The Lampasas Daily Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 31, No. 54, Ed. 1 Tuesday, May 8, 1934 Page: 2 of 4
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THE LAMPASAS LEADER
Shadows of the City
By EDWIN BALMER and GENE MARKEY
CASH BAIL
W. N. U. SERVICE
(Copyright by W. G. Chapman)
HE change in the police
attitude toward Kitty
Hewitt came with shock-
ing suddenness. At ten
o’clock she was a guest
in the Fraley mansion on
the Lake Shore drive,
breakfasting with M r s.
Fraley and with D r.
Bertram Darand in the
quaint, Delft-blue tile
breakfas t-room of the
Fraleys.
A cannel-coal fire was snapping and
burning cozily in a black iron basket
In the blue-tile hearth; upon the table,
attractively set with breakfast things,
a coffee percolator was steaming with
pleasant aroma. Mrs. Fraley sat fac-
ing the fire; with her back to it sat
Kitty Hewitt and between them Doc-
tor Darand.
No one was to disturb them. This
was the order given to the servants
by Mrs. Fraley; and certainly it was
a necessary order, if the three in the
breakfast-room were to procure any
sort of peace this morning. For the
telephone bell was ringing almost
ceaselessly.
The reason, of course, was the pres-
ence of Kitty Hewitt. This morning
millions—literally millions—of people
wanted to know about her. What was
the truth underlying her amazing situ-
ation?
What they already knew was cer-
tainly provocative of interest. This
lovely girl, whose delicacy of feature
and figure and whose natural manner
gave proof of gentle birth and early
upbringing, had been discovered to be
a friend of gunmen. The most notori-
ous youth in Chicago—a handsome
young man of many aliases, best
known as Edward Pellen or by the
sobriquet of “Eddie the Immune”—
had been her friend. She had-known
well the members of an underworld
gang who grouped themselves about
a crook known to the police as Grame,
Yet it appeared that she had not
been actually a member of the gang,
in the sense that she lived by its ac-
tivities. She had supported herself,
recently at least, by teaching mah-
jongg to fashionable people. Further
and more dramatic proof of her sep-
aration from Grame's gang arose from
the fact that a couple of days ago
when she learned that Grame was
balding Dr. Bertram Darand in his
power she had immediately called
the police and brought them in time
to save Darand.
■ This was the spectacular incident
which turned public attention to her;
and immediately it was followed by
another—a more unpleasant affair—
when Grame sent a gunman, one Gerve
Lavvy, to punish her for informing
the police. Last night, as she sat at
supper in a cafe, Pellen, protecting
her, had shot down his co-gangster.
For this act Pellen now was in
Zzil, charged with murder; and Kitty
Hewitt was safe in this big home on
the drive. Ostensibly she was here
as a guest of Doctor Darand’s good
friends, the Fraleys; actually she
was here for protection against the
gang and under a sort of informal
parole.
For this, Doctor Darand and his
friends had taken responsibility; so
her physical situation this morning
was comfortable.
“What are they doing with him
now?” she asked suddenly, glancing
from Mrs. Fraley to Bertram. “Him,”
of course, referred to the youth who
had put his own life at stake last
night for the sake of defending her;
he was Pellen, Eddie, the once “im-
mune.”
“The grand jury is in session,” Ber-
tram replied. “One of the Tribune
reporters just told me that the state’s
attorney takes Pellen before the
grand jury at ten o’clock''.”
“I must be there with him!” And
Kitty Hewitt arose, trembling.
Young Darand caught her hand and
held her. “Don’t you see,” he told her
gently, “that you must stay here? Be-
sides, even if you went to the crim-
inal courts building, you could do no
good.”
“Oh, I know it!” Wearily she sank
again into her chair. “Today is their
day; they’ll indict him—for murder.
There’s no use fighting against that—
there’s no stopping that, I suppose.”
Mrs. Fraley poured clear brown
coffee from her steaming percolator.
“You must eat something now, my
dear,” she urged.
But Kitty Hewitt had no appetite.
“I’m spoiling your breakfast,” she
said. “I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse
me, I’ll go up to my room.”
“Of course I’ll excuse you.” smiled
Mrs. Fraley. Bertram followed Kitty
Hewitt to the stairs and escorted her
up to her room on the second floor,
where a maid met her and he was
dismissed.
