Bats in the Wall; or, The Mystery of Trinity Church-yard

"No, Frank, most decidedly not. I must say that I am more than surprised that you should have had the audacity to even think for an instant that such a thing could be."

"But we love each other most sincerely, Mr. Callister, and you know as well as I do that there was a time when, with your approval, I was allowed to consider Edna as my future wife."

"That may be, young man, that may be-I will even go so far as to admit that such was the case. But circumstances alter cases, and I am inclined to think that I could do somewhat better than to bestow the hand of my only daughter upon a bank clerk at a beggarly salary of twelve hundred a year."

"I am assistant cashier of Webster National Bank, and my salary is quite enough for a young couple to get along on with economy; besides, I have prospects of promotion--"

"Had, you mean. A year ago such was the case, Frank Mansfield. From what I have recently heard of your career, your drinking, gambling and nightly carousals, I am inclined to doubt if your prospects amount to much now."

It was Mr. Elijah Callister, the rich Wall street stock operator, who spoke these words, the person to whom they were addressed being Frank Mansfield, a handsome youth of twenty-one.

The scene was Mr. Callister's office on Broad street, in one of the nine-story buildings just below Wall, and the time the close of the short winter's day, December 22, 1884.

Now, in thus demanding the hand of Miss Edna Callister, Frank Mansfield was by no means as presumptuous as at first glance might seem.

But little less than five years previous to the date just mentioned, the father of this young man had been a wealthy and honored merchant, and the stock operator's most intimate friend.

Their business interests to a great extent in common, their elegant residences on Fifth avenue side by side, and their children-in each case the only child the friends possessed-had been taught to look forward to the day when they should marry with their parent's full consent.

To-day all was different, and Edgar Mansfield lay in a dishonored grave, his wife, driven mad by the reverses of fortune and the loss of a kind and loving husband, had disappeared from the circle of friends in which she had long figured as a leading spirit, while Frank had been thrown to shift for himself upon the cold charity of an unsympathizing world.

All this happened in the spring of 1879, which, all will be seen, was five years before our story begins.

Meanwhile, Elijah Callister had flourished, even as his friend Mansfield had slipped and fallen.

While Frank, who had obtained a position in the Webster National Bank, had been working hard to advance himself, with occasional slips and frequent lapses into dissipation and folly-always bitterly repented of when committed and it was too late-the father of Edna Callister had steadily increased in influence and wealth.

He was honored among business men, a pillar in the church, and high in social circles, and yet he had turned his back completely upon the son of his old-time friend, having even gone so far as to forbid him entrance to his home.

That the course he had pursued had not prevented the love which had existed from childhood between the youthful pair from developing as time went on, is evident from the conversation in which we now find the highly respectable Mr. Callister and the son of his former friend engaged.

"I am hardly as bad a fellow as you would make me out, Mr. Callister," answered Frank, flushing to the eyes at the stock speculator's last remark. "I have been a little wild and imprudent, I'll admit, but I've made up my mind to reform, and with Edna for my wife--"

"Stop!"

Mr. Callister had brought his fist down upon the desk with a bang.

"My daughter shall marry no pauper, Mr. Mansfield!" he exclaimed, with emphasis. "Come to me with proof that you are possessed of at least ten thousand dollars of your own, and I will listen to you-not before. At the present time I doubt if you can produce ten thousand cents."

"And this is final?"

The face of Frank Mansfield was very pale as he spoke.

"It is. Reform your habits of life, go to work and advance yourself, make money somehow, anyhow, so that you make it, and then, if Edna has not previously found some one more worthy of her, as I have no doubt she will, I will give your proposal the consideration it deserves. Now I must bid you good-night."

Without a word the young man turned upon his heel and passed out of the office.

Listening for a moment to his retreating footsteps as they died away through the corridor, Mr. Elijah Callister arose, drew on his overcoat, adjusted his shiny beaver at the proper angle upon his head, and taking up his walking stick, prepared to start for his palatial home with a general air of respectable business solidity standing forth from every portion of his portly presence from the crown of his hat to the soles of his well-polished shoes.

