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TORYO-
\Dorothy
CANFIELD
OSCAR MICHEAUX



University
Libraries
TES SCIENTIA VERI
MewDAISYTONYSIII



SIA
PHYSIO
RGEON
B'S PLACE
REAL
BROWNS
AWABEALE AL
UN
PARLORS





THE STORY OF
Dorothy Stanfield








-
----






SHE HAD LIVED FOR THREE YEARS IN A STATE OF PERPETUAL DIS-
TRACTION, NEVER KNOWING A DAY OF PEACE OR HAPPINESS-UNTIL
SHE MET WALTER LE BARON, WITH WHOM SHE HAD FALLEN IN LOVE!


The STORY O
Dorothy
STANFIELI

Based on a Great Insurance
Swindle – and a Woman!
A Novel by
OSCAR MICHE AUX
Author of
“THE CASE OF MRS. WINGATE”
BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
Publishers
40 Morningside Avenue
New York
1946


828
M6227 st
Copyright, 1946 by
OSCAR MICHE AUX
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
without the permission of the author.
Other novels by the same author
THE CASE OF MRS. WINGATE
Nazi activity inside black America; the wealthy Mrs. Wingate
and beautiful Bertha Schultz, Negro Nazi spy! A powerful
psychological novel, involving a hush-hush subject!
THE WIND FROM NOWHERE
The unforgettable story of Martin Eden, young Negro builder
of an agricultural empire in the Dakota wilderness, wherein
he alone was black, and a beautiful and mysterious girl
to make this the strangest love story ever told!
Set up and electrotyped. Published 1946
Printed in the United States of America


65 6619-013
To
MARY J.
Whose faith and confidence
in the writer has always been
a source of inspiration.


828
M6227 st
No part o
W
Nazi activi.
and beauti
psych
The unfors
of an ag
he alone w


PATTERNS AND “THOU SHALT NOT”
In a Democratic and Free Country
America is a “free country," has always been, and everybod:
living in it is hoping that it will continue so. Up to this time
freedom of speech has been advocated and everybody is supposed
to enjoy this freedom. One may say or write anything they feel
inspired, or disposed to; and may publish and sell it, if there is any
demand for it, and nobody dares interfere.
This is exactly what Mr. Oscar Micheaux, author of THE STORY
OF DOROTHY STANFIELD, and two other recent novels, is doing, and
he seems to be getting along very well. Only one Negro other than
Mr. Micheaux is making a living from his writings. Nobody has
sought to interfere with his efforts and he has no complaints as
far as general reaction is concerned. Yet, with respect to certain
activities relating to the Negro, the matter of freedom of action,
at least, has a big question mark.
Take, for instance, the Negro's role in the movies at the present
time. For two years or more, due to his agitation for better and
more dignified roles, except for a menial part now and then, in
which he is required to roll his eyes, say all lines in dialect, and
in short, be stupid and funny, he has been practically barred from
the screen!
With regard to the radio, this is repeated and he is confined,
except as a guest artist now and then, to the same limited roles.
When he sings, the songs are usually confined to spirituals and
hymns.
As regards literature, it would seem that he enjoys a wider
range of thought and activity. Except in the novels by Oscar
Micheaux, however, he is never shown as a contemporary Amer-
ican citizen, talking as most colored people have long been speak-
ing, in plain and simple English. In the matter of romance, he
seems presumed not to have any whatsoever.
Just about every hot by or about Negroes that is published,
hower, is widely review in all publications, many at great


LEADING CHARACTERS
IN THE ORDER OF APPEARANCE
DOROTHY STANFIELD
Whose story it is that we have to tell
WALTER LE BARON
Who fell in love with her
BOB MARTIN
Who tells him her story
FRANK KNIGHT
A Negro author, who married a white woman
CONNIE AUSTIN
Who had lots to say
LONNIE SPELLMAN
Charged with raping a white woman
MRS. JANIE STRIBLING
Wealthy society matron, who made the charge
ARNOLD WALTON
Police Commissioner, the City of New York
ISADORE ZACARRIO
A Jew, who was murdered
CLEO "SCARFACE” JOHNSON
Negro, who killed and robbed him
N. D. STANFIELD
A swindler
JUNIUS BROWN
An undertaker
SAM JACKSON
Stanfield's stooge
DR. HAROLD VAUGHN
A wealthy Negro, and Dorothy Stanfield's father
LAWRENCE VAN REVEL
Wealthy planter and banker
LIZZIE O'NEAL
His Negress concubine
TIME: Today, yesterday, tomorrow.
PLACE: Memphis and New York


length, and most times very favorably-except those by Mr.
Micheaux, which have outsold all other books by Negro authors
during the past five years with two single exceptions. Why do
his books sell so well? Because when Mr. Micheaux writes he has
a story to tell; the kind obviously, that the average reader likes
and enjoys reading—but we wish to explain why his books have
not been reviewed as the public has a right to expect. We will
attempt to explain by citing a parallel.
Since long before the Civil War, and up to this day, hundreds
of novels have featured as the main theme, colored women, mostly
beautiful ones, as the concubines of white men, from which associa-
tion through the years has sprung hundreds of thousands of mul-
attoes, and nobody seems to think anything about it! Books of
the kind are reviewed in about the same ratio as other books. One
of the most successful—if not the most successful novel of 1944,
retold this same old, old story, except that it pictured the colored
girl in this instance as not only beautiful, but highly educated and
refined. That book was reviewed in about every newspaper and
magazine that reviews books the country over-and in most, very
favorably.
In none of these books, however, is the white man ever shown
as marrying the colored girl. In fact, he is not even expected to!
Now we will try to explain what we mean by "patterns” and “thou
shalt not.”
Early in 1945, a novel called The Case of Mrs. Wingate, of
which Mr. Micheaux is the author, was published and promptly
"caught on” and has been a best seller ever since. Yet 85 per cent
of the daily newspapers and magazines that received copies for
review, ignored the book and made no mention of even having
received it. A few gave fine reviews and praised the book highly.
The reason for this silence was obvious to both the author and his
publishers. It was simply because Mr. Micheaux dared reverse
the old order, and recited in his book the case, based on fact, of a
wealthy and aristocratic, but passionate, white girl who fell in love
with a Negro youth who was struggling in school. She went to
his assistance and financed his education-clear up to a Ph.D.
as I



from Harvard, and when her millionaire white husband was accic
ently killed, she promptly married her colored lover.
Being plain and frank about it, such stories are against th
“pattern” as designed for Negroes and writers pretty well under
stand that “thou shalt not” write such books, which should end
the matter, especially when most publishers keep studiously away
from bringing out such literature. But let's get down to facts!
It so happens that during the past few years, and particularly
since the rise of Communism in America, there has been an in-
creased amount of race-mixing, mostly between white women and
colored men—so much so, in fact, that it has become alarming to
the better class of Negroes, who are wondering just how far it is
likely to go. This is a fact—and the practice is increasing right
here in our own America! The fact that the press, in the matter
of reviewing books, chooses to ignore it, because, no doubt, they
do not like the idea, and by their silence with regard to Mr. Mich-
eaux's books, tacitly condemn them just because the author dares
touch upon the subject, has not lessened or decreased the practice,
So what?
Race-mixing is not the theme of Mr. Micheaux's novels by any
means, notwithstanding that here and there and now and then it
happens to occupy a part in the development of his plots. The
practice, as stated, is going on all over the North and is the subject
of conversation and debate among Negroes the country over. So
why does the great American press condemn Mr. Micheaux's books
just because he chooses to portray the facts to some degree as they
exist? This is democracy and "freedom of speech” – with a
penalty!
We have brought this up more to answer so many queries from
readers who have expressed a desire to know why they so rarely
see a review of the books when they are so popular among readers
and sell so well. By which it seems apparent that not all white
Americans share the view of most reviewers and ignore the br
just because they may or may not like the idea of race-mis
The


LEADING CHARACTERS
IN THE ORDER OF APPEARANCE
DOROTHY STANFIELD
Whose story it is that we have to tell
WALTER LE BARON
Who fell in love with her
BOB MARTIN
Who tells him her story
FRANK KNIGHT
A Negro author, who married a white woman
CONNIE AUSTIN
Who had lots to say
LONNIE SPELLMAN
Charged with raping a white woman
MRS. JANIE STRIBLING
Wealthy society matron, who made the charge
ARNOLD WALTON
Police Commissioner, the City of New York
ISADORE ZACARRIO
A Jew, who was murdered
CLEO "SCARFACE” JOHNSON
Negro, who killed and robbed him
N. D. STANFIELD
A swindler
JUNIUS BROWN
An undertaker
SAM JACKSON
Stanfield's stooge
DR. HAROLD VAUGHN
A wealthy Negro, and Dorothy Stanfield's father
LAWRENCE VAN REVEL
Wealthy planter and banker
LIZZIE O'NEAL
His Negress concubine
TIME: Today, yesterday, tomorrow.
PLACE: Memphis and New York


PATTERNS AND "THOU SHALT NOT"
In a Democratic and Free Country
America is a “free country," has always been, and everybody
living in it is hoping that it will continue so. Up to this time,
freedom of speech has been advocated and everybody is supposed
to enjoy this freedom. One may say or write anything they feel
inspired, or disposed to; and may publish and sell it, if there is any
demand for it, and nobody dares interfere.
This is exactly what Mr. Oscar Micheaux, author of THE STORY
OF DOROTHY STANFIELD, and two other recent novels, is doing, and
he seems to be getting along very well. Only one Negro other than
Mr. Micheaux is making a living from his writings. Nobody has
sought to interfere with his efforts and he has no complaints as
far as general reaction is concerned. Yet, with respect to certain
activities relating to the Negro, the matter of freedom of action,
at least, has a big question mark.
Take, for instance, the Negro's role in the movies at the present
time. For two years or more, due to his agitation for better and
more dignified roles, except for a menial part now and then, in
which he is required to roll his eyes, say all lines in dialect, and
in short, be stupid and funny, he has been practically barred from
the screen!
With regard to the radio, this is repeated and he is confined,
except as a guest artist now and then, to the same limited roles.
When he sings, the songs are usually confined to spirituals and
hymns.
As regards literature, it would seem that he enjoys a wider
range of thought and activity. Except in the novels by Oscar
Micheaux, however, he is never shown as a contemporary Amer-
ican citizen, talking as most colored people have long been speak-
ing, in plain and simple English. In the matter of romance, he
seems presumed not to have any whatsoever.
Just about every book by or about Negroes that is published,
however, is widely reviewed in all publications, many at great


length, and most times very favorably–except those by Mr.
Micheaux, which have outsold all other books by Negro authors
during the past five years with two single exceptions. Why do
his books sell so well? Because when Mr. Micheaux writes he has
a story to tell; the kind obviously, that the average reader likes
and enjoys reading—but we wish to explain why his books have
not been reviewed as the public has a right to expect. We will
attempt to explain by citing a parallel.
Since long before the Civil War, and up to this day, hundreds
of novels have featured as the main theme, colored women, mostly
beautiful ones, as the concubines of white men, from which associa-
tion through the years has sprung hundreds of thousands of mul-
attoes, and nobody seems to think anything about it! Books of
the kind are reviewed in about the same ratio as other books. One
of the most successful—if not the most successful novel of 1944,
retold this same old, old story, except that it pictured the colored
girl in this instance as not only beautiful, but highly educated and
refined. That book was reviewed in about every newspaper and
magazine that reviews books the country over—and in most, very
favorably.
In none of these books, however, is the white man ever shown
as marrying the colored girl. In fact, he is not even expected to!
Now we will try to explain what we mean by "patterns" and "thou
shalt not.”
Early in 1945, a novel called The Case of Mrs. Wingate, of
which Mr. Micheaux is the author, was published and promptly
"caught on” and has been a best seller ever since. Yet 85 per cent
of the daily newspapers and magazines that received copies for
review, ignored the book and made no mention of even having
received it. A few gave fine reviews and praised the book highly.
The reason for this silence was obvious to both the author and his
publishers. It was simply because Mr. Micheaux dared reverse
the old order, and recited in his book the case, based on fact, of a
wealthy and aristocratic, but passionate, white girl who fell in love
with a Negro youth who was struggling in school. She went to
his assistance and financed his education-clear up to a Ph.D.


from Harvard, and when her millionaire white husband was accid-
ently killed, she promptly married her colored lover.
Being plain and frank about it, such stories are against the
"pattern” as designed for Negroes and writers pretty well under-
stand that “thou shalt not” write such books, which should end
the matter, especially when most publishers keep studiously away
from bringing out such literature. But let's get down to facts!
It so happens that during the past few years, and particularly
since the rise of Communism in America, there has been an in-
creased amount of race-mixing, mostly between white women and
colored men—so much so, in fact, that it has become alarming to
the better class of Negroes, who are wondering just how far it is
likely to go. This is a fact—and the practice is increasing right
here in our own America! The fact that the press, in the matter
of reviewing books, chooses to ignore it, because, no doubt, they
do not like the idea, and by their silence with regard to Mr. Mich-
eaux's books, tacitly condemn them just because the author dares
touch upon the subject, has not lessened or decreased the practice,
So what?
Race-mixing is not the theme of Mr. Micheaux's novels by any
means, notwithstanding that here and there and now and then it
happens to occupy a part in the development of his plots. The
practice, as stated, is going on all over the North and is the subject
of conversation and debate among Negroes the country over. So
why does the great American press condemn Mr. Micheaux's books
just because he chooses to portray the facts to some degree as they
exist? This is democracy and "freedom of speech” — with a
penalty!
We have brought this up more to answer so many queries from
readers who have expressed a desire to know why they so rarely
see a review of the books when they are so popular among readers
and sell so well. By which it seems apparent that not all white
Americans share the view of most reviewers and ignore the books
just because they may or may not like the idea of race-mixing.
The Publishers


This novel is fiction and intended as such,
It does not refer to real characters, or to
actual events. Any likeness to characters
either living or dead is purely coincidental.


THE STORY OF
Dorothy Stanfield





CHAPTER
OROTHY STANFIELD finished the note she had been try-
ing to write for several days, picked up a blotter, dried the
ink, spread the paper before her and read aloud (but to
herself) what she had written:
Mr. Sidney Wyeth
Publisher
400 Monmouth Street
New York, N. Y.
Dear Mr. Wyeth:
Herewith the memoranda I promised to send you. If you decide
to use it, I would be very grateful if you'd change my name, his
name, the names of all the people who make up the characters in this
drama of a woman's unhappy soul, also the names of the places
where it all took place.
It may require considerable work to whip it into readable shape
and make it of interest, notwithstanding the sordid and ugly facts.
As I view it, it would make a more interesting story if you'd begin
it when I met him, then go back to the beginning, bring it up to that
day and continue then to the end of my diary.
. You have my consent, if you publish it, to alter and amend; add
to, take away, do as you think best about it, only please—oh please
in whatever you show or say, try to forgive the Doctor for the
sins of his iniquity.
Sadly,
Dorothy Stanfield
She paused on finishing the note and reflected briefly. Then she
frowned. She had frowned about the same thing before. It was
the end of the diary. It did not end—just stopped; and the reason


14
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
was obvious. The story she had told had not ended. “Will it ever
end?” she asked herself. Yes it would. "All things end,” Adolf
Hitler had said, long before the war he started in Europe ended. He
said that-even it would end some day; that all wars had ended
before somehow.
And that war, the greatest of all since the beginning of time, had
finally ended. All the world knew how. Then how would her story
end? She shook her head sadly and sighed as she put the note she
had just written away. She decided not to send it then, but to go
get in her car and drive somewhere-anywhere, but to go away.
It was Sunday and a beautiful day. She had risen early that
morning, dressed, planning to write the note, fold the diary and send
both away to New York. She estimated that it would take two days
to reach New York; but to be sure that the matter got out of
Memphis, the present setting of our story, she planned to take both
to the station and put them in the mail car herself.
She sighed again, with an inward expression of determination,
a determination born of tragedy, for Dorothy Stanfield's experience
since that fatal day three years before when Satan stepped into her
life and twisted it all out of proportion, had taught her about trag-
edy, and what it was to be unhappy.
She went outside and got into her car, backed it out of the small
garage and turned east into South Parkway, the street on which she
resided. She headed toward Beale Avenue for a gas station oper-
ated by two colored men, where she maintained an account. She
had decided by now to drive to a distant city to visit a friend and re-
turn to Memphis that night.
At about this same moment, Walter Le Baron, of New York, a
man whom we will meet again in our story, got into his car in front
of the small Dolphin hotel, drove two blocks west, turned into San-
gamon Avenue and headed also for Beale Street, the name by which
it was known by everybody who knew anything about Memphis
itself.
Heading south he turned into Beale Street and after a few
blocks, pulled into the same gas station for which Dorothy Stanfield,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
15
who lived much farther away, was headed. He had his tank filled,
backed away from the pump and off to one side where some black
boys proceeded to wipe off the dust and shine the car. He got out,
crossed to a couple who had driven into the station in the meantime,
and was delighted on coming up to the car to find that he knew the
occupants. After a cheerful greeting he started to talk about mat-
ters that interested them, when he was attracted by a large open
coupé, which was driven into the station by a woman, who, as we
know, was none other than Dorothy Stanfield.
After a few parting words, his friends drove away, and Le Baron
was in the act of starting back to his car, expecting to drive back
down Beale Street to a theatre to meet another friend, when, in
some strange manner, he was attracted by the woman who had just
driven into the station.
Dorothy turned as the attendant, after greeting her, said:
“How many please?”
She was looking in the rear view mirror at the moment, and was
in the act of powdering her nose. As she did so, her eyes caught a
silhouette of Le Baron, standing perhaps fifty feet away, gazing at
her curiously. Her curiosity aroused, she forgot for the moment the
attendant standing beside her, until he coughed. Quickly she re-
laxed, smiled and turned to him.
"Fill it, please."
“Thank you, Mrs. Stanfield,” he replied affably, and proceeded
to take down the hose, remove the cap and start the flow of gasoline.
I.istening to it pouring into the tank, Mrs. Stanfield dared another
look through the mirror at the tall stranger, standing gazing across
at her. It rather amused her and she smiled. Shortly, however, as
if having decided on something else, the stranger moved and was
quickly out of focus.
She did not turn to look at him but she knew by the sound of
his footsteps that he was coming in her direction. Two seconds later
he stood beside the car, but for the moment said nothing. Knowing
that he was there, she pretended to busy herself at something and
waited for him to speak.


16
The STORY RY
CANFIELD
OTI
OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Pardon, madam," he presently ventured to say. She turned to
look at him casually, nodded slightly and replied, rather informally:
“How do you do?”
“Your face,” he began, looking at her closely, and this embar-
rassed her somewhat, "seems—er, rather familiar.”
“Does it?" she asked, and glanced at him curiously but said no
more.
"It does,” he answered, still gazing at her as if trying to recall
where, if ever, he had seen her before. After a pause he sighed
audibly.
“Well,” she said, “Where?”
"I don't know, madam. I can't seem to recall; but your face is
that familiar. It must have been somewhere, I'm sure.”
“This is rather amusing,” she ventured sarcastically.
"It must seem so to you, I fear,” he said and was plainly an-
noyed by his inability to recollect. "I guess I'll have to admit that
I must be mistaken.”
“I'm quite sure you are. I've never seen you before in my life.”
"I'm sorry,” he said meekly and moved as if to turn away. For
some unexplained reason, however, Dorothy suddenly realized that
she didn't want him to. She tried quickly to think of an excuse to
keep him there, to hear him say something else. Then, with a slight
sbrug of the shoulders, Walter Le Baron turned and decided to see
it through.
"Were you ever in—Mississippi?”
· “Who lives in Memphis who hasn't been,” she said and decided
to continue to be sarcastic.
"On the way here," he resumed thoughtfully, or perhaps reflec-
tively, “I stopped in Canton, just north of Jackson." His eyes were
downcast now, and he seemed to be speaking more to himself than
to her. Through, he presently raised his eyes and looked hard at
her and she felt that she had to say something.
"I have a brother there,” she said. Immediately he perked up
and snapping his fingers, cried:
"A Doctor?"


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
17
She nodded in the affirmative.
"Then that was it!” Again she looked up at him, this time more
curiously.
“What do you mean?”
“He looks just like you. Or, I'd say, you look just like him."
For the first time Dorothy Stanfield was forced to smile and as
she did so, also relaxed her austerity. It was true. Everybody who
knew both of them had been saying the same thing since they were
kids.
“You're younger," he said now.
“Yes,” she admitted, "I'm younger."
“I hope you understand now and can forgive me.”
"I guess I'll have to," she said and for the second time, found
herself smiling up at him. He smiled too as he looked down at her.
Dorothy Stanfield was not the prettiest girl in Memphis, as most
men view girls, but she was very attractive. As he looked at her, he
guessed that she was, perhaps, five or six years his junior. She had
a round face, a protruding chin—which he liked, a wealth of coarse,
brindle-like hair which covered her round head and spread to and
over her shoulders. She seemed, in addition to her brown skin, a bit
tanned and he gathered that she spent considerable time out of
doors, perhaps driving that fine car in which she was seated, around
the country.
Her eyes, while full and rounded like her face, carried two defi-
nite expressions. They were passionate, so passionate that they
tended to tempt men; and, for the moment, they seemed to tempt
him. Yet he could see that she was not thinking that way at all.
. But behind this subtle something there was sadness in the eyes,
which seemed to draw him irresistibly to her. What was it, he found
himself wondering. During these brief and fleeting seconds she sat
gazing out before her while he remained silent. Presently, she
looked up at him, a question in her eyes. They seemed to ask who
he was.
He shifted and smiled apologetically. Then taking from his
pocket folder a card upon which the name Walter Le Baron was


18
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
printed, he handed it to her. She took it and looked at it, as he
went on to explain.
“That is my card, and I'm from New York.”
"Oh, New York?" she repeated, studying his name on the card.
It was getting warm, and he unbuttoned the coat of his palm
beach suit. He looked again down at her; at her rounded breasts
which seemed to extend straight out and not hang down. From the
way she relaxed, he didn't think she wore a girdle. Her teaties rose
and fell as she breathed and seemed to add to the subtle passion in
her face. He guessed that she weighed about 130 pounds.
“That section away uptown that they call Harlem,” he was say-
ing. She smiled tolerantly, took her eyes off the card and glanced
up at him, he thought, somewhat teasingly
"Do all the colored people in New York live in Harlem?" she
asked, although having been to New York, she knew that was not
true.
"Oh, no,” he replied hastily. "By no means. There are
100,000, perhaps even more, who reside across the river in Brook-
lyn alone.”
“Really?” she asked, innocently.
"Across the Harlem River, just above Harlem, at least 30,000
more live in the Bronx.”
“Is that so?”
“Quite a large number live farther downtown, in lower Man-
hattan-in fact, Negroes live all over New York; in about every
borough.”
“So interesting.”
“But the most of us, it is admitted, do live in Harlem-black
Harlem, we call it.”.
"Just how do you mean, 'black Harlem?!” she asked now, tan-
talizingly. “Because the most up there—are black?”.
“I think you are playing with me now," he said, seeming to
catch on somewhat.
"Well,” she said sighing, "what am I supposed to do, now that
you have said so much? Faint, fall out or cry?”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
19
“Oh, please," he pleaded sincerely. "Don't misunderstand me.
I assure you that I am not a flirt, a-nonentity or a play boy.”
“Then what are you?" she threw at him pointedly. He hesi-
tated before making reply-or even trying to, during which she
glanced up at him, a question in her eyes.
“I'm afraid you'd hardly believe me if I told you."
“And why not?”
“I—I don't know, but for the present I'm just plain Walter Le
Baron.”
“So?”
“To be quite frank and honest about it, madam, you have
aroused my interest. Seems rather strange just why. But I am in-
terested in you."
"Indeed," she cried and looked up at him rather coldly now.
“Are you in the habit of becoming interested in—strange women?
Women whom you don't know? Whom you have never seen
before?”
"I'm so sorry," he said kindly.
“Sorry for what?”.
“For the way you chose to misunderstand me.”
“What do you expect?”
“Nothing, I guess. Still, that does not change the fact that I
am strangely interested in you.”
“And you do not even know me.”
“You said you were Dr. Vaughn's sister. I met and became
very friendly with him in Canton.”
“That is at least in your favor.”
"Thank you."
“What were you doing in Canton?”
"Just passed through on my way here. Stopped over a few
hours and that was when and how I happened to meet your brother.”
“That doesn't explain why you met him. There must have been
a-more definite reason."
“There was.”
"Thank you. We now seem to be getting somewhere."


20
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
TD
“I'm pleased.”
“Thank you,” she said. “What did you speak to my brother
about?”
"I was making some inquiries. But we are getting away from
the subject that drew me over here to speak to you."
"Oh, that drew you over here to speak to me. What was that?”
"That's what I don't quite understand. Meanwhile, might I
ask, since it has gone this far, your name?” She glanced up at him
curiously, shrugged her shoulders uncertainly, then countered:
"You said you met my brother. You quoted his name correctly.
Isn't that enough?"
"It might be, in fact it will have to be, but my interest in you
happens to be much deeper.” He paused briefly and lowered his
eyes momentarily, then raising them, glanced at her, she thought, a
bit oddly. “You don't care to-tell me?” Glancing up at him, she
presently relaxed and shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, I don't mind,” she said resignedly. “My name is Dorothy."
"A pretty name," he exclaimed, cheerfully. She felt momen-
tarily flattered, glanced up at him kindly and smiled.
“You think so?"
"I'm sure of it. It fits you beautifully."
“You do say such nice things."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. What's your last name?”
“Stanfield.”
“O-o-h!” he cried. “That is more interesting still. Dorothy
Stanfield. Sounds romantic."
"You flatter me,” she said, and the blood flushed to her face. She
was somehow pleased far more than she was willing to admit-even
to herself.
"I don't exactly mean to,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
She was enjoying talking to him, hearing him talk to her; but all she
said to his last words was a simple:
"No?”
“I do not. What attracted me," he continued, again looking at
her searchingly. “Was something in your face.” Again she looked


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
21
up at him and quickly, but this time she didn't smile. Her face
wore an expression of curiosity.
“What something in my face?” she said and forced an unen-
thusiastic smile.
“Yes, it is true. There is something infinite in your face.”
“Infinite?”
“More. Something tragic, perhaps, something hidden."
“You're getting into deep water,” she offered now.
“Something strange and mysterious.”
"Not only in deep water now but strange waters." Yet what he
had said caused her to feel strangely disturbed. She decided to try
defiance. She felt that would bluff him, make him pause and hesi-
tate, not feel so sure about that something in her face.**
"I don't believe you.” That was her counterattack. She glanced
up at him to see what effect it had on him, if any.
“I'm sorry,” he said simply. “But that does not alter what I
see.” Why was he so persistent? There was something in her face,
all right, but it was her secret, and she resented him, a stranger,
daring to claim that he saw it. Even the people who knew her well,
had not said such things. “Well,” she said to herself, sighing in-
wardly. "I've got to see it through now. He can't get away with
such a bold idea."
"Is that why, you a stranger, have been looking at me so hard?”
"I guess so." There he was again. Just as calm about it as he
could be, she thought. He was saying something else.
“There is something about you, in your face-or perhaps it is in
your eyes, that has aroused my curiosity. In fact,” he went on
more firmly, “stirred it from the beginning; and now it has me that
curious to know more about you."
"That is rather odd,” she said a bit thoughtfully. "Odd and un-
usual, and I don't understand.” Paused to glance up at him quickly.
"Perhaps you can make it a bit more clear.” She was looking at
him frankly now.
"I don't know if I can. I believe, however, that if you'll tell me
more about yourself, or at least answer a few simple questions, in-


22
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
nocent questions, I might be able to understand somewhat better
what I see.”
"You wouldn't happen to be a-clairvoyant?"
“Decidedly not.”
“I'm glad you are not,” she said and sighed relievedly. "I'm
not interested in having my fortune told, my future read. In fact,
I'd rather not be told anything about my future.”
"I can assure you that I am in no way related to fortune tellers.”
He smiled while saying this, to indicate, perhaps, how ridiculous the
idea.
“Then what do you want to know?"
“Well,” he said, pausing briefly, and looked down at her search-
ingly, and then continued:
“Are you—," then breaking off so suddenly that she started and
looked quickly up into his face.
“What?".
"A Miss or a Mrs.? You must be married, of course?"
"No," she said, shaking her head negatively and not looking at
him, keeping her eyes straight before her. He hesitated for a
moment and was at a loss as to how to proceed.
“Single, then?"
"No," she said and again shook her head—all the while, how-
ever, refusing to look at him, her eyes straight ahead, seemingly
looking at nothing.
"Not married, not single,” he was saying. Then tried again, a
trifle uncertainly. "A widow then?”
"No," she said in that same tone, again shaking her head, eyes
still straight before her.
He was in deeper water than ever now and that something which
had aroused his curiosity at the outset was propelling him into still
deeper water. However strange it all seemed, it only increased his
conviction that this woman was the victim of some strange tragedy
in her life, a tragedy or misfortune or an experience so intricate,
that she was not going to divulge any of it at this moment, regard-
less of how hard he pressed her. She turned now to look up at him


24
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
ever since he voiced his suspicions.
“Go on,” she said presently, pretending to be amused. "I'm
listening."
"When you drove up and stopped at this pump and turned to
glance across at me, I was abruptly made conscious of this fact. I
was sure I saw something in your face. I felt something."
"What,” she interrupted him to say, "for instance?” She af-
fected to regard it all as just one big joke.
“You're laughing at me,” he said, a bit resentfully, then con-
tinued persistently; as persistently as ever. “Nevertheless, I'm
positive by this time that what I saw was something; something that
has happened to you.”
“You are very interesting,” she said and meant it; but from the
way she said it he didn't believe her.
"I do not, of course, know you well enough even by now to go
delving into your private life, but, I repeat, your face carries a
story—something terrible has happened in your life, somewhere,
sometime; and it happened to you when it did. What I am curious
to know is, what was it?”
She laughed openly now, a laugh she did not mean; but he
thought she did and bit his lip in vexation.
“You may try to laugh it off," he said, his face serious in spite
of her pretended derision. “But I'd be willing to lay a bet that I
am right, anyhow.”
“What?” She asked, breaking off abruptly in her pretended
laughter.
"I'm going to find out what it is.” He nodded his head up and
down as he made this assertion—and suddenly Dorothy's face be-
came honestly serious for a moment. Then through it she pretend-
ed another smile and went on, tentatively:
"And how, may I ask?” Unknown of course to him, Dorothy
was really annoyed and at last on the anxious seat. It had gone
further than she anticipated. She would have liked to become
angry but somehow she couldn't bring herself to do so. The man's
face, his expression-everything about him seemed so honest. And


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
25
then for a moment she quit trying to be so hard—in her thoughts
towards him anyhow. She looked up at him, straight into his eyes,
and she could find nothing there to justify her conduct toward him.
She decided to be entirely human for a moment, and to experience
how that would feel.
"He must be a nice man,” she said to herself. If he was de-
termined to inquire further about her, she might be tempted to tell
him some of the things she had set down in her diary. Oh, if he
could only read what she had written in that memoranda of her
soul; the sorrows-yes, the agonies, he would feel sorry for her, she
was sure. Her diary was unfinished. Was it possible that she
might add to it this meeting with him, and some of the many things
he had said; some of the many questions he had asked?
While she was thinking all these things, he had become momen-
tarily silent. Her curiosity had by now become most intense.
“Just how do you propose to find out more about me, Mr. Le
Baron?” she asked. He started, as if his mind had been on some-
thing far away.
"Oh, pardon me!” he cried, stiffening. "How? Oh, yes. I'll
tell you."
"Please do,” she said, guardedly.
“I have a contact man here who teaches in the colored high
school.”
“Oh, you have?”
"I have, Miss Stanfield. You'll excuse me for using the word
‘Miss,' for you might, of course, be a “Mrs.' ”.
"I might,” she said and forced a smile through her anxiety. “Per-
haps he's a fortune teller?"
"He's a mathematician.”
"In one of our local high schools?” she asked. He glanced at
her curiously.
“Do you have more than one?”
“Two,” she said.
"Oh, two?”
“Yes, two. So which one? I might happen to know him."


26
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“In the Booker T. Washington.”
“Then I'm sure that I must know him.”
“I'm quite sure you do. His name is Bob.”
“You'll have to tell me more. I know many Roberts."
“Martin is the rest of his name. Bob Martin.”
“Is that so?” She decided not to let him know that she knew
Martin. But she was thinking—and fast.
"Please believe me when I say that I have no malicious designs
in finding out. In fact, I cannot honestly tell you why I have be-
come so curious about you. It is strangely beyond me."
“Then who can?"
"Nobody. Yet, I confess that I am so interested in finding out
what happened to you that it has me very perturbed. Perhaps you
know Bob? He seems to know about all the people of our group in
Memphis who amount to anything, and it takes only one glance at.
you for me to conclude that he must know you—perhaps well.
Which, of course, is only my conjecture.”
Dorothy by now was really disturbed. She felt it was about
time to extricate herself from what was about to become an em-
barassing situation. For answer she just smiled up at him in that
peculiar noncommittal way, he thought, and then touched the
starter. He moved back a step.
"Well, I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Le Baron,” she said and
to his surprise, offered her hand. He took it gladly and noted with
pleasure that it was both soft and warm and it thrilled him. Sud-
denly he raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“I hope you believe all I've said, and won't go away disliking
me.”
"I won't dislike you, Mr. Le Baron,” and her voice sounded
strangely warm and tender, and sincere. She had both hands on
the steering wheel, her foot on the accelerator. The motor was
running silently, but he could tell that it was by the easy throbbing
of the car. She was preparing to shove off.
"It was pleasant to meet you,” she said warmly. The motor
was louder now and the big car was trembling as if with eagerness


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
27
to plunge ahead and away. Both had to talk louder to be heard
above its trembling roaring.
"I—hope Bob Martin will tell you what you seem so anxious to
know, what you are so anxious to find out, and I'm sure he will,”
she called out, the big car fairly dancing with energy, anxious it
seemed to plunge ahead and be gone. With a sort of sad smile,
which suddenly enveloped her face, she called: "Good-bye,” and
released the brakes. The car dashed forward and into the street,
where she turned to bow again. In that moment Walter Le Baron
felt strangely sorry for her. “I'll bet she's a good woman. Just got
a bad break, that's all.”
She swung the car to the right now, seemed to release its pent-
up energy—and it was gone.
Walter Le Baron stood there, watching it until it reached what
seemed the end of the street, then turning left, disappeared. He
turned and walked slowly across to where his car was parked and
got into it, where he paused to think of that strange woman who had
come into his life as if from nowhere. Would he ever see her again?
Unable to decide, he shook his head sadly and started his motor.
He went forward a few yards, then turned left into Beale Street, and
started for the New Daisy theatre where he was due soon to meet
Bob Martin.
As he rolled down Beale Street toward Main, he kept thinking
about the woman who had aroused more in him than any woman
had in all the years of his life.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
29
Negro crooks from Chicago or Detroit,” who she had heard, trav-
eled around the country in fine cars; and who specialized, she had
also heard, in making love to gullible women; smart Negroes with
a racket. "No," she went on, shaking her head. "He can't be a
racketeer, either. He didn't have that kind of air. Then what is
he and who is he?” She sighed—then recoiled violently as she
thought about something else, which frightened her.
During a visit she had made to Chicago a few years before, cer-
tain handsome, well cared for Negroes had been pointed out to her,
and her friends had told her what they did; that they were pimps,
and that most of them were supported by women, white women,
who sold their bodies to do so; sold their bodies to the highest bid-
ders, and gave those men most of the money they made that way.
Cold sweat broke out all over her as she reckoned this pos-
sibility.
Those men, she recalled, also drove around in fine cars and
specialized in making love to nice women. Could Walter Le Baron
be associated with this kind of a life? The more she thought about
it, the more imaginative she seemed to become.
She recalled that while she had been visiting in Chicago, some
girls with whom she became acquainted, had just returned from a
vacation on the Pacific coast, during which they had spent a week
in Seattle, and lurid were the stories they told about handsome
colored men they met out there during that week. They talked
about these men, referring to them as "business men.” When she
inquired what kind of business they were in, the girls smiled and
said they were “service commissioners." This all seemed vague to
her, and when she asked for more details as to their business, she
had been told it was "funny” business.
Later they told her frankly just what kind of business the men
were engaged in; that each one had a "stable," which was more
confusing than ever. They told her that that was the term used in
Seattle in referring to them, and that a "stable” meant a group of
sporting women, mostly white, who had consented to share a certain
man. The man's business then was to send men to see them, get


30
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
them out of jail when they got locked up and to "love" them when
it got around to that.
They told her that in Seattle, the women had found that one
woman could hardly make enough to support a man in the proper
style of the underworld, and that they would then get together, two
or three, mostly three of them, and divide their earnings with a
single man who it was understood would look after them. They
wanted the men that they gave their "love" and money to, to look
prosperous, have plenty of good clothes, a good car in which they
could ride them around and make a good showing, etc., etc. These
men were, of course, idle most of the time, which permitted them
to meet visitors in Seattle and entertain them, and if the men they
met were agreeable and had the proper funds, they would introduce
them to some "nice” girls, who would “take care” of any social
needs desired, etc., etc.
By the time Dorothy recalled all these lurid stories, she was on
the verge of going home and back to bed—and then she thought of
something Le Baron had said, and she was so relieved when she did
that she again started talking to herself.
"He said he knew Bob Martin; that Bob Martin was his con-
tact man, and that—he was going to see Bob Martin and ask him
about me! Oh, great goodness,” she exclaimed so loud that she
looked around and wondered if anybody passing by heard her. And
then in a subdued tone, she went on:
"Let me get to Bob Martin-quick. Before Walter Le Baron
can see and talk to him!” Yes, that is what she would do. In
fact, she now recalled, that is what she had started out to do when
she left the gas station; but in the intensity of her own thoughts,
had forgotten it, yet was driving in the direction of Bob Martin's
house all the while.
To get there, she had to go by a detour. She turned off South
Parkway at Loomis Avenue and drove three blocks east, then five
blocks south, and found herself back on South Parkway again.
Having decided definitely now as to procedure, she settled into
a calmer mood and dared think of Le Baron in the way she wanted



THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
to. He couldn't, she realized by now, be one of those awful me
they had told her about and whom she had thought about, and bi
Bob Martin's friend. Perking up then with a new thought, she
would be able to find out from Bob more about him and perhaps
what he did. In the meantime, it pleased her as she drove along to
think of him as a nice fellow, which he gave every impression of be-
ing. Tall and handsome and intelligent, but not pretty. She was
afraid of pretty men. Most of the men, who had been pointed out
to her in Chicago as being taken care of by women, the most pros-
perous looking ones, were being kept by land ladies, and they were
mostly pretty.
As she recalled many of those she had met and known in the
past, few were up to what a man ought to be, but that was not
always their fault. The women simply wouldn't let them be. So
many silly women would paw over them; make passes upon passes
ar them. Many would not only go the limit to try to attract them
so as to get sweet with them, but would go beyond the limit-far
beyond all decent and respectable limits.
So she had put pretty men out of her area of interest. Yet she
did admire handsome men; and Walter Le Baron, even during the
brief time she had talked to him, she could see was handsome. Add-
ed to that, he was tall, yet not too tall. He had pleasant but de-
termined eyes. He wore his hair which was thick and coarse and
rather stiff, as she recalled, in an attractive pompadour. But what
she liked best of all about Walter Le Baron, as she remembered
him now, was the fact that he was interesting, the most enduring
quality that a man could possess. When a man is interesting, she
recalled, a woman did not soon tire of him. With time and as you
know them longer and better, they usually became more interesting.
She was speeding down South Parkway now at about thirty
miles an hour. The air, although warm, seemed cool and was indeed
pleasant as she braced it. She was feeling good—happy, in fact, at
peace with all the world. Then suddenly she heard some one blow
a horn vigorously. On looking up, who should she see coming
along the street, although in the opposite direction, but Bob Martin


32
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
himself, driving perhaps toward Beale Street—and worst of all, it
flashed through her mind, to possibly meet Walter Le Baron who
would promptly jump on him and find out all about herself! Shades
of Moses!
She took her foot off the accelerator and jammed it on the
brakes, meanwhile blowing her horn vigorously for all it was worth
for Bob to stop, and motioning with her free hand. He caught on
immediately and was able to stop his car before she could stop her
own. Promptly he backed up to be even with her, permitting them
to talk across the street to each other.
“Just the person I want to see,” she called loudly enough for
him to hear above the noise of cars, passing them both ways.
“Yeah?” he replied, looking at her curiously.
“Was driving out to your place to see you."
"You were? What for?”
"Something very important-most important."
“Really?”
“Yes, really! If you can manage it, please turn round and fol-
low me to my home. I'll talk to you there. Will you come?”
“A gentlemen couldn't refuse to oblige a lady, especially a lady
looking so charming and beautiful as you are looking this morning."
"Quit kidding, Bob. Turn round this minute and follow me to
my house. I'll go on ahead.”
“Right-o,” cried Bob as he looked round and started to turn his
car. Dorothy drove on ahead, glancing back over her shoulder oc-
casionally to see if he was following her. She was frightened-
even at the thought of the possibility of his going on to the theatre
on Beale Street where she knew he was originally headed for and
there running into Walter Le Baron and learning all about her be-
fore she herself had a chance to talk with him.
Reaching her home she drove her car into the garage, whose
door she had left open a half hour before, beckoning Bob to park
his car in front of the house. She got out of the car hurriedly,
closed the garage door and as hurriedly locked it, then hastened
around to the front of the house in time to meet Bob. She crossed


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
33
the sidewalk to where he paused to wait for her. Looking rather
hard at her, and wonderingly, he cried:
“What's the excitement about all of a sudden, anyhow, Dor-
othy?” and he continued to regard her curiously.
"Come in the house or up on the porch,” she said, waving her
hand in that direction. She turned in and crossed the yard and
stepped up on the porch, turning to face him as he paused.
"Want to come inside,” she said, “or shall we sit—there?” point-
ing toward a swinging seat that hung suspended from the ceiling of
the porch.
"I think we'll be more comfortable out here,” he said as he
turned toward the swinging seat.
“Very well,” Dorothy replied, “take a seat, please, but excuse
me for a few minutes while I go inside and freshen up a bit," and
she made a motion toward her face. Martin turned back to look at
her and, smiling, replied:
"Okay, Dorothy. Take your time. I'll wait."
“Thank you, Bob,” she replied sweetly.
“But don't stay too long,” he called as she opened the front door,
and he crossed to the swing and seated himself. “You've got me all
hot and bothered. I'm curious to know what this is that you want
to see me about all of a sudden."
“Tell you all about it in a few minutes. Just be patient,” she
cried, as she entered the house and disappeared. Martin smiled as
he listened to her footsteps going upstairs inside, then turned to look
out into busy South Parkway, where an almost endless line of cars
were speeding up and down the street.
While Bob Martin waited for Dorothy, he glanced at his watch
and frowned. He was thinking about Walter Le Baron, who had
arrived in Memphis the night before, had called on him at the New
Daisy Theatre and had made an appointment to meet him at the
theatre the next morning, which was now. He was on the way to
meet him, as we have seen, but met Dorothy and was impelled to
turn back and talk with her, which would make him late for his
meeting with Le Baron.