He started downtown almost Im-
mediately afterward, or as soon as he
got past the cordon of reporters be-
fore the house. Being barely twenty-
seven years of age, he possessed a
most modest list of patients; yet it
was long enough to provide, usually,
an hour or two of actual work for
him each morning.
Bertram drove on and with a
troubled mind took up the routine of
his work. It was one o’clock and he
was on the west side of the city, fol-
lowing a visit to the county hospital,
when the front page of an early after-
noon paper caught his eye. There it
was in bold headlines:
PELLEN INDICTED FOR MURDER
Eddie the Immune Held for Trial
Without Bail
A definite and undeniable step had
been taken, bringing Pellen nearer to
doom. If Bertram felt it, how much
more would Kitty Hewitt be affected
by it! She had told him that the
bond between Pellen and herself was
not love; at least, not love on her
part, she had said, though it was true
Pellen loved her. They had grown up
as girl and boy together, Pellen and
she; when disaster had met her moth-
er, Pellen’s mother had taken little
Kitty Hewitt Into her own home and
brought her up to the best of her
ability. Eddie Pellen had been like a
brother to her; and when he went
“bad,” Kitty had refused to forsake
him. He loved her—above everything
else in the world.
Doctor Darand also was in love
with her. Of course this was a far
more recent fact and one to which she
paid little or no heed. It was over-
shadowed today by Pellen’s trouble—
Pellen who, protecting her, had put
his life to forfeit. Bertram longed to
telephone to her when the news of
the indictment was being spread
through the streets; but what could
he say? So, having no professional
calls to make this afternoon, he
took recourse to the resort of an idle
physician, and absorbed himself with
watching others work at a clinic.
Later when Bertram stepped from
the hospital doors into the lamp-lit
dusk of the early evening a shock
awaited him. New headlines screamed
from the newspapers. Kitty Hewitt!
they proclaimed. Something had hap-
pened during the afternoon while he
had been shut up in the clinic rooms,
something which surpassed the sensa-
tion of the formal indictment of Pei-
len; something involving the girl her-
self, who was the actual heart of the
case. Kitty Hewitt arrested! That
was it.
But she was not being held without
bond, as was Pellen, who had fired
the shot. The judge, who had ordered
her held, had fixed her bail at ten
thousand dollars. “As no one offered
bond, she was taken to the jail.” That
was what the paper said.
He drove at once through the dark
streets to the jail. It was not the
hour for visitors, but his situation
and condition were exceptional, and
he was let in. He had to see for
himself that Kitty Hewitt actually
was in jail; and from the corridor
outside the women’s section he caught
a glimpse of her. About forty women
were grouped about small tables with-
in a barred and steel-bound enclosure
known as the women’s “bull pen.”
At the fourth table behind the bars
through which Bertram Darand
stared, a pitch of lovely color showed.
He caught his breath. It was corn-
color hair—Kitty Hewitt’s hair!
The guard who had piloted Bertram
discovered her at once. “There’s your
girl,” he said, jerking his thumb to-
ward her table.
He could see her eyes now; she
gazed at him steadily—until he low-
ered his head. It seemed to him not
so much her shame as his that she
sat there.
As he followed the guard away,
barely noticing where he was led, he
found himself again stirred by the
question which so many others asked
this morning, but which no one yet
had answered: “Who was this girl?
He drove first to the Fraleys’. Ber-
tram knew that when she was taken
away by the police the Fraleys had
forsaken her; but he thought it pos-
sible that they did not fully under-
stand what it meant for a girl to be
in jail. So he went to them and told
them.
They were very sorry; they felt ex-
tremely distressed, indeed, for she
had seemed such a lovely girl; but—
ten thousand dollars was ten thousand
dollars, and it could not be offered to
penniless Doctor Darand for the free-
dom of a girl whom nobody knew.
There was a chill finality in their
tone; it was no use arguing. Ber-
tram hurried on to the home of the
friend next upon his list.
Half an hour rater he was hasten-
ing to the door of the third. By ten
o’clock he had ceased to try to raise
ten thousand dollars in one sum; he
begged for half of It; for a quarter
of it; then for a tenth of it only.
