Book IV: Chapter IV

by Sherwood Anderson

　　In the office McGregor occupied in Van Buren Street there was anotherdesk besides his own. The desk was owned by a small man with anextraordinary long moustache and with grease spots on the lapel of hiscoat. In the morning he came in and sat in his chair with his feet onhis desk. He smoked long black stogies and read the morning papers. Onthe glass panel of the door was the inscription, "Henry Hunt, RealEstate Broker." When he had finished with the morning papers hedisappeared, returning tired and dejected late in the afternoon.

　　The real estate business of Henry Hunt was a myth. Although he boughtand sold no property he insisted on the title and had in his desk apile of letterheads setting forth the kind of property in which hespecialised. He had a picture of his daughter, a graduate of the HydePark High School, in a glass frame on the wall. When he went out atthe door in the morning he paused to look at McGregor and said, "Ifany one comes in about property tend to them for me. I'll be gone fora while."

　　Henry Hunt was a collector of tithes for the political bosses of thefirst ward. All day he went from place to place through the wardinterviewing women, checking their names off a little red book hecarried in his pocket, promising, demanding, making veiled threats. Inthe evening he sat in his flat overlooking Jackson Park and listenedto his daughter play on the piano. With all his heart he hated hisplace in life and as he rode back and forth to town on the IllinoisCentral trains he stared at the lake and dreamed of owning a farm andliving a free life in the country. In his mind he could see themerchants standing gossiping on the sidewalk before the stores in anOhio village where he had lived as a boy and in fancy saw himselfagain a boy, driving cows through the village street in the eveningand making a delightful little slap slap with his bare feet in thedeep dust.

　　It was Henry Hunt in his secret office as collector and lieutenant tothe "boss" of the first ward who shifted the scenes for McGregor'sappearance as a public character in Chicago.

　　One night a young man--son of one of the city's plunging millionairewheat speculators--was found dead in a little blind alley back of aresort known as Polk Street Mary's place. He lay crumpled up against aboard fence quite dead and with a bruise on the side of his head. Apoliceman found him and dragged him to the street light at the cornerof the alley.

　　For twenty minutes the policeman had been standing under the lightswinging his stick. He had heard nothing. A young man came up, touchedhim on the arm and whispered to him. When he turned to go down thealley the young man ran away up the street.

　　* * * * *The powers that rule the first ward in Chicago were furious when theidentity of the dead man became known. The "boss," a mild-lookingblue-eyed little man in a neat grey suit and with a silky moustache,stood in his office opening and closing his fists convulsively. Thenhe called a young man and sent for Henry Hunt and a well known policeofficial.

　　For some weeks the newspapers of Chicago had been conducting acampaign against vice. Swarms of reporters had over-run the ward.Daily they issued word pictures of life in the underworld. On thefront pages of the papers with senators and governors and millionaireswho had divorced their wives, appeared also the names of Ugly BrownChophouse Sam and Carolina Kate with descriptions of their places,their hours of closing and the class and quantity of their patronage.A drunken man rolled on the floor at the back of a Twenty-secondStreet saloon and robbed of his pocketbook had his picture on thefront page of the morning papers.

　　Henry Hunt sat in his office on Van Buren Street trembling withfright. He expected to see his name in the paper and his occupationdisclosed.

　　The powers that ruled the First--quiet shrewd men who knew how to makeand to take profits, the very flower of commercialism--werefrightened. They saw in the prominence of the dead man a realopportunity for their momentary enemies the press. For weeks they hadbeen sitting quietly, weathering the storm of public disapproval. Intheir minds they thought of the ward as a kingdom in itself, somethingforeign and apart from the city. Among their followers were men whohad not been across the Van Buren Street line into foreign territoryfor years.

　　Suddenly through the minds of these men floated a menace. Like thesmall soft-speaking boss the ward gripped its fist conclusively.Through the streets and alleys ran a cry, a warning. Like birds ofprey disturbed in their nesting places they fluttered, uttering cries.Throwing his stogie into the gutter Henry Hunt ran through the ward.From house to house he uttered his cry--"Lay low! Pull off nothing."

　　The little boss in his office at the front of his saloon looked fromHenry Hunt to the police official. "It is no time for hesitation," hesaid. "It will prove a boon if we act quickly. We have got to arrestand try that murderer and do it now. Who is our man? Quick. Let's haveaction."

　　Henry Hunt lighted a fresh stogie. He played nervously with the endsof his fingers and wished he were out of the ward and safely out ofrange of the prying eyes of the press. In fancy he could hear hisdaughter screaming with horror at the sight of his name spread inglaring letters before the world and thought of her with a flush ofabhorrence on her young face turning from him forever. In his terrorhis mind darted here and there. A name sprang to his lips. "It mighthave been Andy Brown," he said, puffing at the stogie.

　　The little boss whirled his chair about. He began picking up thepapers scattered about his desk. When he spoke his voice was againsoft and mild. "It was Andy Brown," he said. "Whisper the word about.Let a Tribune man locate Brown for you. Handle this right andyou will save your own scalp and get the fool papers off the back ofthe First."

　　* * * * *The arrest of Brown brought respite to the ward. The prediction of theshrewd little boss made good. The newspapers dropped the clamorous cryfor reform and began demanding instead the life of Andrew Brown.Newspaper artists rushed into police headquarters and made hurriedsketches to appear an hour later blazoned across the face of extras onthe streets. Grave scientific men got their pictures printed at theheads of articles on "Criminal Characteristics of the Head and Face."

　　An adept and imaginative writer for an afternoon paper spoke of Brownas a Jekyll and Hyde of the Tenderloin and hinted at other murders bythe same hand. From the comparatively quiet life of a not markedlyindustrious yeggman Brown came out of the upper floor of a StateStreet lodging house to stand stoically before the world of men--astorm centre about which swirled and eddied the wrath of an arousedcity.

　　The thought that had flashed into the mind of Henry Hunt as he sat inthe office of the soft-voiced boss was the making of an opportunityfor McGregor. For months he and Andrew Brown had been friends. Theyeggman, a strongly built slow talking man, looked like a skilledmechanic of a locomotive engineer. Coming into O'Toole's in the quiethours between eight and twelve he sat eating his evening meal andtalking in a half bantering humorous vein to the young lawyer. In hiseyes lurked a kind of hard cruelty tempered by indolence. It was hewho gave McGregor the name that still clings to him in that strangesavage land--"Judge Mac, the Big 'un."

　　When he was arrested Brown sent for McGregor and offered to give himcharge of his case. When the young lawyer refused he was insistent. Ina cell at the county jail they talked it over. By the door stood aguard watching them. McGregor peered into the half darkness and saidwhat he thought should be said. "You are in a hole," he began. "Youdon't want me, you want a big name. They're all set to hang you overthere." He waved his hand in the direction of the First. "They'regoing to hand you over as an answer to a stirred up city. It's a jobfor the biggest and best criminal lawyer in town. Name the man andI'll get him for you and help raise the money to pay him."

　　Andrew Brown got up and walked to McGregor. Looking down at him hespoke quickly and determinedly. "You do what I say," he growled. "Youtake this case. I didn't do the job. I was asleep in my room when itwas pulled off. Now you take the case. You won't clear me. It ain't inthe cards. But you get the job just the same."

　　He sat down again upon the iron cot at the corner of the cell. Hisvoice became slow and had in it a touch of cynical humour. "Look here,Big 'un," he said, "the gang's picked my number out of the hat. I'mgoing across but there's good advertising in the job for some one andyou get it."