34
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Meantime, Le Baron had arrived at the theatre at the ap-
pointed time. He did not see Bob's car out front as he had
expected, but he was a few minutes late himself, and was thinking
so intently about the girl he had just met, that he didn't mind.
If Bob were late, it would give him that much longer to think
about Dorothy, and to prepare a line of questions to ask Martin
concerning her.
After parking his car, Le Baron looked up and down the street,
which was still somewhat deserted, and he understood, because
Negroes always chose Sunday to catch up on rest and sleep. He
went into the theatre where a porter was sweeping the floor (the
theatre would not open for an hour or more yet) and told him to
tell Martin when he came that he was across the street in the Pan-
ama Ice Cream Parlor. He then crossed the street and paused on
the sidewalk a moment outside the Ice Cream Parlor, to look up
and down Beale Street, and think of how the public at large thought
of it. As he paused, his attention was attracted by a Negro who
seemed to be on his way to a job somewhere. He was dressed in ill
fitting clothing, a hat, for instance, that looked like he had begged
it from some body, a coat from somebody else, trousers from some-
one else and shoes, all run over at the heels with slits cut in the
front to air his corns.
The Negro was singing a song that one might hear on Beale
Street at such a time, and it amused Le Baron as he listened to it as
the Negro went shuffling by. It ran:
“At fo'o'clock, the door was locked,
Whores all gone to bed.
Then the pimps came in all filled with ging
And these were the words they said:
Ha-ha mah little Angie, gimme yo tongue,
Gimme yo tongue. Ha-ha mah little Angie,
Gimme yo’ tongue, gimme yo' tongue.
Ef yuh want tu hab dat funny feelin'
Jes prop yo' knees up t'ward the ceilin'
And dats what makes mah baby fat."
Le Baron smiled as the Negro shuffled on down the street and
towards his porter job somewhere. “Beale Street,” he said and


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
sighing, shook his head and entered the Ice Cream Parlor, sprawle
upon a stool and called for a chocolate malted milk. While the gir
was preparing it, his thoughts reverted to Dorothy. He partook oj
the malted milk slowly when it was served, and continued to think
and wonder about the woman that he had met, and who had him
thinking about her so much that he hoped Bob would soon put in
an appearance so that he could begin to delve into that life of
mystery her face presented.
There was a movement at Dorothy's house on South Parkway
in the meantime. When Bob Martin, still a bit impatient, frowning
a trifle, looked up, Dorothy, trying to smile through her perturba-
tion, came out of the house, crossed the porch as he rose to his feet,
and sat down in the swing. Smiling, he looked down at her and
saw clearly that she was somewhat upset. He sat down beside her.
"I'll come right to the point, Bob, for I can see that you are a
bit annoyed at having a plan, perhaps, upset by having to turn
around and come to talk with me. Now isn't that so, Bob?"
"Well, yes,” said Bob, slowly. "But you have something on
your mind, Dorothy, and I guess my appointment will have to wait,"
and Bob Martin smiled amiably.
"Thank you, Bob. Meanwhile, just where were you going,
anyhow?"
He glanced at her quickly before answering, to find her looking
straight at him. She had a suspicion that he was headed for the
theatre, and to meet Walter Le Baron, but of course, woman-like,
she didn't let on.
"To the New Daisy Theatre, Dorothy. I take care of their
books, you know."
"I understand,” she said and nodded. "But you were not on
your way there to take care of any books this morning, were you,
Bob?"
Again he glanced quickly across at her, to find her looking so
straight at him that he couldn't tell a white lie.
“No, Dorothy," he admitted with a little sheepish smile. "Not


36
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
to check into any books today. But why are you asking me these
questions? You said you wanted to talk to me about something im-
portant. Are these questions important? What's up, anyhow?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” she said with feigned carelessness.
"I was on my way to the theatre to meet a friend of mine from
New York,” Bob explained now, and glanced at his watch. She
looked down at hers, too, and then up at him kindly.
"And I'm making you late," she said, apologetically. "I'm so
sorry.”
"Well,” Bob began, slowly. "He'll wait. In fact, there is noth-
ing else that he can do. I saw him last night and he told me that he
was here on most important business. Naturally then, he'll have to
wait. When I see him, I'll explain why I am late.”
“You will?” she suggested, oddly.
Again he glanced at her, curiously.
"You're acting, might I say, 2-bit-strange this morning,
Dorothy!” He turned in his seat to look at her more closely,
studied her for a moment. She shrugged her shoulders with feigned
carelessness and replied with abandon:
“Oh, you just think that, Bob.”
He shook his head doubtfully, relaxed patiently and waited.
“You haven't told me who this friend of yours is, Bob. I didn't
know you had any friends in New York,” she went on, feeling him
out.
“Walter Le Baron is his name. I've known him for a long
time,” Bob replied carelessly.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” said Bob. "He's been in Memphis before."
“Really?"
“Oh, yes. You see he's a—" and then he broke off suddenly,
recalling abruptly that Le Baron had especially warned him not to
say why he was in Memphis; and he had promised zealously not to
divulge anything about the reason for his being in the city. Mean-
while, Dorothy was immediately on the anxious seat. She was taut


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
37
now with anxiety. Leaning forward therefore she asked Bob,
evenly:
"A—what, Bob?” He glanced again at her, frowned slightly,
then shook his head negatively, as he replied:
: "I can't tell you, Dorothy. I've promised not to say anything
about why he's here."
She was looking hard at him now, but he refrained from meet-
ing her gaze.
"Now is that nice?” Dorothy asked, petulantly.
"A promise is a promise, dear. If you extracted one from me,
would you think it just the proper thing for me to disregard it?”
"Well, no,” she admitted, sinking back in her seat and trying to
think of some other way to learn more about this Walter Le Baron.
She was particularly anxious to find out if he might possibly be a
racketeer or a man of the underworld. She simply had to find out
more about him, since she couldn't get him out of her thoughts.
"You are still curious, from the way you are acting,” said Bob,
studying her again and carefully. "Suppose that you try telling
me something. Why, for instance, you wanted to see me. You still
haven't got around to that. You did want to see and talk with me
about something, did you not?”
“Why, of course, Bob. I do want to talk to you and what I
want to talk about is important. In fact, I am anxious to take it up
with you,” and then she paused. She wasn't exactly prepared to
admit that she had met and talked with Walter Le Baron-not yet,
anyhow.
"Then why are you so anxious about Walter Le Baron of New
York, whom you've never seen or met?” Dorothy started and
almost gave herself away. Bob was more suspicious now than ever
-s0 suspicious that he dared lay a hand on her arm, and to look
her squarely in the eyes. She sighed. The game was up and she
knew it. So with a little shrug of her shoulders she turned to him
at last frankly.
“Because it is—he that I want to talk about."
Bob started and jumped to his feet, turned and standing over


38
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
her, looked hard at her. She remained seated and looked up at him,
her eyes meeting his calmly.
“About him?” Bob exclaimed, excitedly. “You mean, about
Walter Le Baron?”
He then, as if to be sure, started to describe him. She laid a
hand on him, rose to her feet, reseated him, then sitting down again
beside him, went on, still calmly.
“There, there, Bob, dear. I'm talking about the same person
that you are talking about, Walter Le Baron, tall, rather handsome,
but not a pretty man as most of our girls are wont to describe hand-
some men.”
“Well, of all people,” sighed Bob, astounded. He took out his
handkerchief, removed his straw hat, laid it on something nearby
and wiped from his forehead the perspiration which had suddenly
burst forth.
"Surprised?” Dorothy ventured, a trifle playfully.
“I'm dumbfounded”, said Bob.
“Why?" Dorothy asked, mischievously.
"He just arrived late yesterday afternoon, took me off to one
side after the greeting and, after swearing me to secrecy, told me
that he was here on a most important mission which he promised
to tell me all about this morning, but asked me not to say anything
about it or him to anybody in the meantime.”
"Well, what about it?” Dorothy wanted to know.
“What about it?" exclaimed Bob, incredulously. “What about
it, you ask me, after what you've just said?”
“Oh, I see,” said Dorothy, nodding her head up and down. "Now
that I have met him, you feel that he has told me something, eh?”
“What else can I think?”.
“Then drop any suspicions that you may have had in your
mind,” said Dorothy with a positive air. Bob paused to look at her
oddly.
“Just what do you mean, anyhow?"
“That he hasn't told me anything, either-not a single thing
about himself or anything you are thinking and trying to talk about,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
39
except that he said he was from New York.”
“And he didn't tell you—anything else?”
“Not a single thing, Bob.”
He shook his head and appeared bewildered. Dorothy laid a
hand on his wrist.
“Then what did he talk about?”
“Take it easy, Bob, and ask me some more questions. There's
something on your mind now. I can see it-or better still, feel it.
For your benefit, it is what he did talk about that caused me to
stop you and ask you to turn round and come back here to talk
to me.”
"You're propelling me into deeper water, Dorothy. But what
you've just said, although confusing, is making it a bit clearer, so
go on,” and he turned to her. "Just where did you meet him and
how and when?”
"I'll answer the last question first."
"Please answer it any way you want to, only answer is all I ask,
before I become more confused.”
"Take it easy, Bob, and be patient. I'm going to tell you all
about it.”
"Then why don't you get started?” She looked at him and the
expression on his face amused her. She laughed outright, where-
upon he frowned deeply and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"All right, dear Bob, all right. I met him at Lee's gas station,
just before I passed you on my way here.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed. “How?”
"He was there for service, on his way, perhaps, to meet you at
the New Daisy."
He looked at her in greater surprise.
"But he didn't say that he was. He said, in fact, little about
himself, and before I go on, I want to ask you a question or two
about him."
“About him? You heard me say that—".
“Yes, I heard what you said and I'm not going to ask you to
divulge anything told you in confidence. I want to know, Bob,


40
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
what Mr. Le Baron does? If you don't want to say, then you can
at least tell me this much.”
“What much, Dorothy?".
"Is he a gambler, a racketeer or a-kept man?” Bob recoiled
violently, his mouth open, his eyes, too.
“Good gracious alive, no! What ever gave you such an idea,
anyhow?"
"It—wasn't exactly an idea. After meeting and talking with
him, and because he seemed not to want to talk about himself or
what he is doing in Memphis, it was a fear."
"A fear? What do you mean?”
“Well, driving around in a fine car, apparently prosperous and
free, I–I didn't know, Bob, frankly I didn't know, just what to
think. You say, however, that he is not any of those things I just
suggested?”
"By no means, no, Dorothy. Absolutely not. His is a high and
honored profession, but for certain reasons which he explained, and
which are completely and entirely obvious to me, his mission here is
confidential and will have to remain so until he tells you himself, if
there is any occasion for him to do so. Now what?” He finished
and looked at her with a question in his eyes. She emitted a sigh
of relief. She was happy to think that at least that much was off
her mind. She could go on thinking of him now as she best liked to.
"Now what did he talk about?” Bob asked, and she was ready
to answer, and did so, frankly.
“Me," she replied, simply.
"You!” he echoed and seemed more confused than ever.
"He was there when I arrived,” she went on, gazing into space,
thoughtfully. “He was there, talking to the Williams."
"Lon Williams?"
“And his wife.”
“What about?”
“Dear Bob,” she said, turning to him, "how would I know? He
was just talking to them. You said that he had been in Memphis
before. Perhaps he knew them as he does you."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
41
“Did you know that the Williams run a-whorehouse?” She
started, turned to him. “I wonder if he knows it, also?”.
"I've heard something about them being in a shady business.
Perhaps that's why the idea that he might be connected in some
way with the underworld entered my mind as I thought about him.”
“Williams has some other business, a pressing shop and that is
where, I recall now, Le Baron met him. In fact, I introduced him
to Williams and while we were talking, Mrs. Williams came up.
No, Le Baron doesn't know that they're in the lowdown business,
too.”
"I'm glad that he doesn't. Did you say that he-was-a-
gentleman?” Bob hadn't said and Dorothy knew that he hadn't.
She was still feeling him out. Bob spoke up in defense of his friend
promptly, however.
"Oh, very much of a gentleman. A high class gentleman, intel-
ligent, and I think, rather well-to-do as we Negroes go, of course.”
“Isn't that fine,” cried Dorothy and she unconsciously clasped
her hands. "Now I can get back to what he talked about.”
"I sure wish you would,” said Bob. "I'm still curious to know
how he met you."
"Well, getting back to the Williams' again. Then there was
nothing in his talking to them when I drove in that would in any
way associate him in their connection? I mean, in their lowdown
business?"
“Oh, no. Having met them before, and knowing them, when
he drove into the gas station and saw them there, it was natural
that he would go over and greet them and no doubt shake hands
with them.”
"I'm glad to hear that. Our people, so many of them at least,
can't seem to make any money otherwise than via a crap game or
some other form of lowdown business, as you call it, that I am
relieved to hear of a man, like him for instance, being in something
that we can appreciate, although I still don't know what that is.
I'm willing to take your word about his character, however, so that
is that.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Now, trying to get back to what he talked to me about, and
how he came to meet me. That's why I stopped you on the street
and asked you to come here."
He turned to look at her and she could see by his expression,
that he still didn't know what she was talking about. She turned
now and meeting his gaze, smiled and said:
“I can see that it is all still very confusing to you."
“Yes, Dorothy. But confusing isn't half of it. It is next to
baffling.” She laughed at this.
"You have us both on the spot, now, Bob, but we can't admit
it,” she said, and was tantalizing with it. “At the moment you
perhaps have me tagged as a flirt, and him as a play boy."
"From the way you talk and continue to beat around the bush,
I'm almost inclined to think something like that.”
“Until you understand more about the circumstances.”
“Circumstances? What circumstances? You didn't say any-
thing about circumstances in the beginning. What now?”.
"I'm coming to that. Please be patient. You haven't given
me time.”
“If you were not such a lovely person, I'd be getting most im-
patient. Well, I have been patient, you'll have to admit. Now go
ahead.”
"Meanwhile, please respect both of us until you have heard
more. If you go to thinking the wrong thing about him and me,
then you put me at a disadvantage, a serious disadvantage, and I
won't like that,” she finished, poutingly.
“You win, dear Dorothy. I'll quit trying to guess and just
listen while you tell me,”
“ all about it. I will,” she declared, "and here goes.”
Bob was silent, attentively so. Furthermore he was both cur-
ious and anxious.
: "He was, as I've started to say, in Lee's Gas Station when I
drove in and up to the pump. I was on my way to visit Dr. Bur-
ton and his wife at Forest City, over in Arkansas.”
Bob turned to look at her and she returned his look calmly.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
43
“After I drove in and ordered my tank filled, the Williams',
whom he was talking to when I drove by them, drove away. While
the man was filling my tank, through my rear view mirror I saw
this man turn and look at me. A moment later, be seemed to start.
At least I could see very clearly that his interest was aroused."
"And?”
“After a pause he crossed to my car and spoke."
"To you?”
“To me."
"Spoke to you, then what?".
'Yes, spoke to me, told me who he was and gave me his card."
“Rather unusual.”
“Rather, but I'm coming is that, ton"
“Go on. I'm listening to every word.”
"Well, he said that my face was familiar."
"You're going deeper. By and by you'll sink and disappear
altogether."
“Still a trifle suspicious?”
"Perhaps.”
“You will let me tell you more?”
“I'll let you tell me everything," he said.
“I was saying that he said my face was familiar.”
"Why did he say that? Had you ever seen him before?”
"When you've heard more, you'll understand.”
"I give up.”
"He couldn't remember ever having mot me, however, and ad-
mitted after some words that he was mistaken. Still he didn't seem
satisfied.”
"It's all very bewildering,” said Bob.
"Not when I tell you some more.”
“Why don't you?"
“Because you keep interrupting me,” she said, complainingly.
“I promise not to again.”
“Then I'll go on.”
She paused and sighed and, raising her vanity mirror, glanced


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
45
“So he didn't tell you anything about why he was making
inquiries of your brother?”
"No. What he then talked about was me.”
“You?” Bob repeated, pointing a finger and looking at her.
Why about you?".
“He said he saw something in my face ..."
"In your face,” repeated Bob in surprise.
“Yes, Bob. In my face. He said it carried a-story.”
“You seem to be talking in riddles. What did he mean?”
“That's why I asked you to come here and why I want you to
talk with me.”
“About what?"
She was silent and when he turned to look at her he found her
looking hard at him.
"You mean," said Bob, pointing a finger at her.
“What happened to me. That was what he saw, Bob, and what
aroused his curiosity.”
"All this is very strange,” Bob commented, thoughtfully.
“That is why I wanted to talk to you. He not only said my
face carried a story, but went on and insisted that something had
happened to me and that it was written in my eyes and all over
my face.”
: "Ridiculous!” exclaimed Bob.
“I'm not so sure, Bob. Now look at me closely,” she said, turn-
ing so that he could look straight into her eyes. “Straight into my
eyes, Bob, and tell me what, if anything, you see.”.
"Oh, come, Dorothy,” he cried, deprecatingly. “This is more
than ridiculous."
"Please look at me and tell me if you see it, too, Bob,” she said
to him and her tone was both a request and a command.
With a shrug of resignation, he obeyed her, and then started!
His face became serious, and he paused to look away, thoughtfully.
Meanwhile, she relaxed, her eyes on him as if she was convinced
that he had seen something, too.
"Well,” he began, hesitatingly.


46
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"You saw something, too, didn't you, Bcb?” she cried nervously,
anxiously. "When you looked closely, you saw what he said he saw,
he, a stranger. I had never seen or heard of him up to that moment
yet he insisted that my face carried a story, a strange and tragic
story, and nothing I could say, do or argue to the contrary would
change him. Moreover—" and then she broke off suddenly and
paused, biting her lip in vexation. Bob was looking at her and be
became anxious.
"What's the matter, Dorothy?” he asked.
She raised her eyes and looked at him.
"He—said that—that he was going to ask you to tell him,-
tell him what had happened to me.”
She paused and lowered her eyes pitifully, and immediately his
heart went out to her.
"Oh, no, Dorothy. Not that.” She was weeping now and paus-
ing to find a handkerchief, she went on:
“Oh, Bob, I've been trying so hard to forget—to blot out as
much as I could that awful nightmare. And now, along comes an
entire stranger and all but tells me that I can't forget; that I'll
never forget. Oh, Bob, must that thing haunt me, follow me like
a gray ghost to—my grave?”
"But he can't go asking me about what happened to you. That
is not like Walter Le Baron. I've known him for years! He's a
gentleman. He wouldn't go asking me to tell him something about
you if you didn't want him to. I'm sure he wouldn't.”
“That's where the trouble lies, Bob. Don't you understand?"
“Understand what, Dorothy?”
“That I couldn't admit to him that anything had happened to
me?"
"Oh, I see now," said Bob, and didn't for the moment seem to
know what to do or what to think.
"He is not sure that he is right, and is waiting down at the
theatre right now to ask you all about me and find out. And I-I
don't want him to know, Bob. I don't want anybody that doesn't
know what happened, to find out.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
47
Bob rose to his feet and walked across the porch and paused at
the edge to look out into South Parkway thoughtfully. Dorothy
remained seated. After a time, he turned to look at her, still
thoughtful.
Dorothy dried her tears and rising to her feet, walked over to
him and faced him squarely.
“You—won't-tell him, Bob, maybe?”
He did not answer then. He did not even meet her eyes, but
turned his away and walked back to the swing and sat down. She
stood and looked at him, but presently crossed to him and sat down
again.
Even after she sat down, Bob Martin didn't look at her, for he
was thinking hard and deeply. He was clearly and distinctly on
the spot. If Walter Le Baron asked him about Dorothy Stanfield,
he would have to tell him something. How much? He didn't
want to tell him anything now. He liked Dorothy and respected
her character too much to wish in any way to injure her. At last,
with a sigh, he turned back to her to find her waiting and looking
up at him anxiously.
“You've put me on the spot, Dorothy. In an embarrassing
position.”
“That is why I've been so anxious, Bob. I realize that you've
got to tell Mr. Le Baron something, if he asks you—and he's going
to ask you all about it even before he tells you what he is here
for. I've a feeling that to know my story, what happened to me
and all that goes with it, is for the present more important to him
than his reason for being in Memphis."
"Possibly not,” said Bob, as if trying to appease her feelings.
I may be able to—put him off, tell him enough to satisfy him, but
not all. Perhaps”
She cut him off promptly by shaking her head in the negative.
"No, you won't be able to get off that easily. I got well enough
acquainted with him in the few minutes we talked to see that he is
not a man to go part of the way. If he is at all interested, it's all
the way or nothing with him—and he'll make you tell him my


48
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
whole story; the story I pray to God every day, sometimes almost
every hour in the day, might be forgotten. But it can't be.
Besides, you're not the only person in Memphis who knows what
happened. It is possible that others might tell him now that his
curiosity is aroused, even if you don't. But being closer to him,
his good friend in whom he plans to entrust confidential informa-
tion regarding his visit here, he'll naturally look to hear it from
you.”
At this point Bob's face brightened with an idea. After a
moment he turned to her with this new idea lighting up his counte.
nance,
"But listen, Dorothy. Even if he forces me to tell him, that
shouldn't exactly lower you in his estimation. Walter Le Baron
is a broadminded person. If I am forced to tell him, as you insist,
you're in the clear. You haven't done anything; it wasn't you
who did those awful things. So how could he, after he has heard
the story, think less well of you?”
“But I don't want him to know it—that is, just now. I-I-
oh, Bob," she cried, and seemed so hopeless for the moment. "I
don't know why I don't want him to know it. I've just met the
man; he's a stranger to me, I to him.”
“Then why are you carrying on like this about a stranger?”
he said, looking at her with a new light in his eyes. Without rais-
ing her eyes or looking up, she shook her head hopelessly. Bob
continued to look at her.
“Dorothy?" he called now, and she had to raise her eyes to
his to answer.
"Something's happened to you.”
“What do you mean, Bob?" she asked in some surprise.
“You—like this man."
“Why, Bob!” she exclaimed, affecting indignance.
“That's what's the matter, Dorothy. In some strange way,
which you can't admit-even to yourself, you've become strangely
interested in this man and I'll know when he asks about you, whe-
ther he isn't affected the same way about you."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
49
“Bob Martin, you're presumptuous!” she cried, indignantly.
He shook his head and dared smile just a little.
"Of course you won't admit it-even to yourself. But you feel
something, something that's got you all excited, and you wouldn't
be that way if you were not in some way affected.”
“You'll be saying, if you keep on, that I've fallen in love with
him.”
"I didn't want to go that far, but since you've suggested it, that
may be the right word. You've fallen in love with this man on
sight and now you're afraid of dark shadows of a bitter past, an
unhappy past.”
"I'm sure it is not all that, but I will admit that meeting him
has left a strange and peculiar impression on me.”
“And you dislike to think how he might feel when he hears this
terrible story of your life. I'm sorry for you Dorothy.”
"I thank you Bob. I wish telling him could at least be post-
poned.” At this, Bob started, possessed by a new idea.
“That is an idea,” he said, thoughtfully. She looked up at him
hopefully.
"Just what do you mean, Bob?”
"I might be able to do that when he asks me about you, that is,
put it off for a while.”
“Then please do that, Bob. I wouldn't think of liking anybody
-even if I dared to, you know that. But I've suffered so much
from thinking about this tragedy in my life, day in, day out, week
in, week out, month in, month out, year in, year out, until at times
I feel I must lose my mind-go completely insane.”
"Take it easy, Dorothy," he said, laying a hand on her lower
arm. “I'm sorry for you, too, and everybody I know who's
acquainted with the whole scandal, and all that went with it during
those terrible weeks, that not only did you not have anything to
do with what happened, but that you didn't even know what was
going on."
"I felt that something unusual and unethical was going on and
during the time, appealed to my brother. But we were all helpless


50
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
to change anything. But why go into all that? It happened, and
all colored Memphis and much of white Memphis knows what
happened. Meanwhile, we were discussing Walter Le Baron.
What do you propose to do? How do you propose to postpone tell-
ing him? You'll have to promise something." Turning to her,
there was a question in his eyes.
“What do you want me to do, Dorothy? What do you pro-
pose?” She paused and was thoughtful a moment. Presently she
looked up.
"If you could manage to put it off until just before he leaves
town, then tell him, providing that by that time he is still curious
to know.”
"He'd still be curious to know-if he stayed here a year even.
I know Le Baron. It's dollars to doughnuts that he's liking you,
too. Well, if that is so and feeling as he does that you're the victim
of a misfortune, due to nothing that you did or are responsible for,
he'll be sorry, after he has heard the story, for you; and if he's
liking you, he'll be more sorry as the days go by and he'll want to
be good to you; he'll want to do what he can to make you happy."
While he talked, Dorothy was thinking deeply. Suddenly seiz-
ing on an idea, she turned to him and grasped his arm.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to her anxiously.
"I was on my way to Forest City when this thing happened.
Why don't you go down and meet him and—and bring him here
and let us all drive out to Forest City?”
"Great!” exclaimed Bob. “A fine idea. I'd like to go somewhere
for the day myself. A great idea.”
"Then he wouldn't have a chance to expect you to tell him my
story."
"Of course not. That would make it easy for me to postpone
telling him. Added to that, if he had a chance to find out what a
fine person you are, it would please him, make him respect you that
much more.”
“You're flattering me, Bob,” she said coyly.
"I'm doing nothing of the kind, Dorothy, and you know it.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
51
Everybody knows that you're a fine girl. It was not your fault
that this awful thing happened to you.”
"I'm not asking any sympathy, Bob. I can take it. I've been
taking it on the chin ever since and haven't squawked, have I?”
"No, you haven't, Dorothy. That's a fine girl and the more
reason why you should have some sort of break. So it's a deal.
I'll go down and meet Le Baron. I'll stall over the books; but as
quickly as I see him, I'll tell him that I want him to meet some-
body.”
“But,” she began, with an objection.
"Leave it to me, honey. I'm capable of doing some planning,
and by the time I get back here with him, everything will be fixed
just right. We'll put you in the middle—I mean, on the seat, of
course, where you'll be close to this man who has so suddenly cap-
tured your imagination. You'll have a chance to talk with him
and possibly you will become friends. At least you'll get better
acquainted. The drive to Forest City will thrill us all. I'll wire
the Doctor there that we are on the way. They'll have a fine dinner
waiting for us by the time we reach there and everything will be
hunky dory.”
"Oh, Bob, you're a darling,” cried Dorothy, completely relaxed,
and she threw her arms about him and kissed his cheek with a loud
smack.
A few minutes later, Bob Martin was sailing down South Park-
way on his way to Beale Street to meet Walter Le Baron.


CHAPTER CHAPTER
IIT
T THEN BOB MARTIN REACHED THE THEATRE,
he spied Walter Le Baron walking up and down the
sidewalk in front, impatiently. Even before Le Baron
saw him, Martin had prepared himself to counter, albeit pleasantly,
what he knew he would meet. Le Baron did not see Bob until
the latter had stopped. Hearing the car stop, he unconsciously
turned to see who was in it—and just in time to catch Bob smiling,
as he got out of the car and slammed the heavy door.
"Bob Martin!” cried Le Baron, rather loudly. "You old son-
of-a-gun!”
"All right, Le Baron, all right,” cried Bob, coming forward
apologetically, with extended hand. "I'm late, I admit, and I know
you're ready to bite my head off, but just take it easy."
"I've been taking it hard for a whole hour, trying to find some
way to use up the time since you were due to meet me here.”
They were in front of the theatre, which had just opened, and
a few people were straggling in. Bob took and led Le Baron to the
edge of the sidewalk where they would not be noticed so readily
and patting him on the shoulder, went on soothingly:
"I know, old man, I know, and I apologize for being late. I was
on my way here when I—well, something happened.”
He paused to feel for words with which to continue. Le Baron
glanced at his car, then turned back to him.
“What's the matter? Did you get a-flat, or what did happen?”
"Nothing that you are thinking about,” Bob said evasively. Le
Baron turned to look at him quickly, suspiciously, but before he
52


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD.
53
all means » out it.”
it. But
could follow up what he had started to say, he thought of Dorothy.
"Something happened to me on the way down here, too,” he
said, nodding his head up and down seriously, which of course
Bob Martin understood, notwithstanding his look of surprise and
sympathy.
“Really?"
"The most amazing experience I ever had.”
"Now isn't that interesting," cried Bob shifting.
"I want to tell you all about it.” said Le Baron, raising a
hand. “It happened, in fact, in a gas station.”
"In a gas station?" repeated Bob, innocently. "But what
could happen in a gas station that would interest anybody?”
"Plenty this morning," cried Le Baron, insistently. "And it
happened to me! As soon as we can go somewhere and be comfor-
table, I want to tell you all about it.”
"You must, by all means,” cried Bob, earnestly. "I'm anxious
to hear it. But right now we've got to get busy preparing to drive
out to Forest City."
"Forest City?" repeated Le Baron, blankly and in surprise.
“What do you mean, driving out to Forest City?”
“Sure! For a good time.”
“When did you decide to do this?" inquired Le Baron, taken
aback, his smile gone. "You didn't say anything about it last
night.”
“And neither did you say anything last night about this—this
gas station experience you just came up with.”.
"No, but I didn't know last night,” argued Le Baron, a trifle
embarrassed, "that I was going to run into what I did."
“And neither did I know last night that I was going to be
driving to Forest City today. In fact, I hadn't the least idea of it
until an hour ago, when on the way down here to meet you, I de-
cided to do so. So you see how things can happen; unseen things,
unthought-of things."
“Yes, indeed. That is possible," agreed Le Baron, scratching
his head thoughtfully.


54
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“But what I'm talking about happened for the best. It means
a nice cool drive of about fifty miles over into Arkansas and a
call on a very successful doctor of our group.”
"A doctor?"
"I should have said 'dentist,' for that is what he is, not a medical
doctor.”
"I think I've heard of him,” said Le Baron, reflectively.
"I've been telling you about him for years. Every time I've
seen you. He's the most successful Negro practitioner we have in
this section of the country."
"Indeed! I'm sure I'd like to meet him, but I hadn't planned
on doing so today. 1-".
"A chance to enjoy a fine Sunday—away from this Beale Street
heat," said Bob, laying a hand on his shoulder and patting it.
“This damn street's a false alarm. It's been publicized so long
that people who read about it imagine there must be something
strange and mysterious about it.”
“They picture it as being the original Negro thoroughfare.
Picture it as being almost everything but what it actually is,” said
Le Baron, and then stopping, perked up with a recollection. Mean-
while, Bob was talking.
"It's a mess, I mean many of the Negroes who pass up and
down it. When you see them as I do, every day and come Sunday,
too, you get mighty tired of it—and many of the bums and whores
and hustlers, who travel this way,” Bob went on, with a frown on
his face.
"But we're not interested in Beale Street this morning," avowed
Bob, "further than that I agreed to meet you here"
" an hour ago,” declared Le Baron, shaking his head. "Don't
leave that out.” Martin laughed good naturedly, which seemed to
relax the tension and Le Baron seemed in a mood to consider doing
what Bob had asked him to do.
“Yes, old dear,” agreed Bob, patting Le Baron on the shoulder
again, consolingly, and letting his hand rest there for a moment.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
55
"But what I want to tell you is, that we are not going out there
alone.”
He paused as he finished and smiled and winked. Le Baron
started, then turned upon him quickly.
"Now you come up with more surprises. What do you mean
'not alone'?”
"Just what I say, brother. You don't suppose I'd be so excited
about a trip with just you and me—not that that wouldn't be highly
agreeable; but it happens that we're carrying a very lovely person
with us. A lady, to be exact.”
"Oh, a lady," cried Le Baron, and he smiled. "I might have
known that there was more to this sudden decision to go to Arkan-
sas. A lady, eh? Who is the girl friend?” Bob shook his head
deprecatingly, whereupon Le Baron's smile grew bigger.
"Oh, the other girl, eh? You're not cheating on the regular
one?"
"Nope. No cheating, sir! This lady is a very good friend, but
not the girl friend. I had to go by her house on the way down here.
It was there and then that we decided to drive to Forest City and to
take you along."
"Well,” said Le Baron, with a sigh, and somewhat reflectively.
"I wish it could be a certain lady that I met at the gas station. The
way I feel about her, I'd like to ride with her from here to Kansas
City!"
"Now you're talking in riddles. Whom are you referring to,
anyhow?” tested Bob, looking as innocent as a babe.
“I'm talking about the most extraordinary woman I ever met.
It is what happened to me in the gas station this morning that I
want to talk to you about.”
“Why do you want to talk to me about her?”.
“Because I want to find out something about her. A whole lot
about her, in fact. That was why I was so impatient when you
came up. I've been on the impatient seat ever since I met her.
You see I told her, when she seemed unwilling to divulge what I
asked her, and what I am most interested in knowing, that I was


56
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
going to ask you about her, about something peculiar that I could
see in her face, her eyes—her everything!”
"Seems that you have gone in for something,” said Bob, looking
at his watch. "Well, if we're going to Forest City, and that is my
promise and my anxious desire, then we've got to get going.” Mean-
time, he paused to raise his eyes and look up and down the street.
“My car is parked over there,” explained Le Baron, knowing
that was what Martin was thinking about and looking for so
intently. "Shall we use it?” and Le Baron broke off and paused.
"Mine," said Bob. “I'm more used to it. You get yours and
drive to the hotel. I'll follow. At the hotel you park your car and
then get into mine. We'll drive by my house first, for I want to
change clothes, then we'll drive to the lady's house, pick her up,
cross the big bridge and on into Arkansas."
"Okay, old man, if that's the way you want it. My only regret
is that the lady you're taking is not the one I met this morning at
the gas station.”
"Don't be too disappointed,” said Bob, with an irony that Le
Baron did not catch as he started across the street to his own car.
“I think you're going to like this one, too."
He smiled ironically as he watched Le Baron get into his car,
and smiled once he was beneath the steering wheel and paused to
look up and call across the street, where Bob was now getting into
his.
"That was the only woman I've met in years who has really
interested me. Disturbed is a better word. I'll be thinking about
her all the way out to Forest City and back, and I'm afraid you
and your lady friend are liable to have a dull guest for your little
trip. But I'll give up until we get back from Arkansas, so here
goes!” Thereupon he started the motor and stepped on the gas.
Instantly his car shot up Beale Street. He turned at the first
corner to the right, followed by Bob Martin, and a few seconds
later drew into the parking lot maintained by the Dolphin Hotel,
at which he was stopping. He got out of the car and came back to
Bob Martin.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Since you say we're taking a lady, you'll have to wait on me
while I go upstairs and adjust myself a bit. I won't take long," he
said and smiled.
“Please don't be long," said Bob.
"I never take long to do anything," said Le Baron, turning now
toward the hotel. “Not even to meet a lady, a strange lady," and
Le Baron turned back and winked.
“You know, Bob,” he turned back to say now, and he intended
it as a joke, but there was a peculiar irony in his voice as he said it.
"I've always said that when and if I ever fall really and truly in
love, it will be right quick.” He smiled again and thought about
Dorothy. Bob thought about her, too, and smiled also.
But Bob Martin was not smiling about what Le Baron said.
With a hop, skip and a jump, Walter Le Baron disappeared into
the hotel.


CHAPTERCHAPTER
V
T RUE TO HIS PROMISE, LE BARON did not stay partic-
ularly long upstairs in his room, but returned, smiling and
cheerful in a surprisingly short time. That was a great
relief to Bob, for he was anxious to be out and on his way to
Forest City before it got too warm. Knowing as Le Baron did not,
that he would soon meet the woman whom Le Baron was so excited
about, he was also anxious to get that done and over with as quickly
as possible.
“So you're taking me to meet a lady? Still not your lady
friend,” said Le Baron, getting into the seat beside Bob and slam-
ming the heavy door behind him.
"The lady is a friend of mine; and I didn't say that she was
not,” corrected Martin, sagaciously, careful indeed not to give Le
Baron any inkling as to the lady's identity.
"I'd give a hundred bucks, if purchasing were possible, if it
could be the girl I met at the gas station this morning, that we
were taking along with us."
“You seem to be rather enamored of a lady you've just met-
and so unceremoniously,” ventured Martin, glancing at him and
smiling.
"But what a lady!” exclaimed Le Baron, closing his eyes and
daring to dream of Dorothy for a moment. Opening his eyes and
sighing reflectively, he continued: “I'm sure you'd feel as I do
about her had you met her under similar circumstances.”
"Perhaps," commented Martin. “Well, you're going to meet
a fine lady in a few minutes now; a lady, I venture to say, that
5€


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
59
you will like," and again he glanced at Le Baron, sideways and out
of the corner of his eye. Le Baron's eyes were half closed and he
was still thinking about Dorothy, so was not immediately aware
of what Bob was talking about. Coming back to himself all of
a sudden, he turned to Bob and started.
"Did you say something, Bob? he inquired.
“I said that you're going to meet a fine lady very shortly."
“So you said. Yes, I heard you. I remember now," said Le
Baron, absentmindedly.
“But you were thinking so intently about this mysterious lady
of the gas station, that you didn't understand just what I said or
what I meant.”
“Maybe not,” Le Baron went on, still absentmindedly. "I guess
that was it.” He looked around him at this point. They were
nearing Dorothy's house and he seemed to be trying to connect past
events.
"I seem to remember this section somehow.”
“You should remember it. I drove you through it the last
time you were in Memphis.”
Le Baron listened, continued to look around, his brow clouded
in his effort to remember.
"It seems you said something about a lady living somewhere
here about; a lady who had a strange and unusual experience.”
"I don't quite remember saying that,” said Bob, knowing that
he was lying, as he drew to a stop in front of Dorothy's house. Le
Baron stared hard at the house.
"Seems you said something about this being the house," mused
Le Baron, his brow more clouded now than ever.
“Quit trying to recall something lost in the past and come with
me and meet the lady.” Going around the car to the side on which
Le Baron was seated, still gazing hard at the house, still trying to
remember.
Bob swung the door open. Le Baron stepped from the car, his
mind still trying to fathom what Bob had said to him once out of
the past. Bob closed the door behind him, and catching up with


CHAPTER CHAPTER
IV
T RUE TO HIS PROMISE, LE BARON did not stay partic-
ularly long upstairs in his room, but returned, smiling and
cheerful in a surprisingly short time. That was a great
relief to Bob, for he was anxious to be out and on his way to
Forest City before it got too warm. Knowing as Le Baron did not,
that he would soon meet the woman whom Le Baron was so excited
about, he was also anxious to get that done and over with as quickly
as possible.
“So you're taking me to meet a lady? Still not your lady
friend," said Le Baron, getting into the seat beside Bob and slam-
ming the heavy door behind him.
“The lady is a friend of mine; and I didn't say that she was
not,” corrected Martin, sagaciously, careful indeed not to give Le
Baron any inkling as to the lady's identity.
"I'd give a hundred bucks, if purchasing were possible, if it
could be the girl I met at the gas station this morning, that we
were taking along with us."
“You seem to be rather enamored of a lady you've just met-
and so unceremoniously,” ventured Martin, glancing at him and
smiling.
"But what a lady!” exclaimed Le Baron, closing his eyes and
daring to dream of Dorothy for a moment. Opening his eyes and
sighing reflectively, he continued: “I'm sure you'd feel as I do
about her had you met her under similar circumstances.”
"Perhaps,” commented Martin. “Well, you're going to meet
a fine lady in a few minutes now; a lady, I venture to say, that
58



STANFIELD
en to recover an.
so the door, which
die a bang, however,
mes over, it seemed
Pre Smiling as Bob b e
whereat Dorothy
met before," extens
it eagerly and dared
t rather more than
S
othy helped him out, ca
y relaxed by now
lying nobly. "Now
he went on, turnin
my friend, and ha
have also been so
also supremely hape
and he has been an
here on the porch, S
ob:
that Mr. Le Bar.
something—about
mean, a lot. V
so anxious abou
Teal embarrassr
upon


60
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Le Baron, who had gone ahead toward the house, passed him and
led the way across the sidewalk and onto the walkway that led to
Dorothy's porch.
Meanwhile, Dorothy had dressed with infinite care to meet Le
Baron again and had parked herself in an easy chair by a front
window where she could look out onto South Parkway and await
their coming. So as quickly as they came in sight and she caught
a glimpse of Le Baron sitting and gazing hard at the house, his
brow contracted, she rose quickly to her feet in a nervous dither
and was watching them from that moment on until they stepped
upon the porch, crossed it and rang her bell.
Although she had been following their every move from the
time they hove into sight and had listened to every step and hence
knew when they would reach her front door and would ring the
bell, she nevertheless started almost violently and had to catch her
breath when she actually heard the bell. She calmed her nerves
with a great effort, and after a moment of further effort at stilling
the violent beating of her heart, she strolled toward the door,
already open but with the screen door closed. She walked up to
the screen door and looked out at them with restrained calm. Upon
seeing her face, it was Walter Le Baron who started abruptly,
raising his hand and opening his mouth and eyes so wide that for a
moment he was speechless.
Meanwhile, maintaining her self-control with practiced effort,
Dorothy unhooked the latch that held the screen door, as she cried:
“Hello, Bob! So you're back.”
She pushed the screen door open and Bob caught and opened
it wider, as, smiling at her, he said:
“Yes, Dorothy, I'm back and I've brought a friend with me.”
“So I see,” said Dorothy softly, bowing respectfully toward Le
Baron, who was still standing, his mouth agape, staring at her as
if she were an apparition, all of which was beginning to amuse her.
"Please step cutside in the cool shade of your porch and meet
him, Dorothy."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
61
By this time Le Baron, having begun to recover and to get
control of himself, bowed astutely.
Dorothy stepped outside and Bob let the door, which he had
been holding open, close. It did so with a bang, however, and the
other two started quickly. But after it was over, it seemed to cause
them to relax their tension and both were smiling as Bob began:
“Mrs. Stanfield, I want you to ” whereat Dorothy cut him
off with:
“I think the gentleman and I have met before," extending her
small hand toward Le Baron, who took it eagerly and dared to hold
it for a moment.
“Yes,” echoed Le Baron, breathing it rather more than speaking
it.
“We met early this morning,” Dorothy helped him out, “In a—"
“—gas station,” said Le Baron, fully relaxed by now and so
happy that he had to restrain his feelings.
“In a gas station?” echoed Bob, lying nobly. “Now this is
interesting. Do you mean to tell me," he went on, turning to Le
Baron, “that this is the lady you met, my friend, and have been
saying so much about, and whom you have also been so anxious
about?”
Dorothy was flattered now, and was also supremely happy over
what Bob revealed.
"So he has been talking about me, and he has been anxious,”
she was saying to herself, as she stood there on the porch, smiling
up at him. Then aloud and turning to Bob:
“Why Bob, do you mean to tell me that Mr. Le Baron re-
membered meeting me and that he has said something—about me?"
“Something?” exclaimed Bob. “You mean, a lot. Why, I
was hardly able to get him here, he has been so anxious about that
sirange lady whom he met in the gas station.”
"Now, Bob,” exclaimed Le Baron with real embarrassment.
“You shculdn't say all that."
“And why not?” Bob wanted to know, turning upon him.


62
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“What you've been saying was so fine that I think the lady ought
to know at least a little about it.”
"I want to know all about it!” Dorothy exclaimed, clasping
her hands and so thrilled that she had completely forgotten the
role she had affected toward him two hours before.
"So go ahead, Bob, tell me all about it-please do!" she cried,
clasping her hands estatically.
"More about it on our way to Dr. Burton's in Forest City,” said
Bob with decision. “If we're going to drive there we need to get
started—and now!” and he shifted, turning to Dorothy, who turned
to face him now and answered his inquiry even before it was
spoken.
“I'm ready, gentlemen. I've always sensed that it annoyed
men to be kept waiting. So since we'd agreed to drive out there,
I got dressed, made some lemonade, which I have put into the
thermos, and if neither of you'll be sitting down, I'll go inside and
get it, then, presto!” and she raised and snapped her fingers dra-
matically.
Bob reopened the screen door. With a gesture of ecstasy,
which brought an expression of joy to the features of both men,
Dorothy dashed inside and within less than a minute, returned
with a large thermos, wrapped in a bath towel, closed the heavy
door behind her, shook it to see that it was securely locked, then,
walking between the two men, crossed to the car at the curbing,
where she was helped into the center of the wide seat by Bob, who
then turned and motioned for Le Baron to get in on her right side,
slammed the door and went around and got in on the drivers' side.
Seated, he looked around at them a moment, then touched the
starter, stepped on the gas and away they rolled, out into and
down South Parkway.
"Well,” ventured Le Baron, daring to look down at Dorothy,
who was close by him and who dared look up into his face with
a smile. "To think that I've been praying ever since Bob told
me about going to Forest City and taking a lady with us, that
the lady should turn out to be you.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
63
She smiled sweetly and the bloodustad to her cheeks and she
was forced to lower her eyes for a moment, but raised them quickly,
smiled up at him again also sweetly and said:
“And now, you're not angry that it turned out to beID"
"I'm so happy that I feel like getting out and runmng as fast
as this car is rolling.”
"Oh, Mr. Le Baron," she cried joyfully. "No!”
“But, Miss Dorothy, Yes!” cut in Bob and winked at both.
“But he only felt like running as fast as the car is rolling. He
couldn't, of course, possibly do so! But seated so close to you, I
know he is pleased—very pleased," and he winked again at both,
meaningly. This made the blood rush to the cheeks of both and
caused both to lower their eyes for the moment, but not for long,
as both were too happy to miss for a moment the pleasure it was
giving them to be together.
"I must confess that he has spoken the truth, even if he did
choose to say what he did," admitted Le Baron, and his eyes were
very soft as he looked at her.
"I'm very glad to be told that I'm not in the way,” she said
and lowered her eyes for the moment.
"You're in the way to make this the most pleasant trip, I'm
sure, that I've ever taken,” said Le Baron, earnestly.
“Oh, Mr. Le Baron, you're trying to flatter me now," said
Dorothy, coyly.
“I'm trying to do nothing of the kind, my dear lady. I wanted
su much to see you again. Words are inadequate to say how much
I wanted to do so."
"That is very kind of you I'm sure,” said Dorothy happily.
For the moment they seemed to have forgotten Bob, who was keep-
ing his eyes before him. They were approaching the great bridge
which spanned the mighty Mississippi, that would take them across
into Arkansas; and for the moment he was agreeable to letting
them carry on the conversation alone, which they did. It was
very formal talk in the beginning. In two minutes they were alone
on the bridge and looking down into the muddy waters of the great


CHAPTER CHAPTER
IV
RUE TO HIS PROMISE, LE BARON did not stay partic-
ularly long upstairs in his room, but returned, smiling and
cheerful in a surprisingly short time. That was a great
relief to Bob, for he was anxious to be out and on his way to
Forest City before it got too warm. Knowing as Le Baron did not,
that he would soon meet the woman whom Le Baron was so excited
about, he was also anxious to get that done and over with as quickly
as possible.
"So you're taking me to meet a lady? Still not your lady
friend,” said Le Baron, getting into the seat beside Bob and slam-
ming the heavy door behind him.
"The lady is a friend of mine; and I didn't say that she was
not,” corrected Martin, sagaciously, careful indeed not to give Le
Baron any inkling as to the lady's identity.
"I'd give a hundred bucks, if purchasing were possible, if it
could be the girl I met at the gas station this morning, that we
were taking along with us."
“You seem to be rather enamored of a lady you've just met-
and so unceremoniously,” ventured Martin, glancing at him and
smiling.
“But what a lady!” exclaimed Le Baron, closing his eyes and
daring to dream of Dorothy for a moment. Opening his eyes and
sighing reflectively, he continued: “I'm sure you'd feel as I do
about her had you met her under similar circumstances."
"Perhaps," commented Martin. “Well, you're going to meet
a fine lady in a few minutes now; a lady, I venture to say, that
58


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
59
you will like," and again he glanced at Le Baron, sideways and out
of the corner of his eye. Le Baron's eyes were half closed and he
was still thinking about Dorothy, so was not immediately aware
of what Bob was talking about. Coming back to himself all of
a sudden, he turned to Bob and started.
“Did you say something, Bob? he inquired.
"I said that you're going to meet a fine lady very shortly."
“So you said. Yes, I heard you. I remember now," said Le
Baron, absentmindedly.
"But you were thinking so intently about this mysterious lady
of the gas station, that you didn't understand just what I said or
what I meant.”
"Maybe not,” Le Baron went on, still absentmindedly. "I guess
that was it.” He looked around him at this point. They were
nearing Dorothy's house and he seemed to be trying to connect past
events.
"I seem to remember this section somehow."
"You should remember it. I drove you through it the last
time you were in Memphis.”
Le Baron listened, continued to look around, his brow clouded
in his effort to remember.
"It seems you said something about a lady living somewhere
here about; a lady who had a strange and unusual experience."
“I don't quite remember saying that,” said Bob, knowing that
he was lying, as he drew to a stop in front of Dorothy's house. Le
Baron stared hard at the house.
"Seems you said something about this being the house," mused
Le Baron, his brow more clouded now than ever.
“Quit trying to recall something lost in the past and come with
me and meet the lady.” Going around the car to the side on which
Le Baron was seated, still gazing hard at the house, still trying to
remember.
Bob swung the door open. Le Baron stepped from the car, his
mind still trying to fathom what Bob had said to him once out of
the past. Bob closed the door behind him, and catching up with


60
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Le Baron, who had gone ahead toward the house, passed him and
led the way across the sidewalk and onto the walkway that led to
Dorothy's porch.
Meanwhile, Dorothy had dressed with infinite care to meet Le
Baron again and had parked herself in an easy chair by a front
window where she could look out onto South Parkway and await
their coming. So as quickly as they came in sight and she caught
a glimpse of Le Baron sitting and gazing hard at the house, his
brow contracted, she rose quickly to her feet in a nervous dither
and was watching them from that moment on until they stepped
upon the porch, crossed it and rang her bell.
Although she had been following their every move from the
time they hove into sight and had listened to every step and hence
knew when they would reach her front door and would ring the
bell, she nevertheless started almost violently and had to catch her
breath when she actually heard the bell. She calmed her nerves
with a great effort, and after a moment of further effort at stilling
the violent beating of her heart, she strolled toward the door,
already open but with the screen door closed. She walked up to
the screen door and looked out at them with restrained calm. Upon
seeing her face, it was Walter Le Baron who started abruptly,
raising his hand and opening his mouth and eyes so wide that for a
moment he was speechless.
Meanwhile, maintaining her self-control with practiced effort,
Dorothy unhooked the latch that held the screen door, as she cried:
“Hello, Bob! So you're back.”
She pushed the screen door open and Bob caught and opened
it wider, as, smiling at her, he said:
“Yes, Dorothy, I'm back and I've brought a friend with me."
“So I see,” said Dorothy softly, bowing respectfully toward Le
Baron, who was still standing, his mouth agape, staring at her as
if she were an apparition, all of which was beginning to amuse her.
"Please step cutside in the cool shade of your porch and meet
him, Dorothy.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
61
By this time Le Baron, having begun to recover and to get
control of himself, bowed astutely.
Dorothy stepped outside and Bob let the door, which he had
been holding open, close. It did so with a bang, however, and the
other two started quickly. But after it was over, it seemed to cause
them to relax their tension and both were smiling as Bob began:
"Mrs. Stanfield, I want you to" whereat Dorothy cut him
off with:
"I think the gentleman and I have met before," extending her
small hand toward Le Baron, who took it eagerly and dared to hold
it for a moment.
"Yes," echoed Le Baron, breathing it rather more than speaking
“We met early this morning,” Dorothy helped him out, “In a—"
“-gas station," said Le Baron, fully relaxed by now and so
happy that he had to restrain his feelings.
"In a gas station?" echoed Bob, lying nobly. "Now this is
interesting. Do you mean to tell me,” he went on, turning to Le
Baron, "that this is the lady you met, my friend, and have been
saying so much about, and whom you have also been so anxious
about?”
Dorothy was flattered now, and was also supremely happy over
what Bob revealed.
. "So he has been talking about me, and he has been anxious,”
she was saying to herself, as she stood there on the porch, smiling
up at him. Then aloud and turning to Bob:
"Why Bob, do you mean to tell me that Mr. Le Baron re-
membered meeting me and that he has said something—about me?”
“Something?” exclaimed Bob. “You mean, a lot. Why, I
was hardly able to get him here, he has been so anxious about that
strange lady whom he met in the gas station.”
“Now, Bob,” exclaimed Le Baron with real embarrassment.
"You shculdn't say all that.”
"And why not?” Bob wanted to know, turning upon him.