"That settles him for the day," he muttered, as he cast his eye about the office to see that everything was as it should be for the night; "by to-morrow, unless I greatly mistake, the young gentleman will have most effectually settled himself. I have nothing against Frank, nothing in the world, but of late he has become altogether too inquisitive, and there is nothing for it but to remove him from my path."

"Though I don't doubt in the least," he added, meditatively, as he locked the office door behind him, "that when she hears what has happened, she will kick up a deuce of a row."

And the respectable Mr. Callister, the last man in the world who among the brethren of the Tenth Baptist Church on Murray Hill, in which he was a bright and shining light, would have been suspected of such a thing, stepped into the elevator, passed out of the nine-story building into Broad street, and, slipping around the corner into a little alley, hurriedly descended the steps of a basement groggery, and walking up to the bar, called for as stiff a glass of brandy as any old toper in the land.

"Has Billy Cutts, the detective, been in here this evening, Joe?" he asked of the white-aproned bartender, as he set down the brandy glass which he had drained to the last drop.

"No, he hasn't, Mr. Callister," was the man's reply. "I haven't seen Billy in more'n a-- By gracious! talk of angels, and they are right on top of you! Here's Billy Cutts comin' now."

As he spoke a young man, comfortably dressed in a dark overcoat and ordinary business suit, entered the saloon.

He was to all appearance not over twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, but his face bore indelibly stamped upon it a knowledge of the crooked ways of the great city not usually looked for in a man of his years.

He shook hands with the stock operator upon his entrance, with a familiar, easy-going air, both withdrawing at once to a table in a remote corner of the saloon, upon which, by the order of the elder man, the bartender placed a bottle and glasses between them.

"Well, Billy, is it all fixed?" said Mr. Callister, pouring out a stiff glass of liquor for his companion and another for himself.

"All O. K.," was the reply. "The old man an' his pals got the plans all right, an' will be on hand, you can bet. I saw Detective Hook not an hour ago and gave him the tip. He swallowed the bait whole, the shallow fool, and now all that remains is to get the feller to consent, an' that I consider about fixed."

"How did you do it?"

"Oh, through the help of a couple friends of his an' tools of mine. They've been workin' on him for the best part of a week, an' have pretty well brought him round. I want them in the thing, too, don't yer see, to give the racket a natural air."

"Of course neither of them suspect the truth?"

"What d'ye take me for, boss? I guess I know what I'm about as a general thing. When I tell you a thing is fixed, it's fixed; you can bet yer life on that every time."

"I hope so, and I believe so," replied the other, in a fierce whisper. "That boy Frank Mansfield is in my way, Billy. He must and shall be removed from my path. Your scheme is a good one, and I believe it will work; if I read of his arrest in the morning papers you can count on five thousand dollars any time you have a mind to call round to my office and get it."

Mr. Callister arose abruptly as he spoke, and buttoned up his overcoat as though to depart.

"You'll see me to-morrow mornin', then, fer sure," replied Cutts, likewise rising. "So you'd better be ready with the cash."

"I will, Billy, never fear. How's your father, by the way?"

"Oh, the old man's all right, but confoundedly nervous till this little spec is over."

"Well, give him my regards when you see him, and I shall expect to see you with your work accomplished at my office to-morrow by noon."

And the respectable Mr. Callister with a face so smiling that, as the saying goes, butter would not have melted in his mouth, shook hands with Detective Cutts and moved off in the direction of the nearest station on the elevated road.

* * *

Dyball's Club-room was not the most high-toned of the New York clubs, nor is it frequented by what are, as a rule, termed the highest of high-toned men.

Situated on the second floor of a building on the Bowery, not far from the corner of Canal street, its nightly patrons were those of a decidedly low-toned sort.

Small clerks in wholesale stores, small sporting men, not yet arrived at the dignity of the more fashionable clubs, and small-oh, very small-card-flippers and poker playing cheats, who considered the ability to store aces and kings, ad libitum, in the sleeves of their small-tailed coats, the very highest touch of art, and who used their skill, as may be readily believed, to fleece such of the small clerks who were bold enough to challenge them to a friendly game.

