Hewitt, who had sent away the messenger-boy and had been called in to give expert advice, was enthusiastic.
“Mr. District Attorney,” he cried, “that’s no crank letter. This Earle woman is wise. You got to take her as a serious proposition. She wouldn’t make that play if she couldn’t get away with it.”
“Who is she?” asked Wharton.
To the police, the detective assured them, Ida Earle had been known for years. When she was young she had been under the protection of a man high in the ranks of Tammany, and, in consequence, with her different ventures the Police had never interfered. She now was proprietress of the road-house in the note described as Kessler’s Cafe. It was a place for joy-riders. There was a cabaret, a hall for public dancing, and rooms for very private suppers.
In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was exclusive, but in all other respects its reputation was of the worst. In situation it was lonely, and from other houses separated by a quarter of a mile of dying trees and vacant lots.
The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but lately, through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had been relaid. It was patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle policemen. “But this,” continued the detective eagerly, “is where we win out. The road-house is an old farmhouse built over, with the barns changed into garages. They stand on the edge of a wood. It’s about as big as a city block. If we come in through the woods from the rear, the garages will hide us. Nobody in the house can see us, but we won’t be a hundred yards away. You’ve only to blow a police whistle and we’ll be with you.”
“You mean I ought to go?” said Wharton.
Rumson exclaimed incredulously: “You got to go!”
“It looks to me,” objected Bissell, “like a plot to get you there alone and rap you on the head.” “Not with that note inviting him there,” protested Hewitt, “and signed by Earle herself.”
“You don’t know she signed it?” objected the senator.