62
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“What you've been saying was so fine that I think the lady ought
to know at least a little about it."
"I want to know all about it!" Dorothy exclaimed, clasping
her hands and so thrilled that she had completely forgotten the
role she had affected toward him two hours before.
"So go ahead, Bob, tell me all about it-please do!” she cried,
clasping her hands estatically.
"More about it on our way to Dr. Burton's in Forest City," said
Bob with decision. "If we're going to drive there we need to get
started—and now!” and he shifted, turning to Dorothy, who turned
to face him now and answered his inquiry even before it was
spoken.
"I'm ready, gentlemen. I've always sensed that it annoyed
men to be kept waiting. So since we'd agreed to drive out there,
I got dressed, made some lemonade, which I have put into the
thermos, and if neither of you'll be sitting down, I'll go inside and
get it, then, presto!” and she raised and snapped her fingers dra-
matically.
Bob reopened the screen door. With a gesture of ecstasy,
which brought an expression of joy to the features of both men,
Dorothy dashed inside and within less than a minute, returned
with a large thermos, wrapped in a bath towel, closed the heavy
door behind her, shook it to see that it was securely locked, then,
walking between the two men, crossed to the car at the curbing,
where she was helped into the center of the wide seat by Bob, who
then turned and motioned for Le Baron to get in on her right side,
slammed the door and went around and got in on the drivers' side.
Seated, he looked around at them a moment, then touched the
starter, stepped on the gas and away they rolled, out into and
down South Parkway.
"Well," ventured Le Baron, daring to look down at Dorothy,
who was close by him and who dared look up into his face with
a smile. "To think that I've been praying ever since Bob told
me about going to Forest City and taking a lady with us, that
the lady should turn out to be you."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
63
She smiled sweetly and the blood Clustrad to her cheeks and she
was forced to lower her eyes for a moment, but raised them quickly,
smiled up at him again also sweetly and said:
“And now, you're not angry that it turned out to bem?”
"I'm so happy that I feel like getting out and running as fast
as this car is rolling."
“Oh, Mr. Le Baron," she cried joyfully. "No!”
“But, Miss Dorothy, Yes!” cut in Bob and winked at both.
"But he only felt like running as fast as the car is rolling. He
couldn't, of course, possibly do so! But seated so close to you, I
know he is pleased—very pleased,” and he winked again at both,
meaningly. This made the blood rush to the cheeks of both and
caused both to lower their eyes for the moment, but not for long,
as both were too happy to miss for a moment the pleasure it was
giving them to be together.
"I must confess that he has spoken the truth, even if he did
choose to say what he did,” admitted Le Baron, and his eyes were
very soft as he looked at her.
"I'm very glad to be told that I'm not in the way,” she said
and lowered her eyes for the moment.
"You're in the way to make this the most pleasant trip, I'm
sure, that I've ever taken,” said Le Baron, earnestly.
"Oh, Mr. Le Baron, you're trying to flatter me now," said
Dorothy, coyly.
"I'm trying to do nothing of the kind, my dear lady. I wanted
so much to see you again. Words are inadequate to say how much
I wanted to do so."
“That is very kind of you I'm sure,” said Dorothy happily.
For the moment they seemed to have forgotten Bob, who was keep-
ing his eyes before him. They were approaching the great bridge
which spanned the mighty Mississippi, that would take them across
into Arkansas; and for the moment he was agreeable to letting
them carry on the conversation alone, which they did. It was
very formal talk in the beginning. In two minutes they were alone
on the bridge and looking down into the muddy waters of the great


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
river below. Le Baron turned to Dorothy, who was looking out
over the bridge on his side and who turned to meet his eyes.
“Can you see the river?"
“Not so well, but it doesn't matter. I drive across this bridge
so often and I've been looking at that river for so long that—"
“_you're quite used to it.”
"Quite," smiled Dorothy and then laughed. “But please con-
tinue to look at it,” she said, and made a motion toward it with her
hand. "After all, the river from way up here is interesting.”
"I've crossed it many times, also,” said Le Baron. “All the
way from New Orleans to St. Paul. But I still find it interesting
to look down on every time I cross it, regardless where."
"I'm sure you do,” said Dorothy, appreciatively. She hoped
he would keep on talking, for she was interested. Anything that
would throw more light on this man, reveal more about him in
whom she found herself so tremendously interested, was what she
wanted to talk about.
-“Yes,” said Le Baron, gazing down at the waters below, thought-
fully, and then raising his eyes to make a survey of the river above,
he then turned to look back at Memphis on its east bank behind
them now as they spun towards the Arkansas side.
"But as I said, I never tire of looking at it, studying it. It
seems always to fire my imagination when I think of where it
starts away up north in Lake Itasca, and of all the territory it
passes through to disappear into the gulf of Mexico below New
Orleans.”
“You're a very interesting man, Mr. Le Baron,” commented
Dorothy, her face more serious now as she looked at him. He
smiled at this but said nothing.
"You travel a great deal, perhaps?”
“A very great deal, Miss Dorothy."
For some reason he preferred to call her "Miss Dorothy''
rather than "Mrs. Stanfield,” and it seemed to please her for some
reason that she couldn't fully understand. From what she had


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
65
said, or had not said that morning, calling her “Miss Dorothy”
seemed to please him better.
“That is very interesting,” Dorothy said now, gazing a moment
into an open space before them. “I've always longed to travel-
but then I suppose most everyone would like to.”
“Have you been out of Memphis often?” he asked her now.
"Not so often,” she said, shaking her head.
They were leaving the main span of the bridge now, and with
the river behind them, were coming onto the long approach on the
Arkansas side. While the bridge had no approach on the Tennes-
see side, but started right off the bank, there was a long stretch of
swamp on the Arkansas side. Le Baron remembered crossing
that same bridge years before; and he recalled his constant won-
derment at the ability of the long wooden trestle to carry such
heavy traffic to and from the bridge.
Arkansas had taken advantage of the long stretch of unemploy-
ment of a few years before and the state had persuaded the federal
government to fill the full length of that long trestle with dirt,
which feat interested and fascinated Le Baron.
“The first time I crossed this bridge, and for many times
thereafter, it was over a long, rickety trestle across these swamps,"
he said, looking out over the vast swamp lands beyond as he talked.
"All the South,” said Dorothy, “during the depression and the
period of the WPA and a long time after, persuaded the govern-
ment to make almost endless improvements which we now enjoy;
and this long grade is one of them.”
“Smart move on the part of the politicians of the state of Arkan-
sas, if you ask me," commented Le Baron.
"It's made the South a much better place in which to live,” said
Dorothy with a note of pride in her voice.
"You come over here quite often?” inquired Le Baron.
“Quite often, Mr. Le Baron. I somehow prefer coming here,
rather than driving down into Mississippi.”
"Mississippi, or I should say, the white people of Mississippi,
are so mean, I don't wonder. It makes me rather unhappy when I


66
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
think about it. Then, on the other hand, I imagine that crossing
the bridge tends to make driving out of the city somewhat thrilling.
At least more so than just driving down a plain highway as you do
when you drive down into Mississippi.”
"Perhaps,” she said. “The fact is,” and then she paused
abruptly. He turned his eyes to look at her, curiously, wonderingly.
"Please go on," he invited. “You started to say something that
is perhaps connected with coming over here?” She lowered her
eyes, a trifle embarrassed for a moment, then relaxing, went on:
“I started to say that when I met you at the gas station I was
on my way over here."
“Really?” he asked with a pleasant smile, as if at having her
recall their meeting.
She nodded and he thought, looked very cute. Still he knew
it was correct and that she was telling the truth.
"Then you-changed your mind?".
“Yes, I changed my mind,” she lowered her eyes and the blood
flushed to her face.
"Probably Bob was the cause if it,” he suggested and glanced
across at Bob, whose eyes were on the paved highway ahead, with-
out seemingly any regard to them.
"Oh, no," she cried and shook her pretty head.
“Then what did cause you to change your mind?” he wanted
to know. He had put the question to her pointedly.
Her eyes were turned away when she heard this. She then
dared turn and look up at him somewhat sideways.
“Can't you guess?” she asked, her eyes a bit coquettish. Le
Baron looked hard at her and then knew that it was meeting him
that had changed it. But he realized also in the same moment
that he dare not say that it had.
"I'm afraid I can't,” he lied, affecting absolute innocence. Her
face fell and she realized in the same moment that she could not
tell him either.
"Were you coming over here to call on this,” he paused and
tried to recall the name of the person whom they were going to see.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
67
“_Dr. Burton?" Dorothy shook her head and closed her eyes
momentarily as if to try shut out the lie she had told. She had
started out to call on Dr. and Mrs. Burton, she knew full well,
but for reasons of her own, she wished him to think otherwise.
"I have many friends over here,” she said simply.
"Naturally, living in Memphis, so nearby, you would have,” he
supplied at this point. “Do you happen to know this—Dr. Burton?"
"Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Most everybody who's in the
know in Memphis is acquainted with Dr. Burton.”
"Really?”
“One of the richest Negroes in Arkansas," said Martin, getting
back into the conversation after a long silence, but with his eyes
on the road ahead of them.
"I believe” said Le Baron, "That you said he was "
"Za dentist,” said Bob. “Yes, I did. He has the biggest
practice, I daresay, of any other dentist in Arkansas.”
“Negro practice.”
“No,” Bob said, protestingly. 'Of any dentist. His practice,
incidently, is eighty-five percent white."
“What do you mean?” said Le Baron, not seeming to under-
stand Bob's statement. “I thought you said he was a Negro
dentist?”
"I don't remember saying just what kind, but of course, he is
a Negro.”
"Then what do you mean by saying that his practice is eighty-
five percent white?”
“Just what I said.”
"I can't seem to get onto what you're talking about.”!
“I've made it as plain as I know how," said Bob calmly.
“Do you mean to tell me that this Dr. Burton, a colored dentist,
has eightly-five percent white practice, over here—in Arkansas?”
“Yes, Mr. Le Baron," interposed Dorothy. “That is why he
is so successful—and rich!”
"Rich?" inquired Le Baron, obviously astonished.
“And not just 'nigger-rich,' either," added Bob, keeping his


68
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
eyes on the paved road down which they were rolling.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Le Baron,” said Dorothy, her breast swelling
with pride for her dear South. "He is just what Bob is telling
you. And he is a fine man into the bargain."
"A Negro," repeated Le Baron, still doubtful.
"A nice-looking Negro, but a Negro just the same.”
“I'll be glad to meet him, and to talk to him.”
"And he'll be glad to meet you, too, and to listen to you and
tell you how it all happened," said Bob.
“You see,” said Dorothy, using her hands to gesture a bit. “He
draws his practice from all over this section of Arkansas. White
people who have good cars, mostly, and who don't mind driving
a few extra miles to secure the service they want. And when I
say white people, I mean white ladies and gentlemen, not Negro-
hating crackers.”
"I'm glad,” said Le Baron, listening to every word. “Go ahead,
tell me more about him. I'm always interested in hearing about
successful Negroes. We need so many more than we have.”
“He is very much like my father,” said Dorothy, turning to
Bob. "Don't you think so, Bob?"
"I've been thinking so for a long time," replied Bob, who
turned to glance at Le Baron, momentarily.
"And what kind of a man is your father, Miss Dorothy?” Le
Baron turned to ask her now.
"I think he is a very fine man, Mr. Le Baron," said Dorothy
with pride but also with modesty, as she turned to look at Bob as
if for approval of what she had just said.
"And a very successful man. Said to be the most practical
race man in Memphis," added Bob.
“What is your father's name?" inquired Le Baron, turning to
look at Dorothy.
Dr. Harold Vaughn," Dorothy informed him, whereupon Le
Baroa started, turned and looked at her now a bit searchingly.
“Do you mean the Dr. Harold Vaughn, head of your big Negro


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
69
insurance company?” Dorothy and Bob turned to glance at him
now in surprise.
"Yes,” she replied, and then was joined by Bob, who turned to
glance across at him. “How'd you know?” they inquired simul-
taneously.
"I'm talking about the chairman of the board of the company,"
said Le Baron, as if he doubted the Dr. Vaughn they were talking
about.
“Yes,” said Bob. “That's her father.” Immediately Le Baron
turned to look at Dorothy again, but out of different eyes.
• "Dr. Vaughn, your father," he said, directing his eyes and the
speech to her, his eyes open now with admiration of her. She
lowered her eyes modestly. “Well, as our people say when they're
surprised, 'I never.'”
"This lady comes of fine stock, Le Baron, if you don't happen
to know it. The very best Negro stock in all Memphis"
“If she's Dr. Vaughn's daughter, she'd have to,” cried Le Baron,
and again he looked hard at her. Then he began to wonder. He
thought of a man he had met a long, long time before, who was
also at the head of a very large insurance company at the time, and
who had a daughter also, equally as striking and more beautiful
than the girl sitting beside him. But that man's daughter, in spite
of a careful raising and years spent at one of the finest girls'
school, where she had been sent for training, was a bad girl. Just
plain and simply bad. Now as he looked at Dorothy anew out of
strange and dubious eyes, he was thinking of that girl; that her
father was successful and kind everything a man could reasonably
expect to be or have made himself. Yet his beautiful daughter
had chosen, of her own volition, to be just plain and simply bad.
Was it possible, he was thinking now, that Dorothy might be bad
in some strange and mysterious way like that man's daughter was;
and was what he saw in her face, or at least thought he saw, but
which had for the present passed out of his mind, mean she had
gotten into trouble due to being a bad girl?
He sighed, unheard, and lowered his eyes to think, forgetting


70
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
about Dorothy in the meantime. She was looking at him and
wondering what had suddenly come over him. She could not, of
course, know what was on his mind or what he was thinking about.
In truth, at that very moment Walter Le Baron was praying silently
that she was not like the other girl that he had known..
While it all came and went during the period of a few moments,
what Walter Le Baron thought during those moments would take
many pages to explain. Among the things he thought, was a ques-
tion, asked of himself. Was it going to be his misfortune to begin
to like a girl, as he had fallen to liking Dorothy, only to end up
with finding out, when he got around to hearing the story Bob
Martin would in due time have to tell him, that she was a no-
gooder?
"If I am beginning to like her, will I have to start out by for-
giving her the sins of her earlier girlhood?" He didn't like the
forgiving kind of love. He felt that sensible and thoughtful people
shouldn't do things they had to ask later forgiveness for having
done.
No amount of forgiveness had changed Dr. Story's daughter.
She had continued bad and foolish during those years he knew her,
and while he had neither seen nor heard of her for years, he could
safely conculde that she was still bad and that some men some-
where, were perhaps still falling in love with her and still forgiving
her, wherever that might be, for the sins of her commission.
Again Le Baron sighed; and when Dorothy heard him sigh and
looked up into his eyes, which for the moment were downcast, she
was concerned. She touched him and said:
“What is the matter, Mr. Le Baron? Are you feeling-bad?”
He started almost abruptly and turned to meet her gaze. In that
moment he seemed to look directly into her soul through her up-
turned eyes and something seemed to tell him that he was mis-
taken if he was thinking that Dorothy Stanfield was a vain and
foolish and in the end, a bad girl, for she was not.
His look at her now, was a bit odd. Doubt and fear were strug-
gling with something in him more subtle and commanding than he


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
71
had ever experienced. What was this something he was asking
himself.
“The matter,” he repeated, absently, albeit quickly. "The
matter with—what?"
"With you, Mr. Le Baron," she said kindly. "I was looking
at you. There was a sad and far-away look in your eyes. You
must have been thinking of something that happened a long time
ago; or was it about somebody, perhaps? Anyway, there seemed
to be something the matter, for you sighed and seemed-a bit
unhappy. Are you—ill?”
"No, oh, no; I'm not ill at all, Miss Dorothy. In fact, I never
felt better in my life," and coming out of his reverie, he was him-
self again.
“And you said that I seemed—ill?”
“You most assuredly did.”
"I'm surprised. I must have been thinking—about something."
“About something?" she repeated, kindly. "I wish I could
understand what about,” she said, a question in her eyes. She
wished that he would tell her.
"I'm afraid you couldn't very well understand,” he tried to as-
sure her. "Besides, it would take so many words to explain—even
to try to explain.”
“Was it as serious as—all that?”
"I regret to admit that it was.”
"And you don't care to say what it was about?”
"It was so far away from what we were talking about, and would
take a lot of words—so many words—and in the end, it would still
be as far away from what we were talking about as ever," he
argued, knowing that he was not thinking about trying to explain
it to her.
“What were we talking about anyhow?" she inquired, and was
forced to laugh a bit. He smiled, was thoughtful a moment; then
perked up and looked at her.
"A very interesting subject,” he said. “Your father."
VD
tas


72
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Oh, yes,” she cried, then smiling, relaxed. “My father. You
seemed to have been admiring him.”
“I admire him very much. I've even met him but I'm sure he
wouldn't remember me.”
"I wouldn't say that. My father is a very practical man."
"I agree with you. Reminds me very much of the late Booker
T. Washington, whom my father, who passed away last year, used
to admire and talk so much about.”
"I've heard that said of my father, too; that he was a disciple
of Dr. Washington's philosophy of common sense."
“Who believed and insisted on our people actually doing some-
thing and not just getting an education—then talking about it,"
said Bob.
“Which reminds me of a book I read not so long ago,” said
Dorothy, thoughtfully.
"There was something like that in a book by Sidney Wyeth,”
said Le Baron.
"By Sidney Wyeth," echoed Dorothy, looking at him quickly.
“The book I'm talking about was by Sidney Wyeth. The Home-
steader was the name of the book.”
"A corking good story, if you ask me,” said Le Baron, warmly.
“Built around a young colored fellow who went into the Dakota
wilderness and there, under terrible and difficult circumstances,
succeeded in building an agricultureal empire.”
“Oh, I loved that book,” cried Dorothy, clasping her hands.
"Have you read the other one? The one about the white woman
who fell in love and got mixed up with a Negro, and in the end
married him?"
"I surely did,” cried Dorothy enthusiastically, and then she
thought about her diary, and the note, too, that she had been in
the act of sending to that same Sidney Wyeth in New York that
morning. She decided to direct the conversation, if she could
manage to do so, away from her father to some other channel which
might, after some trend, lead to her and give him a chance to ask
her more about herself. So she turned to Le Baron and decided


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
to ask him more about Wyeth's books.
"Would you happen to know-Sidney Wyeth?”
“Very well and for a long time. I think Bob must know him,
too.” Turned to Bob now, he called louder: "Bob, you must know
Sidney Wyeth, don't you?”
"Surely I do. Been knowing him a long time. I also knew
Frank Knight, author of Nature's Child and Black Narcissus, when
he was in Memphis while a boy."
“You do,” cried Dorothy, both surprised and amazed. "And
you've never told me anything about it?”.
“But Dorothy,” Bob went on “I don't think I ever had occasion
to say anything about knowing them to you."
“You must have noticed that I have the books of both of them
at home in my library.”
"I may have, but a lot of homes I go into in Memphis have
both Sidney Wyeth's and Frank Knight's books, and others as well,
in theirs."
"Of course,” she admitted and was more relaxed. Then thinking
of something new, she sat quickly erect, and turning to Walter Le
Baron, went on:
"Speaking of Frank Knight and his books, how do you like
them?"
Le Baron was thoughtful a moment.
"I thought both very interesting.”
“Only interesting?”.
"Well, I don't altogether like his pattern, but I suppose that it
was, to some degree, laid out by his publishers. Sidney Wyeth
seems to be about the only Negro engaged in writing fiction, who
is free and independent in what he writes.”
"I agree with you; and as far as the Negroes are concerned,
they like Wyeth's books better.”
"He is about the only Negro author who writes about us colored
people as we are living and thinking today; about the only writer
who puts the love and the romance of our lives into his stories. I
wonder how the white people take to them?”


74
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
.
. .
99:
"From what I've learned,” said Le Baron, slowly, thoughtfully,
The white people themselves react to his books, more or less in the
same manner as we Negroes do; but the publishers and the review-
ers can't see the way he writes. Although they are looking at the
modern Negro everyday as we are, they have the race couched in
a groove and seek to keep him in that groove as much as they can.”
“That's what I think, too,” said Dorothy. “Meanwhile, I
understand that Knight is married to a white woman. That's
something I can't quite understand—especially when you read his
books where he attempts to show how badly white people are in-
clined to treat Negroes. It seems that he preaches one kind of
philosophy and practices another. What do you think of his marry-
ing a white woman anyhow?”
"Well, I don't know just what to say,” said Le Baron, and
hesitated thoughtfully.
Dorothy looked at him; and then something that she hadn't
thought of at all occurred to her. She wondered if Le Baron was
married—then started. She hadn't thought of that. Now sup-
posing he was married, with her gone off on a tangent of dreams
about him. He might be, and worse still, supposing that he was,
which should serve to drive those dreams out of her right quick
and most serious of all, possibly to a white woman!
Of a sudden she was in a nervous quandary. She was more-
she was frightened! Bob, who had been silent during the last part
of her conversation with Le Baron, now turned to glance at her
and clearly noted the fear and anxiety in her face.
“What's the matter, kid?” he said, carelessly.
"Oh, nothing,” she lied. As she viewed it, there was nothing
left for her to say.
"You're lying,” said Bob in a low voice.
“Why, Bob!” she exclaimed, affecting indignation. Bob
laughed.
“Bet I can guess.”
"All right, Mr. Smarty. Guess."
“Not until Mr. Le Baron puts his fingers in his ears. I don't


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
75
want him to hear!” glancing across at Le Baron, who thereupon
stuck a forefinger in each ear, smiling as he did so.
“Go ahead,” he cried. “I can't even hear myself now.”
Bob leaned over and into Dorothy's ear:
“You're wondering if he's married?”.
She shrugged her shoulders, said nothing, but listened anxiously.
"Well, he isn't, so forget that." He paused to smile, then
went on:
"Happy now?"
She nodded her head in child-like fashion, and he relaxed, see-
ing that she was calm and composed, then looked over at Le Baron,
whose eyes were on the road ahead.
"All right, Le Baron,” he called, loudly, making something of a
gesture. We've exchanged our secrets. Everything's all right.”
Le Baron obeyed, sighed, turned to look at them, then focused
his eyes on her and smiled when he observed that she had relaxed.
"A big secret. Some day I'm going to ask my boy," pointing
to Bob, "what it was all about.” .
"You were talking about Frank Knight, the writer"
"_who is married to a white woman,” said Dorothy, fearless
and relieved now, and liking him more than ever. She seemed to
hear herself saying, I'm going to fall in love with you, Walter Le
Baron. Maybe I am already in love with you, only I don't want to
admit it yet, even to myself.
“About Frank Knight, who is married to a white woman,” she
began.
“Yes,” said Bob Martin. “Married to a white woman. His last
book ended with him leaving Memphis for Chicago. From the
tone of that story, there seems to be more of it that he has yet to
tell. In all he has written, he intimated nothing about Negroes
marrying white women, while Sidney Wyeth doesn't hesitate to
express his opinion on the matter and he makes it part of his
stories.”
“He could, because he's married to a colored girl.”
"I like him for that. I'm sure that most of our group who know
1
.


76
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
about both of these cases, must like him for marrying in his own
race.”
"His first book, if you recall, told the story of a colored boy who
sacrificed a great love because he thought the girl he was in love
with was a white girl.”
"It made a fine and beautiful story, which ended well when he
found out that she was not a white girl after all.”
“Then he married her."
“I loved the story so much that when I heard more about Frank
Knight being married to a white woman, I read it again. Why is
it, Mr. Le Baron, that when Negroes in the North get up in life, the
first thing they seem to think about and want is to go off and marry
some old white woman?”
"Some of those who're doing that come from down south," he
said, and glanced at her and Bob, who turned to look at him oddly.
“Frank Knight, who claimed to have suffered so much abuse
from white people, was born in Mississippi, and went from Memphis
to Chicago," and Walter Le Baron smiled as both started, and
looked guilty.
"Well, one thing is true. They don't attempt to play with them
down here. They know they wouldn't live very long if they did,”
at which all laughed.
“Which ever Negroes are up to it, and there seems to be a very
large number that are playing the game right there in your New
York,” said Dorothy, on the verge of anger. Turning to look at
him and apparently annoyed because he had not expressed a more
concerned conviction about it, she went on:
“You don't seem to be so concerned about it. You're not plan-
ning to do so, too, are you? At least thinking about it, perhaps?”
She pointed this question at him directly, and watched his face
to see what effect it had on him.
"I am not,” declared Le Baron, promptly. "In fact, personally
I'm opposed to Negroes marrying white women, under the circum-
stances, as they seem to be doing lately, and that includes Frank
Knight, too.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
77
"I'm glad to hear you say that,” said Dorothy, and breathed a
sigh of relief. “And now, since you intimate that you are not
going with nor planning, by what you say, on marrying a white
woman, we can talk more freely about it-express our honest
opinions.”
'I think, however, that every person has a right to marry whom-
ever it pleases him to choose —even if this comes to a Negro marry-
ing a white person,” said Le Baron. “But I for one, would never
let myself go off and fall in love with any white woman, even if
she encouraged me to do so. I speak only for myself in that regard,
however.”
"But don't you feel, Mr. Le Baron,” interjected Dorothy, "with
so many of our men whose names get before the public marrying
white women, that sooner or later it is going to come to the atten-
tion, if it hasn't done so already, of such men as the two Senators
from Mississippi, for instance, and that they may ultimately use
these facts to prove their contention that the Negro is desirous of
social equality?”
"I've never fully understood what is meant by 'social equality'
as the South talks about it as regards us. But in regards to this
intermarriage, it seems to be confined largely to Negro men marry-
ing white women, and in the case of Frank Knight, for instance,
because he is the most publicized member of our group from the
standpoint of a writer, I'm surprised that it has not been picked
up and exploited all ready.”
“They sure crucified Jack Johnson for marrying white
women,” sighed Bob, making a sharp turn in the road at that point.
"I talked with Johnson just before leaving New York,” said
Le Baron, "and he told me that they were still at it; that he has
been persecuted by both Negroes and whites ever since he married
the first white woman.”
“The first?” exclaimed Dorothy, looking at Le Baron. "How
many has he married, anyhow?"
"He's married to the third one now," said Le Baron. Bob
Martin smiled.


78
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“I think I shall go north—and marry me a white woman,” said
Bob chidingly, and glanced at Dorothy, who was taking it all most
seriously. She was in no mood to joke about it, so turning to Bob,
she cried:
"And bring her back to Memphis to—”
" get himself hanged to the first tree,” and both he and Le'
Baron laughed.
"They wouldn't use that much time to kill you,” said Dorothy.
“They'd shoot you on sight like they did Larry Phelps, you remem-
ber him, for daring to get into his car beside one."
"They trapped him," said Bob. "He'd been friendly with this
white dame for a long time. The police got wise to it and laid a
trap, then waited and—”.
"—the Negro stepped right into it—and they rubbed him out
so quickly that he hardly knew what struck him.” Dorothy was
warmed up to the subject of interracial marriage condemnation,
and had more to say about it, so went on, her face intent with what
she was talking about.
"What I would like to know is, what prompted Frank Knight,
after all his bitter and unfortunate experiences, as related in both
his books, to up and marry a white woman, anyhow?”
"He's married to a Jewess,” said Le Baron.
"Well, they're considered to be white, aren't they?” Dorothy
wanted to know.
“Oh, of course," said Le Baron, hastily.
“Weren't we good enough? If he—and all those other Negroes,
mostly around New York it seems—if they had to have a white
woman for a wife, aren't there plenty 'white' colored women for
them to marry? We have plenty of them—even in Memphis, as
white as the whitest woman back there, so what?”.
"I'm afraid you'll have to ask the men who are doing it,” said
Le Baron, smiling. Dorothy was obviously quite wrought up
about it.
“If you ask me, I believe there are a whole lot of Negro men
who just want to marry a white woman and when they get up in


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
79
the free North, and have the chance, they take advantage of it.”
"There is another angle to it also," said Le Baron after a
moment's thought.
"And what is that angle? Meantime, how is it that while all
the Negro men up there are grabbing white wives, some white men
don't take to themselves a Negro woman for a wife? They steal
around the back doors to see them enough all right, but I don't
hear or read anything about any well-known white man marrying
any colored woman. Do you?”
She was directing all questions at Le Baron, seeming to shoulder
him with the responsibility of answering them. He turned to look
at her.
“I hear that a few white men have married colored women.
In fact, I know one or two that have colored wives.”
“But you know many Negro men who have white wives, and
know of a great many more that are married to them, don't you?”
"I suppose you're right,” admitted Le Baron.
“No, you haven't heard and you won't be hearing of it. It
is all going to get to the attention of Negro-hating Southern politi-
cians in due time and I hope they will expose these so called
prominent Negro men of ours to the point that our group will turn
around and ostracize them as the white people do. These white
wives are not taking their Negro husbands around to meet their
friends nor their brothers or sisters, their mothers nor their
fathers, are they?”
Not waiting for Le Baron to answer, she continued:
“You know they're not. In fact, I bet when they marry a
nigger-excuse me,” she broke off to say, apologetically, "I mean,
of course, 'Negro,' they go into exile-even from their own parents
and brothers and sisters.”
"How about it, Le Baron?” called Martin, from the other side
of the car. Both of them were looking at Le Baron, who returned
their gaze, and shaking his head, replied:
“Listen, both of you. You are questioning me so intently about
black marrying white, just like I had something to do with it.”


80
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Oh, I'm sorry," cried Dorothy, patting his hand. "We didn't
mean to be so-insistent. Of course you had nothing to do with
it and I'm sorry," she said, kindly. "Now please go on with what
you started to say.”
"I was simply going to say that I am no authority for these
Negroes who have and are choosing white wives. I do feel, how-
ever, that I am acquainted with what did recently in part lead up
to the practice.”
“What source?” said Dorothy, and pointed her question at him
seriously.
“Take Frank Knight's case, for instance."
"That's a good one to discuss,” said Dorothy, and turned toward
him more than she had before. “How'd he get into such a thing?
Because he wanted to? I hate that nigger-Negro, for it; but go
on, Mr. Le Baron, and tell me why he did it?”
"This is my personal opinion of how it got started. Being a per-
sonal opinion, it might be in error; but here is how I surmise it
happened. I'm sorry that you and a million or more other race
men and women can't ask him yourselves.”
"Well, confine it in this case to your personal opinion,” said
Bob. “That'll be enough for us," seeming to be by this time as
greatly interested as Dorothy, who struck him playfully and impa-
tiently, insisting that he air his opinion regarding the best known
and the most read of Negro writers. The only one, other than
Sidney Wyeth, who had built up and owned his publishnig outlet,
who could boast of making his living from the sale of what he
was writing.
"I am basing my theory largely on what Knight has written in
his books. At the end of his last book, he tells of how he left for
Chicago. In Nature's Child, he indicated that he had an awfully
hard time after reaching Chicago and during the depression. In a
series of two articles that were published in a magazine a few
months before the appearance of his last book, he told of how he
tried to become a Communist.”
“He is a Communist, isn't he?"


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
81
“That's what I've been told,” interposed Bob, from his side of
the car.
“He was a Communist, yes,” said Le Baron.
“What do you mean by he was when he is?" argued Dorothy,
a frown on her face.
“Take it easy, dear one—if I may call you 'dear,'” he said and
dared lay a hand on hers. She smiled and relaxed, the blood flaming
in her cheeks.
"Perhaps I'm taking it too seriously,” she said and smiled up at
Le Baron sincerely. "Please go on and tell us what you started to.
I'll try to quit interrupting.”
"He, according to his books, had an awfully hard time on reach-
ing Chicago.” Then aside, and digressing from what he had started
to say, Le Baron went on:
"I think that is one of the reasons the white people like to read
his books. Sidney Wyeth told me that it is so easy for white
people to picture a Negro as unfortunate and hard up. It seems
to be the condition they expect to find the Negro submerged in-
poverty and misery. But they can't seem to very fully appreciate
the conventional and educated Negro. He just doesn't seem real to
them, and for that reason they discourage Negroes in pictures, on
the stage and over the radio in contemporary roles, living a normal,
ordered and prosperous American life—but getting back to Frank
Knight.
"In New York and Chicago and in and around most of the
large cities, during the depression, they set up a federal theatre
organization, which was directly connected with the writers project.
As I am told, and in part from what I know, these groups got to-
gether, and promptly developed into Communist leanings. They
went in so strong for Communism that the government had to
abandon both projects before they planned to, due to the fact that
the very actors and writers that they were attempting to help,
through Communism, got to planning how to overthrow our ways
of life and the Government decided that if they must, they
wouldn't get any further opportunity on its pay, so the projects in


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Oh, I'm sorry," cried Dorothy, patting his hand. "We didn't
mean to be so-insistent. Of course you had nothing to do with
it and I'm sorry," she said, kindly. "Now please go on with what
you started to say."
"I was simply going to say that I am no authority for these
Negroes who have and are choosing white wives. I do feel, how-
ever, that I am acquainted with what did recently in part lead up
to the practice.”
What source?" said Dorothy, and pointed her question at him
Seriously.
"Take Frank Knighi's case, for instance."
«That's a good one 10 discuss," said Dorothy, and turned toward
him more than she had beiore. "How'd he get into such a thing?
Because he wanted 10? I hate that nigger-Negro, for it; but go
on, Mr. LRaron, and tell me why he did it?"
"This is my personal opinion of how it got started. Being a per-
sana) apinion, it might be in error; but here is how I surmise it
humanod. I'm sorry that you and a milion or more other race
men and women can't ask him yourselves."
Well, cantine it in this case to your personal opinion." sait
Bob. That 'Il ne mnough for us," seeming to be br this time as
pra intend A Dorothy, who such him plant and mos
Tinn: İSTİNg Thint air his oninion regarding the DASI T )
ama the most ad ni Nard WTAS. The only one, oches
Sidney Pivech, who had built u mnd owned his publishnis cum
THE ZUIE UN ni muting his firing from the sale of wila de
Was woling
"] an sing my theory largely it. whu Knigh: hat mit
his hands. A ent ens los hat, he mis ni hoh Eis
incap. 1 Tater s hiu hi indiziec iha: hr hat ar. It
hari im u nching Chicagt ane during the Heart I
A R
I ran nudishaT ir mada E *
min's Bing Im TreTax Las N Nahi talt. 213
Tier lett tenmus"
IrunS SI DE


83
but a
women,
ne that
::1," said
at way at
i Dorothy.
s possible
1," said Le
10 managed
hers, and
-15 book, to
s ambitious,
und of what
-, too,” sug-
i and party
sht happened

wat he wanted, and
chy, with a pout on her
les who've been marrying
cance. That Negro wanted
possessed ambition, even
as more ambitious to
of our group, else he
sously."


82
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
New York, I happen to know, were closed down abruptly, and
these ambitious groups were left to get along the best way they
could.
"In the midst of these hard times, harder than he wrote of hav-
ing had in the South before he left, emerged Frank Knight.”
"Not harder,” suggested Dorothy. “It couldn't have been much
harder."
“The difference in Chicago, dear,” he said, and again the blood
flushed to Dorothy's face. Somehow calling her "dear” seemed to
fit his speech exactly, and she found herself liking to hear him
address her, using the word.
“As I started to say, in Chicago Knight was free. He didn't
have to bow and kowtow to white men, call them ‘Mister' if he
didn't want to, or pretend that he was happy or try to please them
as he had been forced to do before leaving the South.”
"Oh, I see what you mean now, and understand it better,“ ex-
claimed Dorothy, clasping her hands. "Please do go on.”
"You recall at what length he wrote of having to go hungry.
That was a revelation, and aroused no end of sympathy for him
in his book. Well, there were a lot of people going hungry after he
arrived in Chicago during that awful depression and before better
relief arrangements had been completed and set up. And from
what Knight has written, he was among them. Well, hunger breeds
discontent, and Communism—the American kind at least, thrives
on discontent; and Knight, it seems, got mixed up with Commun-
ism, along with a lot of other hungry Negroes and whites, and
there the seeds of Communism in his heart I imagine, were born. I
imagine that during this period he met this Jewish girl, whom I've
heard was a Communist leader.”
“We're told that most Jews at heart are Communists,” said Bob.
"They charge them with being so many adverse things that it is
hard to tell, although it is my personal opinion that Jews, as a
group, are Communist-minded.”
“What about the Negro?" inquired Dorothy at this point.
Le Baron turned to look at her, then smiled.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“If the Negro is anything politically, he's a Republican, but a
great many of these men that have been marrying white women,
decided for the time that it was going on, to play any game that
would keep them eating and getting them a little money "
“_and permit them to court and marry a white woman,” said
Dorothy.
“You think so?” from Bob.
“That's what I've been told. It may not have been that way at
all, but let's assume that it was."
“Yes, yes, of course. It seems very logical.” said Dorothy.
“Please go on.”
"Poverty and discontent and there they were. It is possible
that an interest in common began to develop. In fact,” said Le
Baron, “I've been told that it was this Jewish girl who managed
to bring his ambition to write to the attention of the publishers, and
succeeded in getting the book club who later chose his book, to
read the galley proofs. Being Jewish she was naturally ambitious,
and would understand something about the business end of what
ever she was attempting.”
"Did you say that she was perhaps a Communist, too,” sug-
gested Dorothy.
“I said I heard that she was a Communist leader and party
worker.”
“So you think, then, that that is how Frank Knight happened
to marry a white woman?” asked Dorothy.
“That is my opinion. It may have been that he wanted, and
was trying to be grateful.”
"Grateful, your foot!” exclaimed Dorothy, with a pout on her
lips. "He was just like all other Negroes who've been marrying
white women every time they had a chance. That Negro wanted
to marry this girl because she was white."
“Well, according to his last book, he possessed ambition, even
from childhood. It is apparent that he was more ambitious to
succeed in some way than most boys and girls of our group, else he
wouldn't have been trying to write anything seriously."


84.
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"You don't have an over amount of confidence in most of us--
at least it seems that way,” said Dorothy.
“We haven't much in ourselves. You know that,” countered Le
Baron. "The height of ambition among the masses of Negroes,
educated or otherwise, is to get a job, the best we can with what we
know and have to offer. So the Jewish girl whom Knight finally
married, was perhaps willing to go along with him, and make the
most of what was, at the time no doubt, mighty hopeless conditions.
We must consider that at such a time, it was not Frank Knight,
author of two 'best-sellers,' then, but Frank Knight, a nobody,
struggling to make a living and merely hoping to get somewhere
by and by. She was closer to him at that time than anybody else
—than his own mother, even. She perhaps understood his needs,
his sorrows, his misfortunes-possibly, perhaps, his hunger, and all
that. At such a time and under such conditions, a man could,
without much effort, learn to love a woman who was kind to him-
even if she was white."
"And especially if he wanted to do so,” said Dorothy, almost
vehemently. "Take it from me, I'll always believe that the Negro
wanted to, and that's all there is to it. Well, he's got her, and I
understand that they have a child, so it's for keeps now. Mean-
while, how does he spend his time? You know him, I suppose.”
"No," said Le Baron, shaking his head. "I do not. I've never
even seen him.”
"Indeed! And both of you right there in New York!”
“There's a lot of people among the seven million in New York
whom I don't know and whom I have never seen or met.”
"But you said that you know Sidney Wyeth?”.
"I do and so do a lot of other people, including our friend, Bob,
away out here in Memphis!”
“But why should both of you know Mr. Wyeth and neither of
you know this Frank Knight?”
“One reason is that Sidney Wyeth is married to a girl of our
own race. They live in Harlem and go around among Negroes, are
seen walking and riding up and down the streets of Harlem. When


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
85
you marry a white woman you sort of go into retirement, as it were.
You can't go around among and associate with white people, and
you're very much afraid that if you attempt to take her out among
Negroes, she may be insulted by colored women, who, like you,
don't go in for their men marrying white women at all, and who,
from the way they talk, are liable to jump on her at the least ex-
cuse and tear her hair out and mess the poor thing up in every way
they can think of," whereupon all three laughed loudly.
"Another reason in addition to what Mr. Le Baron has just said,
Dorothy, is that Sidney Wyeth as I know him," said Bob, "is a
very connmonplace person, whose business as a motion picture
producer for over twenty years took him all over the country,
repeatedly, year after year. Hence he met and mixed with every-
body who had any connection with Negro theatres, everywhere
Negro theatres are located. Whatever the conditions or circum-
stances that existed to cause Knight to marry a white girl, as Mr.
Le Baron has also explained, when he did so, he went into involun-
tary exile as almost every Negro does when he marries a white
woman-at least as far as she is concerned.”
“Correctly said, Bob,” agreed Le Baron. "You've summed up
in a few sentences, the situation correctly. Wyeth is an intense
race man; and while he can and does criticize the Negro in his books
far more seriously than Frank Knight does, if this applies to
Wyeth, he is for his people at all times, regardless the circum-
stances. Knight is never seen in Harlem.”
"No?"
"I've never seen him there and I haven't heard anybody else
say that he has ever met or seen him in Harlem.”
"Well, I never!” exclaimed Dorothy indignantly. "I hate him
more than ever now!”.
"You mustn't say that, dear," complained Le Baron. "How
can you hate the man when you haven't ever seen him or met him,
either? You're in no position to know or judge the man, and we
may all be right, and still there's the possibilty that we may be
wrong."
im-


80
THE STORY ANFIELD
RY ROTH
(
OF Dorothy STANFIELD
“Oh, I'm sorry," cried Dorothy, patting his hand. “We didn't
mean to be so-insistent. Of course you had nothing to do with
it and I'm sorry,” she said, kindly. "Now please go on with what
you started to say."
"I was simply going to say that I am no authority for these
Negroes who have and are choosing white wives. I do feel, how-
ever, that I am acquainted with what did recently in part lead up
to the practice.”
"What source?” said Dorothy, and pointed her question at him
seriously.
"Take Frank Knight's case, for instance.”
“That's a good one to discuss,” said Dorothy, and turned toward
him more than she had before. “How'd he get into such a thing?
Because he wanted to? I hate that nigger-Negro, for it; but go
on, Mr. Le Baron, and tell me why he did it?"
“This is my personal opinion of how it got started. Being a per-
sonal opinion, it might be in error; but here is how I surmise it
happened. I'm sorry that you and a million or more other race
men and women can't ask him yourselves.”
"Well, confine it in this case to your personal opinion," said
Bob. “That'll be enough for us," seeming to be by this time as
greatly interested as Dorothy, who struck him playfully and impa-
tiently, insisting that he air his opinion regarding the best known
and the most read of Negro writers. The only one, other than
Sidney Wyeth, who had built up and owned his publishnig outlet,
who could boast of making his living from the sale of what he
was writing.
"I am basing my theory largely on what Knight has written in
his books. At the end of his last book, he tells of how he left for
Chicago. In Nature's Child, he indicated that he had an awfully
hard time after reaching Chicago and during the depression. In a
series of two articles that were published in a magazine a few
months before the appearance of his last book, he told of how he
tried to become a Communist.”
“He is a Communist, isn't he?"