For card-playing-and that means plain poker and nothing else-was all they did at Dyball's Club-room, except to consume the vile liquor and smoke Regalia de Avenue B cigars served over the bar; but, although limited in variety, the entertainment furnished made up in quantity what it otherwise lacked; nor did the votaries at the Dyball shrine often separate until morning had well-nigh dawned.

Upon the evening referred to in the last chapter, at a few minutes after eleven o'clock, just as the sidewalks along the brilliantly-lighted Bowery were beginning to whiten with what promised to be a heavy fall of snow, there entered Dyball's club room no less celebrated a person than Mr. Detective Cutts, a young but already popular special on the force of the New York police.

He was in citizen's dress, of course-in fact, the same in which we have already met him on this night once before-and as he pushed his way among the card tables, a long cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth, his cane under his left arm, and his Derby hat set rakishly upon the side of his head, several of the small clerks rejoicing in a speaking acquaintance with so prominent an official, greeted him with an air of great respect, their less fortunate companions regarding them with feelings of envy not unmingled with awe.

But the young detective paid little attention to any of the players at the card tables.

Pushing his way among them through the stifling atmosphere, fairly blue with tobacco smoke, and reeking with the stale odors of whisky and beer, he approached a small table in a remote corner of the room, where sat four young men who, if the chips upon its green baize top and the anxious faces of the players themselves could be taken as a guide, were indulging in a pretty stiff sort of game.

"Frank, I want to see you," he said, quietly, placing his hand lightly upon the shoulder of the youngest man of the four.

"All right, Billy, I'll be with you when I finish this hand."

"I'll wait for you in the wine-room."

"Very good. Two jacks and two queens-I'll take that pot, boys. I'll be with you in a second, Billy-just one hand more."

It is Frank Mansfield, and no one else, we are sorry to say, who again deals the cards around, and with flushed face, being evidently considerably the worse for drink, a moment later joins Detective Cutts in the private wine-room, to the left of Mr. Dyball's bar.

What brings the boy to a place like this?

Disappointment and a fatal love of exciting pleasures, yielded to too often-far too often-in the past.

Firm in his resolution to reform his ways, Frank, who loved the daughter of Elijah Callister, and was devotedly loved by her in return, had, at her own suggestion, asked of the stock operator the hand of his daughter in marriage with the ill success already told.

Now, instead of meeting that refusal like a man-instead of returning to the object of his affections at the house of a mutual friend, who loved them both, and where they had been in the habit of meeting at intervals in the past-Frank had sought to drown his sorrows by that fatal method-recourse to the whisky bottle and glass.

One drink had been followed by another, the second by a third, until, reckless of the consequences, the boy had yielded to a temptation which he had for days been struggling to resist, and which-- But that brings us back to Detective Cutts again!

"Well, young fellow, what shall it be?" asked that individual, touching the little call bell upon the table by which he had seated himself the moment Frank appeared.

"Oh! I don't care-whisky, I suppose. What do you want of me? The same old scheme?"

"Of course. What else should it be?" answered the detective, calling for the drinks, which were speedily produced and consumed. "You can't do better than to join me in that, and I suppose you have made up your mind to do so, since you are here by the appointment we made."

"I don't know about that. I want to make money as well as any one, and I'm more than ever in the mood for it to-night; but I'm afraid of your scheme, Billy, and I don't deny it. I'm afraid it'll get me in a hole."

"No, it won't-nothing of the sort. I don't want to get you in no hole, nor to land in one myself. I'm just as honest as any one else, but I'm bound to look out for No. 1 every time, and you owe it to yourself to do the same."

"But this letting a man into the bank at night is something that has a very nasty look."

"Well, I ain't a-goin' to steal nothin', am I? All I want is to look at a name in a book. Upon my word, young feller, you're a deal too squeamish. I can't see where's the possibility of harm comin' to you from a move like that."

"But it's against all rules. If it were known that I had shown the signatures of our depositors to an outsider, I'd lose my place before I knew where I was."

