The Frame Up | Page 2

brother-in-law. Were he
re-elected by the majority on which he counted, he would have the
party leaders on their knees. Hamilton Cutler would be forced to come
to him. He would be in line for promotion. He knew the leaders did not
want to promote him, that they considered him too inclined to kick over
the traces; but were he now re-elected, at the next election, either for
mayor or governor, he would be his party's obvious and legitimate
candidate.
The re-election was not to be an easy victory. Outside his own party, to
prevent his succeeding himself as district attorney, Tammany Hall was
using every weapon in her armory. The commissioner of police was a
Tammany man, and in the public prints Wharton had repeatedly
declared that Banf, his star witness against the police, had been killed
by the police, and that they had prevented the discovery of his murderer.
For this the wigwam wanted his scalp, and to get it had raked his public
and private life, had used threats and bribes, and with women had tried
to trap him into a scandal. But "Big Tim" Meehan, the lieutenant the
Hall had detailed to destroy Wharton, 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