The Frame Up | Page 5

tell nothing. The condition

that puzzled him was the one that insisted he should come at once or it
would be "too late."
Why was haste so imperative? Why, if he delayed, would he be "too
late"? Was the man he sought about to escape from his jurisdiction, was
he dying, and was it his wish to make a death-bed confession; or was
he so reluctant to speak that delay might cause him to reconsider and
remain silent?
With these questions in his mind, the minutes quickly passed, and it
was with a thrill of excitement Wharton saw that Nolan had left the
Zoological Gardens on the right and turned into the Boston Road. It
had but lately been completed and to Wharton was unfamiliar. On
either side of the unscarred roadway still lay scattered the uprooted
trees and boulders that had blocked its progress, and abandoned by the
contractors were empty tar-barrels, cement-sacks, tool-sheds, and
forges. Nor was the surrounding landscape less raw and unlovely.
Toward the Sound stretched vacant lots covered with ash heaps; to the
left a few old and broken houses set among the glass-covered cold
frames of truck-farms.
The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness. And when an
automobile sign told him he was "10 miles from Columbus Circle," he
felt that from the New York he knew he was much farther. Two miles
up the road his car overhauled a bicycle policeman, and Wharton halted
him.
"Is there a road-house called Kessler's beyond here?" he asked.
"On the left, farther up, "the officer told him, and added: "You can't
miss it ' Mr. Wharton; there's no other house near it."
"You know me," said the D.A. "Then you'll understand what I want
you to do. I've agreed to go to that house alone. If they see you pass
they may think I'm not playing fair. So stop here.
The man nodded and dismounted.

"But," added the district attorney, as the car started forward again, "If
you hear shots, I don't care how fast you come."
The officer grinned.
"Better let me trail along now," he called; "that's a tough joint."
But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the
man still stood where they had parted.
Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it
passed, the driver lifted his hand from the wheel, and with his thumb
motioned behind him.
"That's one of the men," said Nolan,"that started with Mr. Rumson and
Hewitt from Delmonico's."
Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no
hitch, smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of them on
the asphalt road Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the
signal and knew that within call were friends.
The yellow cigarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden
building of two stories. It was linked to the road by a curving driveway
marked on either side by whitewashed stones.
On verandas enclosed In glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under
red candle-shade and, protruding from one end of the house and hung
with electric lights in paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing. In the rear
of the house stood sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the
autumn leaves showed yellow painted fingers and arrows pointing, and
an electric sign, proclaimed to all who passed that this was Kessler's. In
spite of its reputation, the house wore the aspect of the commonplace.
In evidence nothing flaunted, nothing threatened From a dozen other
inns along the Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was no
way to be distinguished.
As directed In the note, Wharton left the car in the road." For five

minutes stay where yo are," he ordered Nolan; "then go to the bar and
get a drink. Don't talk to any one or they'll think you're trying to get
information. Work around to the back of the house. Stand where I can
see you from the window. I may want you to carry a message to Mr.
Rumson.
On foot Wharton walked up the curved drive-way, and if from the
house his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the
second story the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas
were empty. Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and
stepped inside the house, was there any sign that his visit was expected.
He stood in a hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that
he guessed led to the private supper-rooms. On his left was the
restaurant.
Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as
though resting in preparation for those to come, it an air of peaceful
inactivity. At