"Perhaps you would. But whose a-goin' to give you away? To show you that I mean to be perfectly square with you, I've asked Jim Morrow and Ed Wilson to meet us down by the bank and go and see the thing done."

"You have?"

"Yes. They are both good friends of yours, and in case anything was brought up against you, you could prove that you did nothing wrong. Come, now, what do you say? It's getting late, and if it's to be done at all it must be done to-night. All I want is to copy the signature of old Thomas Hendrickson. If you will help me to do it I'll give you five hundred dollars as soon as we leave the bank."

"But I don't understand what your man wants it for. Why can't he get it by some other means?"

"Because he can't, that's all I know, and I don't want to know any more. Hendrickson never leaves his room, and will see no one and answer no letters; my man has got them deeds I told you about, and wants to be sure that the old miser's signature is all O. K.; why, he don't tell me, and I'm sure I don't care to know, so long as he is willing to pay for the job he wants done."

Now this was not the first time Frank Mansfield had had this proposition made to him by Detective Cutts, nor the second nor the third.

He had been introduced to this individual about a month before, by two of his fast companions, the Jim Morrow and Ed Wilson the detective had just named, and in their presence this strange request had been first made, to be renewed upon several occasions since.

At first the proposal had been rejected outright.

Frank had positively refused to have anything to do with it at all.

But, upon its repetition, the boy had been more inclined to lend a willing ear.

He was more inclined than ever to do so upon this night.

To be sure, he did not more than half believe the detective's statement as to the reason of his singular request; but, after all, he was a member of the police force, an officer of the law, although little older than Frank himself.

Detectives were obliged, as he knew well enough, to attain their ends by all sorts of singular means. Surely, in these days of defaulting cashiers and pilfering tellers, there could be no serious harm in letting a police detective copy a signature from the bank's books.

Nor was the promised reward without its full weight in the mind of the boy.

"Come to me with proof that you are possessed of at least ten thousand dollars, and I will listen to you, and not before," the father of the girl he so devotedly loved had said.

Money makes money.

With five hundred dollars he would at least obtain a start.

Visions of successful speculations in the institutions known as "bucket shops," which cluster around the Stock Exchange, floated through his brain.

If he had luck, as many of his acquaintances had had before him, his five hundred might be doubled in no time at all, and the thousand thus increased to ten in a comparative short space of time.

And then--

"Well, Cutts, I'll do it!" he exclaimed at last; "but, mind, if you go back on me, I can make it as hot for you at police headquarters as you can for me at the bank. I'll show you the signature-book of the Webster Bank, and let you trace old Hendrickson's autograph from it-but don't expect me to do anything else."

"I shan't, my boy, for that's all I want," replied the detective, with an air of triumph. "Now let's have another drink."

There were two doors connecting with the private wine room of Dyball's club.

One opened into the main or card room, and the other out into the hallway, from which descended the stairs leading to the street.

Had Detective Cutts been a little older in the business, and a little more observing withal, he might have noticed that during all his conversation with Frank Mansfield this hall door stood open on the crack.

No sooner had the young men left Dyball's by the regular entrance, and gaining the stairs, descended to the street, than from the floor of the hall close to the wine room there arose the form of a woman.

She was of somewhat above the ordinary stature, but of withered features and attenuated form, while her long gray hair, hanging in a tangled mass down her neck and shoulders, and a pair of wild, restless eyes ever moving in their shrunken sockets, lent to her whole appearance an air of hopeless misery painful to behold.

Her dress neat, but shabby and worn; a faded shawl and a cheap woolen hood being the only outer wraps she wore.

And this strange creature crept after the two young men in the darkness and storm, dogging their steps as they moved down the Bowery towards Chatham Square never taking her restless eyes from their moving figures for so much as a moment of time.

* * *

The storm had now greatly increased, and the whitened flakes were rapidly covering sidewalk and street, as well as the forms of such belated pedestrians as hurried past, while the glass in the lighted store fronts glistened with frost like so many diamonds in the light of the flickering street lamps scattered here and there.