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“That's what I've been told,” interposed Bob, from his side of
the car.
"He was a Communist, yes,” said Le Baron.
: "What do you mean by he was when he is?” argued Dorothy,
a frown on her face.
"Take it easy, dear one—if I may call you 'dear,'” he said and
dared lay a hand on hers. She smiled and relaxed, the blood flaming
in her cheeks.
"Perhaps I'm taking it too seriously,” she said and smiled up at
Le Baron sincerely. "Please go on and tell us what you started to.
I'll try to quit interrupting.”
"He, according to his books, had an awfully hard time on reach-
ing Chicago.” Then aside, and digressing from what he had started
to say, Le Baron went on:
“I think that is one of the reasons the white people like to read
his books. Sidney Wyeth told me that it is so easy for white
people to picture a Negro as unfortunate and hard up. It seems
to be the condition they expect to find the Negro submerged in-
poverty and misery. But they can't seem to very fully appreciate
the conventional and educated Negro. He just doesn't seem real to
them, and for that reason they discourage Negroes in pictures, on
the stage and over the radio in contemporary roles, living a normal,
ordered and prosperous American life—but getting back to Frank
Knight.
"In New York and Chicago and in and around most of the
large cities, during the depression, they set up a federal theatre
organization, which was directly connected with the writers project.
As I am told, and in part from what I know, these groups got to-
gether, and promptly developed into Communist leanings. They
went in so strong for Communism that the government had to
abandon both projects before they planned to, due to the fact that
the very actors and writers that they were attempting to help,
through Communism, got to planning how to overthrow our ways
of life and the Government decided that if they must, they
wouldn't get any further opportunity on its pay, so the projects in


82
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
New York, I happen to know, were closed down abruptly, and
these ambitious groups were left to get along the best way they
could.
"In the midst of these hard times, harder than he wrote of hav-
ing had in the South before he left, emerged Frank Knight.”
“Not harder," suggested Dorothy. "It couldn't have been much
harder."
“The difference in Chicago, dear,” he said, and again the blood
flushed to Dorothy's face. Somehow calling her "dear” seemed to
fit his speech exactly, and she found herself liking to hear him
address her, using the word.
“As I started to say, in Chicago Knight was free. He didn't
have to bow and kowtow to white men, call them ‘Mister' if he
didn't want to, or pretend that he was happy or try to please them
as he had been forced to do before leaving the South.”
"Oh, I see what you mean now, and understand it better,“ ex-
claimed Dorothy, clasping her hands. "Please do go on.”
"You recall at what length he wrote of having to go hungry.
That was a revelation, and aroused no end of sympathy for him
in his book. Well, there were a lot of people going hungry after he
arrived in Chicago during that awful depression and before better
relief arrangements had been completed and set up. And from
what Knight has written, he was among them. Well, hunger breeds
discontent, and Communism—the American kind at least, thrives
on discontent; and Knight, it seems, got mixed up with Commun-
ism, along with a lot of other hungry Negroes and whites, and
there the seeds of Communism in his heart I imagine, were born. I
imagine that during this period he met this Jewish girl, whom I've
heard was a Communist leader.”
“We're told that most Jews at heart are Communists,” said Bob.
“They charge them with being so many adverse things that it is
hard to tell, although it is my personal opinion that Jews, as a
group, are Communist-minded.”
“What about the Negro?” inquired Dorothy at this point.
Le Baron turned to look at her, then smiled.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
83
"If the Negro is anything politically, he's a Republican, but a
great many of these men that have been marrying white women,
decided for the time that it was going on, to play any game that
would keep them eating and getting them a little money"
“—and permit them to court and marry a white woman,” said
Dorothy.
“You think so?” from Bob.
“That's what I've been told. It may not have been that way at
all, but let's assume that it was.”
“Yes, yes, of course. It seems very logical.” said Dorothy.
“Please go on."
"Poverty and discontent and there they were. It is possible
that an interest in common began to develop. In fact," said Le
Baron, “I've been told that it was this Jewish girl who managed
to bring his ambition to write to the attention of the publishers, and
succeeded in getting the book club who later chose his book, to
read the galley proofs. Being Jewish she was naturally ambitious,
and would understand something about the business end of what
ever she was attempting.”
"Did you say that she was perhaps a Communist, too,” sug-
gested Dorothy.
“I said I heard that she was a Communist leader and party
worker.”
“So you think, then, that that is how Frank Knight happened
to marry a white woman?" asked Dorothy.
"That is my opinion. It may have been that he wanted, and
was trying to be grateful.”
“Grateful, your foot!” exclaimed Dorothy, with a pout on her
lips. "He was just like all other Negroes who've been marrying
white women every time they had a chance. That Negro wanted
to marry this girl because she was white."
"Well, according to his last book, he possessed ambition, even
from childhood. It is apparent that he was more ambitious to
succeed in some way than most boys and girls of our group, else he
wouldn't have been trying to write anything seriously.”


84
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"You don't have an over amount of confidence in most of us-
at least it seems that way,” said Dorothy.
“We haven't much in ourselves. You know that,” countered Le
Baron. "The height of ambition among the masses of Negroes,
educated or otherwise, is to get a job, the best we can with what we
know and have to offer. So the Jewish girl whom Knight finally
married, was perhaps willing to go along with him, and make the
most of what was, at the time no doubt, mighty hopeless conditions.
We must consider that at such a time, it was not Frank Knight,
author of two 'best-sellers,' then, but Frank Knight, a nobody,
struggling to make a living and merely hoping to get somewhere
by and by. She was closer to him at that time than anybody else
—than his own mother, even. She perhaps understood his needs,
his sorrows, his misfortunes—possibly, perhaps, his hunger, and all
that. At such a time and under such conditions, a man could,
without much effort, learn to love a woman who was kind to him-
even if she was white.”
“And especially if he wanted to do so,” said Dorothy, almost
vehemently. "Take it from me, I'll always believe that the Negro
wanted to, and that's all there is to it. Well, he's got her, and I
understand that they have a child, so it's for keeps now. Mean-
while, how does he spend his time? You know him, I suppose.”
"No," said Le Baron, shaking his head. “I do not. I've never
even seen him."
"Indeed! And both of you right there in New York!”
“There's a lot of people among the seven million in New York
whom I don't know and whom I have never seen or met.”
“But you said that you know Sidney Wyeth?”
"I do and so do a lot of other people, including our friend, Bob,
away out here in Memphis!"
"But why should both of you know Mr. Wyeth and neither of
you know this Frank Knight?"
“One reason is that Sidney Wyeth is married to a girl of our
own race. They live in Harlem and go around among Negroes, are
seen walking and riding up and down the streets of Harlem. When


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
85
you marry a white woman you sort of go into retirement, as it were.
You can't go around among and associate with white people, and
you're very much afraid that if you attempt to take her out among
Negroes, she may be insulted by colored women, who, like you,
don't go in for their men marrying white women at all, and who,
from the way they talk, are liable to jump on her at the least ex-
cuse and tear her hair out and mess the poor thing up in every way
they can think of,” whereupon all three laughed loudly.
"Another reason in addition to what Mr. Le Baron has just said,
Dorothy, is that Sidney Wyeth as I know him,” said Bob, "is a
very connmonplace person, whose business as a motion picture
producer for over twenty years took him all over the country,
repeatedly, year after year. Hence he met and mixed with every-
body who had any connection with Negro theatres, everywhere
Negro theatres are located. Whatever the conditions or circum-
stances that existed to cause Knight to marry a white girl, as Mr.
Le Baron has also explained, when he did so, he went into involun-
tary exile as almost every Negro does when he marries a white
woman—at least as far as she is concerned.”
“Correctly said, Bob,” agreed Le Baron. “You've summed up
in a few sentences, the situation correctly. Wyeth is an intense
race man; and while he can and does criticize the Negro in his books
far more seriously than Frank Knight does, if this applies to
Wyeth, he is for his people at all times, regardless the circum-
stances. Knight is never seen in Harlem.”
“No?"
“I've never seen him there and I haven't heard anybody else
say that he has ever met or seen him in Harlem.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Dorothy indignantly. "I hate him
more than ever now!”
“You mustn't say that, dear," complained Le Baron. "How
can you hate the man when you haven't ever seen him or met him,
either? You're in no position to know or judge the man, and we
may all be right, and still there's the possibilty that we may be
wrong.”


86
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"He married a white woman, didn't he? Well, that's wrong
as far as I'm concerned and is going to stay wrong in my mind now
and for all time. I'll never forgive him for doing so—never! I
hate any Negro that treks off and marries a white woman. I can
see no excuse for doing so, any more than they can seem to find it
necessary, the white men, I mean, for going around and marrying
colored women, which even you admit that they rarely ever do.
They manage to get along, the white men, without marrying Negro
women. So any effort to justify a lot of Negro men running off and
marrying white women, doesn't get to first base with me. All of
them that do it just want to and any effort to show how circum-
stances brought it about, is all just so much piffle to me.”
“Gee, but you are sure hard on our poor men,” said Le Baron,
amusedly, shaking his head.
“Take Knight's case, for instance," she went on, protestingly.
"He may have been poor and even had to miss some meals around
the time he married her. Well, he isn't the only Negro that's been
poor. There's hundreds of thousands that still are and always
will be; poor, hungry and wretched. No white woman wants them,
even if they are poor, too. The man has to want the woman he
marries. I'll stick to that.”
"In that respect," agreed Le Baron, "you're right, but—".
“_but, nothing!” exclaimed Dorothy. "He's a big-time writer
now, isn't he? The best known and perhaps the most prosperous,
or should be, that our race has ever produced. Now if he had mar-
ried a nice colored girl, he would be seen in and around Harlem
the same as Paul Robeson and Sidney Wyeth, Joe Louis and others
of our better folk. And look, had he done that like these other
race men, what a credit he would be to our group, our struggling
and unfortunate group. Answer that if you can—please!”
"I still agree with you, young lady,” said Le Baron and smiled
tolerantly.
"The wife of a successful author like him is something we do
not have, all because he had to slip off and marry a white woman.
A colored wife would have been a leader up there in Harlem and a


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
87
great influence in the lives of a lot of young colored people. Both
of them could be a great inspiration to them. As he took up writnig
and became successful, so might others do if they could have met
him and known him as they do Robeson and others.”
"Just look," cut in Bob at this point, "what the success of Joe
Louis meant toward inspiring other ambitious Negro fighters to
great and sensational success.”
"The Negro fighter just about dominates the fight game, and
has for ten years, or ever since Louis started laying them on the
floor and standing over them while they were counted out, all be-
cause they saw Louis do it and believed they could emulate his
action—and they did. We all know that,” said Le Baron, warmly.
All three swelled with pride at this.
"But if Louis had gone off and married some old white woman
like Jack Johnson did and hadn't cared if Negroes liked it or not,
they'd have disliked it so much that they would not have been
trying to emulate him as they have been trying to emulate Louis,"
cried Bob.
“But with Knight marrying a white woman and going off and
hiding away like you intimate that he has done, and never meeting
any of his race, he is no inspiration to his race at all and cannot be
an example to inspire any other Negro trying to write anything,"
said Dorothy, vehemently. “That's what I mean by the act he has
committed. Our people have been held down and kicked around
for so long that they have almost no confidence in each other.
“But if one of us, so fortunate as to rise above the masses as
Knight by his writing has done, and then when up, as Robeson and
Louis and Wyeth have risen, turn around and lend others a help-
ing hand, there are certainly a great many who would try to
prove themselves worthy and work hard to do more than they are
trying to,” said Dorothy.
"Now you say that his wife is a Jewess. So he has at last
come into the money.
“The few thousands of dollars that he is making would have,
with a colored wife, meant a whole lot to colored people and they


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would be talking about it from one end of the country to the other.
I'll bet that I'm not the only colored woman that feels as I do
about this whole thing."
"No, Miss Dorothy, you are not. But there is some consolation
in connection with Knight's marriage. After they have been mar-
ried ten more years and are still together, their child will have
broken down much of our prejudice against his marriage."
"How so?” she wanted to know.
“The child will have to associate with colored children. It will
bring them into the parents' home, and the child will finally take
the mother into the homes of her colored playmates, where, in time,
the old prejudice will gradually be forgotten. However, being a
Jewess, if she continues her religion, (which she may have gotten
away from, I wouldn't know) then even this will not open Negro
homes to her and Knight may continue a social exile for God knows
how long. Had she been a Protestant or a Catholic, the child or
children would be the cause of ending this exile when they become
large enough to play with other children and bring them home to
meet their mother. Soon the Negro churches would take the
mother in and in due time what he has done and has all Negro
America talking about it, the most of them, the women especially,
condemning him, would become history and soon everybody will
have forgotten it."
"Well,” said Bob, adjusting himself. “We are entering the out-
skirts of Forest City and in less than three minutes we should be
greeting the good Doctor Burton and his wife and their friends, all
colored people, thank heaven, and there will be nobody to be em-
barrassed or have to hide when we arrive,” whereupon all laughed
and Le Baron and Dorothy adjusted themselves, preparatory to
ending their trip as best they could.
“That means we must end our debate on the intermarriage of
races and its results,” said Le Baron, and all laughed again.
"I've certainly enjoyed the debate, if you must call it that,
Bob,” said Dorothy, smiling across at him, then turning to Le
Baron, went on, warmly:


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89
"And, oh, Mr. Le Baron, I can't find words to express how much
I have enjoyed talking to you. I hope you don't think I am hot
tempered and disagreeable because of the way I have expressed
myself regarding Frank Knight. I admit that I am deeply pre-
judiced against our men marrying white women under any circum-
stances, and am afraid I'll continue that way, regardless. Other-
wise, I'm willing at least to try to be agreeable.”
“I believe you,” said Le Baron, and dared pat her hand. "I've
enjoyed this trip from Memphis talking and listening to you and
Bob, and I have a feeling that we'll have another debate on our way
back to Memphis tonight.”
“But let it be about something else. I want to forget about our
Negro men marrying white women because it makes me angry when
I think about it and when anybody is angry, they're bound to be
disagreeable, regardless of their desire to be agreeable in about
everything else.”
"It's a deal,” exclaimed Le Baron, and held his hand out to
Dorothy. She took it and both laughed and had a peculiar thrill
as they held hands for a moment.
"I don't mind confessing, now that it is over, that what we have
talked about for the past half hour, although I have enjoyed the
interest it has given me, was not what I had planned to talk about
when we left Memphis at all,” said Le Baron, and there was a
little frown on his face as he completed his speech. Turning to
look at him curiously, Dorothy said:
What would you rather have talked about, or what had you
planned to, Mr. Le Baron?”
He turned and met her eyes squarely, then smiling, patted her
hand again and said:
“You."


CHAPTER
FOREST CITY IS A BEAUTIFUL TOWN of about ten
R thousand inhabitants, about half way between Memphis and
- Little Rock. It lies in a fertile valley which swings out
in all directions and incorporates some of the finest cotton lands in
all Arkansas. The citizens of the city boast that they are the most
liberal minded in Arkansas, as well as the most prosperous and
progressive.
Forest City was founded and named after the confederate
General Forest of Civil War days, who is credited with originating
the first Klu Klux Klan, which none of the citizens of Forest City,
however, boast of, or even tell you anything about.
“We have long since gotten away from all that,” they will tell
you, and from all appearances they have and Forest City is a
delightful little town to live in or even to visit.
Its liberal spirit and healthy sentiment were attested to, among
other things, by the fact that Dr. Burton, dentist, and a Negro, had
his office in the center of its thriving business district, upstairs
over one of the leading banks in the town, with a practice, as
Dorothy and Martin had told Le Baron, which was not only white,
but consisted mostly of the best white people in Forest City and
also the best from many smaller towns around Forest City, with
some coming as far away as Helena—some from Little Rock, even,
a fact that the Doctor was proud to the point of boasting about!
They said that his popularity was due to the fact that Doctor Bur-
ton knew how to treat everybody, and did that very thing.
After serving his guests to a fine dinner, he drove them to his
90


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
91
office. The place was air conditioned and contained a switch board,
at which, during business hours, an attractive colored girl received
and switched calls. The Doctor employed three hygienic dental
assistants, had two superb waiting rooms, which his guests assumed
were used, one for colored patients, the other for white ones. He
had installed three of the finest dental chairs that Le Baron thought
he had ever seen-in short, Le Baron referred to it many times
afterward, as the finest dental office he had ever seen before or since.
Dr. Burton was what Negroes refer to very commonly and often
as a "race man,” but he didn't go in for condemnation of the white
race as a whole as is done by so many Northern Negroes. He was
one of Forest City's most highly respected citizens—and proud of
it!
He was surprised, then greatly pleased, to find Walter Le Baron,
a Northern born, raised and educated Negro, as sympathetic with
regard to the South, who, while condemning the white enemies of
the Negro, on the other hand was greatly pleased and actually given
to admiring the white people who were trying to treat the Negro
decently.
“I argue, Doctor, all over the North that in many respects, the
Southern white man is more tolerant of the Negro's faults and fail-
ures, which they all agree are many, than are the Northern white
people; and on the whole is a better friend of the Negro. Many
of my people in the North deride this expressed opinion and refute
-or at least try to, all that I say.”
"One of the many reasons they cannot understand this is be-
cause so few of our people in the North are in industry, agriculture,
trade and commerce and hence never have occasion to borrow
money,” said the Doctor.
“That's it exactly. Not being engaged in one of these various
lines, they are unable to appreciate the fact that almost everywhere
down South, a colored man can walk into about any bank and if he
is known to be of good character, can borrow money—about all
the money he needs to expedite the success of his efforts,” observed
Le Baron.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"I have heard with surprise that it is difficult for a Negro to
borrow money in the North,” said the Doctor. “Why, that is
about the least of our worries down here. Even the Negro barber
in this town, if he is respected and of good character, can borrow
from the banks, likewise any man or woman of our group can bor-
row money, often with little or no security. Character is the thing
by which they evaluate us, then assist us accordingly.”
“That is what I tell them when they go running the South down
because of what Bilbo and Senator Eastland and Congressman
Rankin say, all of them from Mississippi. But as we understand,
the Northern Negro thinks only of the privilege of eating, and then
in only a few of the big Northern cities, in a white restaurant, rid-
ing in the same seat, if necessary, on the busses or street cars, and
attending the same school as the white person,”said Le Baron.
"Which just about ends his ‘privileges," " said the Doctor. “We
are sorry and I know that many of the white people down here are,
that the social and political situation which exists is like it is;
and many would be glad to change it. But the poor whites, who
are the ones that hate the Negro so viciously and do everything
they can to humiliate and hold him back, are, unfortunately, in the
voting majority; and they, in a large measure, are responsible for
most of the acts that humiliate and embarrass us."
“We are humiliated and embarrassed to a very large degree all
over these United States," said Le Baron, with a shrug of his
shoulders. "So what?” and they both laughed, and turned their
thoughts and conversation into other channels.
The Doctor walked Le Baron around a few blocks of the city
near where he lived, showing him properties that he owned and
other nice residences which Negroes lived in and owned, and went
cn to say, among other things:
"Now with regard to the matter of residential segregation. In
the North, an educated Negro with a good job, which often just
happens and is not due to anything he has done in the way of
effort in particular, often purchases, when he can, and moves into a
section far removed from where other Negroes live. In many cases


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
93
you can appreciate what he has done and the man's desire to live
in a neighborhood where his children can grow up in an environ-
met better than the one he moved away from.
“Unfortunately, however, some other Negro, not always as up
to the moral standard with him, emulates his move and buys near
him. In due time the white people move out and the Negro moves
in and in due time it becomes a Negro neighborhood, and too often
then, neglect sets in on the part of the Negro. In the course of
time the Negro who started the exodus into the 'white' section,
moves away and into another white section, if he can buy or rent,
and in due time, hatred and animosities follow and in such cases
the Northern white people grow to hate the Negro worse than the
so-called Negro-hating white Southerners do.
“That is rarely the case down South. We Negroes open up a
respectable section and force all Negroes in that section to keep
their property up, abstain from loud and noisy conduct and in due
time we have an 'aristocratic' Negro section and avoid the animosi-
ties that have ruined many cities for Negroes in the North."
When they returned to the Doctor's house, Le Baron's eyes
fell on Dorothy, standing by a hedge looking out over the town
at nothing in particular. As he looked at her she seemed lonely
and he was anxious to walk over to her and talk. The Doctor
seemed to sense the situation, and pointing to her, said:
"Dorothy seems rather lonely, standing over there,” he said
and he paused, looked at his watch, then went on:
“Bob and I have some matters that we've wanted to go over
together for some time, and now is our chance.” He turned to
look at Dorothy again, who didn't seem to be aware that she was
the object of their discussion.
"Why not take Bob's car, or mine for that matter, and drive
her out to my farm? She knows the way and will gladly show you,
I'm sure. Mrs. Burton is due at church very shortly, so supposing
you entertain Dorothy? She's a fine girl,” he said, patting Le
Baron on the shoulder. "I've known her since she was a kid. Her
dad and I are the best of friends, so you go over and make her stay


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out here pleasant and agreeable, won't you?”
“Why, I'll be glad to, Doctor," cried Le Baron, happily, for it
was just what he wanted to do. He had been hoping for some
excuse to be near her so that he could talk to her. Now the good
Doctor had made that possible by inviting him to go for a drive,
which was what he wanted—and badly so, to do.
After excusing himself, the Doctor went into the house where
he found Bob, chinning with the Doctor's wife and children, while
Le Baron crossed to Dorothy by the hedge and greeted her.
"Oh, dear," she cried, turning to face him. "How you fright-
ened me! I didn't hear you approaching.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said, taking her by the arm.
"Well,” she replied, not drawing it away, “I'm rather pleased
to be. What is on your mind?”
“You, as usual,” he said playfully, but meant it.
“Oh, Mr. Le Baron,” she cried, deprecatingly. "You insist on
flattering me."
“The Doctor suggested that I drive you out to his farm for a
change. Do you want to go?"
“That was very fine of him. I don't mind, if you care to go.”
“I was raised on a farm, and have always been in love with farm
life. I'm raring to go.”
“Then what are we waiting for,” she said, and smiling, she took
his arm. They were glad of the thought to be again alone together.
Then suddenly the smile left her face, and she hesitated, then
paused. He turned to look at her askance.
“Are you quite sure that you want to-be alone with me, Mr.
Le Baron?” and when she looked up at him and he met her eyes,
there seemed to be a bit of fear and sorrow in her look. His
heart went out to her promptly, and immediately he was curious to
know why she had spoken as she did. He squeezed her hand that
was holding his arm reassuringly.
“I am positive that I want to, Dorothy—I mean, Miss Dorothy."
“You can call me by my first name—that is, if you wish to,"
she said kindly. She was wondering if they went out to the farm


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
95
alone, whether or not Le Baron would again press her with ques-
tions about herself, and thinking especially of that subtle something
he had said he saw in her eyes. Then, to herself, and in a mood
of defiance, she decided that if he did, she would press him by
insisting that he also tell her more about himself.
"I will call you by your first name only when we are alone,”
Le Baron said as they walked across to Bob Martin's car. “When
in the presence of others, Bob, even, I'll greet you formally.”
"That is very sweet of you—Walter.” She spoke the last word
haltingly, and then sighed a bit as if she was relieved. As if to
attest her trust in him, she squeezed his arm just a little, and then
relaxed.
When they reached the car and before he helped her onto the
seat, he paused and turned to look at her, his face serious and as
if with a purpose.
“You're going to continue a woman of mystery until I've
learned why that sorrow is in your face—but I am not going to
press you to answer any more questions which you'd rather not,
perhaps, answer tonight. Meanwhile,” he went on, turning toward
the car now, "the Doctor said that I could drive either Bob's car
or his, so I'll drive Bob's, providing he has left the key in the
switch.” He turned now to see if it was and turned back to her
with a smile and a nod of his head to indicate that it was.
He helped her onto the seat, then went around and got in on
the driver's side, turned to her before touching the starter and
said:
"The Doctor said you'd know the way. Do you?”
“Oh, yes, Walter,” she cried, joyfully. “Of course I do. Just
drive out into the street, turn right and then I'll show you."
"I presume,” said Le Baron, “that when they hear the car, the
Doctor will tell Bob that he told me to take the car and that we
are driving out to his farm and Bob will understand.”
"I'm sure he will,” said Dorothy. "He's a rather understanding
chap.”
“He is that,” said Le Baron, touching the starter, and stepping


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THE STORY OF Dorothy STANFIELD
resumed, “on the way over here—that is, to Forest City," she
went on now, her face expressing curiousity.
“My action? What action, dear?”
“Your action, just before I asked you if you were ill?”
“Oh,” he cried, and smiled. "That was not important."
“For some strange reason,” she said, “I think it was. I wish
you'd tell me what it was you thought about that made you act
that way."
"It wouldn't be appropriate, Dorothy, but I promise this: When
I know you better, and I am hoping that that will be before I
leave Memphis, I will tell you. All right?”.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I hope you will before you leave Memphis,
but I'd be happier if you'd tell me now."
“You think you would—but you wouldn't.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I just know. You'll have to wait and I'll be glad to tell you.
If I fail to do so after we are better acquainted, which means after
I have been told what happened to you, I will be glad to tell you.”
"Then maybe you will at the same time tell me more about
yourself,” she said, solicitously.
"Perhaps.”
“Why can't you tell me now?”
“You'll understand better why when I do,” he said, eyes fixed
on the road ahead.
“We're nearing the Doctor's farm."
“Yes?”
“See the buildings, a group of buildings, and the large gate
opening this side of them?”
“Surely.”
“Well, turn in there."
“Okay.”
A few seconds later they turned in at the open gate and ap-
proached the house and barn. A lane swerved off to the right, and
went below the buildings. Dorothy's eyes were on this lane. In


THE STORY OF DOROTEY STANFIELD
99
side, Le Baron slowed down and came to a stop. Looking up at the
house.
“There is no one there. Our folks are church minded. It is
Sunday and they are all at church—they stay in church or near it
from eleven in the morning until the preacher has gotten all, or at
least most, of their money Sunday night."
Both laughed. Le Baron looked around, wondering just what
to do. Dorothy sensed what he was thinking about.
"There is a beautiful stream, a creek that itows across this lane
about three hundred yards below here. There is no bridge and we
just drive across the creek. The water is shallow, perhaps a foot
and a half deep. Large oak trees repose on the banks of the
creek, shade it and make a very beautiful setting, if you were
making pictures."
"Let's drive down to it, okay?"
“Surely. I often stop my car in the middle of the stream, which
is about twenty feet wide. If we stand there awhile, the fish will
gather and you can see them. You won't be able to get out of
the car, unless you want to get your feet wet," and she laughed.
"Here we go," he said, jovially, and stepped on the gas.
The lane led through a field of very fine cotton, the white bowls
of which seemed to glisten in the bright moonlight.
“Isn't it beautiful?" said Le Baron.
“So beautiful. I'm surprised that you like cotton."
“And why?” he said and turned to her in surprise. They were
nearing the creek and he slowed the car down to walking speed.
"Because most Northern colored people don't. They seem to
think that they are expected to pick it."
"It is fun, great fun," cried Le Baron, “picking cotton.”
The car was barely moving and slid easily down into the creek
at this point. The waters were as clear as crystal and the shadows
of the moon through the leaves of the great oaks cast fascinating
shadows on the water. Le Baron brought the car to a stop midway
in the stream, looked down on the water and thrilled to the beauty
of the scene.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“We won't need to get out and wet our feet,” he said. “We'll
sit here and look at this beautiful scenery. It is magnificent," and
Walter Le Baron continued to thrill at the sight of it all.
Dorothy, of course, agreed with him—then suddenly caught his
arm and cried, pointing her finger as she did so:
“Look! The fishes!”
Le Baron turned his eyes in the direction she was pointing,
and there they were. Dozens of fish, from two to ten inches long,
all kinds of the fresh water kind.
“Isn't that wonderful,” he cried, simply fascinated by the sight
of them. "And so many! My, this would be grand fishing."
"And how. When we come to spend the weekend, we bring
nets and scoop up all we want. We throw the small ones back, of
course."
"I've never watched such a thrilling scene—hundreds of them
now. I wish,” he said, abruptly, turning toward her, "we had
something to feed them. It would be fun then, sure enough.”
Dorothy was thoughtful, then reaching up, opened the glove
compartment, looked in, then let escape a child-like cry of joy.
“Here it is! Crackers! I thought Bob might have had some-
thing like this in his car.”
She withdrew a box, half filled with Uneeda biscuit.
“Say,” cried Le Baron. “This is a treat!” He took some
crackers and rolled same between his palms until they were a mass
of crumbs.
"Now we will feed them and watch them fight for the crumbs.”
This he proceeded to do and they were duly thrilled to see the
fish rush and fight for the crumbs. Both laughed gleefully.
“Isn't this great fun?” he cried, turning to her.
“Isn't it!" she cried enthusiastically.
In leaning over her to see the fish, which could be seen better
from the side on which she was sitting due to a spot of moonlight
that found its way through the branches of the great oaks and
fell upon the clear, running water, making the fish very visible, he
touched and pushed somewhat against her. To see better the


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
IOI
little silent performance going on below, he had to place his arm
about her waist. Both became suddenly conscious of an intimate
and greater thrill. Seemingly unconscious of his action, his arm
tightened about her waist, and as she turned to look at him, both
of their breaths came short-and the next moment he kissed her
upturned lips.
They seemed to live a thousand years in that one brief moment
as the kiss lingered for less than perhaps three seconds, but in
their impassioned souls, it seemed to have been ages. She was
the first to recover somewhat and tried to draw away, but there
wasn't sufficient room to move far. She dared then to look into
his eyes, helplessly, and to murmur, just before breaking into tears.
“Oh, Walter," she cried, truly frightened. "You've spoiled
everything!” and finding her handkerchief, started to cry. His arm
about her waist tightened until she was forced to raise her tear-filled
eyes to look at him again and again he kissed her, this time twice.
She turned away now and was pitiful in what she said.
"Oh, Mr. Le Baron. You're—making me hate myself," and
fell to weeping without restraint.
"I'm sorry, Dorothy, dear, for I know how you feel. But you
have not been weak as you feel that you have, so try not to accuse
yourself further. As for me—well, I couldn't help it, that's all."
“But why did you do it?” she cried. “And we were getting
along so well, too. Oh,” she cried louder, “I hate myself!”.
He tried to comfort her, but it seemed of little use, and she con-
tinued to weep. His arm held her close in spite of her weeping
and he could feel her heart beating excitedly.
"I'm sorry, darling," he said, his emotion pent up and about to
overflow too, by this time. “I am honest in what I say, dear."
"All I know is that you have spoiled what was promising to be
a delightful friendship—a beautiful friendship,” she protested be-
tween her sobs.
“I did it because I love you, Dorothy, just love you and noth-
ing I try will change that feeling."
“Shame on you to say such things at such a time! You make


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
it worse. First,” she raised her eyes to protest, "you shame me
by doing what you did, now you make me lose respect for you by
declaring that you—love me."
"I stick to what I've said. I did it because I love you, Dor-
othy. I've never loved any woman half as much as I love you,
believe it or not.”
"I wish you would hush,” she said now, as she tried to dry her
eyes.
“I am not asking anything, sweetheart. Simply telling you
again and again that I did it because I love you, and I want to
kiss you again, dear.”
"Never!” vehemently. She had forgotten about his arm being
around her waist, so she loosed a hand and took it from around her.
"Let's go back to Forest City," she said as she did so. By
now, her sobbing had subsided somewhat.
"As soon as I have said what is on my mind, Dorothy," he
said kindly.
"What is on your mind?” she repeated, raising and turning now
to face him.
For answer he caught her suddenly to him and kissed her many
times before she could begin to resist.
"Well, such conduct!” and without another word she raised a
hand and smacked his face, resoundingly, so hard, in fact, that
it brought tears to his eyes. He did not complain, just let the tears
fall and looked sad.
"Oh,” she cried. “I didn't mean to-hurt you.” The tears
continued to flow from his eyes and his face was sadder. She re-
laxed now and before she knew it, had raised and placed her arms
about him, and weeping, she cried:
"Oh, darling Walter, forgive me, please forgive me.” Still he
did not answer. "Please, darling, say that you forgive me and say
something—anything!”
"I love you Dorothy. I shall always love you, whether I have
the right to or not.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
103
“Oh, I would like to believe you, Walter, but I don't dare to;
I have no right to.”
“Which does not change the way I feel. Nothing you can say
or do will change the way I feel toward you. I simply love you,
Dorothy, that's all."
"Oh, Walter, please don't keep on talking like that.”
"I will continue to love you and I am willing to wait—years if
necessary, for at this time I have the feeling that you are in some
strange way involved. I don't think that you are free.”
“What about yourself?” she said, looking at him.
"I am free, Dorothy."
"But you have intimated repeatedly that there is some reason
why you can't tell me why you are in Memphis."
“There is, Dorothy,” he said quietly. "But it is not because
cf any woman nor possibly anything that you can guess. I must
simply ask you to trust me and believe in me. I shall not fail you."
“You're so wonderful, Walter,” she cried, beginning to weep
again, this time on his shoulder. "So wonderful—and so good!”
"Thank you, dear,” he said, still quietly. “My love for you is a
great love, a noble love, an unselfish love. A love that inspired
me to trust you, to believe in you—and to wait!”
She dared look up into his eyes now, and hers too were tender
with love that she was afraid to admit. He encircled her waist
again with both arms and kissed her passionately, and she did not
resist, nor draw away this time. Finally, for some reason that she
could not understand, she drew him close now and kissed him.
"I_trust you, Walter."
“And you love me, too, don't you Dorothy?”
She fell to weeping again but nodded her head in assent as she
did so. Again he embraced her and again he kissed her. At
length, he patted her shoulder, which caused her to shudder slightly
from her own emotion.
“We will keep our love all to ourselves for the present, Dorothy.
We won't let anybody know what has happened. We will be care-
fully formal; for, you understand, dear, hardly anybody would


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
believe us, or feel that it was possible for two people to meet and
actually fall in love, all in a single day. Yet I know that we are
in love and feeling as I do, that part is settled, other than indulging
that love.
“But with your consent, we agree not to say anything about it,
perhaps until you are free, however long that may be. I am will-
ing as I have already said, to wait and all the while I am waiting
I will continue to love you dearly and do all I know how to com-
fort you. I want you to trust me, too, Dorothy, and consent after
we return to Memphis, to let Bob tell me your story. I am sure
-feel sure, at least, that you had nothing to do with what hap- .
pened to you and I am telling you now that when I have heard it I
will continue to believe in you and to love and comfort you.”
"Oh, Walter," she cried, fully relaxed by now. "You're so
good and I will always believe in and trust you. I wish I could
tell you what happened to me, but something did. I will admit
that much. Bob knows all about it, and I will tell him to give you
the story—just as it all happened. Maybe you will hate me after
you have heard it, but that will not alter the way I feel about
you. You have given me more happiness during the last few
minutes than I have ever had in my life, and even if you turn away
after hearing my story, I will always feel grateful for the happiness
you have given me this day.” She paused and sighing, took his
hand and patted it, then she kissed it and sighed again, deeply.
"It has all happened so suddenly that you frightened me and I
- even struck you—and hard!” thereupon she paused to place each
hand on his cheek and cupping his chin, kissed him passionately.
“You will believe and always feel, darling, that I didn't mean
it. I was not angry—just frightened, Walter, by the strange force
you have brought to and wielded over me," and she kissed him
again and then again.
Holding her close, and with both fully relaxed, their backs
against the seat, he went on:
“You're the sweetest girl that ever lived—and I know that you
are a nice girl, Dorothy. I will tell you now, dear, what made me


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
105
hesitate and wonder this morning.”
"Oh, you will, Walter?" she cried, taking his hand and fondling
it. "Please do, darling. I was sure it was something.”
“When Bob spoke about your father, I thought of a great man
is our race who had a daughter, beautiful like you but who was a
bad girl, Dorothy, and for a moment I pictured the possibility that
you might be like her.”
“Oh, Walter,” she cried, her eyes wide in surprise. "How could
you picture me like that?”
"I didn't quite picture you like that. I considered and envis-
ioned the possibility of your being like that.”
"You said you saw a story in my face, my eyes. There is a
story which I have admitted, and so, of course, you were right.
But when you saw what you did, dear Walter, did I, at the same
time, look like I might be—a bad girl?”
"No, you did not, Dorothy. But you have a-pardon me for
saying so, you do have a passion in your face, that something which
makes men liable to try to intrude upon you."
“You seem possessed, Walter, with a gift of second sight. I've
been told the same thing all my life, and my dear mother was
afraid for me through all the years I was in school and even after.
Yet, I am not a bad girl, Walter, and I have never been. I can
tell you that in all sincerity; and when you've heard the story of
what happened to me, Bob will tell you, notwithstanding every-
thing that happened, that I have never, never been a bad girl,
Walter.”
“I know you haven't, Dorothy. I've been feeling all day, that
you have not been and are not now; and now that we know and
admit that we love each other, I'll think no more about it. Let's
exchange a sweet kiss, relaxed and without restraint, and then
we'll go.”
“Oh, Walter, dear,” she cried, with a deep sigh of great happi-
ness. “I could never refuse you anything.”
Thereupon she raised her arms and folded them around his
neck and they exchanged, not one kiss, but perhaps a dozen. At


106
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
length he started the motor, backed out of the stream, turned the
car around, and a moment later they were on their way back to
Forest City.
"How long do you plan to be in Memphis, Walter?” she in-
quired, as they drove back towards Forest City.
“That is indefinite, Dorothy. At this time, I really can't say.
I may be able to tell you in a day or two, however.”
"I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, please let me know as
quickly as you can, Walter.” She then took his arm and nestled
closer. “Very well, dear,” she said and sighed happily.
Both slumped into silence then, and said no more between
there and Forest City.


CHAPTER
CHAPTER VI
TT WAS EARLY THE NEXT NIGHT, after they returned to
Memphis, when Bob Martin got around to telling Walter Le
Baron the story of Dorothy Stanfield, which Le Baron was so
anxious to hear.
They were alone in Bob's house, where they had brought some
beer and wine and a bottle of whiskey and sandwiches, too, when
they sat down in the parlor and Bob started to tell Walter Le
Baron the story of the girl Le Baron had fallen in love with, as we
know, on sight.
But before going into that, which will take many pages, let us
return to New York, where Walter Le Baron lived, and find out
more about him; who he was and what he was, and what he was
doing in Memphis, regarding which he had sworn Bob to secrecy
and didn't wish to tell more about, even to the girl he had fallen
for and loved so dearly.
Walter Le Baron was an investigator, better called a detective,
and had been since he was old enough to know what it was all
about, for the simple reason that his father before him had, for
over forty years, operated and had been known during his lifetime
as New York's ace Negro detective.
Walter had worked out of his father's office ever since the elder
Le Baron resigned from the William J. Burns Detective Agency
and set up an office of his own, and had then taken Walter in as his
chief assistant.
The year before his father had passed away and Walter con-
tinued the office, and before leaving New York on the mission on
107


108
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
which we met him in Memphis, he had only recently returned to
New York from four months in the Carribbean, where he had
finally caught up with and brought back to New York, a Negro
master-mind criminal, which story does not concern the one which
we have set out to tell.
The third morning following Walter's return to New York and
the delivery to the police department of the master-mind who had
terrorized Park Avenue by the most daring thefts ever conceived,
his telephone rang and the call was switched to him in his private
office on downtown Fifth Avenue.
"Hello, Walter,” she said, for it was a “she” on the other end,
and he was glad that it was.
"Hello, Connie," he replied. “How do you do?”
"I'm fine, Walter. And how is your good health after such a
long, long absence from our fair city?”
"I feel like a Bull Moose,” he said. “Are you well, Connie?”
“Quite well, Walter. So is Jim, so you needn't ask me how
he is.”
Walter laughed.
“Dear old Jim,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“What did you say, Walter?" she called.
"Oh, nothing. I was sort of talking to myself.”
“What were you talking to yourself about? Is that what has
been happening to you while you've been away? Gone to talking
to yourself?” And it was Connie who laughed this time.
“Maybe so, Connie, but I'm still rational. I think I'll still be
safe to run around the streets, free for awhile yet," whereat both
laughed.
"I'm coming downtown, Walter, and that is why I called you.
To see if you were in and if you plan to still be in your office
around, say, about four o'clock?”
"I guess so, Connie,” he called back. "Been away so long
that nobody seems to be seeking me thus far. Guess I'll find some-
thing by and by, however.”
“There's something that may put you to work again right


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
109
quick, and that is what I am coming down to your office to talk
to you about. So when I've finished the little shopping I've plan-
ned, I'll drop in on you and tell you then what's on my mind.”
“Do you really have something on your mind, Connie? And
if you've been trying to think, aren't you beginning to feel sleepy?”
“What do you mean, Walter, beginning to feel sleepy?”
“They say that when one of us has something on his or her
mind and tries to think, they get the headache, which puts them to
sleep,” said Walter and he laughed. Connie caught the joke and
joined in.
"Oh, Walter. There you go as usual, running your race down.”
"Now, now, Connie, you know 'tis said that when a Negro tries
to think, it is often customary for him to fall asleep; and when
he awakens, he's forgotten all that he was trying to think about,"
and again Walter laughed, this time uproariously and again Connie
was moved to join him.
"All right, Walter, you old dear. Have it your way. I'll get
even with you for the jokes you're playing on me this afternoon
when I call to see you. Meantime, while it is on my mind, have
you heard whether Sidney Wyeth's new book has been published
yet or not?”
"I haven't been back long enough to hear anything about books,
or much of anything else. Has he written something new?"
"Oh, yes, and I hear it is very good.”
"Indeed! Well, I've read his other books and so I'll be inter-
ested in hearing more about anything new he has written.”
"I was talking with his secretary the other day and she says
that he really went to town with this new one."
"I thought his other two were very good. I read them both."
"So did I. I like his pattern."
"I, too. He's about the only writer who seems to write accord-
ing to our Negro way of thinking.”
“Isn't it so! All the others seem to be trying to write to please
white people,” said Walter, thoughtfully.
“And how!” replied Connie. “And that pattern is, among other


IIO
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
ways about us, to play up the good old mammies, talking in dialect
and being nice to white folks, calling even the children 'Massie
and Missus'."
“I get so sick of that stuff! In fact,” Walter went on, feel-
ingly, "I don't read it.”
"Neither do I,” replied Connie. “They have us set in a groove;
and in every situation we appear, whether in the movies, over the
radio or on the stage, it's invariably the same old thing."
“They seem to deliberately confine us,” said Walter, his tone
still very indignant, "over the radio at least, to singing spirituals
and hymns, preaching some old crazy sermon or otherwise acting
the fool.”
"Are you telling the truth, Walter, and how! And they still
seem to be able to find some Negroes who are fool enough to do
it! I'd like to drown a few of those darkies!”
“Yes," observed Walter; "but I don't feel angry towards those
who do it, as others of our group seem inclined to feel. After all,
these poor devils that play such roles, have to make a living, and
often they are very well paid for—"
" playing the fool,” Connie said, cutting him off. “Well, I'm
going to inquire if Wyeth's new book is out when I get downtown
and if it is, I'm going to purchase a copy. I like the way he writes
about us.”
"He's the only one who seems to dare write about the present
day, intelligent Negro."
“He portrays us only as we are, and as we go about our every-
day lives in the normal and respectable way, so why do the white
publishers and reviewers object to that?”
"I know why they tried to ignore the last book he wrote, the
one that was selling so well when I left these shores,” said Le Baron.
"It's still selling well—more now than when you went away,”
said Connie, swelling with indignant pride.
"He pictured a passionate white girl who was dying for sexual
intercourse, but afraid to run around with white boys to get satis-
fied, when she saw a handsome Negro boy who looked good to her.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
III
She began to make passes at him and before it was all over, she had
practically seduced him.”
"Yes, I know all about it, as I've read the book twice—and it
is a long one, you know."
“I don't need to say more, but I am going to. I want to ex-
plain why the reviewers quietly ignored the book. Said nothing
about it, for to have tried to criticize that angle, would have brought
it to the public for discussion and debate—and the book would
have triumphed over all criticism and objections. But getting back
to what I was trying to say.
“The white girl grew to a woman, married a millionaire, but
while married to her white husband, actually fell in love with
Kermit Early, the colored youth whom she had known while a girl.
She finally conceived a child by him and was planning to divorce
her millionaire husband when he was accidently killed; so divorce
was not necessary and later she married her colored lover.
“That's what gets them. He committed, in their eyes, an un-
forgivable sin, so they decided to quietly ignore even receipt of the
book at most newspaper offices, and perhaps hoped thereby to kill
at the source, by silence.”
"And did they fail,” laughed Connie. “I'll say they did, for it
is selling in spite of any effort on their part to crucify his product
at the source."
"It was all right for Passion, by a Southern white woman, to
tell the story of a beautiful and highly educated colored girl being
the concubine of a white man, without any thought of ultimate mar-
riage, for that is the understood pattern in America, especially
down South, and they read, reviewed and raved about it for more
than a year, but when Wyeth was bold enough to play the picture
in reverse, he committed, in their eyesight, an unpardonable breach
of trust because he went entirely contrary to 'pattern'.”
“I've heard,” said Connie, “that the reviewers treated him
shabbily, yet they attempt to palaver us with deceit by writing
long reviews about some old Negro books that nobody almost would
ever buy and read, which is all just sap to perhaps still our criticism