At one o’clock in the morning, when
even the mansions of the drive and
Astor street had become dark, Ber-
tram turned wearily toward his board-
ing-house room with experience and
much bitter learning for his night’s
begging. He had learned that the
friends of his father and the sons of
the friends of his grandfather had
maintained their fortunes through the
preservation of a marvelously rigid
attitude toward sums such as ten
, thousand dollars, or even five or one,
which required them to see clearly
the return to themselves before risk-
ing any such sum.
He went to bed but did not sleep;
and as he lay, reviewing bitterly his
beggings of this night, he thought of
Kitty Hewitt on a cot in one of those
steel-walled cells off the pen. The
women prisoners shared cells,
On the street a newsboy was cry-
ing her name. Shakily Bertram
bought a paper, and saw the story
on the first page, beneath staring
headlines. Kitty Hewitt had been
freed from jail. Below was the as-
tonishing report that a lawyer named
Klegson had appeared with thirty
thousand dollars In cash and obtained
the release of Kitty Hewitt from jail.
Cash! Anonymous, unidentified
cash that had been put up for her!
Who had put it up?
A reporter encountered Bertram on
the walk. “Just looking for you, doc-
tor. They say some of your ' rich
friends put up that cash ball.”
“Not any friends of mine,” denied
Bertram with emphasis. “I can swear
to that. I’ve seen them all. But
look here—” he caught at the report-
er’s sleeve. “She’s really out of jail?
You’ve seen her—out?”
“She went off with Klegson. the
lawyer,” the newspaper man assured
him.
“Whose lawyer?” Bertram demand-
ed.
“Why, doctor, I was after you to
ask that.”
“If I could tell you, I would,” said
Bertram. “But I don’t know; I don’t
know. Where did Klegson go with
her?"
“He wasn’t going with her; she
was going with him—to his office, it
looked like. I don’t know, though; I
had to come to find you.”
And, having found him, the reporter
insisted on accompanying him; but
Bertram did not care. The reporter
knew where Kiegson’s office was, and
together they walked away.
He sent in his name to IClegson;
and the girl who took his card
brought out word that the attorney
could not see him; but a minute later
Kitty Hewitt came out.
She closed the door behind her and
stood with her back to it, clinging
to the knob as though for support.
She asked him, before the reporters
whd crowded around her: “It wasn’t
a friend of yours who put up that
bail?”
Bertram shook his head. “No.”
, Bertram took her arm and led her
out to the elevator. The reporters
crowded close, filling the car which
stopped for her and Bertram, and
surrounding them on their way to the
street, where Bertram hailed a taxi.
“Get us away!” he called to the
driver. “Then I’ll tell you where to
go.”
He took Kitty in his arms as the
cab sped off. “Now what is it?” he
asked her.
“The bail! The cash bail! Some
one put up thirty, thousand dollars
cash for me!”
“Yes,” said Bertram. “Yes.”
“Mr. Klegson won’t tell who it was.
It was cash; there’s no way to trace
it. But he gave me a message.”
“From whom?”
“From the one who put up the bail.
He sent me word: ‘Get out. Go
abroad anywhere you want where
you’ll be safe. Never mind the thirty
thousand dollars. Jump the ball. Let
it go to forfeit.’ And he sent two
thousand dollars, cash, to me with
word that I’ll have more when I need
it.”
“What?” cried Bertram. He under-
stood now why she had known, before
she saw him, that this cash bail could
not be the result of any effort of his
with his friends. Some one with a
tremendous and a vital interest in her
had done this for her. “Who could
it be?” he asked her.
She drew up in his arms and with
a little shudder gazed about. “Did we
get away from them?”
Bertram looked out. “Seems so."
“Tell the driver Addison street,"
and she gave a number. ‘That’s
where I’ve been living," she said. I’ll
show you all I know about myself and
who—who might put up thirty .thous-
and dollars cash for me and send me
word to ‘jump’ it.”
The house on Addison street proved
to be a small frame building which
must have been built thirty or forty
years ago and which antedated by at
least a generation the tall new flats
which walled It on both sides.
It was the last sort of place which
Bertram would have Imagined to be
Kitty Hewitt’s home. “You live
here?” he asked, as she showed him
into the parlor.