Now, the Webster National Bank, as is well known to every one, is located on the corner of Rector street and Broadway, directly opposite the high wall, ever rising as the street descends, upon the top of which lies the ancient burial ground surrounding Trinity Church.

Bustling with life and activity during the business hours of the day, at night no more lonely spot can be found in all New York than this.

Standing a little back from the street rises the mighty spire of this, New York's most famous house of worship, surrounded on three sides by the crumbling head-stones of a century ago, and marking the last resting-place of many a famous citizen of the days gone by.

Rising above these stones, the many dingy tombs scattered among them, clusters of noble trees raise their spreading branches toward the sky above, overshadowing this time-honored burial place of the dead.

Brick and mortar everywhere, gigantic structures upon every hand, the old Trinity church-yard has remained untouched by the hand of Time-remained the one green spot in lower New York, even as it was in the days when the great city was young.

It was upon this sight that Frank Mansfield daily looked forth, for his desk in the bank commanded a full view of the church-yard from the Rector street side.

It was by the side of the wall that, with his companion, he now stands, contemplating an act, which, if not criminal, is a breach of the implicit trust placed in him by the officers of the Webster National Bank, at least.

And now the old church-yard is robed in white, the snow flakes bearing downward the branches of the spreading trees, covering the tombs and graves of the dead-we doubt very much if the souls of many who lie beneath are as white as the ground above their moldering bones.

Detective Cutts turned the corner of Rector street, and moved silently along the church-yard wall.

It was now twelve o'clock and after-in fact, the bell of Old Trinity had rung out the midnight hour before they passed the corner of Fulton street and Broadway.

The storm had increased as the night advanced, Broadway was deserted, and not a soul could be seen moving on Rector street from end to end.

For the evil-doer no better night could be found than this-even the policemen had sought shelter in friendly doorways from the pitiless storm.

"By George! but this is a nasty night!" said the detective, in a low whisper, coming to a halt beneath the shadow of the wall. "Now, where in thunder are those fellows, I'd like to know? They promised to be on the corner at midnight and wait until we came."

"Well, we can do without them," said Frank, uneasily, beginning already to repent of the step he had taken.

"For my part, I can't see what we want with them, anyhow. The thing don't amount to anything, after all."

The liquor of which he had partaken so freely was beginning to tell on him.

He mistrusted his companion, he mistrusted himself; he was anxious to do what he had undertaken and begun.

After all, it was but a little thing, and with the money he could do so much.

He had been trying to persuade himself, but with ill success, during the walk down-town, that it amounted to just nothing, after all.

"Why, I only want them with us for your own protection, my dear boy," replied Cutts. "I'm as square as a die myself, and I want you to see that everything I do is entirely open and above the board.

"By the way, you've got a key to the side door of the bank, I suppose?"

"Yes; the cashier and myself carry that."

"And you tell me there's no watchman in the bank?"

"No; otherwise I should not be here, of course. This corner is so prominent that they never thought it worth their while to keep one employed. It's lucky for you, Cutts, that they think as they do."

"I should say so," replied the detective, with a slightly marked emphasis. "And that being the case, we can slip in that side door and through the hall as easily as you please."

Now, there are two entrances to the Webster National Bank.

One from Broadway and one from Rector street.

It was to the latter that Detective Cutts referred.

"I say, Frank," said that individual, in a whisper, "we may be observed if we stand waiting here. I move we jump over the church-yard fence and wait on the inside until Jim and Ed show up."

Careless now of what he did, and too much muddled in his brain through the fumes of the liquor to give the matter very much thought, Frank followed Cutts as he lightly leaped upon the low wall and vaulted the fence, landing inside among the snow-covered stones.

At the same instant from among the trees in the shadow of the great church beyond a low whistle was heard, which was presently followed by the appearance of two dark forms moving cautiously toward the spot where they stood.

"Hello, is that you, Billy?"

The voice came from the advancing figures, now emerging from the trees.

"Yes," called Cutts, in a whisper. "Is that you, Ed-you and Jim?"