112
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
about the way they've tried to treat Wyeth's book. Well, they
haven't succeeded, but if they failed, we can give Wyeth most of
the credit for their failure by the fact that he has built up and
controls his publishing outlet, so they can't keep him from bring-
ing forth any kind of story he wants to write—and the people buy
the books when they appear, and that's the secret of his success.”
"If it wasn't for Wyeth and his financial capacity, in addition
to being able and knowing how to write,” said Connie, "we present
day Negro women would get no kind of play at all, and I think
the least we can do is to be grateful to him.”
“The race is. When they buy his books as you say they are
doing, that's the best way to express their gratitude to an author."
"No doubt,” said Connie. “But remember this, while we are
talking about it. Far more white people are buying his books than
colored, I know that to be a fact.”
"I understand that, too, Connie. There are almost ten times
as many white people to do this, and with a higher standard of
intelligence and so much more wealth, we can appreciate that if
they bought it at all, far more would have to be doing so than
our group.”
"Of course, Walter, of course,” Connie called understandingly.
"Well, I'll always have a good word for Mr. Wyeth, for he glorifies
the colored woman, writes her into romance and beauty and other
things along the lines white writers shower on their women. Has
it ever occurred to you that we have never, and still are not,
except for the little spreads in colored papers, been pictured or
written about in a way that we have a right to want to be pictured
and written about?”
“Oh, yes," he called back, quickly. "I understand what you
mean."
"Of course you do,” said Connie. “We are shown by white
writers, more or less, first, as we've talked about, as the good old
black mammy, being nice to white children. If not that, and if
given any credit for being beautiful, then it is as the concubine
of some white man like in Passion, for instance."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
113
"Of course," said he, agreeing with her.
"With never any dialogue or hint about marrying. Either that
or as a whore, running a house in the lowdown sections, mostly, of
course, for white men.”
"If not that,” said Walter, taking the play away from her for
the moment, "we're the illegitimate offspring of a white man by a
high yaller, who hates Negroes and is trying to 'pass' for white
and is willing to go any limit the white people might seem to de-
mand to pass for white like Peola in Imitation of Life, for instance.”
“I hear they are reviving that picture,” said Connie.
“Reissuing it, you mean. Yes, they are. It is playing at some
second-run house downtown now," said Walter. "How'd you like
it, anyhow?”
"Oh, it was a good picture. I saw it three times. I'm planning
to look at it again, since it was years ago when I saw it before, when
it first came out. How'd you like it?”
"I thought it was most interesting, too,” said Walter. "It was
one of the most successful box-office attractions of that period and
it has been wondered why they didn't make any more like it."
"I've wondered why they have not, myself,” said Connie.
"Then I can tell you why,” said Walter.
"Please do, by all means."
“The South put the quietus on any more of the kind.”
"What do you mean?”.
“The South told them that they would let them play that one
in the theatres down there, since they had gone to the expense of
making it, but not to make any more like it.”
"I still don't understand,” said Connie, curiously, "what you
are trying to tell me.”
"If you'll keep quiet I'll do so."
“Very well, Walter, I promise.”
“The South notified the producers that with Peola in the picture
being shown desirous of being white, and as bright as she was, the
example might inspire their nearly-white Negroes to go to barging


114
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
in, passing themselves off as white in white society and elsewhere,
so to send no more like it down South for showing.”
“So that was it, eh?” said Connie, derisively.
“That was the import. The fact that no producer has dared
to venture anything else along that line is a self-evident fact that
something was done to discourage any other pictures along that
line. By which, you understand, that we are on the pan when it
comes to showing us as other than the good old harmless darkey,
being frightened by ghosts, laughing, acting a fool and otherwise
playing harmless roles that are neither inspiring or demonstrate
that we are in any way free and intelligent like other Americans.”
“That shows just where we stand in the eyes of our good white
people in America,” Connie cried, indignantly. "Meanwhile, if I
don't hang up and get off this telephone, I won't be able to come
downtown at all.”
"I'll say you won't,” laughed Walter. "Well, old dear, I'll
wait for you,” and still laughing, listened as she called:
“Okay, sweet boy. I'll be seeing you."
Shortly after four o'clock, Connie appeared at Le Baron's office
and dared to embrace and kiss him.
"Say, now, you aren't cheating on somebody, are you?” he said,
laughing.
“Of course I'm not. I'm simply glad to see you and that you
are back. I'd have kissed you had Jim been present.”
"Well, we won't quarrel about it. I might be kissing you later,"
and he winked at her. She smiled tolerantly.
“You're still rather easy on the eyes, Connie,” he said, raising
the window and moving a comfortable chair over by it.
“Sit there,” he said, waving a hand towards it. “It's cooler and
more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Walter,” she said and, taking it, made herself
comfortable. Turning towards him, she looked him up and down
for a moment, carefully.
“You're looking well. A bit tanned.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
115
“Is that a hint to get rid of it-I mean the tan?"
"Oh, no! I wasn't thinking about it,” she said. “You're not
vain and never have been. How'd you enjoy your trip to the
Islands?”
"It wasn't exactly an occasion for enjoyment."
“Of course not. Pardon me,” she said.
"Yet, I did rather enjoy it. It's beautiful down there. All
the Islands are beautiful.”
"I'd bet,” she said. "Are there lots of Negroes down there?”
"Most all the people down there are Negroes—and I mean
Negroes—black!” She laughed.
“We have quite a large sampling of them right up here in
Harlem," and Connie laughed again and Le Baron joined her.
"You mean the West Indians, of course.”
"The monkeys,” said Connie, and continued to laugh. Le Baron
smiled a bit.
“You shouldn't call them that, Connie."
“And why not?”
“Because if it wasn't for the West Indian Negroes, our showing
from a business standpoint would be away below par—much below
what you might think it is. It is the West Indian Negro on the
whole, who is doing the most for Negro business."
“I hadn't thought of that,” said Connie. “I'm sorry. I won't
use the term again."
“Please remember not to. I am not, of course, a West Indian,
so I have no interest in particular as to what you call them. Only,
I don't think it is what we ought to do—play them down."
"I agree with you, and the subject is closed.”
“Getting back to my trip, and the people down there. There
are some bright Negroes among them. They don't mix very freely
with the dark ones, however.”
"So I've heard. A sort of caste system.”
“And what a system. The bright ones are the aristocrats of
the Islands—but enough about the West Indies," and he moved his
chair closer to Connie.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"What's this you want to talk to me about, anyhow?"
“Oh, yes,” she cried, withdrawing a newspaper from her bag.
It was not that day's paper, and it aroused his curiousity. He
watched her as she unfolded and spread it out, handed it to him,
pointing out an article that covered most of the page.
WHITE WOMAN CHARGES THAT NEGRO RAPED HER!
JUDGE NELSON OF MAMARONECK TO HEAR THE CASE!
“Now what's this?” he cried, and lifted the paper closer to his
eyes and studied it carefully.
"You're looking at what it says," she said, and shrugged her
shoulders.
"Mamaroneck, New York," he read aloud and started. "What
does this mean, anyhow. Negro rapes a white woman in Mamar-
oneck! Sounds fishy to me.”
"It is fishy," she declared, indignantly. "But they are trying
the Negro on her charges, and Judge Nelson is hearing the testi-
mony in Mamaroneck now. Jim's on the case for the defense and
has sent me to ask you to come up tomorrow, when they are putting
the Negro on the stand, and he would like you to listen to the
testimony. He feels that if it is fishy, you may be in a position, by
listening to the testimony tomorrow, to help him in some way later."
"Naturally. I'll be glad to go up there tomorrow and listen
to the evidence, and if it is as he suspects, will be glad to help
him in any way I can.”
"I was up yesterday when she took the stand. My interest is
aroused and I'm curious about it. Jim feels that the woman is
lying. As stated, she was on the stand yesterday, and in the cross
examination, they got her all mixed up and she took recourse to
the usual thing, tears."
“Woman's defense and greatest weapon,” observed Le Baron.
“You may keep the paper and read and digest what the article
says. Meanwhile, if you can come by 409 tonight, I want you to
discuss it with Jim.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
117
“I'll do that, Connie,” he said.
"I listened to her testimony carefully all the while she was on
the stand and it is my opinion that she only told a part of the
story.”
“What's the position of the man who she claims raped her?”
inquired Le Baron, resting the paper on his lap and looking at her.
“Between you and me and the four walls of this room, he im-
pressed me as a no-gooder; but I'm sure he didn't rape her as
she's trying to make the court believe."
"What's the Negro's occupation-meaning, what does he do?”
“He works for her, chauffeur and house-man.”
"Oh, no!”
"Oh, yes," she cried, and nodded her head meaningly.
“And she charges him with raping her?"
“That's what they're trying him for. I want you to be sure
and go up there tomorrow and listen to the testimony with your
own ears."
"I shall certainly do so. Now where did you say that he's
being tried?” and Walter reached for a pencil and pad.
“You drive by my apartment in the morning,” said Connie,
rising to her feet, preparatory to leaving. "Ring the bell three
times. I want to go with you and I'll be waiting.”
“At what time?" he said, following her to the door.
"Promptly at nine. Eat something before you come.” She
paused now and turned back to him before opening the door.
“The trial resumes at ten o'clock in the morning, and we should
get there and find seats by nine-thirty, no later. I'll ask Jim to
prepare a spot for us, and he will, but we must be there when the
court opens so that we won't miss anything."
“Of course,” he said, and opening the door for her, she turned
and left the office.


CHAPTER CHAPTER
VIT
THE COURT ROOM AT MAMARONECK was alive and
astir when Connie and Le Baron arrived, which was fully
a half hour before the trial was scheduled to begin. The
many white women, by arriving early, had beat the colored women,
who came from New York and other nearby points, to the seats.
However, Le Baron and Connie, at Jim Austin's request, were
ushered into seats up near the front and a few minutes after they
entered, the doors were closed and no others were permitted to
enter.
The audience was tense with anxiety. It was the kind of a
trial that women, and the passionate-minded, were deeply inter-
ested in, and it was being covered by all the leading newspapers,
and read about by millions who were following the trial closely and
its every movement.
In the South when a Negro is charged with raping a white
woman, if he by any device managed to live long enough and was
fortunate enough to get a trial, few Negroes would ever try to
enter the court, and guards and soldiers even would be standing
guard at every door and around the court house.
In the trial we are about to witness in part, the case of a
Negro man being tried for the alleged raping of a white woman, a
society matron even, there was no kind of a demonstration, nor
were there any guards on duty other than the regular routine main-
tained by the court.
Le Baron whispered this fact to Connie and both after looking
around, expressed delight that justice could be meted out to a
118


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
119
Negro, regardless of the crime with which he was charged.
The plaintiff, a beautiful white society matron by the name of
Stribling, was not in court that day, so would not be able to listen
to the Negro's testimony in rebuttal to her own, given from the
stand the day before.
Lonnie Spellman, her house-man and chauffeur, was ordered
to take the stand immediately after court convened, which he did,
and after being duly sworn, began his testimony in answer to his
counsel by the following words:
"It was all her fault,” he began. He was a very attractive
brown-skinned man, about 32 years of age. The prosecutor was
obviously out to convict him, on what he claimed was “Mrs. Strib-
ling's voluntary surrender.”
"By her ways and from her action,” he protested, as the lawyer
tried to confuse him, “I was left no other choice.”
In dramatic contrast to Mrs. Stribling's tearful and agitated
account of repeated rape and other physical abuses, the colored
man stolidly asserted that the slender blonde had invited his em-
braces. He insisted that she surrendered herself as soon as she was
assured that their tryst would not be interrupted.
Over and over again he denied, both to his attorneys, Jim
Austin and a Jew by the name of Heinman, and later in answer
to the cool questions of the prosecutor, that he had used any bonds
on Mrs. Stribling, any gags, any threats or force of any kind.
According to his testimony, there was only one actual encounter-
and that took place in her car in the garage of her Mamaroneck
home.
Mrs. Stribling, testifying before the presiding Judge, Carl Nel-
son, and the jury the day previous, described three attacks. They
were committed, she said, after she had been overpowered, choked
and menaced with a knife. Police witnesses recalled that she told
them of four such attacks when they questioned her in the hospital
after Spellman's arrested attempt to drown her in the city reservoir.
Speaking rapidly and in an accent that at times became a
mumble, Spellman described the events which occurred from the
ma


120
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
moment he went to Mrs. Stribling's room about ten o'clock on the
night regarding which she had testified.
Questioned by Heinman, he told of returning from a short trip
to White Plains.
Q. “After you returned and saw Mrs. Stribling's car in the
garage, what did you do?”
A. “I went to her room and knocked on her door. It was
ajar. She called and said that she was in the bathroom. She
said: "What do you want?' I said: 'I want to speak to you about
some money.'"
Q. "What did she say?".
A. "She said: 'Wait a little while and I'll be out.'”
Q. “So you waited?”
A. "Yes, sir. I waited at the door, ten or fifteen minutes,
then she came out."
Q. "How was she dressed?"
A. "When Mrs. Stribling came out, she had on a robe-it
had a cord around it—and some slippers."
Q. “Go on from there."
A. “She said: 'I'll see what I can do for you.' She then
went between the bed and the door and got her purse, talking all
the time. She said, 'I've got $6.50.' Then she added in a soft
and inviting voice, smiling up at me oddly as she did so, 'You can
have anything I've got,' and she stopped and smiled at me in that
odd and inviting manner. Then she came up and gave me the
$6.50 and held my hand after doing so, and squeezed it.”
Q. “Then what happened?"
A. "I said to her, 'I thank you very much,' and I smiled back
at her because she had kept smiling and pushing against me. She
was so close to me now that I put my arms around her and she
relaxed against my body completely, and leaning over, I kissed
her and she kissed me back. She said then softly, 'You've been
very nice, Lonnie,' and smiled up at me in a way that made me
all nervous and anxious, and I said, 'You've been pretty nice
yourself. She smiled; and leaning over hid her face on my


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
I21
shoulder and rubbed it about, playfully. Then raising her eyes,
looked up at me and repeated: 'Didn't you understand what I
meant, Lonnie? I said that you can have anything I've got,' and
lowered her eyes and hid them again on my shoulder and put an
arm about me. I said, 'I'd been hoping you'd say that. Well, I'd
like to be with you.'”.
Q. “What did Mrs. Stribling say then?”
A. "She said, 'It'll be all right—if you promise you'll never
say anything about it.' I said, 'I promise. I won't ever say any-
thing. What about you?' She hesitated, thought for a moment
and then, without raising her eyes to look at me, said: 'I want
to, but I'm afraid I can't afford to.'”
Q. “Then what did you say?"
A. "I said, 'Well, if that's the way you feel about it, okay.'”
Q. “Then what happened?”
A. "She left me and went and sat down on the side of the
bed. She then motioned for me to come over and sit down beside
her."
Q. "Did you?”
A. "I did; and we talked for a long time. Vicki, the dog,
meanwhile, came in the room and when he saw me sitting there
beside his mistress, he growled and then began to bark. He kept
looking at me as if he didn't like me and kept on barking."
The people in the courtroom laughed at this, uproariously.
The judge rapped his gavel for order. The laughter finally died
down but snickering kept up.
Q. “What did you then do?”
A." "I didn't do anything but she flung her hand toward Vicki
and told the dog to 'shut up, but he kept on looking at me and
kept on barking. She reached and, taking off one of her slippers,
threw ii at him. Vicki howled and ran out of the room, but turned
around when he got in the hall and standing there, looked at me
and growled. Mrs. Stribling became very angry at him and cried
out loud, very loud, 'Goddamn that dog!' Then coming back to
me, laid her hand on my arm. I was standing up then. “Go make


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
the little sonofabitch hush. I went into the hall and coaxed
Vicki down the hall a few steps and returning to the room, shut
the door but it did not close tight. A moment later he came back
and we could hear him outside, whining. Then he scratched the
door with his paws. 'Get away from that door,' she called. You
dirty little sonofabitch. Do you hear?' she cried out loud. The
dog quit scratching the door, but whined pitifully, and that kept
Mrs. Stribling angry. She was very annoyed. She kept looking
toward the dog through the door, her face frowned up. Presently
the dog jumped against the door and pushed it open and came
back into the room, looked up at me and went to barking again.
She had sat down again in the meanwhile, but jumped to her feet
now, and glaring at Vicki, cried 'Well I'll be Goddamned! Why,
you dirty, ragged little sonofabitch, if you don't get out of this
room and quit bothering me, I'll find something and kill you!'
Then she looked around for something to throw at him again, but
the dog howled and ran out of the room."
Q. "Did he stay out that time?”
A. "I don't quite remember; but Mrs. Stribling paused by the
dresser and I got up and walked over by her and said: 'Well, what
are we going to do?' She looked around and said: 'We can't do
anything here on account of that Goddamned little dog, looking
up and barking at us all the while.'”
Q. “Then what happened?"
A. "I suggested that we go downstairs to the garage."
Q. “What did she say?"
A. “She was thoughtful a moment and then said, 'All right.
Step out into the hall and wait there while I put some clothes
on.'»
Q. “What did you say, or do?”
A. "I said 'All right and stepped out into the hall and closed
the door behind me. Vicki, the dog, was out there and he looked
up at me and growled again. She heard him and opened the door
a bit (I think she was naked and undressed as I could see her
shoulder and one of her teaties) just as Vicki started barking


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
123
again,' presently he hushed. She glared at him angrily and then
to me she said: 'If the little bastard starts barking again, kick his
Goddamned brains out.'”
Q. "Did the dog start barking again?”
A. "No, sir. He seemed to understand what she had said
and, whining pitifully, crawled down the hall to where it turned
and after he was out of sight I looked away. A moment later,
however, I heard a movement and looking around, saw him peep-
ing at me from around the corner and whining some more.”
At this point the courtroom, through which endless tittering
had been going on all the time Spellman was testifying about what
the dog did, could not seem to restrain itself longer and broke into
loud laughter. It was several minutes before order could be re-
stored. In fact, the people kept laughing until Judge Nelson told
them that if they didn't hush he'd order the courtroom cleared. The
crowd hushed then and when it was quiet again, counsel resumed
questioning Spellman.
Q. "Did you use any threats or force on her.'
A. "I did not,” Spellman said, shaking his head negatively.
Q. “Did you choke her in the hall when she came out, as she
testified that you did?”
A. "No, I did not. Before she came out, however, she cracked
the door while she was dressing and the dog had quieted down,
and she smiled at me and winked and opened the door wide enough
for me to see one of her teaties again. Presently she was dressed
(she only had a robe on, but put her heavy coat on over the robe)
and came outside and looking up at me, smiled, and raising her
lips, said, 'Kiss me?'. I obliged her and we started down the hall.
When we turned the corner, there was Vicki, looking up at us and
he began to growl. That made her angry all over again. She
pointed her finger at him and cried: ‘You shaggy little sonofabitch!
If you open your Goddamned mouth and bark again, I'll cut your
heart out. Now come here to me! The dog came crawling up to
her and whining and I was afraid he'd start barking again, and


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
said to her: 'If he starts barking again he's liable to wake Matilda
up.'"
He turned to the Judge then and explained that Matilda was
the colored girl he was living with and that she was Mrs. Stribling's
cook, and that he didn't want her to know what was going on; for
she was jealous and liked to fight, and that she might mess him-
and Mrs. Stribling, too—all up.
The courtroom again broke into uproarious laughter. Before
the Judge could seem to think, he was seen to smile a bit, then
dropping it as quickly, he rapped loudly for order. The people
quit laughing and turned their eyes back to Spellman.
Q. "Was there any screaming?"
A. "No, she didnt 'scream.”
The lawyer then picked up and read from Mrs. Stribling's testi-
mony in which she declared that he forced her to give him her
jewels. He then looked straight at Spellman and went on:
Q. "Did she give you her jewels?”.
A. "No, she did not.” Spellman shook his head as he an-
swered.
Q. “What happened?"
A. "She coaxed Vicki back into the room and kicked at him
and he whined and ran under the bed. She pointed her finger in
that direction and said: 'If you bark again while I'm downstairs,
I'll come back here and throw you out the window.'”
Q: “What floor was the apartment located on?"
A. "The tenth."
The courtroom laughed again, and again the Judge rapped for
order.
Q. “Go on with your testimony."
A. “We got on the elevator (it was a self-operating one) and
went downstairs. There was a parlor down there. Nobody was
in it and she took me in there, looked around to see if anybody was
around. When convinced that we were alone and nobody could
hear, she sat down and patted the seat beside her for me to sit
beside her. I said, 'What's the matter?' She looked at me a bit


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
125
queerly, and then with a little frown as if from anxiety, she said:
Now you're sure you're not going to hurt me?' I assured her
that I would not; that I'd be very careful."
Q. “What did she do then?”
A. “She hesitated a little longer and seemed a bit uneasy,
but finally got up and after asking me to assure her again that I'd
be careful and not hurt her, followed me outside and into the
garage.”
Q. “Then what did you do?”
A. "We got into the back seat of the big car.”
Q. "Did you tie her up and carry her into the car as she
testified that you did?”
A. "I did not. By the time we got to the garage, Mrs. Strib-
ling was so anxious that she grabbed me and almost pulled me
onto the back seat of the car with her. The only thing that seemed
to worry Mrs. Stribling, was that her husband might find out; and
she didn't want that to happen.”
The Negro went on then to tell how they became sexually in-
timate after that; and how she kept insisting that he take her to a
quiet rooming house or hotel in Harlem. He said that he finally
found a quiet place and that he took her there many times.
.Q. "How do you account for her changing and declaring that
you raped her?”
A. "She told me after we had made several visits to the hotel
in Harlem, that her husband was getting suspicious; but that he
couldn't satisfy her any more and that she was frightened. She
said that she had a fine husband who was taking good care of her
and that she had been getting along all right until she started go-
ing out with me; and that now everything was different. She
said: 'I'm afraid I'll have to do something about it.'”
He then gave his version of the attempted drowning which Mrs.
Stribling had also charged him with. Under the prodding of his
attorney, Spellman told of how they drove onto the crowded Boston
Post Road and then turned into Westchester Avenue, towards


126
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
White Plains. Twice they parked by the roadside and had sexual
intercourse each time they stopped.
Q. "What happened near the reservoir?”
A. “As I got to the filling station nearby, she said: 'Let me
out. Before that she'd been silent a long time, as if she was think-
ing up something."
Q. "When you pulled off on the side of the road after that
was it at her request?”
A. “Yes, sir.”
Q. “Then what?"
A. “I unlatched the door-reached over her to do so—and
she got out and walked away and up the road toward the reservoir.”
Q. “Then what?"
A. “When she didn't come back, I drove ahead and caught up
with her. I said: "What's wrong?' She said: 'You've ruined me.
I'm afraid I'm going to have a baby; and if I do, it will be a dark
baby and may look like you. Then my husband will discover that
I've been cheating on him. I'm going to kill myself. I was
frightened and got out of the car and tried to plead with her, but
she pulled away and went up the bank of the reservoir and waded
a short distance out into the water."
Q. "Did you push her in? She has testified that you did."
" A. "I did not. I stood on the bank and pleaded with her to
come out; that she was acting foolish, and that if she was going
to have a baby, I knew a doctor down in Harlem who'd get rid of
it for her.”
Q. "Did you throw rocks at her while she was in the water,
as she also testified?”
“I did not."
Q. "Did you tear any of her clothing? She left a torn dress
there, and said that you did it!”
A. "I did not. If she left or brought a torn dress here, she
tore it herself and then said I did it. Maybe she did that."
The attorney paused to display a torn gray dress which she
had brought to court; it had been entered as Exhibit A.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
127
Q. “She testified that you made her write a ransom note. Did
you?”
A. “There was nothing said about ransom notes during our
entire association. Mrs. Stribling made up all that she has testified
to in order to show her husband that she has not been unfaithful.”
The prosecutor rose to his feet and objected to this, setting
forth that what Spellman had said was merely his opinion.
The trial dragged on through several days and was witnessed
by the usual morbid crowd, mostly women. At the end of it, how-
ever, the jury returned a verdict of “not guilty”, which was later
discussed at some length.
It was admitted by many of the jurors after they had been
dismissed, that a white woman on the jury had insisted on acquittal
before the deliberations started, on the grounds that Mrs. Strib-
ling's whole accusation was a big lie. She said: "I'm a woman
and no man-not even my own husband could rape me, under the
circumstances that she set forth, if I didn't want him to."
Judge Nelson dismissed the case and Spellman was duly freed.
Mrs. Austin's statement to Le Baron was later proven to be
correct, when she said that in her opinion, Spellman was a no-
gooder, for less than two years later, both Spellman and his com-
mon-law wife were sent to the penitentiary for robbing a new em-
ployer who had trusted them and given them a good job to help
them.


CHAPTER
CHAPTER VITT
TOUR HUNDRED NINE EDGECOMBE AVENUE is prob-
R ably the best-known single address in Harlem. It is so
1 familiar to every Negro living in and around New York that
few persons take the trouble to say “Edgecombe.” Just "409."
It is one of the tallest buildings in Harlem. It is located on a
hill, high up in that section called "Sugar Hill,” near the inter-
section of Edgecombe Avenue and 155th Street, and can be seen
from almost every part of New York's great Black Belt.
It is a fine, well-built structure, owned and managed by Neg-
roes—in this case, a group of West Indian colored men, experienced
in the management and ownership of property. Added to what
has already been said about "409," it is a popular address, where
probably more people live than in any other single building in
Harlem.
High up in a penthouse atop 409, dwelt Connie Austin and her
husband, Jim.
Our story has wandered to this address and now it enters the
seven-room apartment of Connie Austin, where a party is being
held, and where many of the best-known and most prosperous col-
ored people of Harlem have been invited, including Walter Le
Baron. A guest trickled in occasionally, and among them was a
friend by the name of Annie Bolden.
“Mrs. Florence Early, better known, or more commonly known
as Mrs. Wingate, I should say,” Connie was telling her guest, "has
been invited and I am expecting her."
“You mean," replied her guest in some surprise, her eyes dilat-
128


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
129
ing a bit, “that Mrs. Florence Wingate-Early, the white woman
who's married to a colored man?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Austin calmly, nodding her head. "Have
you ever met her?"
"Lord, no, honey. I ain't never met, and I don't want to meet,
no white woman married to any niggah. -"
"Ssh!” cautioned Mrs. Austin, raising a finger and glancing
around her. “You must not use such words, dear. Don't you
understand that as a race it is time we quit calling each other
by that word, even among ourselves? You must say “colored' or at
the worst, 'Negro: Now promise me to try to remember that from
now on, will you?”
Her guest, somewhat embarrassed, nodded her head agreeably
as she promised to try to.
"Now go on, dear, with what you started to say,” Connie said.
“Well," resumed her guest, being careful to select her words
and not use the offensive term again and perhaps before she was
aware of doing so. “I started to say that I don't know if I am
anxious to. There's too many Negro men marrying white women
lately in New York to suit me. I confess that I don't like it, and
am rather surprised that you have invited one of them, or some
of them, perhaps, to your party. I repeat, I don't like it and I
never will. No white people would invite her and a Negro hus-
band to any party of theirs and you know it.”
"I must agree with your last sentence. We all. understand how
the white people feel about their white women marrying Negro
men. They will have none of it, as far as they are concerned.
In the case of Mrs. Wingate, however, the circumstances, I assure
you, are quite different. I can appreciate how you feel, all right,
but her case is an exception.”
“What kind of an exception? She's a white woman, isn't she?”
“Of course, but Mrs. Wingate is a very rich woman, under-
stand?"
"Oh! Well,” her guest went on now more slowly, and thought-
fully, “that could make some difference. Yes, it could,”


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Austin continued. “It does make a differ-
ence, a very great difference. We Negroes are so poor as a whole
that if one of us got a chance and slipped off and married a white
woman with plenty of money like Mrs. Wingate has, then we can
consider accepting them into our circle. I am sure you'll agree
with me, graciously.”
: Mrs. Austin paused to smile and bow to another guest in even-
ing clothes who entered, then turning back to the other, went on:
"Aside from the things I've just said, however, Mrs. Wingate
is a fine lady, refined and dignified, and a very kind person.”
“That's what I've heard, but I thought it was just talk. How'd
she come to get mixed up with us, anyhow?”
Again Mrs. Austin glanced about her. Some other people were
near and taking the guest by the arm, she led her over by a win-
dow, turned to glance around them again, and, satisfied that she
would not be overheard, went on in a subdued tone:
“This is confidential, Annie.”
“Confidential, honey? Fine. You can tell me all about it. I.
promise I won't tell nobody."
“You mean you won't tell “anybody,' dear, not nobody,” cor-
rected Mrs. Austin, patiently.
“Of course, honey, of course," replied Annie quickly. "I'm
trying to improve my speech, and I promise as you asked me, to
be very careful from now on. Now go on, deah.”
Annie Bolden was a good, kindly woman from down South who
had been a cook in a very well-to-do white family when she met
and fell to liking John Bolden, a West Indian with ambition. John
Bolden saved his money. and encouraged Annie to do likewise on
the promise that if she did, he would consider marrying her. Annie
was rather insulted, but John Bolden was a steady man, worked
hard, kept away from liquor, numbers, dice and horses, and Annie
began to like him and also began to obey him.
In due time John married her and before long bought an apart-
ment in Harlem whose rents he collected, moved in and before
long had bought another and still another. He then went into the


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
131
real estate business and in due time had succeeded and now his
wife was considered among the "best" people of Harlem, the best
people with money. Many of the people who called themselves the
"best" in Harlem, are confined to teachers and others with the
better jobs and they set themselves up as "better” without any-
body's leave or consent. Connie Austin was a smart matron. She
didn't take those without money overly serious, but when they
were close to the money, Connie reckoned as to how she might
be able to use them sooner or later in some way, or in Jim's way,
hence Mrs. Bolden's presence at her party.
"Yes, Annie, I want you to meet Mrs. Wingate if and when
she comes, for if you can just swallow your prejudice about Negroes
marrying white women, I think you'll like her.”
"I'll try to do as you ask for your sake, honey, but I still don't
like the idea of so many of these old uppity men of ours marrying
white women.”
"There aren't so many doing it. We just hear about those who
do and talk about it and that makes it seem like more are doing
so than there actually are. But I agree with you that more are
doing so than there ought to be and I hope the white people don't
get wise to it sooner or later and go to talking about it. If they
do they may hurt us in other ways.”
“And you say that this Mrs. Wingate is nice?”
“Oh, sweet."
“And she wasn't no—whore when he married her?”
“Gracious, no, Annie!” exclaimed Mrs. Austin, shocked. She
looked hard at Annie and went on:
“What ever made you think anything like that?”
“Aw, I dunno,” sighed Annie, sort of bewildered. “But most
of the white women that married colored men when I was a girl,
were whores. Often landladies, who were hard to satisfy, so I've
heard, and took up with a Negro to be completely satisfied and by
and by married them.”
Connie laughed, then shook her head.
"You can think of the most-ridiculous things, Annie. Indeed


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
you can, but you were all wrong as regards to Mrs. Wingate, and
that is what I called you over here to explain.”
“Then she wasn't one, huh?”
“By no means, Annie. She was an aristocrat. Descended from
an old, rich, slave-owning family in Georgia. She was a widow
when Kermit Early married her. Her first husband, from whom
she inherited her great wealth, was a textile millionaire of Atlanta.
I understand that the marriage was not a happy one.”
“No? What was the matter?”
Connie shrugged her shoulders and her expression was odd.
“They tell me that he was well, funny.”
"Aw! One of them things, huh?”
“That's what I've been told."
"Just how funny?"
“Completely. Not built like other men, if you understand what
I mean.”
"I begin to see through it all now. And that's how she hap-
pened to get mixed up with us?”.
"I suppose so," and Connie shrugged her shoulders again and
smiled.
Mrs. Bolden nodded her head, then grinned.
"So she had to have satisfaction—and it took a Negro to see
that she got it,” and Annie Bolden broke into laughter. Mrs.
Austin, restraining her inclination to laugh with her, looked around
and raised her hand to her lips for silence.
"They have three beautiful children, I mean she and Kermit
Early have and seem to be very happy together.”
“Looks like the Negro was able to satisfy her all right,” where-
upon both laughed.
"Now, now, Annie. That's a matter between a man and a
wife. All I know is that she seems to love him dearly and I'm
sure he loves her, so that is that. But getting back to what I
started to explain about our men marrying white women, and that
the women were not all sporting white girls."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
133
Then how come them getting so mixed up with Ne-
"No?
groes?"
“Through Communism."
"Oh, yes?”
"Surel” cried Mrs. Austin. "Haven't you seen them milling
around Harlem? They've been doing so for years."
“Come to think of it,” said Mrs. Bolden after reflection, "I
have. When you meet them, the white men are always with the
colored women; the colored men with the white girls. Yes, I've
seen them together round Harlem. Lots of times. What's New
York coming to, anyhow?”
“That's what's going on."
“Negroes are a mess. I wonder if they stand for anything,
anyhow?"
“Sometimes I'm very dubious about it,” observed Mrs. Austin.
"Just look how they went for Roosevelt.”
“Well, not as bad as all that. Most of the Negroes voted for
Roosevelt, I know," said Mrs. Bolden.
“What about the Negroes? Why were they so strong for him?"
Mrs. Austin smiled and winked.
"He handed out some relief checks during the depression, and
they were never able, it seems, to get over it. Roosevelt was a
very good man, but he was too busy to even think much about
Negroes, and Jim says, there is no record of where he did anything
for Negroes in particular, unless you want to call handing out
relief checks during the depression, something. He didn't pick
out the Negroes to hand them to—they were sent to everybody
who was in distress, or claimed to be; but the Negroes seemed to
think that it was for them in particular. Anyway, they went all
out for the man—and put the South in the saddle in Washington,
and now they are belly-aching and afraid that the Southern poli-
ticians in the saddle in Washington are out to put them in their
places.'"
"I think Mrs. Roosevelt had more to do with causing our group
to go so all out for him the last time than he himself,” said Mrs.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
135
Mrs. Austin paused to look at the watch on her wrist, then
turned her eyes toward the door.
"Well, darling Annie,” she said, “my guests are now arriving
in large numbers and I've really got to break this up and leave
you," and she patted her forearm, and turned to go.
“Just one more thing before you leave me, dear,” cried Annie,
with something obviously on her mind. "Since you say that you've
invited this Mrs. Wingate, what about this writer, Frank Knight?
Did you invite him? I'd like to see what he looks like. I've seen
pictures of him and read his books of course, but I haven't seen
anybody who says they have ever seen him. Will he and his white
wife be here tonight, also?”
"No, Annie, I didn't invite him, because I don't know him and
have met nobody else in Harlem that seems to. They all know
of him, of course, but that's as far as it goes.”
“Afraid to bring his white wife out among us spooks, huh?”
"I'm sure I wouldn't know! But I do know that not many
of the white women married to Negroes seem to venture out among
us colored people. I think they're afraid to.”
“Of the way, perhaps, that colored women will look at them.
Personally, I've never met one of these women, so I'll be glad to
meet this Mrs. Wingate, if and when she comes, thank you. I've
so often wondered what they do and where they take them after
they marry them. People, especially white people, look at a colored
man when he's with a white woman so hard that it would frighten
me—that is, when they dare go out in public together. So I wonder
what they do for social intercourse? They certainly can't go
parading them around among white people.”
"Oh, no!” exclaimed Connie. “They don't even expect to-
but you've got to excuse me now. Some important people have
just arrived, by the way people are flocking around them.”
She paused after turning, to look over toward the door before
leaving. Then, perking up happily, she turned back to Annie, with
a broad smile.
"It's Sidney Wyeth and his wife. I invited them, too." She


136
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
leaned closer to Annie now and in a sort of undertone, said: "If
you want to look at a pretty woman, come with me and meet
Wyeth's wife, Bertha. Not only the most beautiful race woman
in New York, but she's also among the nicest.”
Taking Annie by the arm, she led her across the room and
toward where Sidney Wyeth and his wife had paused and were
shaking hands with many of the guests who seemed to know them.
While the above was going on, Walter Le Baron, dressed in a
dinner jacket and other attire that went with it, was walking
slowly back and forth on the cool porch of the penthouse, sur-
rounded by several men of his race, smoking and talking. Le
Baron was answering questions regarding the Negro master-mind
criminal he had finally run down and captured in Port of Spain,
Trinidad, just off the coast of northern South America, where the
master-mind was about to take a plane for Rio de Janeiro. At
this point, an athletically built man, also a detective but employed
by the city, came up to him, called him off to one side and said:
"Been trying to get in touch with you ever since you got back.”
"Yeah?” replied Le Baron, after shaking his hand and then
looking at him curiously. “What's up?"
"Plenty! The Commissioner wants to see you.”
"You mean Walton?”
"Not La Guardia. He isn't the mayor any longer," at which
both laughed.
"He was a good one, though,” said Le Baron.
"Everybody gives him that credit, but he got his politics twisted,
and after going all out for Roosevelt while he lived, when the old
man kicked off and he came back to Dewey for endorsement,
Dewey threw him out on his can!” and again both men laughed,
this time uproariously.
Le Baron took Anderson, the city detective who had brought
him the message, or who had a message for him, off to where they
could look down on the lights of Harlem below, and making them-
selves comfortable, turned to Anderson for more information.
“So Walton wants to see me, eh?”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
137
“Nobody else. Walton himself, at his office downtown.”
"Well, this must be something of importance, when the Police
Commissioner of the City of New York sends for somebody to
come and see him. What does he want to see me about?"
"Got an important case he wants to put you on. A murder
case. Took place while you were away.”
“A murder case, huh? Who's been up to mischief now?"
Anderson shrugged his shoulders.
“Go down and see Walton soon-very soon. It's most im-
portant."
"Humph!” grunted Le Baron, thoughtfully, shifting his position
at the same time. Presently, turning to Anderson, said: "I'll see
him."
"Thanks, Le Baron. I'll tell him that I found you, and that
you'll come down.” Anderson then turned and walked away.
Le Baron then walked over to the edge of the pent-house porch
and looked down on the Polo Grounds below. A night baseball
game was in progress and he could see, from where he stood, most
of the game; but it was too far away to tell one team from the
other. At that moment Jim Austin walked up, tapped him on
the shoulder and said:
"Connie wants to see you inside. Do you mind?”
“Of course not, Jim. Not at all. I'll go with you."
“Okay, Le Baron,” and taking his arm, Austin led him across
the porch and into the parlor where Connie was standing, talking
to three people, one of whom was a white woman. As they came
up, Connie turned to meet him and smiling, took his hand and
swinging him around, began:
“Mrs. Wingate-I mean Mrs. Early, pardon me, please."
"Oh, that is all right, Mrs. Austin,” Mrs. Wingate said, ob-
viously completely agreeable. "I understand. No apologies are
necessary. Please go on and introduce me to the gentleman.”
“Meet Mr. Walter Le Baron."
"How do you do, Mr. Le Baron,” Mrs. Wingate spoke first and
extended her hand.


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“Glad to meet you, Mrs. Early," Le Baron said, taking the soft
hand.
"Mr. Le Baron,” Mrs. Austin went on to explain, "is our ace
detective. We're proud of him," and she turned admiring eyes
on Walter, who accepted the compliment paid him, graciously.
"I've heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Early,” Walter Le
Baron said as he loosed her hand. “But the people seem to insist
on calling you Mrs. Wingate.”
"That is perfectly all right, Mr. Le Baron, and, incidentally,
I've heard a great deal about you—all about how you captured
the master-mind thief who had been terrorizing Park Avenue.” She
smiled appreciatively, then seeming to think of something, turned
to Sidney Wyeth, who had been talking to his wife in a near under-
tone while Le Baron was being introduced to Mrs. Wingate.
"Perhaps you know Mr. Wyeth,” said Mrs. Wingate, and
looked from one to the other momentarily.
"For a long time, thank you,” Le Baron said, turning to Wyeth
now and offering his hand, which Wyeth took with a smile. "How
do you do, old timer?”
"Fine, Le Baron,” said Wyeth, happy to see him again. "I've
heard how you brought home the bacon. You always do."
Le Baron dismissed this compliment with a swing away of his
hand, deprecatingly.
“As long as I've known you and as well, I don't believe you've
ever met the wife.” He turned to Mrs. Wyeth now, who had
stood by patiently waiting until they got around to her.
"I'm flattered at meeting Mr. Le Baron,” said Bertha, giving
him her small hand. As he accepted the introduction, he was ani-
mated by her great beauty which had been the talk of Harlem ever
since Wyeth married her and began to take her around among his
friends.
"I imagine you've been well, Mrs. Wyeth,” said Le Baron, still
looking at her and inwardly marveling at her beauty.
"Oh, very well, Mr. Le Baron." And then looking him up and
down a moment, smiled. “You look the picture of health so I


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
139
feel that it would be superfluous to ask concerning your health,”
said Bertha and smiled and blushed, causing the dimples on her
cheeks to stand out prominently as she did so.
"We are now serving lunch," said Mrs. Austin, returning to
the group at this point. “So won't all of you please come into the
dining room?"
This brought an agreeable smile to all present. Wyeth's wife
took his arm and started away. Mrs. Wingate, who had not brought
her husband, Kermit, turned and gave Le Baron an inviting smile,
whereupon he offered her his arm and together they followed the
others into the dining room.


CHAPTER CHAPTER
IX
TALTER LE BARON called the Commissioner's secretary
the next morning to say that he had received the Com-
missioner's message; and that he would be happy to
call whenever the Commissioner would care to talk with him.
"He is ready and anxious to talk with you any time, Mr. Le
Baron, that you can get here. He is most anxious to see you and
has been for a long time. What time shall I tell him that you will
be here?”, said the secretary, and waited for his reply. Le Baron
consulted the watch on his wrist.
“In one hour," he replied.
“I'll tell the Commissioner,” the Secretary said, "and he'll be
waiting, Mr. Le Baron. Is that all for the present?”
"That is all, thank you,” replied Le Baron, and hung up. He
rose to his feet, was thoughtful for a moment, and then said to
himself:
"Must be something when the busy Commissioner is willing
to drop everything and talk to me. Well,” he sighed, slapping his
thigh, “I'll get a bite to eat and go right down and see what it's
all about."
The Commissioner rose from his desk as Le Baron, about an
hour later, was ushered into his office by the secretary. The Com-
missioner came forward with outstretched hand to greet Le Baron,
with:
"Where'n hell have you been for months, Le Baron?" he cried,
as he grasped the detective's hand, impulsively.
140


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
141
Le Baron, while they still stood, told him in a few words where
he had been, which the Commissioner knew but seemed to want
to hear a little more about from Le Baron's own lips.
"Take a seat over there where I can look at you and tell you
why I am so anxious to see and talk with you,” said Walton, point-
ing to a comfortable chair beside his large desk.
After they seated themselves and the Commissioner had offered
him a smoke from a box of fine cigars, he said:
"Well, I want to compliment you on your delivery of one of
the cleverest thieves that ever struck the town, and it makes me
more anxious than ever to put you on another case equally, if not
more baffling. This case, in addition to a murder, had robbery
as a motive.”
“That last case is closed, sealed and delivered, Commissioner,
so whatever it is you want to talk to me about, I'm here to hear
it, so shoot.”
“Well, to begin with, this murder and robbery happened four
months ago. To be exact, almost before you got started on your
journey to the Carribbean from which you've just returned.”
"Four months ago, whew!” exclaimed Le Baron, with a deep
frown. "If the killer has run away, which I presume he has, his
trail is as cold as ice! Why the delay, I'm certainly not the only
detective in New York? Why have you waited so long?"
“We haven't waited, and there's the rub,” said the Commis-
sioner, a deep frown on his face now.
“We had men on the case immediately after the discovery of
the body of the murdered man, which body had been placed in a
trunk and sent by express to a blind address in Richmond, Virginia,
where it remained for some time unclaimed and was finally re-
turned by the express company to New York,” said Walton, his
face serious and still wearing a deep frown. Le Baron adjusted
his position and regarded Walton with great seriousness.
"Humph! The plot thickens. Go on, please.”
“In fact,” the Commissioner went on, earnestly, “We had
men on the case before the body was returned; yes, as soon as we


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
143
“What about Leonard?”
“Oh, haven't you heard about Leonard?” cried the Commis-
sioner abruptly, as if surprised.
"Heard what? I've been back less than a week. I haven't
heard anything. What are you talking about, anyhow?"
“Leonard has been suspended.”
"Suspended!” echoed Le Baron, sitting up, plainly surprised.
“What are you telling me?"
"That Leonard, called New York's ace Negro detective for
years and years, who has killed six men of his race—and got
decorated for doing so instead of being condemned, as he should
have been, was caught in his own net—and I had to suspend him!”
“Great goodness!” Le Baron exclaimed, as if shocked.
“A most unusual procedure, but I had to do it,” the Com-
missioner said, as if regretting it. After a pause, and an expression
of regret, the Commissioner went on:
"I knew that Leonard was not what he was cracked up to be-
knew it for a long time. I also knew that far from being a hero,
as your colored paper up in Harlem had played him up as, that
he was a crook, a plain, simple and unvarnished crook. A worse
crook, in fact, than the men whom he had killed and instead of
being tried and sent up like any other criminal, as he should have
been, he managed in some way to get decorated for doing so.”
The Commissioner paused and sighed and shook his head,
sadly.
"I retained-actually did retain him in spite of all this, for in
spite of all he did that would have gone against any other man
of the force, Leonard managed to get away with it, and instead
of getting what was coming to him sooner, I had to grant a raise
in his salary against my own convictions, but I'm sorry. I dislike
passing the buck; but looking back on it, I think I must have
been unduly influenced by all the praise showered on him by that
big colored paper in Harlem, which insisted on heroizing him to
the skies, publishing sensational tales about his exploits in crimin-
ology—the work of some writer's fertile imagination, no doubt.
But I suspect, in the end, it was all inspired by Leonard himself.


