You need not fear me; I am Mr. Warburton’s body servant.”

“Oh!” Mamma uttered the syllable sharply, then suddenly restrained herself, and coming toward the messenger with cat-like tread, she said, coaxingly: “And who may this Mr. War – war, this master of yours be?”

The man looked from one to the other, and then turned his gaze upon the occupants of the two pallets. “Who are these?” he asked, briefly.

Mamma’s answer came very promptly.

“Only two poor people we knew in another part of the city. They have been turned out by their landlord, poor things, and last night they slept in the street.”

A smile crossed the face of the wily African, and he turned toward Papa.

“Read my master’s note, if you please,” he said. “It was written to you.”

Slowly Papa unfolded the note, and his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets as he read.

Name your price, but keep your whereabouts from the police. If you are called upon to identify me, you do not know me.

While Papa reads, the slumbering Franz begins to move and to mutter.

“Give me the file, Jim,” he says, in a low, cautious tone. “Curse the darbies – I – ”

The sudden overturning of a stool, caused by a quick backward movement on the part of Mamma, drowns the rest of this muttered speech.

But the words have caught the ear of the colored gentleman, who moves a pace nearer the sleeper, and seems anxious to hear more.

While Papa still stares at the note in his hand, Mamma stoops and restores the stool to its upright position, making even more noise than in the overturning. And Franz turns, yawns, stretches, and slowly brings himself to a sitting posture.