“I’ve other addresses, as you know,”
she answered. “But here’s my refuge
when I need it. No man has ever
come here with me or for me before.
Two friends of mine o\Vn the house—
two old maids, one of them bedridden
now. She’s upstairs; her sister works
in the library. They gave me a key
so that I could come here to read to
the invalid and for my own sake
whenever I needed to. They keep
all the personal .possessions of Kitty
Hewitt.. I’ll show you.” And she
hastened upstairs.
It was evident that she stopped
first in the room of the bedridden
sister; for Bertram heard exclama-
tions of delight' from a gentle voice.
Then the light, quick tread moved
overhead toward the rear of the
house and soon Kitty came down-
stairs. She came slowly, and Ber-
tram, looking up, saw that she was
carrying a heavy wooden box. He
took it from her and bore it to the
parlor, where he placed it upon the
floor. They sat down beside it and
opened it.
“Everything my mother left me is
in here,” said Kitty. “She died, I
told you, when I was five. Then Ed’s
mother took me.”
“She kept these for me,” Kitty went
on. “From these I learned every-
thing I know about myself. Mother,
of course, would tell me nothing; and
she told no one else, either. I can
remember nothing whatever about
any father; but I had one. His name
was Henry; it was engraved in
mother’s wedding-ring with the date
of their marriage a year before I was
born.
“His other name was Hewitt, I sup-
pose; at least that was the name they
had for me from my mother.”
Bertram was helping her take out
the things—an old Bible with “Mary
Hewitt” on the flyleaf; a work-basket
with faded silk lining; a few spoons
marked “Mary” and wrapped in cloth.
He came upon a mutilated photo-
graph. It showed a young woman
with a lovely face like Kitty’s except
that her hair, instead of being corn-
colored, was dark. Beside her was
a child with light hair—an adorable
little girl. It was Kitty when she was
perhaps four years old and Bertram’s
heart swelled at the sight.
Another figure had been in the pic-
ture, but had been entirely cut out.
“I think,” she continued piteously,
“I think it’s plain, from what’s here,
that mother must have loved father
at this time and then something
terrible happened and she cut away
every trace of him. What do you
think?”
“I think,” said Bertram, “he did
something which she could not bear.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Probably he left her—for another
woman, perhaps.”
“Yes,” said Kitty, very pale. ‘That’s
what I’ve thought. And I’ve'thought
—I don’t know why, whether it was
that I heard it when I was a child
or got the idea some other way—that
after he went to the other woman he
became rich. He was poor when he
lived with mother. I always hated
the rich; I must have been taught to.”
“Your father, I believe,” said Ber-
tram, “undoubtedly became rich.”
She looked up quickly. “You mean
you think he put up the bail for me
today ?”
She Left These for Me," Kitty Went On. “From These ! Learned
Everything 1 Know About Myself.”
“What do you think?” Bertram
fenced.
His fingers played with a locket
which Kitty had opened. One side
held a small circular photograph of
her mother; in the other side was the
girl herself as a child.
He felt both sides of the locket
and the side with the child’s picture
seemed the slightest bit thicker. The
thought which leaped up seemed at
any rate worth trying. “Get some hot
water and a cloth,” he bade Kitty.
How he wished not to destroy the
picture of her; yet to try his Idea he
had to. So he snonaed and soaked,
losing forever the likjeness of the
child’s face but revealing another pic-
ture below it. Carefully, tremblingly
he softened the old, dried paste and
drew away the ruined picture disclos-
ing a man’s likeness.
Bertram Darand whistled. Could
It be possible that that man had been
the one cut from the picture?
Bertram gazed at Kitty, who was
looking for the first time at the like-
ness of the man she had wondered
about all her life; she looked up at
Bertram and gasped: “You know
him?”
“I think,” Bertram could barely
speak, “I think I do. Anyway, I’ll go
out and make sure. But you must
stay here. Promise — promise me
you’ll stay here and wait for me.”
When he set off alone, Bertram was
thrilled with a tremendous excite-
ment and bold with his purpose. “Car-
fax,” he repeated to himself, “Henry
Carfax is the man. There’s no mis-
taking the face in that picture.”