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Anyway, from the way this paper played him up, you'd have
thought that he was the finest man on our force or anywhere else.”
"I've always felt that Leonard would trip himself, somewhere
and somehow, by and by,” observed Le Baron, thoughtfully and
with a shrug of his shoulders. “I've known personally for years
that he was not what that paper you refer to had him cracked up
as being. He was, in truth, one of the biggest racketeers in Har-
lem. Tell me, what did he do to finally trip himself?”
“Among other forms of racketeering on the side, he was one
of the most active men in collecting protection up there."
“Protection?”
"Protection from dozens of girls, hustling all over Harlem-
by his permission."
“Go away!”
“Additionally, my investigators reported to me that he was
operating some three or four gambling houses on his own. But
what tripped him finally was a case that gained considerable notor-
iety while you were away, so you perhaps didn't hear much, if
anything, about it.”
"I'm sure I haven't heard," said Le Baron.
“A white hustling girl rolled a contractor for ten grand-got
away with it, since the man she stole it from never made any
charge nor came forward to claim or recover the money, but took
his loss like a great many guilty guys who steal out and cheat on
their wives, should,” and the Commissioner paused to smile.
“The girl, as is usually the case, had a pimp to whom she was
giving the money she managed to get hold of in any kind of way,
and in her case, the pimp this time was a Negro. Leonard found
out about what had happened and immediately ran the girl down,
after digging into the record and found where she had forfeited a
$55.00 bail and promptly went after her.”
"Sounds like Leonard's old tricks all right,” smiled Le Baron,
shaking his head and smiling understandingly.
"He dug her up somewhere there in Harlem and threatened to
arrest her and lock her up if she didn't take him to her pimp and


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
145
make him give him some of the money. Frightened, as any hust-
ling woman is liable to be when threatened with being thrown into
the hoosegow again, she told him that he was in Paterson, New
Jersey.
“Leonard grabbed a taxi and taking her with him, lit out for
Paterson. After milling around, all over the colored section, they
finally corraled the pimp in a tavern.
"Leonard, they told me, hauled him outside and threw him into
the taxi, which he seemed to use as his office for the shake-down.
He demanded $2,000 or he would throw both in jail, and file a
charge against them.”
"In Jersey-far out of his jurisdiction?” said Le Baron, in
surprise.
“In New Jersey, and I should say out of our jurisdiction-away
out of it—but that was Leonard, you know. Ruthless to the nth
degree. Meantime, I imagine both of them were frightened stiff
and afraid to stand on their constitutional rights. Anway, the
pimp finally dished him out a grand — and Leonard pulled his
trump card, and what he was sure would protect him when and if
it ever became necessary, by bringing them both back to New
York. Once on this side of the river he was, of course, back in
his jurisdiction and they were in his hands."
"Smart boy," and Le Baron laughed.
"In his anxiety and excitement to find and corral the pair,
Leonard slipped one cog, only a single one, but when that happens
machinery often has its gears stripped and that is what happened
in this case.”
"Sounds like a Nick Carter detective story."
"He forgot to register in at his precinct at four-thirty, the
dead-line, and before going over to New Jersey.”
"Ah!” said Le Baron, nodding his head understandingly.
"But after he had shaken the girl and her pimp down for the
thousand and was satisfied, Leonard remembered and as quickly
as he got back across the river, he rushed to his station and regis-
tered in-at eleven p. m., instead of having done so, as stated, at


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
147
banks downtown was the owner of the properties where he col-
lected the rents.
"By representing himself as only the agent, Zacarrio could, and
did, manage to exact harder terms and could and did insist that
all rentals be paid when due, promptly. Being only the agent the
tenants understood that he could grant no favors, so he was able
to keep all rentals paid right up to date. Actually, while regarded
as merely an ordinary rent collector, Zacarrio was in truth wealthy.
“Now it happens that since his murder it is to the especial
interest of his relatives that his murderer be apprehended; and
they have offered a substantial reward and, through influence,
have persuaded the state to add to this substantial sum that they
are offering, and if you should be fortunate enough to apprehend
the killer, there'll be a lot of money waiting for you when it is all
over, and this man rests securely in prison, which would make it
well worth your while.”
“Was there anybody close enough to this—".
"-Johnson is his name. Cleo Johnson, and he had not been
working at the building long. From what we've been able to find
out, he was a sort of drifter; and having killed and robbed Zacar-
rio, he promptly left his job and no trace of him or his where-
abouts has been found to this date. But in regard to persons who
met and became acquainted with him while he worked up there,
there's the engineer of the building, who is still working there,
who can, I am sure, give you about all the information regarding
Johnson that can be secured. As explained, Johnson, it seems, did
not live in New York, but had simply drifted into town from some
where, perhaps down South; and as also stated, promptly continued
on his way again, but with perhaps a lot of cash, the real amount
of which we have no exact record, other than that it actually was
in the thousands."
"Well,” Le Baron began, after a moment of thoug'it. “You
said that he shipped the body in a trunk to some address in Rich-
mond, Virginia?”
“It was a fake address and the person to whom he consigned


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
151
"Just what I say. You liye in New York. You know Jews
and how they treat you. Work you to death and pay you only
as much as they have to. Thank God for the unions. They make
Jews pay off,” and Williams laughed, gleefully.
“Were you-on good terms with Zacarrio?"
“Oh, yes. The best.”
"I wondered,” said Le Baron, thoughtfully.
“Why?”
“By what you said-'one of the worst1' I'm quoting you, you
understand?”
"Oh, sure," replied Williams readily. He did not seem in any
way perturbed by Le Baron's suspicion. Le Baron concluded then
and there that Williams was a talkative Negro-liked to hear him-
self talk.
"You also knew Cleo Johnson, who has been charged with
murdering Zacarrio?”
"Of course. I was working here with him at the time."
"How long did you know Johnson?”
"Since he took the superintendent's job here at the building."
"And how long was that?”
"Well, he was here three months.”'
"And how long was that before the murder?"
"About three months. I mean that he was here three months
before he disappeared, which was two days after Zacarrio disap-
peared!
"You know positively that he killed Zacarrio?"
"I do not. But the police say he did, and I feel quite sure
that they were right. He disappeared the next day after he had
me help him load the trunk which contained the body, onto the
express wagon to be shipped to Richmond, Virginia.”
“So you helped him ".
"_put the trunk on the express wagon. I also helped him and
the express man carry the trunk from Johnson's room, which was
down here in the basement.” He paused and pointed to the room.
“Both the express man and I remarked about the trunk. We


152
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
wondered at the time about it being so heavy."
“You hadn't any suspicion that it contained Zacarrio's body?”
“Oh, none whatever. Had we suspected"
“-I understand," said Le Baron, cutting him off. “You
wouldn't have helped him or had anything to do with it. More-
over, you'd have called the police.”
“That's exactly what I'd have did," said Williams indignantly.
"Had you ever seen Johnson before he took the job?"
"No. The first time I saw him was when Zacarrio brought
him down to this basement and, introducing him to me, told me
that he was the new superintendant; and that he hoped we'd get
along."
“Had there been any other superintendants on the job since
you started working here?”
"Perhaps a dozen during the past two years. No one of them
ever stayed very long.”
"Why?” inquired Le Baron, pausing to look straight at him.
Williams shrugged his shoulders a bit contemptously.
“I said at the beginning that Zacarrio was one of the worst."
“That doesn't explain about why so many superintendants.”
"One of the reasons he couldn't keep superintendants was that
he was very short when it came to putting out. In other words
he didn't like to pay what any man's work was worth.”
"And this is why you account for nobody staying long on the
job, eh?"
"He was not only about the tightest Jew in the Bronx, but he'd
work you to death if you'd stand for it.”
"Did the Jew work you hard?”.
“And how! The worst about it, this one never wanted to pay
you much for it.”
"Did you know that Zacarrio owned the building?”
"I did and I didn't.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Le Baron, watching him
closely. For some reason for which he could not account, he was
curious about Williams.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
153
“He said too much about just being the agent and then kept
on being the agent. I was skeptical, and then suspicious, and then
I concluded that he was more than the agent; but as long as I
got my money, and I made the rascal pay me, I allowed that it
was none of my business, so didn't think so much about it. Then
he did own the building, eh?"
“And several others around here.”
“The dirty, lying little sonofabitch!”
“Why are you so bitter regarding Zacarrio?"
“Because he was such a cheap chiseler!"
"Well, he's dead and buried and I'm here to see what you
know about Johnson who, it has been concluded, due to his dis-
appearance, committed the act.”
"I'm glad that somebody had the nerve to kill the dirty little
bastard!”
“That's a very harsh remark to make, Williams. If you talked
that way to the other men who've been here to investigate this
tragedy, I'm surprised that you weren't arrested and held, at least
as an accessory after the fact."
"I know when to talk. You're a Negro like myself. We un-
derstand what it's all about when we talk to each other. I would
never talk to any white man as I have to you."
"Thanks for the compliment. I feel sure you hadn't anything
to do with killing Zacarrio."
"Of course I didn't. I hope you don't think I did."
“I'm sure you didn't, but you must be careful how you talk.:
Don't be so vindictive because you didn't seem to like him. Now
getting back to Johnson. I don't want to see you get into trouble
by talking too much.”
“Thank you, Mr. Le Baron," said Williams, gratefully. "I,
promise to be more careful in the future. Now you were asking
me?"
“I've got to ask you a lot of questions about this murder,
Williams.”
"I'll be glad to tell you all I know," said Williams.


154
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIEL!
"Thank you, Williams; and if you've decided to be more care,
ful of how you talk, we'll go on from here."
"Go ahead and shoot all the questions at me that you can
think of. When I can answer, I'll tell you, and when I don't
know, I'll also tell you.”
"Fine, Williams. Stick to that and we'll get somewhere."
"Okay, Mr. Le Baron.”
“The first question now. Was Johnson married?”
"No," said Williams, shaking his head. "At least I never met
any woman that said she was his wife. Yet he introduced a lot of
women to me, I mean, one at the time, that he called 'wife,'" and
Williams laughed. Le Baron understood and smiled.
"You're getting into deep water, Williams. What did you
mean by what you just said?”.
“That Cleo Johnson was a ladies' man.”
"Meaning, that he liked the ladies.”
“And how! Had a different 'wife' while he was here, almost
every week," and Williams laughed.
“And that was one of his weaknesses?"
"Just one. He had others.”
“What others, for instance?"
“Gambling."
“Gambling, eh? In just what form?"
"About all the forms—from dice and cards and kelly pool to
race horses and baseball pools."
"A sucker?"
“Yes—and, no.”
“What do you mean by that?"
“He was a sucker because he was a gambler and woman-crazy;
but he knew how to gamble. In fact, he knew too well.”
“That's an unusual assertion. Make it plainer?”
"Well, starting out with pool. He could beat anybody, any-
time and anywhere, at playing it. He knew every shot that had
ever been invented and how to make it.”
"You mean 'conceived,' but they mean the same thing," ob-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
155
served Le Baron. "So he was what might be referred to as a
pool expert?"
"He was all that and a lot more."
"Now what do you mean?".
"I mean that not only was he a pool expert, but he could do
anything with dice that was doable and what he wanted to.”
"I still don't get what you're talking about. What do you
mean by 'doing anything with dice that he wanted to?'”.
“Well, he was a master of the soft roll, if you know what I
mean?”
“I've heard of it."
"He could, on a pool table, or a carpet, the ground or anything
soft, take the dice, throw them out and when he made a point,
could come right back and make it over again when he got ready.
You know what that means?".
"That he could clean out any crap-shooters he got into a
game with.”
"Exactly, and that is what he would do; had been doing for I
don't know how long."
“Very interesting. What else could he do that was unusual?”
“He wasn't so bad at the hard roll, but not as expert as he was
with the soft roll.”
“You mean that he could make a point on the side walk, an
unclothed table or anything hard, too.”
"Exactly that."
“Then why did he, a master of all you've said, have to be worka
ing as a janitor?"
"Because they would get on to him before long, and nobody
would play with him."
“Oh, I see! So he would have to, say, 'Keep moving.' Am
I right?"
“Right!”
"Now I begin to understand, but go on. Tell me more about
his habits.”
"Well, he told me after he started working here, that that was


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
what had happened to him-right down there in Harlem with all
the Negroes that are down there."
“You mean that it got around to all the crap-shooters, even,
in Harlem that he couldn't be beat?”
"In Harlem and Brooklyn, perhaps in Jamaica, too. Anyway,
he got down and out and took this janitor job to make enough to
keep on eating.”
"It would seem that with being such an expert, he'd have made
a lot of money, and would have had something until he could, per-
haps, make another town.”
“That was it. I said that he was a sucker for good-looking
dames. Liked to dress them up and ride them around, and you
know what that costs. They kept him broke.”
"Of course. So broke and short of money to eat, that he had
to take this job. Is that it?".
"That's how he happened to come here. He was a good worker
when he had to work, though, and wasn't lazy; and Zacarrio,
when he found this out, became rather fond of him.”
“And that is how he came to meet Zacarrio?"
“That was how. Another thing, Johnson was too smart to
hustle on his boss, so he never asked Zacarrio for money before
pay day as most Negroes are given to doing.”
"He didn't draw in advance, eh? What influence on Zacarrio
did that have?”
"Plenty! As I told you, Zacarrio was tight and didn't like to
put out. When he found out that he could talk to Johnson about
money and not be panned for an advance, he became very chummy
with Johnson."
“What happened then?”
"Zacarrio loved money better than a hungry Negro loves
chicken, and even liked to play with it, for I have seen him doing
so. Well, Johnson found out all about this, too; flattered him
about what a fine man he was and that the people all had him
wrong, and that he liked to work for a businessman.”
"Very interesting.”


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157
"Zacarrio then began to show him his money; told him often
how much he had in the safe, and when he went to the bank and
even showed him large sums and let him hold it for a moment.”
“So Zacarrio, it seems, was a bit of a sucker himself.”
"As regards Johnson, yes, or maybe it was Johnson. He was
smart. He was also clever. He thought things out in advance-
far in advance. While nobody saw him kill Zacarrio on that fatal
night, just before Xmas, he planned to do so when Zacarrio leaned
over to put the money in the safe.”
"On what day in the week exactly, did he kill Zacarrio?” in-
quired Le Baron, carefully.
"I just said that it was on Friday night. A strange thing, too,”
said Williams, the last sentence more to himself than to Le Baron.
"Strange how?"
Williams looked up quickly, and started, then relaxed into a
smile.
"I was thinking how it all took place, and how well Johnson
planned it. He sure planned it well."
"Explain about the planning?"
"Johnson planned to kill Zacarrio on the iast Friday in the
month, which was when he had found out by Zacarrio talking so
freely to him, that he would have the most money in that safe.”
Again Williams paused to think, and leaving Le Baron anxious,
looked up when he spoke, and went on:
"I mean that he planned down to the minute when to kill Zac-
arrio, as I figured it out later. But before he killed the man, he
also planned to dispose of the body. Accordingly, he called the
express company and told them to pick a trunk up at this address
on Saturday. He did this on Thursday, the day before he stabbed
Zacarrio in the back while he was leaning over to put the collections
in the safe.” He paused to look at Le Baron.
"I suppose they told you how Zacarrio was killed?”
“They said he was stabbed. They didn't say where."
“Well, it was in the back with a switch blade knife, with a
three-inch blade. Went between his shoulder blades, right into


158 : THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
the heart. But getting back to how Johnson planned it.
"I saw Zacarrio come in from collecting rents. It was about
six p. m. It was cold, and he was shivering when he entered his
little office, which didn't have any heat connected. Johnson had
placed an electric heater in there and when Zacarrio came in and
found the place warm, he was delighted and felt very grateful to-
wards Johnson for what he said was 'so thoughtful and he actually
gave Johnson a dollar,” and Williams paused to chuckle as he re-
called it; the irony of it. Zacarrio giving anybody a whole dollar.
Suddenly he burst out laughing and loudly. Le Baron looked at
him curiously.
"I was laughing when I recalled Zacarrio's giving Johnson a
dollar. He thought he was being mighty grateful. I would give a
dollar to have seen Johnson at that moment. With a long, new
switch blade, waiting for Zaccario to open up and talk," Williams
went on. “And that's exactly what Zaccario did. All flushed with
delight and gratitude because when he came in out of the cold,
shivering, Johnson had been thoughtful enough in the meantime
to make a fire so that he could warm up and be comfortable.
"He invited Johnson to sit down. I overheard this, for I hap-
pened to be working near the office. As I look back on its I
imagine Johnson picked his seat; sat down where it would be easy
when Zacarrio finally got to his feet and crossed from his dirty
little desk on one side of the room, to walk across the room and
open the safe. Johnson was sitting where he would be directly
behind Zacarrio when he did so; and where he could rise to his
feet quietly and with one or two steps, be standing right over Zac-
arrio as he leaned over to put the collections in the safe.
"Johnson must have had all this planned, for he had tɔ
stab him while in that particular position in order to kill him while
his back was turned, so when he staggered as he would, backward,
he would fall right into Johnson's arms; so that Johnson, careful
no doubt to avoid getting any blood on his clothing, could just
swing him about and lay him on a couch where he must have left
him until later that night when he carried him from the office to


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
159
his room and stashed the body in the trunk and locked the trunk."
He paused at this point to look straight at Le Baron, who had lis-
tened to his recitation carefully and followed him closely.
“What I just said is only my theory. All I actually know is that
Zacarrio and Johnson were laughing and talking in the office, and
that Zacarrio was counting his collections and Johnson was sitting
on the chair across the room near the safe. So I have figured,
that that was the way he killed the poor Jew."
"Did Johnson leave the building that Friday night, if you re-
call it?”
"I doubt it, but I wouldn't know because that was my night
off, and I went out and took my girl to a show. Johnson was in
his room when I came back, so I feel sure he didn't go out, but
while I was absent, it gave him a chance to take Zacarrio's body
from the office to his room, and clean his clothes up and perhaps
burn those he had on when he killed Zacarrio."
"It was late when I came in, but I recall very clearly that
Johnson was still up and busy doing something in his room. I
was sleepy, so I didn't knock on his door or do any chinning with
him and I'm glad I didn't. I might have discovered something-
and Johnson might have killed me to cover his crime.
“The express man came the next day. I helped him to carry
the trunk, which was heavier than a trunk like that ought to be,
but other than wondering why it was so heavy, I never thought
any more about it.
“Johnson got up Sunday morning and took care of his duties,
such as pulling the garbage and a few other things. Then he
went to his room, packed his things in a suitcase, waited until I
was out of sight and then slipped quietly out. That was the last
time I saw him, and, as far as I know, anybody else around New
York, and that is all I know,” said Williams, except one thing.”
“What thing, Williams?" Le Baron wanted to know.
“During his, Johnson's career, somewhere and at sometime,
somebody took a swipe at his throat and left a scar that he'll carry
to his grave. It started on his left ear which it split near the


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
lower tip, then curved downward toward the throat, but—".
" missed the jugular, perhaps," said Le Baron, cutting him
off and smiling.
"I guess that's so. If it hadn't, he-”
“-wouldn't have been here to kill Zacarrio,” and again Le
Baron smiled, this time wisely.
“The reason I'm mentioning this,” Williams went on thought-
fully, "is so that you can spot him if and when you find him.”
“Well?"
"I didn't tell any of the white cops who came to question me
about it, so none of them was ever the wiser."
"Well, Williams,” Le Baron said, smiling on the other grate-
fully. "If that's the case, I know better now what to look for.”
"You're the only one I've told about it.”
“Thank you again. If I capture Cleo, I'll come back here when
I return and hand you over some of the reward."
“Thank you, Le Baron.”
At his room that night, Walter Le Baron checked through the
information Williams had given him. He made careful mental
note of what Williams had told him regarding Johnson's mastery
of pool playing and dice shooting. Le Baron then concluded that
if he went after Johnson, it would be necessary to check all the
pool halls in every town he visited; and dig up and find the crap-
shooters. In that way, somewhere, he might be able to pick up
Johnson's trail, and run him to earth, somewhere, sometime.
So concluding, he went to bed with plans to call on Arnold
Walton, Commissioner of Police for the City of New York the
next morning.


.
+
.
CHAPTER
CHAPTER XT
ELL, LE BARON," the Commissioner said, after both
were seated comfortably in his large office in downtown
New York, “what did you find out?”
"Oh, enough I suppose to make a try; but I may have to
travel many, many miles, before I catch up with the man, if at
all. He's had so much time to get far away. If he has left the
country, we might as well kiss the possibility of capturing him at
all, good-bye.”
"Do you think he may have left the country?” said Walton,
anxiously. "I mean, gone somewhere abroad?” The thought was
disturbing to the Commissioner; he leaned forward and his expres-
sion showed him to be very uneasy.
"I hardly think so," said Le Baron, calmly. "Going abroad
would hardly suggest itself to this kind of a man. At least that
is my opinion."
"Well, your opinion in this instance is far better than mine.
Then you think that he may still be in the United States? Down
South somewhere, perhaps?” queried the Commissioner, a bit more
at ease.
"I feel quite sure that he is. At least that is what I'm count-
ing on; that he is somewhere down South, which is where I'm plan-
ning to go to look for him.”
"Very well, then, Le Baron. How do you plan to look for him?"
The Commissioner was watching Le Baron closely, whose eyes
were downcast in thought and when he raised them he let escape
a little sigh. The Commissioner became anxious again.
161


162
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"I've got to look for and pick up his trail and I guess I'll start
checking ca him in Richmond, though I doubt very much if he
would stop there, when he thinks of having made shipment of the
body to a blind address there. However, I shall begin to make
inquiries there, although I don't expect any results until I have
gotten far South of Richmond. I have a feeling that he would
feel safer at a greater distance from New York.”
“Yes?” said the Commissioner when Le Baron paused, and
lowered his eyes again in thought. Le Baron, on hearing him,
came out of his temporary reverie, and looked up at him.
"Once I pick up his trail, I will then feel more confident that
sooner or later I'll catch up with him somewhere," said Le Baron
and paused again and lowered his eyes in thought.
"Go on,” interposed the Commissioner, anxiously. "I'm listen-
ing, following everything you're saying, and plan to say.”
“When and if ever I pick up his trail, by which I mean, find
•that he has been in a town, I'll be able to start to work."
“What do you mean by that?” Walton wanted to know.
“That I'll have to check on every pool-hall where Negroes
hang out-and play a lot of it and do some betting in order to be
in position to inquire of those who hang around if this man was
ever there."
“Why have you got to do that?"
"Because I've learned that he is the best pool-player that ever
picked up a cue. Betting men at pool was one of the ways he
made a living before taking this job and killing Zacarrio and
stealing his money. He might not need to play pool for money
to keep going, but once a pool-player, as I view it, always one. So
I'm going to visit every pool-hall as I've said, in every town;
pool-halls where colored men hang out and play.”
"You've perhaps got something there. Were you able to get
a photograph of the guy anywhere? Our men weren't and that
handicapped them badly.”
"No, he didn't leave any photographs around to make him easier
to.find, but the engineer Williams up there where he worked and


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
163
committed the murder, gave me a very good description."
“That's good. What did he look like, anyhow, and was he a
young man, middle-aged or what? I can't imagine that he was
an old man."
"In his early thirties, he was brown-skinned, about five feet
ten inches tall, a fairly good head of hair, Negro kind of hair
which would make him popular with the women, whom, I under-
stand, he has a crush for making, but the most identifying thing
about him, and which will be most helpful to me in locating him
without a photograph, is a mark on his face.”
“A mark, eh? That's good,” cried the Commissioner. “What
kind of a mark?”
"Somewhere during his perhaps hectic career, a man or a
woman of his race, no doubt, took a swipe at him with a razor. He
was cutting for his throat, and he carries a mark that begins just
above the left ear, which it split, and runs down his neck, curving
'inder the rear of the left jaw bone, which indicates that whoever
put it there a long time ago, was making for his throat but no doubt
missed the jugular, otherwise Cleo Johnson wouldn't have been
here four months ago to kill and rob Isadore Zacarrio."
"Le Baron, you're a brick! I can see how important a scar
like you describe will be in helping you to get a line on him, once
you pick up his trail as you've suggested. Go on, give me all the
ideas you have.”
"With a description of him set in my mind, just visiting pool
halls, engaging in pool games and making bets so that I can get
that kind of information I'm looking for, is not half of what I've
got to do, oh, no, it is not going to be half that easy!”
“Now what are you talking about?"
“The guy's ace-in-the-hole is his ability to master dice.”
“Master dice? Whatever can you be thinking of?”
Le Baron smiled, and digressed to explain what he meant.
"You'd have to be a Negro to understand these dice-shooting
terms, Commissioner. You've perhaps never heard of the 'hard
roll and the 'soft roll' in the matter of shooting dice, have you?”


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
The Commissioner shook his head, and said:
“No. Those are new terms to me. What do they mean?”
"To throw any point you've made, after making the point, or
seven or eleven right off, if you want to.”
"Ah, I don't believe it! I've always contended that dice are
the most honest of all games of chance. I've never heard of these
'rolls' as you call them.”
"Still there are men who have trained until they are able to
make points when and if they want to, just as I've explained, and
I've been told that Cleo Johnson is master of both the hard and
the soft roll, and that he is an expert at the soft roll, which is by
far more popular.”
"Well, wonders will never cease I guess," sighed the Commis-
sioner, then turning to Le Baron, he looked at him seriously, and
said:
"And you say that he is a gambler along the lines you've just
described, too? And if so, what does that mean to you?”
"It means that in addition to checking in all the pool-halls
that Negroes frequent in every town I visit, I've also got to look
up all the dice-shooters, find out where they play—then play with
them and 'get well enough acquainted to inquire if any such char-
acter has been there and cleaned them out.”
"Damned interesting! I can see that you know your business.
But that'll take a lot of time; mean a lot of embarrassing work
to a man like you. You're very much of an exceptional Negro,
which you perhaps already know.”
"Oh, I don't know. But if I am it is up to me to prove it by
picking up Cleo Johnson's trail somewhere before I get too old to
'smell,' and Walter Le Baron laughed heartily, and the Commis-
sioner joined him. Then smiling, jokingly, he turned to Le Baron
and said:
"But you can shoot craps, Le Baron?”
"It's the simplest game in the world to learn. That easy!"
and he snapped his fingers. "Personally, I don't care for gambling
-don't even indulge in poker; but I know how. It has been neces-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
165
sary in my work to learn about a great many things in which I'm
not particularly interested. But if I find Cleo Johnson I may
have to search through the alleys even, of no end of towns."
“That's tough, and I'm sorry.”
“Oh, I won't mind. You see, if I could have gotten on the case
sooner, I might not have had to look so far. In his case, being a
sharper, he can't stay in one place very long."
"And why?”
“Because they get on to him and talk about him and they won't
play with him, forcing him to keep moving.'”
· "Le Baron you're a genius! You haven't left anything undone.”
“There's plenty I won't be able to foresee, and I am not a
genius. I'm simply a fairly well-informed Negro who knows same-
thing about Negro psychology and that's all.” At this Le Baron
rose to his feet, but the Commissioner waved him back.
"Sit there while I have the cashier draw you an expense draft.
I can see that trying to run dawn Cleo Johnson is going to cost
something, and I don't want lack of funds to impede your work
in any way.”
Thereupon the Commissioner called the cashier and had a draft
for $1,500 drawn in favor of Walter Le Baron. "Before it runs
out, just wire me for more, and I'll see that it is sent, promptly.”
Le Baron did not pick up Cleo Johnson's trail in Richmond
and was not, of course, disappointed, as he did not expect to. How-
ever, he canvassed every pool-hall in the town, engaged in no end
of crap games, won and lost and took it all good-naturedly and
with infinite patience, since he was aware that it might be a long,
long time before the perhaps flset Johnson would be located.
He drove to Norfolk and crossed over to Newport News, then
swinging down into North Carolina, he made all that state's larger
towns and in Winston-Salem he got his first information. Cleo
Johnson had once lived there, and the crap-shooters remembered
him as the boy who could do more with a pair of bones, than any
man who ever lived—but Cleo Johnson had not been in Winston-


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Salem in years, so Le Baron drove on to Charlotte, but nobody
knew him there or had seen him. He knew then that he'd not pick
up anything before he reached Atlanta, if there, at best.
A few hours later he rolled into Atlanta, found quarters in a
Negro hotel, and the next morning, which happened to be a Satur-
day, he began to canvass that thriving town which he always liked.
In a pool hall on Decatur Street, he got his first information
regarding the fugitive. Yes, Cleo Johnson had been in Atlanta, he
was told, almost four months before. All the crap-shooters and
kelly-pool players had met him—to their sorrow, and said they'd
never forget that man with the scar on his face.
As Le Baron expected, after cleaning out one group or set after
another, as far as he was able to learn, Cleo Johnson had left town
and it occurred to Walter Le Baron that he might, to get out of
the January cold, drift on down Florida way, so he left Atlanta
in less than a week and found himself late one night in. Jackson-
ville where on Ashley Street and State and Davis, he met many
who had seen Johnson and remembered him well, too well if they
had tried to engage him in a game.
Le Baron sighed with relief. This was getting on, he thought,
and with a sigh of relief, went to bed that night with higher hopes.
What interested him most during his continued search the
next day, was the fact, as told him, that Johnson had fallen for a
glamour girl on Duval Street and they gave Le Baron both her
name and address. Promptly Le Baron maneuvered to meet her,
and succeeded. While waiting for her, he wandered over to the,
mantle—and there reposing on a small easel, was a picture of
Cleo himself!
He ascertained during his visit with the girl, who was one beau-
tiful thing, with all the glamour any man, out for a good time,
could hardly keep from falling for, the address of the studio where
Johnson had posed for the picture, which he probably had made
in order to give her a copy. She gave it to him readily, and Le
Baron, after excusing himself, drove promptly to the same and
had the photographer make six prints for him.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
167
He returned to call on the girl then and had a long talk with
her. She told Le Baron that Johnson was a "good spender," and
admitted in a joking way that she might have liked him better,
but for that old "ugly scar" on his face which spoiled his good
looks.
"Added to this,” she went on to tell Le Baron, "he was so
jealous that he became a nuisance."
“A man couldn't help being jealous of anybody who looks like
you," Le Baron told her, jokingly.
"Aw, gwan', Mister," she replied and smiled at him as if she
liked it. "I think I could like somebody better that looks like
you," and she lowered her eyes again and then raised them coquet-
tishly.
“What became of him? Did you break his heart and then
send him away?”.
"Aw, naw," she said, using her eyes and her movements ef-
fectively. “I didn't send him away. He just went away because
he got mad when he ran into another of my boy friends here one
day when he came. As I said, he was just too jealous to get along
with. You know," she went on, making obvious passes at Le
Baron, in the way she was doing, “a girl don't just have one fellow.
He might go away, or fall for some other girl, then it'd leave a poor
girl all by herself and she'd be so lonely," whereupon she moved
closer to Le Baron and laid a hand on his.
"Where did he go?”
"I don't know—that is, exactly; but he wanted me to go with
him to Birmingham and kept talking about it all the while he was
here."
"And why didn't you go with him if he wanted you to?"
"I was sorta 'fraid of him! That awful scar on his face showed
that he might be bad, and men like that might get jealous and
kill a poor little girl like me,” thereupon she moved up against Le
Baron and put an arm about him and looking up at him, said:
"Why don't you put your arms around mem-and kiss me? I
haven't said you can't.” And she raised her lips. Le Baron was


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
in a crack, and was wondering how he was going to get out of it.
But just at that moment there was a knock at the door, and swear-
ing almost out loud, the girl moved away and presently got to her
feet and went to answer it. It happened to be one of her "other”
boy friends and Le Baron had an excuse to leave, but she extracted
a promise that he'd "come back” and he was allowed to leave.
The next morning he left jacksonville early for Birmingham
where he arrived late the same afternoon and before he had signed
in for a room, found that Johnson had been there three months
before, had repeated on cleaning up the town from the standpoint
of pool-playing and crap-shooting.
Johnson had stayed in Birmingham most of a month, as far as
Le Baron was able to ascertain, and had met and played around
with another glamour girl there, who told Le Baron that she thought
he went to New Orleans because he had wanted her to go with
him.
“That cut on his face, however, was enough for me. I became
convinced that he was a bad niggah when he got mad, and he
might, during such a time, put one like it on meemight even kill
me," she said, and shook her head.
"Birmingham's a bad town if you don't know it, I mean the
niggahs here, and every week end they's a lot of girls gets killed
for foolin' aroun' with some Negro who might be jealous like he
was, so I got out of going to N' O'leans with him and I'm glad
of it,” she said.
In due time Le Baron found himself at Rampart and Canal
Streets in New Orleans where he drove to the Astoria Negro Hotel,
and met Beansie, who was in business and ran the hotel—and the
usual crap-game in the back room. Beansie told Le Baron all
about Johnson, as he became well acquainted with him, and said
that Johnson spent most of his time in the Creole district below
Canal Street where he'd perhaps fallen for a Creole girl, as he
had seen him with her several times, when he brought her to the
Astoria to dine.
"He didn't get so far with his racket here, for there's plenty of


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
169
Negroes who master both the soft roll and the hard roll in New
Orleans and have been doing it so long, until they smell a soft or
hard roller before he begins to stink, so he drifted on away and I
haven't seen hiri since.”
"Out toward Houston, perhaps," said Le Baron, suggestively.
"I don't think so. Most guys like him go north towards Mem-
phis and Chicago," said Beansie, and then offered to treat Le Baron
to a drink, which Le Baron accepted.
The next day Le Baron drove north, stopping in Jackson, Mis-
sissippi and Canton, then drove on north to Memphis where we
met him, as set forth early in our story, and to where we now return
for the STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD.


CHAPTER LY
TT WAS LATE WHEN BOB MARTIN, Dorothy and Walter
Le Baron reached Memphis that Sunday night on which they
returned from Forest City and all three were too sleepy to do
anything at all but let Dorothy cut of the car when they reached
her home. Walter, of course, got out of the car and walked with
Dorothy across the sidewalk and up the walkway to her door.
There he shock her hand, which he squeezed warmly, and she re-
turned the squeeze and thrilled to his touch. He then went back
to the car, crawled in beside Bob who drove him directly to the
Dolphin Hotel. There, a few minutes later, he crawled into bed
and was soon fast asleep.
Not so with Dorothy Stanfield, however. Immediately after
she entered her home and the door had closed behind Walter
Le Baron, she rushed to her room, took off her clothes and put
on a robe and kimmono. She then went back downstairs to her
library and living room, took a seat at her secretary, found her
diary and turned to the page where she had tried to end it. Pick-
ing up her pen, for she felt strangely inspired, sleep appeared far,
far away. She raised her eyes, sighed deeply but happily, dipped
the pen in ink, lowered her eyes and started the writing of a new
chapter. After dating it, she wrote:
I am happy that I did not close this memorandum as I have
long been trying to do. I have somehow felt, and strangely
so, that the end was not yet, and I know now that I was right!
There is still no end to what I am to record, but tonight I will
attempt to set down another and a new chapter from this drama
of my strange, and, until today, unhappy life.
This time, however, it is not of misery and hopeless de-
170


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
171
finition of which I shall write. It is of a great and beautiful
happiness, and, in spite of that nightmare in my closet, I am,
for the first time in my life, happy. Strangely and supremely
happy-ob, how happy!
It all happened so suddenly until it is still hard for me
to convince myself that it is true or real, and that it is all not
just a strange and fantastic dream, from which I will suddenly
awaken and face again that bitter, miserable and unhappy
existence which has been my lot for three long and awful
years! But it is all so, regardless of the fact that it happened
so suddenly!
It is hard for even me to believe that it is possible to meet
a man and fall madly in love with him in one day! It just
doesn't seem possible.
Yet that is exactly what has happened to me. Yes, it has
happened, and I am, after all the tragedies, the scandals, the
sordid, bitter hopelessness that has been my lot, actually in
love; in love as I have never been in my life before and
with one whom I feel is the most wonderful man I have ever
met or known! So tall, so straight, dark, strong-willed and
dignified—a genuine gentleman, the kind I didn't know that
our race possessed!
I know that he is an honest man, brave and resolute and
true as steel and I trust him above all else. Oh, what a won-
derful thing it is to feel as I now do! I want to pray and
give thanks to Him on high, who decreed that this should
come to me at this point in my previously unhappy life! You
know my secret, dear Lord and I ask you to guide me and
help me to be strong and teach me how to labor and to wait.
For somewhere and somehow in the days to come, all that has
been in error and is still so terribly in error that I cannot
even hope when it will all end, please guide me correctly.
Meanwhile, that terrible and indefinite nightmare which has
enveloped me and has been holding me in a peculiar thraldom
of unhappiness and misery, must battle now with a new and


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
strange force. The love and protection and confidence of the
brave and resolute man whom fate decreed that I should this
day meet.
This morning he walked up beside my car, coming as if
from nowhere; and standing there, he looked at me and his
eyes must have fathomed to the bottom of my soul! I am
sure that his eyes saw clear through me. Standing looking
strangely down upon me, he told me that he saw something in
my face; that there was a story of unhappiness and misery
and bitterness behind a shield of make-believe which I have
tried to put forth. I tried to resent his boldness, and I re-
sisted it. I tried to make myself believe that he was uppish
and impertinent-even impudent! I tried hard to dissuade
him, even to defy him. But I am conscious now—in truth I
was even then, that I was fooling myself—but I was not fool-
ing him!
I knew in my heart that the words I said to him were
not true but plain lies. I was afraid to believe or acknowledge
that within five minutes after he crossed to my car and looked
at me so oddly, so strangely, that I was in love with the man,
hopelessly and desperately in love with him! I could not,
of course, understand then that that peculiar something which
I was feeling was love. I'm sure that he did not, either. Yet,
I was soon to know that what I felt and what he told me later,
that he also felt, was that great and glorious thing called love.
God help me! I cannot longer help or control myself! It is
that great love which we are both now enjoying!
You know, dear Lord, how long it has been since I gave
up even hoping that I would ever be happy-could be happy, .
and as I write these lines it still seems a little vague and in-
definite, even to me! I know that I have no right, in view
of this cloud hanging over my life, to hope for anything. I
may never be free in my soul to accept anything but the mis-
ery and unhappiness that has been my lot for so long. Yet, I
find myself daring to believe, because of meeting him, and


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
173
having him hold me in his arms and kiss my passionate lips,
that there will come a day when I can partake of the glories
of that great and tender love. I know that my future is as
indefinite as judgment day; and that I may never, until the
end of my life, be free. Yet I simply, as of today, refuse to
believe it. I feel like defying it; calling it a lie!
I am daring to believe, just as surely as there is a God
above us, that there will come a day of judgment and I am
possessed with a peculiar confidence that soon, somehow and
in some strange and mysterious way, this man will come to
me and take me and marry me and love me and call me his
dear wife, and take me in his arms and love me as I have so
always wanted to love and be loved-forever!
I was sure that, above all else, when he said that he was
going to investigate my past life, find out what had happened
to me to make me like he found me, that I didn't want him
delving into that tragedy in my life. I felt that, or tried to
feel at least, that he, a stranger, had no right to be so bold
and so impertinent as to go prying into the secrets that were
my misfortune, and I tried to be angry with him. I felt that
I had a right to be angry. So I left him standing there in the
gas station, looking after me sadly—just like he had been
badly hurt-yet was he not?
I drove away, but before I was out of his sight I was
sorry and wanted to go back and tell him I was, but I couldn't
then! It would have left me bad in the sight of his eyes.
Instead, and trying to be brave, I drove straight to the man's
house whom he had told me that he was going to ask to
tell him the story of my life that sad, futile and hopeless
life, with all its tragedy, sorrow and unhappiness.
I was in a mental panic until I met Bob Martin on the
street, driving toward Beale Street to meet and tell him, when
my loved one asked him for that awful story. Not realizing that
I had just met and talked with him, Bob would have told him
everything, without knowing what a great wrong he was do-


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
ing to me. Then he would not have brought him on a surprise
visit to my door where he was so shocked to find me that
for a time he was speechless. My plan had worked. Bob
had not given him any chance or time to find out anything
about me, before, sitting there on the way to Forest City, close
by his side he had a chance to study me, talk to me, listen
to me and learn that I was not a bad woman as he might have
feared, had Bob told him my story in advance of my becoming
better acquainted with him, and permitting him to judge me
in my true light and as I really am-or at least am trying
to be.
And now, as the hand on the clock before me nears the
hour of midnight, I am anxious for him to be told by our good
friend, Bob, all of the things that happened to me. Strange,
yes, but it is true. I not only want Bob to tell him everything,
but I am anxious for him to do so. I shall not be happy now
until I know that Bob has told him all-everything from be-
ginning to the end.
My fear when I realized that I was in love with him and
that I wanted him as I had never before wanted anything,
was that he, after Bob Martin had told him my story, would
hate and despise me; and would never want to see me again.
Now I know that I was mistaken! He will want me and he
will come to me, just as quickly as he has heard it. God bless
him! My own sweet, beloved one!
It is late now, hence I will close this chapter and retire to
dream of my Walter. Tomorrow is another day and I feel
that I will hear from him. I shall be waiting with a loving
and anxious heart, any words he may want to say to me.
Until then, sleep peacefully, dear Walter! And when you
think of me, please remember that I will be loving you always
-and always!
Tenderly.
Dorothy


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
175
+ such a late house wirus, fearing some curious. She h
As Dorothy closed the diary with a happy sigh and started to
rise, her telephone rang. She started, then paused and looked at
it a bit wonderingly before lifting it. Who could be calling her at
such a hour? she thought. She presently picked up the receiver
and called: "Hello!” Her voice was soft and mellow because she
was happy and there was hope in her heart for the first time for
such a long time; so long in fact, that she frankly disliked to count
it up.
"Hello, Dorothy,” came Bob's voice from the other end.
“Why, Bob!” she exclaimed in surprise. "You?”
“Yes, Dorothy, Bob. Are you surprised?”.
“Why, of course I am, Bob! What ever possessed you to call
me at such a late hour?”
She was suddenly anxious, fearing some invisible something.
Her heart beat faster and she was strangely curious. She hoped
nothing had happened to Le Baron. She didn't realize that when
she answered, her voice was so soft and tender, that Bob noticed
it right off.
"I wanted to talk to you, Dorothy, but have been hesitating to
call since it is so late. However, since I couldn't seem to get what
I am thinking about off my mind until I talked with you, I decided
to be bold, take a chance of angering you, and call.”
"I could never be angry with you, Bob, if you woke me up out
of a peaceful sleep, even. But since I had not retired, it is per-
fectly all right and I am glad you called me."
"Well, that being the case, I won't feel that I am annoying you.
I suspect that you are still up because you've been thinking about
somebody you met today ..."
"Why, Bob,” she cried, the blood flushing to her cheeks, "you
ought to be ashamed of yourself! Whom would I be thinking of?”
"Now, now, Dorothy," he chided, kindly. "You know whom
you were thinking of. I don't need to tell you," and he laughed
softly.
"Oh, Bob, how can you!” And the blood again flushed to her
cheeks and she could feel them burning.


