The handwriting was that of a woman, and what she had
written was: "If the district attorney will come at once, and
alone, to Kessler's Cafe, on the Boston Post Road, near the city
line, he will be told who killed Hermann Banf. If he don't come in
an hour, it will be too late. If he brings anybody with him, he
won't be told anything. Leave your car in the road and walk up the
drive. Ida Earle."
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.
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