Hearing the commotion, Pearl and I started for the room. Pearl turned on the hall light as the intruder started out of the bedroom door. He turned swiftly, retreated into the room, and departed out the window.
The Nigger, hearing the noise, looking up, saw the person exit the bedroom window. When he hit the ground, the black man hit him full in the face. The intruder bounced against the wall, staggered forward into the large black fist once more. The woman that the Nigger had been chatting with sailed on his back, scratching, clawing, biting and kicking, but the big black fist rendered her unconscious also.
By this time the old colonel was fully awake and called for the police.
By the time the two policemen arrived, Pearl and the Nigger had bound the man and woman securely. Father was sitting on the side of the old man’s bed, rubbing his head.
The old dragoon, after calling the police, summoned his doctor, who arrived soon after the officers. Looking Dad over, he advised, “He didn’t fare too badly from the fight. It appears as if it was a glancing blow that felled him. He’ll be all right—maybe a little headache.”
“You are fortunate to be able to feel any ache,” one of the policemen said, holding up a piece of pipe about eighteen inches long. “That’s what hit you, and you are fortunate it was only a glancing blow.”
By this time the Wainwrights had returned from the theater. Following them through the door was the police chief.
In a gruff voice he asked, “Where are the prisoners?”
They were escorted into the now brightly lighted hallway and were handcuffed together. The chief looked and looked at the prisoners. All at once he shouted, “Glory hallelujah! Do you know who this bird is? Look! Men, don’t you recognize him?”
Pausing, awaiting an answer, he then continued, “He’s exceedingly clever with makeup stuff. Hell’s fire you’ve searched all of Chicago for him.”
Still no one answered the chief.
Then once again, he asked, “Who is the number one man we have been looking for in all of Chicago?”
Waiting an answer that did not come, he stepped up close to the prisoners and, in a flash, ripped a false mustache from under the man’s nose. Then one at a time he pulled heavy black false eyebrows from above the man’s eyes.
“Well, I’ll be—I’ll be,” stuttered one of the officers. “It’s Waal, the slickest, meanest, hit man in Chicago. That explains this .38 Special found in his hip pocket and small Derringer that we removed from his forearm. And—and here’s something else we found on him.”
The policeman handed the chief a folded slip of paper. The chief took the note and read aloud:
Ma’am:
Instructions given me by your contact have been carried out to the letter. The master key your contact gave me worked perfectly. I tried it earlier today. I shall enter from the hall and get away through the window. I will leave one of the windows open. I’ll leave the weapon, key, and red bandanna in the old man’s room. The other master key given me, along with the old man’s will, you will find hidden in the mattress on the black man’s bed. The planted evidence ought to make an airtight case against him.
You can bring the balance of the money to church Sunday. I will be sitting on the back pew, left center aisle, as you enter. I will be wearing a dark brown suit, white panama hat, and white shoes. My mustache and hair will be gray. Don’t forget the balance is $5,000.
For several minutes after the chief quit reading, there was rapt silence. George, the chauffeur, breathed a sigh of relief. Jeff Wainwright turned a pale, ashen gray. It was almost unbelievable. He was pale as death and looked like he would faint at any moment.
The chief broke the silence, asking, “Where is the black man’s room?”
“Come, I’ll show you,” said Jeff, leading them to George’s room.
They searched the chauffeur’s room but did not find the evidence.
The chief then noticed there were two black men present. Pointing his finger at the Nigger, he inquired, “Where is his room?”
We then went to the other room. There the truth of the note was proven. In the mattress on the Nigger’s bed, the chief found the key, the red bandanna handkerchief, and the original copy of the old colonel’s will.
The old colonel, turning to Jeff, spoke, “For years I’ve tried to warn you about your wife. Her lust for wealth and power is an obsession.”
The next day was Saturday, and the old dragoon insisted on showing us the city.
We were preparing to depart when the police chief drove up. Smiling, he walked toward us as he spoke, “The prisoner was the person we thought him to be. His moll, Lulu, was also wanted on several charges.” Laying his hand on the Nigger’s shoulder, he continued, “I have good news for you. There was a twenty-five-hundred-dollar reward for Waal’s capture. I have brought the money, and I think you and Mr. Keener should split it between you.”
They agreed. Some papers had to be signed. My father signed his name, and the Nigger made his “X”. We then departed for our tour of the city. Downtown I was awestruck by the tall buildings. I came away with the impression that there was a statue of President Lincoln at every turn and on every corner.
In Lincoln Park, I found the Grant monument to be the most impressive. There sat General Grant, in full uniform, astride a bronze-green-streaked steed, holding a field glass in his right hand. His expression of critical inspection suggests that he is reviewing a movement of troops.
Another impressive landmark was the old water tower that survived the Chicago fire. The field museum was too much for this mountain boy to grasp. Our final visit of the day was Grant Park, where the old colonel told us the history of the beautiful Buckingham Memorial Fountain.
For years my memory of Chicago was statues of Lincoln and Grant, fountains, and awe-inspiring buildings.
My father voiced his plans to depart the city the next evening for home.
The next day the Wainwrights insisted that we attend church with them that Sunday morning. Being guests, we obliged.
It was a beautiful church building. As we entered, Jeff Wainwright said to my father, “Most of the interior furnishing and decorations are imported.”
The family occupied a pew together, and we sat beside them as their guests.
I overheard Jeff whisper to my dad, “We contribute a thousand dollars a month to this church, and other members are assessed according to their ability to pay. There is no one admitted who cannot pay two or three thousand a year, so you can see why our congregation is an exclusive one. That pipe organ cost a million dollars. Our orchestra and choir are paid musicians. Why, we pay our minister thirty-five thousand a year and provide his house and keep. Our preacher preaches to suit us. If he doesn’t, then we call another. Half-hour sermons are all we permit on Sunday mornings. That’s all we’ll stand for.”
The service was very boring. The congregation did not join in the singing; in fact, no one in the auditorium did anything but sit and listen. The sermon topic I do not remember, but I can close my eyes today and remember all the finery inside that cold, cold structure that belonged and was used by man but never dedicated or used for God, by a preacher who preached what he was told, not what God laid on his heart.
On our way from church, the old colonel smiled and declared, “I’m going to be on that train with you this evening, Mr. Keener.”
Jeff Wainwright exploded. He found a hundred excuses why the old dragoon should not go.
“Yes, I’m going,” snapped the old soldier. “There is nothing you can do or say that will prevent me from going—before I couldn’t go, but now I must go. I’ll help Pearl gather her things and return. Yes, with the black man. He will make a good night watchman at the bank. He and Pearl will reside in the guesthouse until or when we deem it necessary to find a more suitable place. And, Jeff, while you were out yesterday at the police station with your wife, our lawyer came to the house and I signed a codicil to my will. It will suffice until they write a new one. Pearl will share in my estate after I am gone. If I die there in West Virginia, I wish to be laid beside Molly to rest. If I make it back, then you know my wishes for burial.”