Ahead, as Bertram’s taxi entered a
canyon between the tall skyscrapers
of the city, loomed the white tower
of the Carfax building, where Carfax
had his offices from which he directed
the destinies of half a dozen corpor-
ations.
The office in which he found himself
now was spacious and softly carpeted.
It was empty save for a tall, well-set-
up man dressed in gray, standing at
the window. His back was toward
Bertram—and the back of a well-
shaped blond head—with hair the
color of Kitty Hewitt’s, barely touched
with gray at the temples. He was
lighting a cigar with an intensity of
preoccupation which did not deceive
Doctor Darand; nor was he deceived
by the attempt at a casual greeting.
“Well, Darand, what can I do for
you?”
.1 “Today,” began Bertram quietly,
“you provided cash bail, to the sum
of thirty thousand dollars, to gain the
release of a certain girl from jail.”
He leaned forward, speaking more
boldly than he had ever spoken in his
life. “That girl’s resemblance to you,
now that the matter of the bail has
called attention to it, is very striking.
More than striking—I think you know,
what I mean. Well, she is out of jail
—that girl we're both thinking of—
and she’s safe at an address in town
which I know.
“It occurred to me that you might
prefer to go to her—rather than have
me bring her here or to your apart-
ment, where Mrs.—Carfax and your
other daughter live.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that there are some affairs
to be settled. Am I right?”
“Where is she?” he demanded in a
husky voice, and passed a shaky hand
over his hair.
“I’ll show you,” said Bertram, “if
you’ll come with me.”
“You and I,” muttered Carfax, “no-
body else. Can you arrange that?”
It seemed his only condition for sur-
render.
Bertram nodded. ‘That’s exactly
what I want.”
Carfax’s big gray limousine was be-
low, and in it they drove to Addison
street. Kitty was at the door of the
prim little old-fashioned house as Doc-
tor Darand, with Carfax at his side,
came up the walk.
“Come in,” she invited Bertram.
Carfax halted, confused as to which
should pass first through the narrow
door; but with a gesture Bertram bade
him enter, and then followed.
“Kitty,” began Bertram, feeling that
this was the most difficult situation he
had ever been in, “Kitty, this is the
man who put up bail for you today.”
“Yes?” murmured Kitty, her eyes
never leaving Carfax’s gray face.
“What is his name?”
Bertram waited for Carfax to an-
swer for himself; but he seemed in-
capable of speech, and his head
dropped. So Bertram spoke: “This is
Henry Carfax, Kitty. You( may have
heard of him.”
With an apparent effort her lips
parted, but still her eyes never wav-
ered. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I—I’ve
heard of him. But why did he put
up bail for me, Bertram?” Now, at
last, her quiet manner broke. “You—
you—why did you put up that money
for me?”
And with a choking cry Carfax
stammered: “Because you are my
daughter.” His eyes were piteous in
their appeal.
Kitty Hewitt put a slender white
hand to her throat. “I—I never knew
you. Do you know what you’ve been
to me? A hole in a picture—that’s
all! Do you see this picture? My
mother did that. She blotted over your
name—she wanted me never to know
who you wer§!” Her voice rose with
scorn. “Why did my mother feel that
way?
Carfax’s square chin quivered “I—
I-”
“Well?”
“I never meant to,” he muttered
hoarsely. “Oh, Kitty—my—my little
baby!”
“Then my name was Kitty to you.”
She controlled herself superbly. “Tell
me, was my name Hewitt, or did my
mother change it?”
“I—I changed my name,” the finan-
cier confessed.
“Why?”
“I was trying to—to make a new
start.”
“When? Aftei ycu left mother and
me?”
Carfax brushed a hand across his
eyes and went on in a strained voice:
“It all started with my ambition—to
get somewhere in the world—to make
a better filing for us all. I—I worked
hard, but 1 never seemed to get ahead.
Then the—the thing happened. I met
a girl who had money and what I
needed—influence. Oh, I don’t know
how it all happened, but I never let
her know I was already married. And
I used her influence to help myself
along. She—she was interested in
me; and I got involved with her. I
only intended to use her as a means
of getting on in the business, but—”
his head dropped again, “Your mother
discovered it.