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“What I called to talk to you about, Dorothy, is what we talked
about this morning before we started for Forest City."
“Before we started to Forest City?" she inquired, uncertainly.
"Well, we talked of many things as I recall it, Bob. You wouldn't
happen to mean Mr. Le Baron, would you?"
"I'm not talking about his mother, whom I never met. Don't
know if he has one, even. I'm talking about my friend, Walter
Le Baron."
"All right, Bob. We had a fine day together, Mr. Le Baron and
you and little me. So what?"
"You asked me if I could think up some way of getting out of
telling him about you. I observed that the two of you seemed to
get along so well together that it would be a travesty, in a way
to spoil it. So I got to thinking when I came home and was by
myself for awhile, and have called you to tell you that I have
thought of a way to keep from telling him. How does that sound
to your pretty ears, heh?"
“Well, Bob. I'm not so sure now that I do not want you to."
"You're not so sure about it? Say, girlie, what's been over-
taking you. Yesterday morning, you,”
“-yes, I understand, Bob. But that was yesterday. It is now
the morning after. Yesterday, it was what I thought I didn't want
you to do, but this morning,”
“-this morning? What?"
"I have changed my mind about it." .
“Dorothy! I can hardly believe it is you talking. Yet I know
your voice and I know it is you. First you come up with 'what
you thought you wanted, and now you're trying to tell me that
you've changed your mind. Exactly what do you mean, anyhow,
Dorothy?”
“That I don't mind if you do.”
"Don't mind if I do? Why, Dorothy, what's the matter? Are
you—angry at my friend? I thought you and he were getting
along splendidly, and was convinced and hence decided to call you
and tell you about my plan to avoid telling him about what hap-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
177
pened to you altogether.”
“That is awfully sweet of you, Bob, I am sure, and I want to
thank you kindly. I am not angry with Mr. Le Baron. In fact,
I've become very fond of him.”
“Then why is it that you don't care any longer if I do tell
him? As stated, you were so anxious yesterday that I not do so,
that you rushed out, almost in a panic to see me and beg me not
to tell him."
“Yes, I remember full well, Bob, but that was then.”
"Then? Now what do you mean?”
"That I have changed my mind entirely about what I thought
I didn't want you to do, but now, instead of not wanting you to, I
do want you to tell him. Not only tell him—but tell him everything
and at the earliest possible opportunity!”
"Dorothy, Dorothy, what ever are you talking about? Will
you please try to explain to me when and why you have reached
such an-inglorious decision?"
"A woman is subject to changing her mind, Bob. You under-
stand that, don't you, dear?”
“Of course, but you women, you women! Man will never
seem to know you well enough to understand you altogether. When
I left you, you seemed to be liking the man. Have you considered
what effect telling him this story might have upon him? He might
not understand and might not, also, accept it as I have planned
to tell it to him.
“I have known you too long, and favorably, to go and take a
chance of saying something with my big mouth that might hurt
you in the eyes of one of the finest men our race has produced."
"Thank you, Bob,” she said, patiently. "You may continue.”
"I know, as does everybody else that knows about it, that you
are as innocent of any wrongdoing in the scandal as a child. Still
the circumstances involved in the whole thing are so mitigatingly
peculiar that after thinking it over during the day, I decided that
it would be to your best interest if I did not tell him. And now


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
you order me to tell him; which means, I presume, everything, do
you understand, everything!”
"That is exactly what I want you to do; tell him the whole
story from beginning to end, Icaving out nothing! I repeat, tell
him everything, do you understand?”
“Well, Dorothy, from the way you talk you seem to mean it
and I have no alternative but to do as you've asked me to, which
means everything."
“Everything, Bob. And please remember-everything!”
"Good night, Dorothy," he said, in a voice that was both be-
wildered and uncertain.
“Good night, Bob, and sleep well.”
She heard him laugh ironically as he hung up.
With another deep and happy sigh, as she thought again of
Walter, she started to rise to her feet when the phone rang again
-and she started, almost violently this time. She sat back down
again and looked at the phone as if in wonder if it was true; that
somebody else was calling her. It rang again and again she started,
but there was no mistaking this time. Somebody was trying to
get her. She reached out, picked up the receiver, looked at her
watch, as she did so, fearing the clock before her might be wrong,
but turned and called softly, but in a somewhat surprised voice.
It was now far past midnight.
“Hello?”
“Hello," somebody said, a bit hesitantly, but not so hesitantly
that she failed to recognize the voice.
“Walter!” she exclaimed, as if surprised but happily.
“Yes, dear, it is I and I want to apologize for calling you at
such a late hour.”
“That is all right, darling,” she said and then giggled.
“Why are you laughing, sweetheart,” he said, and seemed a
bit confused. “You did laugh, didn't you, Dorothy?”
“I giggled, Walter, like a stupid idiot; but I was laughing at
myself. At myself calling you ‘darling.'” Whereupon she laughed
again, this time freely, He caught on promptly, and joined her,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
179
"I'm glad you did, sweetheart," Walter said. "Was it because
you are no longer accustomed to calling a man ‘darling?' »
"Perhaps so, Walter. I don't fully account for my-boldness.
Or maybe you caught me off guard-me using such endearing terms
must have surprised you some. It did me," and Dorothy laughed
again. On his end, Le Baron smiled, and then he, a strong-willed
man, became suddenly and strangely emotional.
“Oh, dearest Dorothy, you're so sweet and I'll be glad to hear
you call me by any name, or you may use any term which it may
please you to use, dear.”
"Oh, you do say such nice things, Walter. I'm afraid you're
going to make me love you more and more. I am almost helpless
when I talk to you."
“I went to bed when I got to the hotel. I was so sleepy and
there are times when I get that way that I go, it seems, almost
crazy; and nothing but to tumble quickly into bed will cure me. So
I went to bed and in less than two minutes I was sound asleep; I
slept hard—and then you must have come stealing into my dreams.
I awakened suddenly, but not before I heard myself calling 'Dor-
othy, Dorothy,' and I was greatly excited and sat up quickly.
When I looked at my watch, I was surprised! I had slept barely
an hour! Then, dear Dorothy, I got to thinking of you, about all
that happened yesterday, thinking over and over, and I decided
to take a chance and call you. But I was afraid to awaken you-
I remembered that I don't like anybody to awaken me when I am
sleeping soundly and peacefully. But I became desperate and
bold! It just seemed that I had to do it-call you. Then, to my
surprise, when you answered so quickly, I don't feel that you could
have been asleep.”
"I was not, precious,” she said, so happy that she felt she
would never sleep again; didn't care at that moment if she did not,
lest she miss some of the delight and joy it was giving her to talk
to him.
"I didn't get to explain all about the call. I called as quickly
as I could get to the telephone across the room, but when I dialed


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
your number, I got the busy signal and I was surprised and won-
dered. I hung up and then dialed again, fearing that I might have
gotten the wrong number. The line was still busy, so I hung up
and waited awhile and when I called this time I got you. Is it
possible that you were talking to someone else in the meanwhile?"
“Yes, dear, some one was talking to me. It was Bob. I hadn't
retired, because well, I guess I'll have to admit to you, and it is
to you only, dear, that I keep a diary, in which I have recorded
all that has happened of importance in my life for a long time.
Yesterday morning I tried to close the diary, but I failed as I have
failed before. It just didn't seem to end; there seemed to be more
that was to go into it.
"Well, there was. For when I shut the book yesterday morn-
ing and started over into Arkansas, I met you in the gas station
... by which you can understand that there was more to be set
down. So when you left me at the door, instead of going on to bed
as I would otherwise have done, I undressed to be more comfortable,
put on my robe and came downstairs to the secretary and wrote
another chapter, the longest of all, for more had happened in my
life yesterday than ever before.
“I had just finished it and was rising when the phone rang and
I was surprised, and thought somebody had the wrong number.
When I lifted the receiver to my ear, I got another surprise, for
it was Bob Martin.”
“Oh, Bob?” he said, and waited. She could see that he was
curious, but that he would not ask her why.
"Yes, Walter, Bob. He wanted to ask me something, and was
so on the anxious seat about it that he called me up."
“Oh. I'm glad now that I didn't call you sooner, for I know
that I would have been intruding as I was afraid at the beginning
that I would. Meanwhile, what I called to tell you, Dorothy, is
that I have decided not to ask Bob to tell me your story. I love
you so much, darling, and I am so happy to feel that I have at
last met the 'one woman,' that I don't want to be told anything
about what happened to you before I met you. So I thought it
Inight please you if I'd call and tell you so. Is that all right, dear?”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
181
"It would have been all right just after I met you. But since
then, Walter, we both know that everything has changed since. Yet,
I want to thank you for having so decided, darling; but I have
just told Bob-who called me to tell me that he had thought up a
plan not to tell you—that now I want him to tell ou, Walter; to
tell you the whole story-everything, dear.”
"But Dorothy, my precious,” he cried in shocked surprise.
"I am no longer interested in hearing the story of your involve-
ment! I am so happy just to have you; to know that I love you
so much, and to feel that you love me just as much in return; and
that I would be glad to stay on here in Memphis indefinitely, if it
wasn't that I am here on an important assignment and my duty
is to see it through. I want you to know, my precious Dorothy,
that I want only to love you and to continue loving you until I die!
Nothing that happened in your life before I met you, yesterday, is
of any interest to me, for I trust you, dear. As I feel now, there-
fore, I'm sure that I prefer not to hear anything about any mis-
fortune that ever befell you."
“Again I want to thank you, Walter, for being so fine and noble,
and to be willing to trust me so; but I must insist that you ask Bob
Martin to tell you my story, and to insist that he tell you as I
myself have just gotten through insisting that he do.”
"But Dorothy,” he began, persistently.
"If you love me as you say you do, dear Walter, and as I know
that I do love you, please arrange with Bob and sit down and
listen while he tells you what I have asked him to tell you. Now,
will you, darling?"
“If that is what you want, Dorothy, I can't refuse you anything.
You know that by now, don't you, dear?”
“Yes, Walter, and I can't find words to explain how happy it
has made me. I believe everything you say and I trust you even
more. But you must listen to Bob when he tells you what hap-
pened to me; that's what I want you to do, darling."
“Oh, precious," he called, appealingly. “Must you insist? All
I want right soon is to see you again; and I want to just as quickly
as it is conventionally possible to do so. I would like to before I


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
have to listen to Bob. May I drive out, say, this afternoon and
take you to a show? They have a good picture at the New Daisy.
I missed it in New York, so I would like to catch it here. And
that being the case, I'd like to have you sitting there beside me,
while I look at it, and listen to the story. Will you go, darling?"
“Why of course I will, Walter; and I'll be glad to be near you,
too. I can't, from the way I feel toward you now dear, refuse
you anything."
"Darling," cried Le Baron. “You make me so happy! I will
be at your house around two o'clock, sweetheart.”
"I'll be dressed and waiting for you, Walter."
"And after we've seen the show, I want you to have dinner
with me. I'll order it prepared for five o'clock, the very first thing
I do when I arise this morning. Will you have dinner with me,
also, darling?"
"Of course I will, Walter. I'll be glad to. What else do you
want me to do, darling?”
“To think of me and to continue to think of me as much as I
am going to think of you, and that will be, constantly."
She laughed and called back:
"That's what I've been doing ever since you left me at the door.
It is hardly possible for me to think of you any more. I am think-
ing, and will continue to think of you always, Walter-always!”
"Well, precious, it is really late now, and I must let you go
to bed and sleep well so that we will be rested and in position to
get the most out of being together today. When I take you home,
after we have dined, I'll drive out to Bob's and listen to that old
story that you now insist on—if by then you still want me to
hear it.”
"I want you to hear it, Walter, and I will continue to want you
to hear it after we have had dinner. I not only want you to hear
it, but I'll keep on insisting that you do, otherwise I'll be angry
and try not to continue loving you the way I do."
She said the words with such warmth, that he could not mistake
the feeling behind them, and when he finally hung up and both
retired, they were the happiest two persons in all Memphis.


CHAPTER
CHAPTER XITÍ
T ALTER LE BARON ARRIVED at Dorothy's cottage on
South Parkway fifteen minutes before the time at which
they were to start for the theatre; but he found her
dressed and waiting for him. She invited him inside and he was
pleased as he stood in the middle of the parlor and surveyed her
little home. She then showed him through it. The house consisted
of seven rooms, three upstairs and four down. When they were
coming downstairs she was a few steps ahead of him, when he
paused to look back upstairs, turning partly around as he did so.
She paused when she reached the floor below and turning, looked
up at him and called him. He turned to look at her and she started
and screamed suddenly and so violently that he became fright-
ened; and hurrying down to the foot of the stairway, he placed an
arm about her waist and looked into her eyes anxiously.
"Yes, darling," he cried, holding her close and looking into her
eyes, "What is the matter?”.
She had closed her eyes, for in that moment Dorothy Stanfield
recalled one of the most fearful situations in that life of hers,
which is part and parcel of the story we are about to tell.
More than three years before, another man had paused at about
the same spot as today Walter Le Baron had, to look down at her.
She knew then that she would never, until the longest day she
lived, forget.
"Oh, nothing, dear," she replied quickly, upon regaining her
mental equilibrium, and led the way back into the parlor. He
followed her and sat her down on a sofa near a window, which he
183


184
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
scr
raised. He then turned and sat down beside her.
"What frightened you, dear? I was sure that I heard you
scream, when I paused to look around and up at the top of the
stair? I thought I heard something behind me," at which Dorothy
started again, and her eyes opened and she seemed to strain to
hear something, as if from far away. Le Baron said nothing, but
just looked at her and wondered.
He could not understand in that moment that Dorothy Stan-
field was hearing something, a tragic thing like a ghost out of the
past. She remained taut for a few seconds, then forcing the mem-
ory of that tragic thing out of her past, from her memory, she
gradually relaxed and turned to him with a wan smile on her face,
a forced smile, as it were, but Dorothy Stanfield was doing her
best under circumstances from which, when we come to that mo-
ment in her past life, we will appreciate more fully her present
circumstances.
"I'm sorry, Walter," she said with affected calm, “but I-I guess
that l-must have become frightened at something. Yet,” she ad-
mitted, before he had a chance to ask her at what, “I don't know
what."
"I'm sorry, dear, and I won't say any more about it.” It oc-
curred to Walter Le Baron then, that Dorothy had thought of
some tragedy, perhaps out of the past, which had suggested itself
to her when he paused to look back while on the stair, and when
he thought he heard something. He paused in what he was trying
to think about and reflected a moment. He had heard something,
he felt sure; something akin, he thought to a heavy sigh or a groan.
Yet it could not have been, for she had just shown him every room
in the house, all of which were empty. There was apparently no-
body in the house but them. Then from where had come that
sound he heard?
He was baffled, shook his head unnoticed by Dorothy, sighed
unheard and for the present, gave it up and turned to the girl by
his side that he loved. He decided to try to cheer her up. Perhaps
she needed it. That something in her past life was rising up now


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
185
before him and parading, it seemed, like a gray ghost. Was it
because Dorothy Stanfield knew it; and was it because that some-
thing that she insisted he let Bob Martin tell him, was so serious
that it caused her to start violently at times and become frightened?
"I guess I was mistaken, darling; I mean, about the noise I
thought I heard from up there," and he pointed back at where
he was standing when she had screamed, even though not so loud.
"Please dear, just try to forget it—at least until Bob tells you
-that story, then you will, perhaps, understand better. You did
hear me scream, for something passed over me when you paused
up there and I looked up and saw you. It caused me to start and
scream before I could help it. Please try to forget it, for it will
not be long now before you will understand everything, including
the way I-just acted. Oh, Walter," and she covered her eyes
and when he placed an arm about her, she leaned on him, helplessly.
"Poor darling," he said kindly and pressed her to him. He
could hear her heart beating against his side. He knew then that
that something was troubling her more than she was willing to
admit. She was unhappy, he knew now, and if he loved her as
he was feeling, he must then dedicate himself to comforting her.
He could imagine that hers had perhaps been a life of hell while
that strange experience was going on.
.."Yours was a deep trouble, Dorothy, a serious and tragic inci-
dent and it is following down through your life, day by day and
haunting you. You need a strong man's love, darling—someone to
protect and comfort you."
Walter Le Baron didn't realize-even then, how truly he was
speaking. The tragedy in Dorothy Stanfield's life, which he was
soon to hear, was a serious one; and she seemed and looked years
older than she really was, as a result of it.
. After she had rested a few moments, safely in his embrace, she
felt much better and she was stronger. She closed her eyes for a
moment and pictured him being close to her always; because she
needed his protecting arm, his calm self-control. Indeed, she
thought, as she rested there in humble and happy peace, Walter


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Le Baron must be a strong and resolute man.
And Walter Le Baron, as he held her close and was supremely
happy for the opportunity, even if it did just happen, was doing
some thinking, too. Dorothy Stanfield was now his responsibility,
for he loved her more than he thought he would ever love any
woman. In fact, as he thought of it now, he knew he had never
thought it possible to love anybody half that much. And anything
that even tended to frighten or disturb her, was his concern. He
found himself praying silently for that future day when he could
come to her and take her all for his own, to guide and protect.
As he continued to hold her close to his heart there on the
couch where they were seated, his mind revolved around the in-
cident of a moment or so before, when she had screamed, low and
even soft, but in which a note of strange terror was mingled. It
must, he continued to think, have been because in that moment
something about those stairs, near the top of which he was stand-
ing, had brought back a tragic moment in her life; a moment so
tragic and long-to-be-remembered, that she forgot all else in that
brief moment and screamed out in fear.
"Oh, Dorothy,''he said now. "The more I am with you, the
more I realize how much you need me. This strange something
which you insist that Bob Martin tell me is a part of why you
became suddenly frightened to the point of crying out. And it is
bringing me more and more to realize that as quickly, if and when
this stumbling block that is due to keep us apart, can be removed,
you must become my wife; so that I may watch over and protect
you, darling, for you need it so much.”
“Oh, thank you, Walter,” she said gratefully, and in so saying
he could see that she was trying to cast off the strange spell in
which she had just been enveloped. "I do need you, dear. I
need you so much," and she turned her head and raised her lips
and he kissed her long and passionately.
"And you promise to be my wife, dear, when and if you be-
come free from this—this which I can see you fear so much?”
She nodded her head without saying anything. Her eyes were


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
187
downcast, but he lifted her chin and kissed her again and she let
the kiss linger a moment.
"I do want you for my wife, Dorothy, and it is that day that
I am looking forward to and hoping will not be so long." She
embraced him now, and began to weep and held him closer.
"I realize that I may have to wait a long time. If it was only
for a day, it would seem long to me; but I know that it will be
much longer. Perhaps months—even years, who knows. But I
will try always to understand, sweetheart, and be willing to wait.”
"I would be glad to be your wife, Walter, but I have no right
at this time to talk about such a thing. That is one of the things
that bas me so worried. I find myself suddenly in love with you,
like a God-send from heaven who sailed down upon me all of a
sudden and who has enveloped me, body and soul, and so com-
pletely that I am strangely frightened. Yet, I love you so much,
dear, that it seems cruel and unkind to tell you not to hope too
much that we may soon be able to take each other for man and
wife. I am not free, Walter, without turning traitor to myself,
even to listen to words of love from you-or from any other man.
But dear," and she paused to nestle closer to him, to enjoy a
breathless moment of warmth from his body so close to hers.
"You have overwhelmed me with such a great love, and I am
so captivated by it, that I am no longer myself. I am yours,
Walter, and if you were not the fine and honest man you are, but
was what I inclined at the outset to fear, you could be my downfall
-after all the struggle I have put forth to be strong and brave,
and thought until I met you yesterday, that I had succeeded. I
am yours, dear heart, regardless of how much I feel impelled to
tell you that it might be a long, long time if you wait. Perhaps
you might even be waiting in vain!”
"I shall not wait in vain, Dorothy," he said, and there was a
tone of such self-confidence in his voice that moved her strangely
-and anew! "I feel peculiarly sure on that point; as if I had
been assured by some mysterious power from above. I feel
that I will not have to wait as long as you fear; and because you


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
feel that way, you hesitate to relax into a quiet calm and self-con-
fidence! I want you at least to try to, Dorothy. But as I feel
toward you, dear, I could wait forever!”
“Oh, Walter, I have become so helpless in your hands. You
seem to exert a peculiar power over me. Is that the power of
love, dear? If it is, I can understand why love has so much in-
fluence in the lives of people.
“That is why, I am sure, that I want Bob to hurry and tell you
all about what happened to me. I am now so anxious for you
to know, that I would be tempted to tell you myself, but I don't
want you to hear it from me. I will feel so much better if you
hear it from some other, then you will perhaps get a better angle
of both sides. At best, most of us are inclined to be overly con-
scious of ourselves. If somebody else tells you, I will like that
better."
“I still won't care if I don't hear it, unless you want me to.”
“You see, Walter,” she said, and was more calm than she had
been since he entered the house, “It is like living under a sort of
cloud. As much as we love each other, and as completely as we
are in full agreement about, it seems at this time, everything, in
the months to come if you had to still guess about this something,
you could hardly help becoming confused at times; at other times
be forced onto the anxious seat, and I don't want it to be that
way. If you know all about what happened and how it happened,
you won't, at least, go to being anxious about it in the future and
to 'guessing' and all that, which can confuse anybody, even with
the best intentions in the world. Now do you understand why I
want you to hear the story?”
"Yes, dear, I do, and it will be as you wish it. I'll drive out to
Bob's house, after I bring you back here from dinner, and I'll ask
Bob to tell me, just as you have requested.”
"Thank you, darling," and Dorothy sighed with distinct relief.
"Meanwhile, if we're going to the theatre anytime soon, it seems
that we'd better be going.”
Le Baron consulted his watch.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
189
. “We still have thirty minutes before the nain picture starts.
I am not interested in looking at either the serial or the comedy-
even the cartoons, although I can sometimes tolerate them.”
"How about the news reel?”
"I don't think the Negroes who attend the theatre go much out
for news reels, so I doubt if they even run them, except something
special now and then. But getting back to the time, it will take
us five minutes to ride to the theatre, five minutes to get seated
and five minutes to wait for the feature to start. There are fifteen
minutes left for me to love my darling,'' and so saying, he lifted
her bodily and sat her upon one knee.
“Why, Walter!” she cried, but could say no more for the mo-
ment, for he was showering her face, her lips, her eyes and her
hands, even, with warm, passionate kisses!
"Walter! Walter!” she cried when he paused for a moment
to look into her eyes. "Oh, Walter! You mustn't! What will
become of me with you showering so much affection on me? What
will I do when you-go away?”
"I don't know, darling. I am not thinking now of the time when
I will have to go away. I am thinking only of you, my Dorothy,
the sweetest girl in all the world!”—and he did the embracing and
the kissing all over again.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, when he paused again. "I-I really
don't know what I will do when you are no longer here. Your love
is driving me all but insane."
"A sweet insanity, darling. Wouldn't it be a glorious thing if
one had to go insane, to do so in the arms of one you love as much
as I do you?"
"Oh, you terrible boy! But of course it would!” and kissing
him quickly of her own volition, she laughed cheerfully.
“And now, precious,” she said, relaxing into a moment of
soberness, "Just how long do you plan to be in Memphis, anyhow?
You have never said.”
"No, Dorothy, for I do not know. But now since fate has
brought us to this great love, which has thrown everything else


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for the time being, it seems, out of kilter, I will use up the few
minutes we have left to tell you who I am, and why I am in
Memphis.”
"Oh, Walter, really?” she exclaimed, greatly excited.
“Yes, darling, I will. I believe when I tell you, that you will
understand and appreciate now, why I couldn't sooner, and why
when I tell you, that you must keep it in the strictest of con-
fidence.”
"Oh, I will, Walter. You believe that I will, don't you dear?”,
"I would not offer to tell you if I did not trust you—and, im-
plicitly, dear. I am thinking of you as I would a dear wife, whom
a man can hardly be happy with until he has told her his business.
Husbands even boast to their wives, I've observed, and a loving
wife flatters him and often makes him a hero in her own eyes,
while nobody else has ever thought about him or takes him serious-
ly," whereupon he laughed and she joined him.
"I guess what you say is true, darling. It is one of the many
ways that a man and a woman, mutually suited to each other, find
and add to their happiness.”
"It is a wonderful thing, when you come to analyze it, isn't it,
darling? How two people can mean so much to each other when
properly suited and who share, more or less, the same points of
view."
"I agree with you completely, Walter. But you don't have to
tell me what you are doing in Memphis, and who you are until
you are ready to.”
"I want to, Dorothy. I want to tell you about myself and why
I am here because I think we know each other well enough now
for you to know; and especially since you are insisting on me lis-
tening to the story about you, and which you didn't seem to want
me to know when I met you.”
Dorothy laughed at this, and kissed his cheek, playfully..
"It is so sweet for you to confide in me, Walter. It makes me
feel closer to you."
"And that is exactly how I want you to feel, Dorothy. My


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
191
secrets from now on are your secrets, dear, and after Bob tells
me your story, I want you to share everything about yourself with
me. Will you wish to, honey?".
"I will want to. I will be glad to tell you everything that hap-
pens in my life, that might be of interest to you, Walter."
"Now about myself. I'm an investigator, dear. In other words,
they call me a detective, and I am here on the trail of, and in
quest of a murderer, by the name of Cleo Johnson, whom I am
due and wish to arrest and take back to New York. He killed a
man and robbed him of a large sum of money, and I have traced
him right up to Memphis.”
"Oh, you have, Walter? Ard that is what you do? Trail bad
men who break the law? You are a detective?"
“Yes, dear, a detective."
"I have been trying to decide in my mind just what you were,
ever since I realized that I was liking you. And now you have
told me. A detective. Gee, that must be exciting—yet, if you
are trailing a–killer, it is perhaps dangerous, too?”
"It involves bodily risks, yes, and sometimes it is exciting.”
"Only sometimes, Walter? It must be exciting all the time, as
I view it.” He laughed at her anxiety, but she did not. She was
looking at him, and now she spoke.
“This man you seek? If he saw you first and knew you, he
might"
"There, there, dear," he said, patting her arm. "You're. draw-
ing on your imagination. You make me think that you've perhaps
been reading Nick Carter and Old Sleuth,” and he laughed and
patted her arm again. Dorothy blushed, and then admitted:
"I did—when I was a child. Also about Old King Brady and
the James Boys, on the Missouri; and I also read of Pinkerton,
whom I've been told was a real detective."
"He was, dear, and a good one. He founded the Pinkerton
detective agency in Chicago, a long, long time ago.”
“That must be interesting. Whom do you work for?”
"Myself, sweetheart. I have my own agency,"


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"How fine! But I should have known you would have."
“Why so?”
"Because oh, I don't exactly know why; but you simply do
not impress me as being the kind of man to take orders from
others.”
“But I do take orders, dear. I am here on somebody's order."
"Well, I'd bet that they solicited your services, and that you
are independent of any direct orders, and are on your own. Never-
theless, that is not here nor there. You say that you are here in
search of a murderer?”.
“Yes; have been trailing him ever since I left New York, two
months ago.”
"Indeed! Tell me more about it?"
Walter looked at his watch, but she interrupted with:
"Oh, let the old show go hang! I'm more interested in you
and what you are talking about than in all the pictures ever made!”
For ten minutes she had been sitting on his knee, which was
warm, though harder than the soft sofa. She got up now and,
after shaking her skirt, sat down beside him again on the sofa, her
face toward him, all interest and attention on what he was about
to say.
"Now go on. We can talk here until we are ready to go to
dinner, if we want to, and then we can go from dinner to the show.
Is that all right, dear?”.
“More than right, darling. I'd rather stay here and talk to
you. I have a great deal that I want to talk to you about."
“Now kiss me again,” she said, "then go on.”
He obliged her and went on, but before he had gotten far, she
again interrupted.
“Just a moment. You say that you trailed the murderer into
Memphis? Well, what happened, or has happened?”
"You," he said, and smiled. Dorothy looked bewildered. She
didn't catch the joke. Then she looked at him, askance.
“Me?" she asked, pointing a finger at herself.
"Exactly!” he said. Then bringing his free hand over, he laid


. THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
193
it on hers, which was already on top of his other, her other hand
under it, he went on to explain:
"I arrived here late Saturday from Canton, Mississippi, where
I met your brother, understand?” She nodded her head in the
affirmative.
"And that is what you were asking my brother about?”
"I was told in Jackson to stop over in Canton and look your
brother up. Johnson, I learned, had stayed in Jackson a few days
and cleaned out all the gamblers there, and he might have spent
a day or so in Canton, on his way North to Memphis. So I stop-
ped in Canton and I looked your brother up and told him that I
wanted to know who controlled the underworld in the Negro sec-
tion; that I wanted to learn if an escaped killer from New York
had been there!"
"And did he tell you, or send you to whom you were interested
in seeing?”
"He did, and I promptly looked the man up that he referred
me to. The man told me, after I showed him Johnson's picture,
that he had been there and stayed around Canton a couple of
days; and that he then continued on northward, presumably to
Memphis. So I struck out for Memphis, of course."
“Then you arrived here perhaps the same night?”
“That's it, dear. I arrived here late Saturday, put up at the
hotel and then got in touch with our friend, Bob."
"Everything is clear now," she said, and was deeply interested.
"And what about Bob? Did you tell him why you were here?”.
"I did, and I asked him to say nothing about it.”
"He is keeping it a secret, for I asked him who you were when
I met him on the Parkway after I left you at the gas station,
where I had him stop and turn and come back to my house. I
wanted to talk to him before he had a chance to meet and talk to
you again. He refused to tell me who you were or what you were
doing in Memphis. He said it was confidential and not to ask him
any more about it. We then talked about you and planned to-
gether how to take you with us over to Forest City, in which way


194
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
you wouldn't have a chance to ask him to tell you what I, then,
felt sure I didn't want you to know. Now the cat is out of the
bag and you know the rest.”
"Which is that you captivated me, and I fell in love with you,
and"
"-I as equally in love with you.” He embraced her then and
they exchanged a kiss, and smiling, continued with what they
were talking about.
“After you saw Bob Saturday, what did you do then? Start
looking for your man?"
"It was too late, besides I was tired. Driving long distances
through this Southern heat, had exhausted me somewhat. At least
I didn't feel like looking for any crooks that night, so took a bath
and went to bed. Bob and I agreed to meet at the theatre, where
I was to go over matters with him, and lay plans to canvass the
town. I am not far behind my man now, and it is possible that
he may be right here in Memphis. I hope he is, for if so, I don't
intend for him to go any further. I'll take him back to New York
with me from here."
"He's a dangerous man. If he sees you first, he's liable to
shoot you,” said Dorothy, her face anxious with concern about
him.
"I know it.” He felt her tremble and when he raised his eyes,
he saw that she was nervous and inclined to be frightened. “I
have the advantage however, for I have his picture. He doesn't
have mine."
Walter Le Baron paused now to show Dorothy a photograph
of Cleo Johnson which he had in his inside coat pocket.
Gracious,” she cried, taking it and studying it closely. "What
a desperate looking character! Killing is written all over his
face.”
"Perhaps,” said Le Baron, "but it's the scar that gives him
that criminal and desperate look. He would be a fairly nice look-
ing fellow if it was not for that. Now look at his picture again,"
and Le Baron withdrew his hand and laid it over the scar,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
195
“See the difference?"
“Yes. A great difference," she said, nodding her head.
“That scar makes him a dead give-away. They've all remem-
bered him, since I picked up his trail, by that scar."
"I can see why they would.”
“Happily, they didn't have a photograph of him in New York
-I mean that it is fortunate for me, perhaps, for without it they
had no way to trace him. He didn't seem to have any criminal
record anywhere, therefore left no photographs. I picked up the
ones I have in Jacksonville, Florida, where I learned he had gotten
sweet with a girl and she told me where he had them made, so I
had the photographer make up six prints for me. So I have John-
son's number. I'll catch up with him before I return to New
York. I feel confident about it now."
"I'm sure you will, dear, but I'm very much afraid about you.
I'm sure that this man will not hesitate to shoot you on sight.”
"I expect anything like that, but remember, he doesn't know
me. This scar on his face points him out to me, so I have that
advantage, at least."
Dorothy sighed, and looked at him out of tender eyes.
"Please be careful, dear."
He patted her hand reassuringly.
“When you got up yesterday morning, you started out to meet
Bob,” she said, "and—”.
“_met you instead,” whereupon both laughed and exchanged
an embrace.
"So instead of doing what I set out to do yesterday, I met and
fell in love with you—and here I am.” And he laughed at the
irony of it.
"Oh, I'm so sorry if I am delaying your work, dear," she
began, anxiously and apologetically.
"No, no, sweetheart. I have lost only today. I will listen to
Bob tell me about what happened to you tonight, then, tomorrow
morning I will pick up where I left off and go on from there,
Meantime.”


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“Yes, dear?"
"If this man happens to still be in Memphis as I have said,
he was in Jackson and Canton just a month ago—and someone
tips him off that there's a man from New York here, looking for
him, he'd ”.
"-run away quickly, of course,” said Dorothy. “You are go-
ing to ask me, now that I understand the full import of your mis-
sion, to be careful not to divulge what you've just told me—and
that means, to anybody. I understand fully, darling, and you can
rest assured that I will keep my mouth shut. I'm not given much
to blabbing anyhow."
“I believe you, honey. And now," he said, rising to his feet,
"what about a nice little drive around town before we go to
dinner?"
"Surely, darling,” she said, smiling up at him, girl-like, and
then rose to her feet, looked up at him again and marveled at him
being so much taller. After another fond embrace and the usual
by now, exchange of kisses, they left the house, went outside, got
into his car and started on a sight-seeing tour of Memphis under
her direction but with him driving. When they sat down at dinner
two hours later, they had pretty well covered all the important
sections of the city,


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crowd out to see them whenever they were shown in Memphis. I
saw one of his at the Metropolitan Theatre once while I was visit-
ing Chicago, and there were even larger crowds there to see them.
Bob told me that when they showed them in Memphis it was neces-
sary to play them twice as long as they played white pictures-
often the most popular ones. So why was it unprofitable for him
to produce them?"
"I think you will have to talk to Mr. Wyeth about that. Not
being in the business, I have only my opinion and what he himself
told me."
"Is that so? I'm sorry to hear that,” she said and was deeply
concerned. "His pictures were like his books, interesting and so
true to Negro life.”
"They were that,” said Le Baron, "and almost all our group
are sorry that he is not producing them any more. He gives us a
good novel at the rate of about one a year, however, so that is
something to be thankful for, at least.”
“A whole lot. I read everything he writes—and just as quickly
as he writes it and I can get hold of it. I have his new book," and
she paused to look toward her bookcase, off to one side of the
room. She rose and going over to it, picked out the copy of the
book, brought it back and handed it to him. He took it and read
the blurb on the inside flap of the jacket, then ventured further
into the book, pausing to examine the title page and frontispiece,
which was printed in full color.
"Have you observed that there is more to his books, more in
the way they are gotten up, with beauty and care, not counting
the interest in the pages, than in most books?”
"Indeed I have,” said Dorothy, "and we have discussed this
fact. It is the consensus of opinion, race opinion here in Memphis,
at least, that he is interested and appreciative of the way his people
like his books—I don't know how the white people take to thera
or what they think about them—and he wants to please his readers
and feels they are entitled to all he can consistently give them for
their money.”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY ŠTANFIELD
199
“Wyeth is a most appreciative sort of person and his books are
popular; and they are growing more so every day. He has devel-
oped and owns his publishing outlet you know, so makes far more
money from the sale of same, than he would if some of the big
white publishers were distributing for him on a royalty basis.”
“I'm so glad to hear that,” said Dorothy, "then he is probably
making some money from his writings? More, perhaps, than he
was on the pictures?"
"Much more, so he told me. And he doesn't have to endure
so many headaches, any more, which he also assured me.”
“What did he mean by that?"
"He meant that it seemed impossible for him to get enough
cash together at any one time to make one or two pictures, as he
did, outright; and so he would have to go out and interest other
people to the point of putting up some money to complete the
pictures."
"That was hard on him, I imagine,” said Dorothy, with obvious
interest, and sympathetically.
“Under those circumstances and conditions, they would intrude
themselves and claim ownership of the pictures, regardless how
much of his own money he had put into them.”
"But why would he do such a thing?"
"He said that he had to do so in order to finish the pictures
and get them on the market.”
“But with them owning them,"
"Oh, they would have a contract; and he was protected by this
-at least to some degree.”
"Oh, I see,” she said and relaxed her tension somewhat.
"He was forced by the terms of the contract, however, to work
like a dog; and if anything happened to him before he had played
a picture very thoroughly in all the colored houses, they were
ready to trip him and take his pictures away from him. In time,
they finally forced him to quit,” said Le Baron, with a regrettable
sigh.
“That was the sensible thing to do; but I'm sorry that he had
u be do such put into thedules, regard intrude


200
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
to do it; and I am sure that the most of our race who frequent
movies must be sorry also. Well,” Dorothy went on, "You say
that he is doing much better for himself in the book business?”
"Oh, much better! He is like a new man. The worry and
anxiety, not to mention the endless hard work, that he had to put
up with, were breaking down his health and aging him prematurely.
Meanwhile, he married a very fine girl, and that has helped him
considerably."
“Whom did he marry? I heard that he had,” and she regarded
him wonderingly.
"He married a girl by the name of Bertha Schultz. She was
born in Germany, of a Negro father and a Prussian mother. Fact
is, she had been in the country less than a year when he married
her, although she had spent several years in this country while
younger, and therefore spoke English fluently. But I've gotten
entirely away from what I started to say,” he said, apologetically.
"Yes, dear,” she said, with a happy smile. "But about every-
thing you say seems to be interesting, so I'm glad to listen to you,
whatever it is that you choose to talk about. Why not go on and
tell me about this girl? I'm interested.”
Before going on he paused to look at her and to study her a
moment. She returned his gaze, askance.
"You remind me of her somewhat,” he said, still studying her.
"Oh, nonsense, dear!”, she said, deprecatingly. “I've heard
that she's a very beautiful woman."
"She is. I met her a few nights before leaving New York."
"You did!” exclaimed Dorothy. "How and where?”
“At a party some friends of mine were giving. I also met that
Mrs. Early, a white woman, who was a Mrs. Wingate before she
married Kermit Early, a colored man. She's a white woman, in
case you hadn't heard."
"I have heard. Another white woman married to a Negro, eh?
How did this one happen?”.
"Her previous husband, who was a white man, was a million-
aire.”


THE STORY RY
201
ROTHY
STANFIELD
ANFIELD
OF DOROTHY "A millionaire? Then what possessed her to give up that-
and marry a Negro?”
"She was a widow. Her white husband was killed, and left
her a very wealthy woman.”
"This seems to be a-rather unusual case?”
"Very much so," said Le Baron. "They seem to rather like
her in Harlem. Among other philanthropic activities, she has set
up and maintains an institution for the salvation of delinquent Ne-
gro children. She built a first-class place for them in New York
City, and still another building up on the Hudson where she takes
them at alternate intervals during the spring, summer and fall."
"Indeed!” exclaimed Dorothy, in some surprise. "That is very
much in her favor. Did you say that she was rather popular
among the Negroes?”
“Very popular, so I'm told. Her attitude towards Negroes is
very much different than that of most of the white women in
New York, and other places, married to colored men. She seems,
so I have been further told, to have resigned herself-even before
marriage, to being content with Negro life, so has thrown herself
into it and what goes with being a white woman, married to a
Negro, which, of course, means that she had to give up all her
white friends and previous associates—even most of her relations,
when she came over to live among Negroes with a colored man,
so seems to be making the most of it. She and Early have three
children now.”
"That should settle her for a life among Negroes completely."
Dorothy observed. “What about Frank Knight? Were he and
his white wife at the party?”
"No. My friends said that they had never met Knight, or his
white wife, and added that Knight was rarely, if ever, seen in
Harlem. Seems to have bought this girl to whom he is married, a
home somewhere in Brooklyn and to have withdrawn from any
activity among Negroes altogether, as far as I have been able to
learn,” said Le Baron.
“I wonder if he is going to continue to write about white people


202
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
as he has done in the past showing about all of them to be the
meanest people ever, when it comes to Negroes, that can be con-
ceived?"
“I'm sure I don't know, dear. I've never met or even seen
him.”
"I wonder if showing white people up, as he does in his writ-
ings, as being so mean and heartless regarding Negroes, is his idea
of a better association among the races; and if he means that by
Negroes marrying white, as he has done, is the proper way to a
solution?"
Le Baron smiled; Dorothy frowned. He turned to her and
went on:
"You're sure hard on Knight, aren't you?” and he continued
to smile, playfully.
"I sure am—and on all other Negro men who marry white
women! I suppose that since she is so rich, and also so kind to
Negroes with her wealth, that this Mrs. Wingate can be excepted.
But hers is perhaps the only case of its kind in the whole lot of
them. Meanwhile, I'll admit that I am hard on them and intend,
as far as I'm concerned, to keep on being hard on all Negro men
who marry white women.” She paused at this point to look at
him, as she recalled what she had asked him to explain.
. “You didn't finish telling me about this girl of German extrac-
tion that Mr. Wyeth married, you said that I reminded you some-
what of her. I said that she was very beautiful. I am not, so
please go on and tell me about her-more about her,” said Dorothy.
"You are beautiful, Dorothy-certainly in my eyes," said Le
Baron, warmly, and squeezed her hand. Dorothy's cheeks flushed
and she liked what he said.
"But the comparison that I was going to explain about is in
your eyes. Her eyes seemed inclined, as I talked to her at that
party, like yours, to be sad.”
“Has she had trouble, too?"
"Now that you speak of it,” he said abruptly, turning to her
more animated than before. "I know why her eyes were sad. It's
more


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
203
on account of her brother, who brought her to America with him
when he came. He was an ardent Nazi, who got into trouble, and
that is why, I recall now, that her eyes were that sad.”
"What happened to her brother?”
Walter Le Baron paused thoughtfully for a moment and Dor-
othy turned to look at him, a question in her eyes and on her kips.
"Looks like I've talked myself into some trouble,” he said and
sighed a bit. She regarded him curiously now, and went on:
“What do you mean?"
Le Baron shrugged his shoulders. He disliked to go into what
he now had to explain. Finally he went on as if with resignation.
"It seems that this Bertha, and her brother, had been very
thoroughly educated before leaving Germany for New York, and
that Adolf Hitler had something to do with helping them to get
the kind of education they had. Anyway, her brother, whose name
was Heinrich, had spent some time in New York before, where
he had met and become very friendly with Kermit Early.
"Early, it seems, after Mrs. Wingate fell in love with him and
while her white husband was still living, had been put through
school on Mrs. Wingate's money, having finished at Harvard, with
a Ph.D., degree. Well, it seems that Early turned out to be very
much over-educated, could find nothing that he liked to do, so
turned radical, and when he met Heinrich Schultz, who was a Nazi
agent, he had become associated with Nazi activities in America,
and was connected with a subversive group here, so after he met
Schultz, they developed a sort of interest in common, agreed to
organize a spy ring and report America's pro-war activities to Ger-
many, and did so.
"The FBI knew that something fishy was going on, and had a
suspicion it was being directed by somebody in Harlem; and that
there was a leak somewhere, by the great number of ships that
were being sunk off our east coast, shortly after the outbreak of the
war in 1941. As usual they put white men on the job, and they
combed Harlem but could not locate the leak, and where the in-
formation was coming from.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"It had been going on a long time when it was brought to the
attention of a man named Walton, Commissioner of Police for the
city of New York, who promptly contacted me, and persuaded the
FBI to enlist my services as an investigator, and I went to work
on the case.
"It didn't take me long to find out where the leak was, and
which I soon traced to Heinrich Schultz, who, by operating from
Harlem and being of Negro extraction, had been able to work al-
most at ease without being either suspected or molested. But
before I had gotten very far with my investigation and was alle
to lay a hand on Schultz, the government withdrew all tanker
service from the western Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, and
had cut sailing of merchant vessels to the West Indies, Mexico
and South America to the bone. They were sending such ships
as went under convoy, which reduced the sinkings, and Schultz
and his gang, the head of whom was one Dr. Gustave von Barwig,
who was operating from Argentina, had sort of scattered.
"Mysterious train wrecks began to happen out around Chicago,
so I was sent to check on the why of them and so on. Shortly after
I arrived in Chicago, the papers carried a sensational story about a
bomb exploding in mid-air west of Boone, Iowa, and all indications
pointed to the bomb having been thrown from the rear car of the
Pacific Coast Limited, which was carrying high officials of the
government west to a secret meeting in San Francisco.
"I was sent to Boone and after investigation I was told that a
fine-looking young colored man had been seen in Boone before
and after this strange bomb explosion. I knew immediately that
it was Schultz, as the description fitted him perfectly. I returned
to Chicago and began to look for him.
"Two weeks went by and I finally managed to contact a private
car porter who, after some urging, told me all about how Schultz
left the bomb in his locker (he was in charge of the private car
which was carrying these high government officers) and that he
discovered it purely by accident and threw it out of the car as the
train was crossing the Coon River west of Boone; and of how it


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
205
exploded before it reached the water. He explained to me that
he was afraid to say anything about it for fear of being locked up
and suspected of being associated with the group of subversive
agents. He told me all about how Schultz had inveigled him into
the whole thing but assured me that he was innocent of any bad
intentions-confessed, and I believed him, that he had no idea that
Schultz was a spy and that he had told Schultz in answer to quiz-
zing, that he knew he had no right to tell, all about the private
party.
"With what he told me, I promptly went after Schultz for good
and all the Nazi agents that were associated with him, including
von Barwig. While this was going on, Germany surrendered, and
Schultz and all his gang were arrested and returned to Germany
for trial as war criminals.”
“What was Schultz's sister doing while all this was going on?”,
asked Dorothy.
“She had met and fallen in love with Wyeth, and seemed
to be running out on her associates and then they found out."
"Oh, yes? Then what happened?”
"They called her downtown to von Barwig's headquarters in
one of the big hotels—and ordered her to assassinate Mrs. Roose-
velt when she came to the Golden Gate Ballroom in Harlem to
speak to a group of Negroes."
"No!” exclaimed Dorothy. “But she didn't, did she?”
Le Baron looked at her and smiled.
"Mrs. Roosevelt was still living more than a year later, so evi-
dently the girl did not succeed in her mission, or the mission that
was forced on her."
"Oh, good! Gee, but this is so interesting,” cried Dorothy,
clasping her hands. “Go on, tell me some more-all that hap-
pened, please!"
"I've heard that Sidney Wyeth was watching her; knew that
it was not her wish or desire, but that she was forced to try to
assassinate Mrs. Roosevelt by those she was associated with. Any-
way, Wyeth was trailing her and he caught her just as she was with-


208
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"A night for love, Dorothy," and then be kissed her again
quickly. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll have to go and listen to
this story which is the cause of your dilemma and unhappiness, but
tomorrow, dear, I'll be back.”
"Maybe you won't want to come back after you hear what
Bob has to tell you,” she said and her eyes seemed more sad than
ever.
"Nothing that Bob, or anybody else, tells me will ever stop
me from loving you, Dorothy, always and always. Nothing and
never! You believe me, don't you, dear?”
"I believe anything you say to me, Walter, anything, dear!”
For which he kissed her again, and then both sighed.
"I want you to know, and to feel while I'm at Bob's and until I
see you some time tomorrow, that we, you and I, Dorothy, are
together in spirit even when I am absent from you. I have only
to close my eyes and imagine I see you; imagine that you are near
me, to get a wonderful thrill,” he said, holding her again closely
to his heart.
"Dearest Walter,” she said, not raising her eyes but holding
him close. "You make me so happy that I simply don't know
what to do," and now she started weeping, and he had to comfort
her a full minute before he was able to go on.
"Please go now, Walter,” she said, tears streaming down her
cheeks unchecked. “Just leave me alone to weep until I have cried
myself to sleep. I love you so much, darling, that I just can't
seem to help it, but I can't stand you near me any more tonight.
So please go, dear heart, and come back to me tomorrow.”
Walter Le Baron tore himself away from the girl he loved
then, and crossed the porch and the walkway and hurriedly got
into his car, started the motor, and turned for one last look at her.
She was lingering in the door, looking sadly out at him. He waved
a hand at her and she waved back, and then his car rolled out
into South Parkway and away into the night.
She presently closed the door, and turning, went slowly up her
stairs and to bed.