How came these two in the Trinity church-yard at this hour of the night?

The strangeness of the thing struck the boy at once, as he stood leaning against the rail.

"What the mischief are you fellows doing there?" he exclaimed, peering forward into the darkness. "Cutts, what does this thing mean?"

"It means villainy, it means wickedness!" cried a feeble voice from the sidewalk below. "It means ruin to you, my son, if you persist in what you are about to do."

There, kneeling upon the snow-covered pavement beneath the wall, Frank, turning suddenly and pressing his face against the iron palings, perceived a strange and weird form.

It was a woman, old, faded and gray, who, with upturned features and hands clasped above her head now met his astonished gaze.

It was the singular creature who had followed him from the gambling hall.

Not for one moment had the boy been lost from her view.

"Pause, my son!" she exclaimed, raising her clasped hands aloft with a supplicating air, as she knelt before him in the pure white snow. "Remember your dead father-I ask you not to remember me-pause before it is too late."

"Hello!" cried Cutts, placing his hand on Frank's shoulder as he spoke, "who the mischief have we here?"

As though stung by an adder, the boy shrank back from that aged form.

"Mother!" he cried, in husky tones, "for God's sake, what brings you here? Have they let you escape again?"

"Escape!" said the woman, in feeble tones. "Can doors hold a mother when danger besets her son? No, no, bolts and bars cannot keep me in. Locks amount to nothing for me. I roam the streets by night and by day, and I watch over you, my son."

"She is mad, Cutts!" cried the boy angrily; "mad for years, and has escaped from those by whom she was confined. Follow me, and let's be done with this thing at once. With her on my hands I need the money more than ever now."

He leaped the fence railing as he spoke with the lightness of a cat, landing by the woman's side.

Cutts instantly followed him, as did the two young men, who had during this strange scene come to a halt a little in the rear of the spot where Frank and the detective had stood.

"No, no, you shall not go! You shall not rob the bank!" shrieked the woman, seizing Frank by the skirts of his coat. "Don't listen to these wicked men, my son; they only seek your harm!"

"Confound the old hag!" muttered the detective, angrily. "What are we going to do? If we don't stop her mouth she will ruin all."

"Hold her where she is and stop her mouth; but gently, boys," said Frank, in a hoarse voice. "Cutts, you follow me and the thing is done. I've gone too far to back out now. I want your pay, and as I am wronging no one, have it I must and will."

He sprang across the street as he spoke, followed by the young detective, while the woman, feebly struggling in the arms of the two young fellows, still knelt moaning beneath the church yard wall.

"I'll have to take care of her, Cutts," said Frank, producing a key and fitting it into the lock of the door of the bank. "She's hopelessly crazy, poor thing, and God only knows by what strange chance she came to be here to-night."

He turned the key in the lock as he spoke and threw open the door leading into a dark hallway in the great building on the corner of Rector street and Broadway, in the rear of the offices occupied by the Webster National Bank.

"Follow me," he added, entering the passage as he spoke, "and shut the door behind you-it won't take a moment, and the thing is done."

He moved through the passage and opened an inner door, supposing the detective to be close behind.

Great heavens! What sight was this?

There, before his astonished gaze in the dim light of the gas, kept burning through the entire night in this, as in other banks, lay the great doors of the money vault blown out of all shape, disclosing the vault within.

A burglar's jimmy, a crowbar, and a powder-can lay mingled with a pile of books and papers-the contents of the rifled vault-upon the floor.

"Cutts, Cutts! For Heaven's sake look here!"

Frank Mansfield sprang out into the dark hall, calling the detective's name.

There was no reply.

The outer door stood open, the dark outlines of Trinity Church appeared beyond, but Detective Cutts was nowhere to be seen.

With one bound Frank Mansfield leaped toward that open door.

"Stop!" cried a stern voice. "Young man, what are you doing here?"

And the form of a large and powerful man was interposed before him, who seized the boy by the arm.

"This way, men!" he cried, as three policemen came running down Rector street from Broadway. "Here's one of the rascals now. We are here just in the nick of time!"

* * *