“She left me then, Kitty. She took
you, and went away. Oh, God knows,
she had reason—I admit that I
wronged her. I suppose she had to
do what she did. But we^—we had
been so happy once.” He paused, then
continued: “She divorced me not -to
free me, but to keep you, Kitty—so I
might never claim you. Then she
went away, and search as I did, I
never could find you. I looked every-
where-”
“For mother and me?” Kitty asked.
“Or just for me?”
“Both. I wanted—I needed—you
both.”
“Were you sorry? Did you want
mother to take you back?”
“It was too late then. I—I had
married another woman.”
“Oh! The rich girl, of course. In
a way I can see now why I’ve always
despised people with money.”
“But I tried to find you, Kitty. I
searched everywhere—three or fo«r
years—for you and your mother. I
wanted to provide for you. Your
mother went away without taking a
cent from me. And she never was
strong, Kitty-”
“Except in soul!” The girl’s eyes
blazed like sapphires. “But soul
meant nothing to you!”
“Oh, but it did! I never could for-
get her. I did everything, I tell you,
to find her—searched and advertised
for years. But I never found a trace
until after she was dead. And then
I couldn’t locate you. It was years be-
fore I learned where you had been,
and when I went there nobody knew
where you had gone. I found out that
a widow named Pellen had brought
you up as one of her own. But I
couldn’t find you, Kitty. The widow
had died and the Pellen home was
broken up. Eddie Pellen was a fugi-
tive from the police, and so I never
knew wber» ymi were. Then, the
other night, he did that murder.”
“It wasn’t murder! He shot in self-
defense—and for me.”
“Whatever it was, my child—he was
caught. And you were with him. I
knew at once when I saw the picture
in the papers; besides, I knew you
had been brought up with Pellen. I—
I can’t tell you what I felt. But I
sent money, as soon as I could, to get
you free.”
“You sent money,” said she coldly,
“but did you come to the jail to see
me—when I hadn’t any one? Oh, you
expect me to believe this story of how
heartbroken you were and how you
searched everywhere for me! But see
how you kept under cover. How like
you to send money by a lawyer, so
that nobody would know you were
putting up my bail! Oh, I don’t want
your money! You can take it back.
I’d rather be in jail!”
“Kitty,” pleaded Carfax brokenly,
“I don’t deserve this.”
“No? And what do you think you
deserve? Perhaps you want to take
me home—where your new family
live?”
“You know I can’t do that. Please
try to understand. I want to help
>ou. There are charges against you
that—that—oh, you’ve got to get out
of the country! You can’t stay here
and Dice that trial. You’ve got to get
away. Never mind the bail—I sent
word to you to jump it. I don't care
about the money, but for your own
sake 1 beg of you to leave the country.
I’ll give you all the money you need
and I’ll send you more.”
“No!” Kitty Hewitt drew herself
erect, her head with its crown of fair
hair held high. And watching her,
Bertram Darand loved her more than
he had ever loved her before. “No,”
she said quietly, and with a dignity
that amazed both men, “you’ll not give
me one cent., I shall 'not cost you a
dollar. I was wrong about going back
to jail—that would be foolish, for I
must be free to help Ed, to save his
life. Do you suppose I could run
away and leave him—after what he’s
done, for me? I’ll be in court when
they call my name; but don’t worry—
it’s not your name now: you’ve a new
one. No, don’t worry for a second
that I’ll tell. You can stay under cov-
er." She turned away. “That’s aUr
You can go now.”
“But Kitty-”
"Please go.”
“You are my daughter."
“I want to forget that. Go, now. I
didn’t send Doctor Darand to fetch
you. He went himself. I don’t want
to see you again. Go !”
The financier turned a face gray
with suffering toward the door and
walked unsteadily out of the room.
Neither Bertram nor Kitty moved.
Then there was a sound of the front
door closing, and with that sound
Kitty Hewitt’s bravery crumpled. She
wavered and would have fallen but
that Bertram stepped forward and
caught her in his arms and held her
close to him.
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The Lampasas Daily Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 31, No. 54, Ed. 1 Tuesday, May 8, 1934, newspaper, May 8, 1934; Lampasas, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth897561/m1/2/?q=%22~1~1%22~1&rotate=270: accessed July 16, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Lampasas Public Library.