The Frame Up — Edition Insights

n, had reported back that for their purpose his record was useless, that bribes and threats only flattered him, and that the traps set for him he had smilingly side-stepped. This was the situation a month before election day when, to oblige his brother-in-law, Wharton was up-town at Delmonico’s lunching with Senator Bissell.

Down-town at the office, Rumson, the assistant district attorney, was on his way to lunch when the telephone-girl halted him. Her voice was lowered and betrayed almost human interest.

From the corner of her mouth she whispered: “This man has a note for Mr. Wharton--says if he don’t get it quick it’ll be too late--says it will tell him who killed ‘Heimie’ Banf!”

The young man and the girl looked at each other and smiled. Their experience had not tended to make them credulous. Had he lived, Hermann Banf would have been, for Wharton, the star witness against a ring of corrupt police officials. In consequence his murder was more than the taking off of a shady and disreputable citizen. It was a blow struck at the high office of the district attorney, at the grand jury, and the law. But, so far, whoever struck the blow had escaped punishment, and though for a month, ceaselessly, by night and day “the office” and the police had sought him, he was still at large, still “unknown.” There had been hundreds of clews. They had been furnished by the detectives of the city and county and of the private agencies, by amateurs, by news-papers, by members of the underworld with a score to pay off or to gain favor. But no clew had led anywhere. When, in hoarse whispers, the last one had been confided to him by his detectives, Wharton had protested indignantly.

“Stop bringing me clews!” he exclaimed. “I want the man. I can’t electrocute a clew!”

So when, after all other efforts, over the telephone a strange voice offered to deliver the murderer, Rumson was skeptical. He motioned the girl to switch to the desk telephone.

“Assistant District Attorney Rumson speaking,” he said. “What can I do for you?”’

Before the answer came, as though the speaker were choosing his words, there was a pause. It lasted so long that Rumson exclaimed sharply:

“Hello,” he called. “Do you want to speak to me, or do you want to speak to me?”

“I’ve gotta letter for the district attorney,” said the voice. “I’m to give it to nobody but him. It’s about Banf. He must get it quick, or it’ll be too late.”

“Who are you?” demanded Rumson. “Where are you speaking from?”

The man at the other end of the wire ignored the questions.

“Where’ll Wharton be for the next twenty minutes?”

“If I tell you,” parried Rumson, “will you bring the letter at once?” The voice exclaimed indignantly:

“Bring nothing! I’ll send it by district messenger. You’re wasting time trying to reach me. It’s the LETTER you want. It tells----” the voice broke with an oath and instantly began again: “I can’t talk over a phone. I tell you, it’s life or death. If you lose out, it’s your own fault. Where can I find Wharton?”

“At Delmonico’s,” answered Rumson. “He’ll be there until two o’clock.” “Delmonico’s! That’s Forty-fort Street?” “Right,” said Rumson. “Tell the messenger----” He heard the receiver slam upon the hook. With the light of the hunter in his eyes, he turned to the girl.

“They can laugh,” he cried, “but I believe we’ve hooked something. I’m going after it.” In the waiting-room he found the detectives. “Hewitt,” he ordered, “take the subway and whip up to Delmonico’s. Talk to the taxi-starter till a messenger-boy brings a letter for the D. A. Let the boy deliver the note, and then trail him till he reports to the man he got it from. Bring the man here. If it’s a district messenger and he doesn’t report, but goes straight back to the office, find out who gave him the note; get his description. Then meet me at Delmonico’s.”

Rumson called up that restaurant and had Wharton come to the phone. He asked his chief to wait until a letter he believed to be of great importance was delivered to him. He explained, but, of necessity, somewhat sketchily. “It sounds to me,” commented his chief, “like a plot of yours to get a lunch up-town.”

“Invitation!” cried Rumson. “I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”