CHAPTER XV
TT ALL BEGAN, I might say," Bob Martin was saying to Wal-
ter Le Baron in his home a half hour after Walter had left
Dorothy, "out on the old Simmons Plantation, northeast of
Memphis, when Dorothy was not much more than a child and
still in school.”
“On the Simmons Plantation?" Le Baron repeated, curiously.
"I thought—"
"I have the floor, my worthy," said Bob, cutting him off and
waving a hand in his direction, but with a smile.
"Whatever you may have thought, I've been out to the planta-
tion many and many a time. My father before me used to go out
there while he was still living; and as I tell you this story, I'll
have occasion to bring my father into the early part of it, which
you will soon hear; but which I admit at this time, however, is
aside from Dorothy's story, yet is part and parcel of what hap-
pened on the whole.”
“Go ahead," said Le Baron. "I'm listening with both ears
wide open and I'm keenly interested. I hadn't intended to inter-
rupt you, and I won't delay the telling of the story for an ex-
planation.”
"Dr. Vaughn, whose father had started a small family fortune
in downtown Memphis, in a barber shop for white people, shortly
after the Civil War, was a serious minded Negro and a successful
one. One of the few race men in the entire United States whose
fortune did not start from a crap game, a saloon, a policy game or
from running whorehouses, where passionate and beautiful colored
209


210
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
girls sold their bodies to white men, with the result that one Negro,
as did happen during that period, might profit and ultimately ac-
cumulate wealth from the proceeds of dozens of girl's shame."
"Most Negro fortunes, I regret to say, all over these United
States, got started just that way,” said Walter Le Baron, with an
unhappy shaking of his head. "But you were telling me about
Dr. Vaughn's father, Dorothy's grandfather, and how he got started,
so please go on.”
“The Vaughn fortune, I started out to say, did not get its start
that way, but in a legitimate way and continued legitimate until a
man named N. D. Stanfield got into it, which is in reality the story
that I have to tell.”
“Stanfield, eh?," interrupted Le Baron, looking at him curiously.
Is that, then, where Dorothy got the name?”
“Yes, but to tell you about that now would put me away ahead
of the story, and I'm sure you want to hear it from the beginning
and something about the events that led up to the climax which
exploded like an atomic bomb and left destruction in its wake.
"As I was telling you, it all began out at this plantation which
Dr. Vaughn had purchased from an old veteran of the Civil War
by the name of Simmons, a big name in Memphis for generations.
Many people around here recall old Colonel Simmons, who at one
time, it is said, owned more than a thousand slaves and lived on a
high hill overlooking the Mississippi River on the Plantation, in
one of the finest houses ever built in the state of Tennessee. The
house still stands by the grace of Dr. Vaughn, Dorothy's proud
father, as a reminder of a brave white man, who nevertheless
fought and died on the battlefield of Chickamauga, to continue
slavery in the United States, although more for principle and state
rights than with thought of continuing slavery.
“The slave village, which Dr. Vaughn has also maintained, is
one of the historical places where visitors to Memphis are welcome
to visit and get a view of how real slavery existed in those feudal
days. I'm going to drive you out to look at it before you leave
Memphis this time,” Bob said, digressing for a moment from the


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
2 II
story he was telling.
“The Doctor does, at intervals, institute such improvements as
are necessary for the benefit of his tenants who live in the quarters
still, and work for him on the plantation which extends for more
than two miles along the banks of the river and three miles back
from the same at its deepest section.
"I cannot say, of course, just how the family meeting that took
place one afternoon at the plantation was conducted; and the
reason that I know as much about it as I do is because on that
afternoon, a committee of which my father was a member, came
to see Dr. Vaughn just before he was to call his wife and children
together to discuss family policy.
"Our people, in keeping with the fever that swept the South-
land back in the days of Booker T. Washington, and which had
also enveloped the Negroes of Memphis, were anxious, as they
were doing all over the South, to establish a bank, which was to be
located down there on Beale Street. In fact, they had been ex-
ploiting the idea for weeks and had plans pretty well in hand to
get the bank going, and had, without his knowledge or consent, in-
cluded the Doctor in their scheme for the opening of the institution.
"So they had made an appointment to interview the Doctor
with a view to applying for a charter and getting the bank started.
"Dr. Vaughn met them at the door and invited them inside.
My father told me that it was a warm afternoon, but that a
cool breeze from the Mississippi River was blowing over the area.
There was a magnificient lawn behind which the plantation man-
sion reposed, and which you will admire when you see it,” Bob
paused to look at Le Baron and explain. “This great lawn has
many of the largest and finest oaks you ever saw, most of them
known to be more than 100 years old, and the shade from those
grand old oaks was tempting and inviting. My father explained
that a fine lawn set reposed beneath the shade of those oaks, so
the committee decided that they could tell the Doctor of their
plans in more comfort out there, than inside on such a warm day.
“Accordingly, they suggested that they meet out there, and, of


212
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
course, the Doctor consented, and a few minutes later they gath-
ered to face the Doctor and proceeded to lay before him what they
had done up to that time to plan the bank and its personnel.
Bob Martin went on to tell the following story.
"Now Doctor," the chairman of the committee began, “We
haven't brought this to your attention before, for knowing that
you are a great race man, we have been devoting our efforts to
organization and to getting other men of our group to come in and
invest some money who were not as completely race-minded as
you, but now we are about down to cases, and ready to lay every-
thing before you and get your reaction, and we hope, enlist your
co-operation.”
The Doctor listened to all of this respectfully, nodding his
head at intervals to indicate that he was following them and under-
stood what they were talking about.
"We have,” Bob's father went on to explain, "persuaded Pro-
fessor Ledbetter, principal of the Booker T. Washington High
School, to consent to act as cashier, and Reverend Simms, pastor
of the big Metropolitan Baptist church, to be our president. Now
we have called on you, whom everybody considers to be the leading
race citizen of Memphis, to be the chairman of the board.”
It was now Dr. Vaughn's turn at last to commit himself, which
after a thoughtful pause, he proceeded to do.
"Now gentlemen," the Doctor began, “I have listened to you,
and naturally I have been interested in hearing about your efforts
to start a colored bank which deserves all the assistance myself and
every other race citizen can give. I am in sympathy with the
spirit behind the effort. We do need something to assist and en-
courage more Negroes to go into business; to develop into agri-
culture on a larger scale and to become a part of industry and to
engage on a far wider scale in industrial and commercial enterprise.
We need these things, among other reasons, as an avocation, in-
stead of just continuing to depend on white people for everything,
including giving us jobs in their enterprises."
“The committee, as you can appreciate,” smiled Bob, turning


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
213
to Le Baron, "swallowed all he had said, hook, line and sinker.”
“But gentlemen," Doctor Vaughn went on, “I'm afraid you
have overlooked with all your planning for the bank, several im-
portant angles.”
"What angles, Doctor?” Bob's father rose to his feet to ask.
For some reason, he was suddenly on the anxious seat regarding
Dr. Vaughn.
“Well, regarding the conduct of the bank as a whole. I repeat,
we need more activity in the lines I have just mentioned, and
banks are essential to the furtherance of agricultural, industrial
and commercial enterprise. But banking is an advance stage of
business, and is not conducted in an off-handed manner as many
of you seem to think. Take, for instance, the officers of the large
banks in Memphis, conducted by white people, and elsewhere for
that matter. The men responsible to the public in those institutions
have practically grown up in the banks. They have had their
training sort of handed down to them through generations, often
through their father and their father's father, who founded the
banks, many, long before the Civil War. They have learned through
long years of experience what may, and often does, happen through
and over a span of years. They know there may come wars and
depressions; storms and floods-in short, hundreds of things which
a man must know or be told by somebody who does know, that
may happen to involve the banks existence over a period of years.
“These are but a few of the many things that few Negroes
understand because they have never had a chance to learn about
them. Now take the man whom you have selected for your cash-
ier, for instance, and whose duties would be to lend the money
so the bank could make operating expenses and a profit."
"Professor Ledbetter has been to school,” Bob Martin's father
rose to his feet and proceeded to explain, cutting Dr. Vaughn's
speech off as he did so. "He has been to schools, many schools, and
has graduated from college; he is the principal of our high school,
has a lot of education and is supposed to know—just about every-
thing."


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Ridiculous!” cried Dr. Vaughn, with an expression of disgust.
“Been to school, graduated from college, teaches school and is sup-
posed to know everything! No man knows everything! And with
due respect to the principal of our high school, and what education
he does have, which from an academic standpoint I presume to be
considerable. But from the standpoint of being a cashier in a
bank and lending people's money, he knows exactly nothing!”
"Doctor Vaughn!” exclaimed Bob Martin's father, jumping to
his feet in a state of excitement, bordering on indignation. The
other members of the committee nodded their approval, all of
which, however, had no effect on the Doctor, who sat, waiting
patiently for what their chairman had jumped to his feet to say.
Martin's father, however, seemed as suddenly to forget what he
had taken the floor to say, and stammered instead. Dr. Vaughn
raised a silencing hand which brought immediate quiet, and all
present turned their faces to listen to what he had still to say.
“What I said about Professor Ledbetter stands! But that is
not all that I am going to say by any means. For the moment, I
return to Professor Ledbetter for your benefit, and give you my
experienced reaction to him.
"The man is nothing but a schoolteacher, fortunate enough to
get the job of principal of one of our high schools by the grace of
his academic diplomas, and the degrees he has acquired; but as a
businessman, which the cashier of any bank is certainly supposed
to be, he has had no kind of experience whatsoever! And as to
lending money, he wouldn't know how to start going about it! A
cashier of a bank must have more than just education. That is
one of the great and major failures of our race! We seem to
think that all we've got to do to be successful, is just to acquire
an education. Acquire more degrees and more degrees and end up
with so many that as far as the world of living and getting along
in a capitalistic nation is concerned, we know exactly nothing!
"Professor Ledbetter is one of this group. His father was a
preacher, who sold religion as his stock-in-trade! He was honest
and ambitious and did the best he knew how. He sent his son


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
215
through high school, then on to college, and after he had been
duly graduated from both, he sent him again to take a post grad-
uate course in English, and he acquired some more degrees. But
he never for one day, like the majority of Negroes all over the
United States, thought a thing about teaching him to make money!
As a result, you have one of these 'successful men of our group;
successful without money, or any likelihood of ever getting any!
“And now you come to this meeting all enthused over making
him the cashier of your bank, which he would have to attend to
on the side. Whatever he knows, be it little or much, I'd be will-
ing to wager that he has no intentions of giving up his job as ·
principal of the Booker T. Washington High School! Another
successful race man—without money! We are the only group in
all America to assume success without money. As a result, and
of our seeming ability not to be able to make any, like all the
other groups in America, whenever one of us happens to be ap-
pointed or placed in a position of trust and responsibility whereby
we might help the others, but where it might be more profitable to
somebody else that we not be helped, one of these 'successful and
educated leaders sells us down the river and to the higest bidder-
and that is one of the many ways our group is exploited_and
shamefully!"
The Doctor had found his stride, and seemed to enjoy expound-
ing the philosophy of common sense to his listeners, so after a
short ironical laugh, he went on firmly:
"You advise me that Reverend Simms, a preacher, has con-
sented to be the president of your bank. Being the president of a
bank sounds big and illustrious, but it carries with it a still greater
responsibility. As president of your bank, Reverend Simms would
be supposed to be responsible for the actions of your cashier, and
the success or failure in lending the depositors money, so that the
bank could make a profit, which is the object of every bank's
existence.
"Professor Ledbetter never borrowed a dollar from any bank
to build anything with the exception of the house he lives in. I


216
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
happen to be the endorser of the note upon which he borrowed
that particular money. If he were incapable of lending money
sensibly, he is still less capable of repaying a loan, for I have to
keep after him continually to meet his monthly curtailments of that
note. The only way I have been able to keep from having to
pay it myself thus far, is by threatening him continually, when he
defaults and doesn't want to pay, is to threaten to tell his super-
intendent about it, and frighten him with the fear of losing his
job. Professor Ledbetter, like too many of our group, doesn't
understand the very least thing about financial responsibility and
does not inspire any one, by his conduct, to feel that he is ever
going to learn-and he thinks nothing about it!
“This, then, is the man whose consent you boast of having
secured to act as the cashier of your proposed bank, and who
would mess the funds up so completely that he would perhaps be
indicted in less than a year for violation of the banking laws and
misappropriation of funds, or probably for about all the other
offenses that could be committed in connection with operating a
bank.
"As for poor Reverend Simms, like Professor Ledbetter's father,
and most preachers, black and white for that matter, has been
trained, and has trained himself only in the art of selling religion.
In banking, the matter of delivery of goods is a most important
factor. About the only thing Reverend Simms has ever delivered
was a sermon, and as the president of a bank he'd perhaps make a
good head-waiter in a livery barn,” whereupon all present were
compelled to laugh, in spite of the seriousness of their positions.
“My, Dr. Vaughn. You surprise us!” Bob's father cried. “We
certainly didn't expect this from you. We thought—".
"Just what did you think, anyhow? Or did you actually do any
real thinking before you went plunging into something that none
of you know anything about whatsoever?”
The committee for the first time made no answer and due to
their silence, Dr. Vaughn went on:
“The fact is, gentlemen, we are not ready to go into the bank-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
217
ing business yet. Those of you who are honest and of good char-
acter, can borrow, and do borrow what money you need from che
white banks, who have plenty money to lend, and who know how
to lend it. Your ambition to have a bank is due more to your
ambition to be connected with such an institution, and because it
sounds big and appeals to most of your varities. You have not
thought of or considered the possible results of such efforts. The
results would soon be chaos and just another contribution, after
you closed, to more loss of confidence in our people regarding our
honesty and ability to do business.
“We need to build up production of goods that the public needs
and must have, and in that way, provide some jobs that we have
for so long looked to the white man to provide us with, and so
much of everything else that we would be handicapped to be
without. When we reach that stage in our racial and economic
development, with other things to go along with it we might ul-
timately be able to operate and maintain a bank successfully. At
this time I can't help but regard the idea as only a grand illusion
on your part which is almost sure to end up as a grand delusion.
"What I would like to see, and would be quite willing to assist,
financially, in helping to bring to development would be a series
of products from corn, cotton and cotton seed, peanuts and sweet
potatoes, products for food and for wear, to build to where you
could show and convince the public that you were serious and
might get somewhere. This is something to think about; some-
thing that would provide jobs for our people and that would return
interest on investments, instead of jumping headlong into something
that you know hardly a single thing about, but which idea has you
flattered, and which you think will make all of you seem big in
the eyes of your friends and acquaintances.”
"By the time the Doctor had gone that far, my father told
me,” said Bob, "they were all so discouraged that there was hardly
any argument left in them. Dr. Vaughn had unwittingly con-
vinced all against their will; and when they left, the plan to start
a bank had cooled so completely that that set forgot all about it


218
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
and gave back the money that they had already collected.”
"But another group did start a bank soon after, didn't they?"
said Le Baron, reflectively. He recalled that when he first visited
Memphis there were some Negro banks.
"Oh, yes!” exclaimed Bob. “Negro Memphis was determined
to have colored banks whether Dr. Vaughn approved the idea or
not, and with the results you well know!”
"I don't remember the details of what happened,” said Le
Baron. “Give them to me now, please, before you go on with the
story.”
“They started two banks, and for a time seemed to be doing
very well--and then it happened! Both went down, and they didn't
need any depression, to carry them down, as you also well know,"
said Bob.
“You mean, they went down before the depression?"
“Long before."
“What was the immediate cause?”
“Bad banking. They didn't know what they were doing.”
"Were any of them indicted in connection with the failures?”
inquired Le Baron.
“The president of one, the largest one, incidentally, and who
was our leading undertaker, and who knew all about burying the
dead, escaped going to prison because he convinced the judge be-
fore whom he was being tried, that he took the office only as a
gesture, and because being the president of a bank sounded big
to him. The white people knew that the Negro was telling the
truth and forgave the ignorant sap and let him off with a rep-
rimand."
“And the other bank's personnel? Seems that I remember the
president of that one.”
“You did know him. His name was Jackson. Well, poor
Jackson was not let off so easily. When the examiners closed his
bank, he made the mistake of running away. They caught him
and brought him back, tried him-and gave him three years!
“That just about cooled banking ambitions on the part of Ne-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
219
groes in Memphis. They don't even talk about starting one any
more. Fortunately, the white banks are very considerate with re-
gard to those of the race who are entitled to credit, and they get
all the money they need to run such business as we have, and
which requires bank credit.
"But getting back to Dorothy, dear girl," said Bob solemnly
and with something akin to a sigh. "I have talked clear away
from her, so I'll try to pick up where I left off. As I tell you this
story, you may also use your imagination, in which way you will
be able to conceive much that went on, and which I couldn't have
seen going on, or have heard or been told about. Dorothy cold
me much of what went on later, but I hope you can use your imag-
ination and picture much of the inside story while I tell you about
the outside."
We now pick up where the committee of colored men had just
left, and Doctor Vaughn returned to the plantation house where
his wife and children, including Dorothy, were waiting for him.
The fact is, Doctor Vaughn had been in the act of discussing
policy with his family when the committee called, and had natur-
ally been delayed in what he started out to do, so after he bid
them the time of day, he went forthwith into his house where he
was met at the front door by his wife. Mrs. Vaughn, to whom he
had been married since he was not much more than a boy, had
raised several children and they were a proud and happy family.
But events were in a short while to change the whole course, al-
most, of their lives.
“The children are waiting for us in the library," said Mrs.
Vaughn as he walked in the door, "so if you have completed your
business with the men who seem to have just left, you can now
perhaps, sit down and get this matter about the children over
with.”
"I am ready, Margaret,” he said and kissed her. She led the
way to the library where the children were gathered and a few
minutes later were designing policy with regards to their children's
future.


220
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"We will start with you, Arthur, because you are the oldest.
We would like someone to carry on your father's work,” said Mrs.
Vaughn, “so we would like to send you to a business college, since
you have finished your literary training and are prepared to help
your father with his insurance business, providing this meets with
your approval and appreciation.”
Dr. Vaughn, in addition to owning and operating the old Sim-
mons plantation, was also head of one of the largest insurance
companies for Negroes in the South.
Arthur, who was very much like his father, was completely
agreeable to what they had planned for him, so they passed on to
the next son in line.
“Now as regards you, Harold,” said Dr. Vaughn, turning to
their next son, who was named after him. “Would you care to
study medicine? I would like you to, and have you become a
doctor, Harold; but if it is not your ambition or desire, then tell
us what is your wish. We want you to be satisfied.”
"I should like to become a doctor, father. To become one has
always been my ambition.”
"I thought so, and that pleases your mother and me,” the Doc-
tor went on, the expression on both his and Mrs. Vaughn's faces
indicating that they were satisfied. “Well, what school would you
like to go to to take it up? We would like you to attend Yale,
my alma mater."
"I should like to go there also, father,” replied Harold, Jr. and
he, too, seemed pleased.
"Then that is settled; and both your mother and I are pleased."
All then turned their eyes upon the youngest son, Jennifer, and
smiled. Jennifer smiled, too. They were all thinking the same
thing.
"I am already doing mine," smiled Jennifer. "So as to my
future, it seems to have been settled already. One more year at
the big agricultural college at Ames, Iowa, and I should return
to Memphis a full-fledged and master farmer and planter."
“You do like farming, don't you, Jennifer?" inquired Mrs.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
221
Vaughn, a trifle anxious. She was thinking of other Negro
boys; boys she had known while a small girl. Mrs. Vaughn was
born on a farm and liked it, but she recalled with anxiety that few
young Negroes had liked farming when she was a girl. And when
their parents passed on they usually got rid of it and ended sooner
or later by wasting what they got for it, if they hadn't lost it before
it got that far, via foreclosure or a mortgage, in some dream or
impractical effort in town—and sometimes they just blew the pro-
ceeds from the farm in!
"I love it," cried Jennifer, enthusiastically, which caused both
the Doctor and Mrs. Vaughn to breathe a sigh of relief. "I guess
all of you know that I have developed what is said to be the
finest herd of cattle around Memphis, and do I like feeding steers!”
“There is such good money in feeding steers, son,” said the
Doctor, beaming, and continued to smile as he thought of the sub-
stantial balance they carried at the Union & Planters National
Bank of Memphis.
"We should in whatever we do, my children, think of the profit
side of our efforts, whether in cash or in other things. However
you may feel about being successful, I don't want any of you to
go to doing so because of acquiring a great deal of education, and
just teaching school or being appointed to a job slightly better. I
am thoroughly disgusted with Negroes being regarded as success-
ful, who have no money or material wealth to show as a result.
We are the only group in America who claims to be successful
without money. That is not an enduring success, and as far as
your mother and I are concerned, we don't consider it any success
at all. If Negroes could in some manner be brought to see and
understand that to be successful in the American way, it nieans
that somewhere and at sometime along their line of life, they must
learn to make money. That is the only way to ultimately get
somewhere—and to stay there after you arrive!
“But almost ever since the Negro has been free and acquiring
some degree of education, nobody seems to have told him that to
demonstrate the benefits of his literary training, he had to ultim-


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ataely learn how to make and keep some money. Success again
without money-just that much piffle!” and Dr. Vaughn snapped
his fingers in disgust.
"The farm is paying, and paying well, Harold. It is a highly
profitable investment, and it is our hope that it will continue the
property of our family indefinitely. I am hopeful that neither you
nor your children or your children's children, will ever make the
mistake of selling it. It is, and has been for a long time, the best-
paying investment we possess, far better and more profitable than
the insurance company. So I am glad to hear you say, Jennifer
that farming is pleasing to you."
"I'm crazy about it, father! With the completion of my course
at Ames, I will be ready to extend our activities in all forms of
stock raising and cotton culture and the raising of hybrid corn."
"Speaking of corn raising,” Mrs. Vaughn interposed here, “when
your father and I were first married and we managed to produce
fifty bushels of corn to the acre, it was the talk of the community!
Now you've succeeded, by this hybrid process, in raising more now
and then, than one hundred bushels to the acre, with an average
yield, in good soil, of course, of from sixty bushels to eighty bushels
to the acre—and it has your father and me just tickled pink! I
wish it were possible to return half the Negroes in the United
States to the farm!”
“Where he could not be held back by the prejudices he com-
plains of and about,” said Dr. Vaughn, feelingly, “and where he
would be free!”
"But the Negro, unfortunately,” said Arthur, "doesn't see it
that way. As quickly, often, as he can mortgage or dispose of the
farm his parents died and left him, he lights out for town where
more electric lights are shining; lights that he had nothing to do
with developing and building, and where"
"_he starts promptly downward to the dogs and ends up in
jail or on the chain-gang. But enough about Negroes!” cried the
Doctor, and all turned their eyes upon Dorothy, their only sister
and daughter, and of whom all were very fond. The blood flushed


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“Old tall, dark eyes, good hair and handsome Thompson—and
you all but went nuts about him—and he didn't have two ounces
of brains!” and her brother laughed, hilariously. The others smiled
and looked at Dorothy, who promptly broke into tears.
"Oh, mama, make Jennifer hush,” she whimpered, and hid her
eyes on her mother's shoulder.
"Now, Jennifer,” Mrs. Vaughn admonished. “You've said
quite enough about your sister! She's a darling daughter to us,
and sister to you, and you must be nice to her, even if she does
prefer handsome boys."
“Why, mama, you too!” exclaimed Dorothy, shocked, and
turned now to her father and went into tears again.
“There, there!” cried Jennifer pointing a finger at her, tanta-
lizingly, "even mama is forced to agree with me. You know that
you're a sucker for good-looking boys and your crying proves it?"
"Now, son,” said the doctor, raising a hand. "Let up on the
razz and leave Dorothy to your mother. She knows best."
"But, father, you know that more than half of the good-looking
colored boys are no good. They can't be because so many silly
girls—like my sister there, won't let them be! They pull at and
paw over them and—even give them their little money, when they
have any, so what can be expected?”.
"Well, Jennifer,” smiled Dr. Vaughn, turning to look straight
at him. “You can't say too much about good-looking boys—at least
against them. Just look in the mirror at yourself, for instance,"
and it was the Doctor's turn to laugh this time.
"There, there, smarty,” cried Dorothysitting straight and
getting back into the argument. "You're good-looking yourself,
and you know it. And there's a lot of girls who are ready to be
sweet with you, and you know that, too."
"Oh, I'm not so much,” said Jennifer, deprecatingly. “Just a
fair-looking kid."
“But almost all the girls in our set make eyes at you."
"And where do they get with it? Nowhere! For I'm too busy
wrestling with bulls and helping bed down sows to have a litter of


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
225
pigs and doing a thousand and other things out on the farm to
notice if they are. I wouldn't mind your being nice to these
handsome fellows, if they were hustlers, with a definite objective in
life toward which they were working, but you know and I know
and mama and papa both know, that the girls spoil almost all
Negro boys who happen to have good hair and also happen to be
tall and handsome. It's more their fault than the man's; but if a
man has no objective toward which he is striving seriously enough
to resist a lot of silly and nonsensical girls making passes at him,
then he ought to come to a bad end as so many do."
"What do you mean, come to a bad end?” Dorothy wanted to
know.
"I mean that some gals get jealous and kill them—and that's
happening in Memphis—and often, too. And they also kill, very
often, some other girl who seems to be in the boy's favor more
than she.”
"Well,” said Dorothy, flippantly. “When I get married I'm
going to prove how wrong you are about me as far as that's con-
cerned!”
"Now what are you talking about?” said Jennifer.
"I'm not going to marry any pretty man. I'm going to choose
just a plain one. Now remember when I do, what I've said."
"Now, now, my children,” Mrs. Vaughn interposed at this
point. “Girls don't just deliberately select the kind of men they
ultimately marry. That is something that just happens. It might
turn out that Dorothy may meet and fall in love with a handsome
man, or a plain man, or some other kind, who knows? When that
time comes, I hope she will know what's best for her and will do
the sensible thing. But all this talk about marrying and the kind
of man she is going to marry is both idle and premature. Dorothy
is due to spend the next two years completing her education at
Vassar, where she will be leaving for now very shortly. Until she
returns, after completing this, please forget what you are now
arguing about and be nice to your sister. She is our only daughter
and your only sister and you both love each other, and I am sure


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
that after she has grown up and finished her schooling, she will
want to please her brothers and her father and mother by making
a sensible and suitable marriage. So don't razz her any more and
make her cry. That ends the meeting, and let's all get busy."
So saying, Mrs. Vaughn rose from the table, followed by the
others, and all went about their duties.
Our story now jumps two years and returns to the plantation
home of the Vaughns. Dorothy had spent the two years at Vassar,
had been duly graduated in the studies she had taken and returned
to her home, seemingly more beautiful than ever, due, no doubt,
to fine training and the environment she had encountered at that
fine girls' school.
She was a trifle stouter, and the obvious passion that was al-
ways in her face, and which was inclined to make boys single her
out and try to persuade her to depart from the straight and narrow
path, had developed along with her general growing-up.
At first sight of her, after her return, both her mother and her
father were inwardly frightened.
"Harold, dear,” said Mrs. Vaughn to the Doctor, the first time
they were alone together after her return, and they had spent the
evening talking and listening to Dorothy while, like girls who have
been away to school, and to Vassar of all schools, she held the
stage and thrilled and pleased her parents, especially her mother,
with what she talked about.
“I'm afraid about our child.”
"I share your fear, Margaret,” the Doctor agreed, his face
serious.
"I'm afraid if she's persuaded by some boy, most likely a hand-
some one, she may—oh, Doctor, I'm just afraid, that's all!"
"I see that handsome Carter Thompson is back in Memphis.
He's appearing in person at the New Daisy Theatre, which has
just opened. Saw Nellie Hodge parading him up and down Beale
Street yesterday, and as Jennifer used to say, 'pawing and making
over him, just like he had been sent to Beale Street, straight from
heaven without any stopovers on the way down."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
227
“And now with Dorothy all excited over graduating from Vassar
and he, with his soft, silky hair, olive-brown complexion, slender
form and six feet two, I imagine he'll be driving up here in Mr.
Wyeth's car, as he used to, to take her sailing around the country.”
"Fine cars like the one I saw him in down on Beale Street, are
mighty conducive—and convenient for the game of persuasion,”
said the Doctor, and his face was downright grave with anxiety
concerning his beautiful daughter.
“There seems to be one alternative," said Mrs. Vaughn, thought-
fully, and then straightened her dress, as if she had decided on
the alternative.
“What alternative, Margaret?”
"Select, or try to select, a logical man and throw them together
often enough and long enough to make marriage a logical thing-
then try to persuade her to marry him as soon as conveniently pos-
sible. I'd simply die if our only daughter had to tell me by and
by that she was pregnant."
"And if she goes riding over into Arkansas, or down into Mis-
sissippi with the likes of Carter Thompson in that dazzling Zephyr
of Sidney Wyeth's, whom he is working for, she'll be coming up in
due time with an armful of baby all right. I'm afraid for her
yet we may both be wrong about the child,” he said, with a ray
of hope in his voice.
"They charged me with looking the same way, when I was a
girl, if you remember, Doctor, and Mrs. Vaughn smiled at the
recollection.
“I think it was all that passion that I saw in your face, Mar-
garet, that tempted me to marry you as quickly as I did.”
"Especially when I refused to let you run your hand up under
my dress," and Mrs. Vaughn looked at him chidingly.
"It's not so!” the Doctor declared stoutly. "I never even
wanted to persuade any girl. I was too serious minded and bent
so ardently on what I planned to do.”
"All very true, but I haven't forgotten what you tried to do. I
shall always insist that it was my failure to let you do so that


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
persuaded you to propose and take me off and marry me while we
were hardly more than kids.”
“I still insist that I had no desire to try to persuade you before
we married.”
"Well, that's all past and gone so long ago, dear, that it is
hardly worthwhile debating. We married young and have lived a
full and happy life. Our greatest concern now," Mrs. Vaughn
went on to say, "is about our daughter, Dorothy. I feel like I
would just want to die if anything happened to her-and you know
how much of this is always happening to nice girls in Memphis."
"Happening to so-called nice girls everywhere. There's many
men who wouldn't want to persuade any girl to risk her character
through illicit intercourse, and every one of our sons are like that.
Fine boys and we have every reason to be proud of them, thank
God.”
“Yes, Harold, thank God. Now let's see what we can do about
protecting Dorothy."
“We mustn't be too severe, Margaret. After all, the child is
young and is certainly entitled to have some girlhood before we
go pushing her into marriage and above all, perhaps, to some
man she may not be in love with.”
"I've seen so many girls go to the bad, under the illusion that
they were 'in love,' that I am doubtful if all—or many, even, are
sure they know what love really means. Colored girls especially,
are so vain about it when it comes to somebody who looks like this
Carter Thompson. Is it possible for so many girls to think they
are in love with somebody like him, when they are all looking right
over the heads of many well-worthwhile men who would work for
them and make them good husbands? I still believe in love and
truly hope that we will be fortunaate enough to find a man that
Dorothy can and will fall in love with, for it is only when you love
a person that you will be kind and considerate, and go along with
them. Otherwise, one is inclined to be so impatient with every-
thing they do and about it that we just drive such people away
from us and out of our lives.”


THE STORY OF DokoTHY STANFIELD
229
“Still I say that we must not be too hard on the child,” said
the doctor, insistently.
“True, dear, very true, and that is exactly what I'd like for
her to have; but there is so much passion, written all over the
child's face, in her every movement. I feel convinced that if we
risk leaving her to go around as she pleases, free, single and dis-
engaged, she faces an uncertain and dangerous future. I believe
the child is still a virgin and I want to feel that she is going to
continue as one."
“Well," said the Doctor, resignedly. “Whom have you in
mind?"
“There are two or three young men that I rather admire, who
belong to her set, two of them in your insurance office. The one
I admire most of all is old Doctor Carter's son.”
"Beryl, eh? Well, Beryl is steady and he will finish his medical
course next year and we will be making room for him in the
medical examination department of the company. He should be
acceptable to her, providing he can be induced to take the same
view as regards her.”
“If not, either one of the other boys would be acceptable,” said
Mrs. Vaughn and paused thoughtfully.
“What are you thinking about?"
"About Dorothy's coming-out party. I will send these boys
and their parents an invitation, among the others that I will be
sending out. That ought to provide the necessary opportunity to
throw them together.”
"Well,” said the Doctor, sighing sleepily, "that seems to be
about all you can do to start with in the business of match-making.
Meanwhile, I'm sleepy, wife, and you know that when I get that
way"
"_there's nothing but to usher you right off to bed. So I'll go
in and get it ready.”
So saying, Mrs. Vaughn rose to her feet and went about her
nightly duty, leaving the Doctor yawning, and trying to keep his
eyes open wide enough to find his way to his room when she did
call him.


CHAPTER XVI
TT WAS TWO WEEKS LATER when Mrs. Vaughn and the Doc-
tor stood on the large porch of their country home, a full moon
lighting up the outside and the waters of the mighty Mississippi
less than a hundred yards away, flowing lazily by, and received
the many guests whom they had invited to meet their lovely daugh-
ter, recently graduated from Vassar College. Dorothy stood be-
side them, in fact, between them a part of the time, shook hands
with the guests as they arrived, and smiled graciously. Among the
guests, were the three boys Mrs. Vaughn had selected, their sisters
and their mothers and their fathers, all of whom responded to the
invitations. All renewed their previous acquaintance with Dor-
othy. The boys proceeded to mix with the other guests until
Dorothy should be free, which they presumed, would be after most
of the guests had arrived.
Among the invited guests at the Vaughn's party, was one Pro-
fessor Issh, principal of the Lenoir, Tennessee County Training
School. Not far from the school but in an adjoining county, lived
a friend of Issh's, by the name of Stanfield. He was the principal
of a small rural school with four teachers. Nathan Dent Stanfield
was his full name, but he had not been invited. In fact, the
Vaughns did not, until the night of Dorothy's coming out party
know that N. D. Stanfield existed. Naturally, if they did not
know him, they had not, of course, sent him an invitation.
But Professor Issh knew him, and Stanfield. because of what
Issh called at times, his peculiar idiosyncrasies and due to the fact
that he rather admired Stanfield. had persuaded Stanfield to "come
230


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
each other. Turning finally to the others, the Doctor spoke first.
"Professor Issh! Where did you find such a-specimen?”,
and turning to Issh, all but laughed out loud.
"Where?” Mrs. Vaughn repeated, and without exercising any
effort at restraint, actually laughed out loud.
“Why," began Issh, a trifle embarrassed. “Of course,” he
went on apologetically, “I brought him with me on my own re-
sponsibility; but—"
“Oh, that is all right about bringing him, Professor. In fact,”
the Doctor went on to explain, “I'm rather glad that you did. It
is because he is soutterly peculiar that he attracted—and inter-
ested me, and that is what I meant, also what Mrs. Vaughn meant,
too, I daresay." Still laughing, Mrs. Vaughn acquiesced.
"Where did you find him?” Mrs. Vaughn asked, and suddenly
catching the humor of the moment, Issh joined with them, and
then pausing:
"Does he seem all that strange?"
"Not only strange, Professor," chimed Mrs. Vaughn, “the man
is actually—peculiar!”
“We're all mature and ordinary people, Issh,” said the Doctor,
his face flushed with humor. “But is he a-normal man, meaning,
if you don't catch my drift, rational? In short, sane?”
“Now, now, Doctor," protested Issh. “I can't let you say
that about a very fine fellow without protesting. Professor Stan-
field is a splendid fellow, and, in many ways he is—brilliant!”
“Perhaps that accounts for his—peculiarities," ventured Mrs.
Vaughn, after finding and placing her glasses on her nose. Mean-
while. let us turn to Stanfield himself, and Dorothy with whom he
was dancing, which fact seemed to be giving him the greatest de-
light.
"Your dancing is as graceful as your face is beautiful; as your
figure is correct, Miss Vaughn,” he was saying. The blood rushed
to Dorothy's cheeks and she smiled as she acknowledged the com-
pliment.
"Why, thank you, Professor Stanfield,” she replied, shylv.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
233
“You're not a bad dancer yourself,” and Dorothy smiled up at the
Professor sweetly.
"Oh, I'm as rusty as an old nail,” he said, deprecatingly, never-
theless smiling down into her face solicitously. “To be truthful, I
haven't danced for years."
"I think you do fine," smiled Dorothy, and looked up at him.
She was trying to understand him better; trying to fathom the
depths of those strange and peculiar gray-brown eyes.
"What do you do. Professor?” she inquired now as they circled
around the floor.
"I'm the principal of a small training school in Massac County,
just across the county line from where Professor Issh teaches.”
"Oh, you are?” Dorothy commented. “Do you—like it?”
"Not at all, no! Decidedly no," he cried impatiently. "I'm
surprised at myself. I should have done more by now, gone places,
become some sort of a cog in the wheel of progress. Frankly and
honestly, I'm ashamed of myself.”
“But why should you be?” cried Dorothy, sympathetically.
“After all, the principal of a training school is something, and I
don't think it is bad at all. How many teachers do you have
assisting you?"
"Only three. Isn't that a predicament for a man like me to
be in?”
“Why a predicament? I see nothing wrong about it. What
kind of a man are you, anyhow?" she asked and looked up into
his eyes with an inquiry in hers.
"For answer, I'll cite a parallel.”
“A parallel? What do you mean?”
“Take you now," he said, permitting his eyes to linger in hers
for a moment, "and your family. All successful, gone places, have
something. That is what I mean. That is what I ought to have
done; what I ought to do.”
"I don't agree with your point of view exactly,” said Dorothy,
surprised at her ability to argue. “But if that's the way you feel
about it, why not make a try at it?” She stopped now to again


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
look up into his odd looking eyes, and to wonder. She was curious
as to just how to take him.
“I've been thinking of it for a long time,” he said, thought-
fully. "I think I need some kind of force to inspire me—to uproot
me; to get me out of a groove into which I seem to have fallen.”
"I think some nice girl might be able to do that,” she said,
not thinking about herself in any way, but he misunderstood her
—perhaps he wanted to. As explained, Dorothy was joking and
merely trying to be agreeable.
"A nice girl, yes, I agree with you,” he said, smiling all over.
"I get the drift. That is what I need, Miss. Some nice pretty
girl-like you, Miss Dorothy, for instance.”
"Oh, you flatter me, Professor Stanfield. I didn't mean by
what I suggested—that is, I wasn't thinking about myself at all.
I'm sorry.”
"But why not you?” he cried, his peculiar eyes wide open now
and gazing down into hers with a strange exhilaration. “I imagine
that you could inspire any man to do his best.”
"Well,” she said, a bit hesitatingly, lowering her eyes as she
did. “I'd like to feel that I could. On the other hand,” and she
paused briefly and raised her eyes to his, “You must have some
tender, loving and beautiful girl who would be glad to give you
the proper inspiration, I am sure."
She felt somewhat relieved. But he was still looking down
at her in that peculiar way; eyes flashing a strange fire. She found
herself held as if in some odd thraldom. She tried to force a
smile in the meantime, and then took recourse to boldness and
dared meet his flashing eyes squarely.
"I am already daring to hope, Miss Vaughn, that you will be
the girl who will ultimately inspire me to a higher plane of thought
and action—and effort."
"I'm afraid that I am hardly capable, Professor Stanfield. I
understand, of course, that you only mean to flatter me," she
said, anxious now to extricate herself from what seemed by this
time to threaten to become an embarrassing predicament.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"I'm surprised—and incidentally, after the way you put it,
flattered. Now what is there about me, really, to talk about,
anyhow?”
There was an intermission at this point and the orchestra stop-
ped playing. She turned to start back across the platform and to
her parents whom she had left standing on the porch. But before
she had fully turned, he caught her arm and on looking up at him,
she was forced to smile to be agreeable.
“Why not be seated for a few minutes over there," he said,
pointing to the settee on the lawn, "on that comfortable seat, where
we may continue what we were talking about? Yes?”
It was going further than she had intended it to go even
wanted it to go, but there was about him something so subtle and
cunning, as it were, that she found herself unable to resist. And
before she was aware of it, she was letting him lead her down
the platform steps and across to the settee on the lawn.
On the porch of their home, her mother and father, surrounded
by guests during the most of the time that she had danced with
the Professor, turned now to look across at her, and were surprised
to see her being led away.
"Picking up where we left off,” the Professor was saying, after
they were comfortably seated. “Could there be anything more
interesting to talk about, and to talk to, than one of our girls who
has just been graduated from the great Vassar College?”
"Oh, there are lots of girls graduating from Vassar every year.
Many graduated with me. There will be even more to graduate
next year, and the next and the next.”
“Very true, I know; but not colored girls."
“Well, that may be true. Not so many of our girls could
afford it, but I consider having graduated from there, as just that
much more routine.”
“That is because your father is wealthy, Miss Vaughn, and
you have been raised in the finest environment. An environment
far beyond the possibility of the most of us. That has, perhaps,
caused you to become accustomed to big things; so much accus-


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
237
tomed to them that you consider many privileges just plain routine.
As regards myself, I have not been nearly so fortunate.”
Anxious to avoid hearing herself praised and flattered, just
because her father was a wealthy and successful man, Dorothy
quickly grasped the opportunity to change the conversation.
“Where were you raised, Professor Stanfield?”
Stanfield shrugged his shoulders without much show of pride.
"In the backwoods of Alabama, Miss Vaughn. The son of a
jack-legged preacher. By which you see, I sprung from just about
nothing." Stanfield lowered his eyes sadly for a moment; seemed
to be sorry for himself. Dorothy saw and realized it. She laid
a consoling hand on his. Promptly he raised his eyes to hers.
“There is nothing discrediting about that. Our greatest race
leader, Booker T. Washington, my father tells me, sprung from
less than that. He didn't know who his father was, even.”
"In spite of starting as if from nowhere, Miss Vaughn,” Stan-
field went on earnestly, “I plan, nevertheless, to go places. I'm
determined to go places and I refuse to wait another day to get
started doing so.”
Dorothy looked at him, sort of studied him and found herself
admiring the spirit behind his expression. Yet, there was some-
thing about the man that she couldn't fully understand. Was it
because in some way, she did not trust the man? She shook this
feeling off with an effort, and decided to stay there and listen to
him. She had never met a man thus far who seemed so spirited.
She was old enough and experienced enough to know that a man
had to possess more than just a desire, to surmount obstacles and
get somewhere in the world. Her father had preached that phil-
osophy to his family since she could remember—and she hadn't
forgot it.
“As I look at you, Miss Dorothy," she heard the Professor
saying now, "I feel something in me saying: 'Now is the time to
start. If you hope for the privilege of even knowing this beautiful
and talented girl,' meaning you," he said and nodded his head
toward her, "You've got to start now and go somewhere, do some-


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
thing—be something!”
On the wide porch, looking across the lawn at their daughter,
seated listening to that strange sort of man, Mrs. Vaughn and the
Doctor turned to listen to Professor Issh who was talking.
"Stanfield never had much of a chance, Doctor and Mrs.
Vaughn. But he has made the most of what opportunities he has
had. I have confidence, however, that he will, in due time, do
things."
“Just what are his plans to do these things, Issh?” inquired
the Doctor a bit coldly. He was often a cold-blooded man when
listening to what any Negro planned to do. His confidence in his
race had not been strengthened by fifty years of contact with
them—and what so many had failed to do. He was willing, how-
ever, to at least hope that they might do better.
"I don't catch the drift altogether, Doctor,” said Issh.
"You intimated that this very odd sort of person, planned to
do something. Just what did you mean, Issh? Does this 'plan-
ning to do things, mean to just get another job, teaching perhaps,
in a better school, getting a few more dollars monthly?”.
“I'm sure he means to do better than that,” defended Issh, who
wasn't so sure himself just what Stanfield planned to do.
“Teaching school seems to be about the limit to which our
educated people in the South reach."
"You're very much mistaken about Stanfield. I'm frank to
say, or admit, however, that insofar as I know, his plans are still
a bit indefinite."
Doctor Vaughn smiled, laconically.
"He talks a great deal about chemistry, and the possibilities of
alchemy,” said Issh, thoughtfully, then raised his eyes to glance
across at Stanfield who was engaged and talking so earnestly to
Dorothy and making gestures with his hand that they all wondered.
"Sounds like the dreams of a counterfeiter.”
“Why, Doctor Vaughn!” exclaimed Issh a trifle indignantly.
“I certainly didn't mean anything like that!”
"I was only joking, Issh. Counterfeiting is slightly out of our
S


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“He then showered Dorothy with his attention, proposing to
her every time he saw her, and over the telephone just about every
day, disregarding her repeated no's and no's. Meanwhile, Dor-
othy had taken up teaching, held a position in the same high school
in which I teach, and had not married. About this time, however,
she seemed to be growing tired of teaching and was in a mood, I
think, to marry, but to that infinite man who so often fails ever
to show up in a colored girl's life.
"Near her, all the while, however, was Stanfield, assuring her
repeatedly of his fidelity and desire to make her his wife and by
and by, persuaded her to consent to marry him.”
“What did her parents think of him by this time?” inquired
Le Baron, with keen interest and curiousity.
"I don't exactly know, but I think they left it to her. After
all, Stanfield had shown that he was ambitious; he was a full-fledged
doctor now, had set up practice and could at least make a claim.
Anyway, they must have consented and gave Dorothy a very nice
wedding a few weeks later, out there in that plantation house."
Pausing briefly, as if connecting events, Bob took another sip
at his drink and presently went on:
"They went to Chicago on their honeymoon and on reaching
Chicago, according to what she told a friend when they returned,
she was tempted to leave him and return to her parents alone.”
"What do you mean?”
“The Negro was crazy."
“You mean—that he was~"
“_not one of those things, but almost as bad in another way."
"You're getting down into her troubles now," observed Le
Baron.
“I haven't even started."
“Go away! What happened?"
"I'd rather not repeat what she told this friend when they
returned. I only felt sorry for her—for any girl who was putting
up with what she had to or bring disgrace on a proud family. But
I'll by-pass all that, other than to say that when they returned to


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
241
Memphis, she begged her parents to put in for an annulment.
They dissuaded her, and she tried it longer.
"Well, shortly after their return to Memphis, some of the
things that were to shake Negro Memphis end to end, began to
happen.
"At that time there were too many Negro doctors in Mem-
phis, as well as elsewhere, I suppose," said Bob, reflectively. “The
conditions were even worse in Chicago, Washington, New York
and many other places. Many in Memphis were having it good
and hard. Stanfield was among the worst of the hard up ones.
His practice was almost nil, and Dorothy went back to teaching
that fall, refusing to accept aid from her parents, who were urging
her to let them help out. Meanwhile, Stanfield began his drift
from the permissable ethics of a doctor. He began the practice
of abortion.”
Le Baron started and shook his head, sadly.
"For a time then, he did so well that he built that house out
there where Dorothy is living. Dorothy kept on teaching, how-
ever, and didn't know how Stanfield was suddenly making so much
money. The inevitable had in due time to happen, however.
“A girl died, but before she passed, she told her people that
Stanfield had killed her, trying to throw a child. It got out then,
what Stanfield was doing, and the news traveled fast, as bad news
always does.
“Stanfield was indicted, and went to trial shortly after-the
first scandal in the Vaughn family. Dorothy couldn't stand the
disgrace and face her fellow teachers daily, so resigned her position
at school and stayed hid away in that house. Stanfield was found
guilty, the case was so completely against him; but the murder
was confined to Negroes. You can do almost anything in Mem-
phis and get away with it, so long as you don't kill or injure a white
person. They don't do much with any Negro for just killing a
Negro or Negroes. So since the girl who died as a result of an
illegal operation, performed by Stanfield, was a colored girl, the
judge let Stanfield off with a heavy fine and a censure, and a warn-


242
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
ing that if he was ever caught performing further illegal opera-
tions, and was brought before him, he would give him life.
“This exposure and the resultant scandal, drove most of the
decent practice that Stanfield had built up, away, and he was left
with but two alternatives: to continue the practice of abortion
and take a chance, or find something else or another way to make
some money. He did,” Bob said and paused and smiled. Le
Baron looked up with renewed interest.
"Among the many others, there was a Negro undertaker in
Memphis by the name of Brown, Junius Brown was his full name.
His parlors were located on the ground floor at Beale and Fourth
Street. Doctor Stanfield's office was upstairs, directly above
Brown's Funeral Parlors. Naturally, Doctor Stanfield knew
Brown-in fact, they were friends, a doctor and an undertaker,
so near to each other, had to have some interests in common.
They had.
"There was so much competition in the funeral business in
Memphis, that not all with signs over a store building reading
FUNERAL PARLORS' were prospering. Among those not doing
so well was Brown. As stated, Brown and Stanfield knew each
other, having exchanged some business at divers times, so it was
not unusual for each to pass some time with the other.
“On this particular day, they had been to the country. A
farmer living a few miles south of Memphis was ill. He hadn't
heard about the scandal connecting Stanfield with abortion, so had
sent for him as he had been doing for most of a year. Knowing
that the patient's death was inevitable-just a matter of days,
Stanfield took Brown with him with a view to 'putting the brother
away when the time came.
"He did not, of course, on introducing Brown to the patient
explain that Brown was an undertaker. He just said: 'Shake
hands with Mr. Brown. Brown was a good mortician, even if
business was not so good—but he was a still better actor. He
held the brother's hand and looked down at him sympathetically
and told him, lying of course, that he would be all right in a few


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
243
days—meaning that he would be dead, and that he would come for
his body—and just to 'pray' and place his trust in God. Then
Brown, right there before the patient's eyes, shed a few tears,
offered a supplication, and when he and Stanfield got into Stan-
field's car after leaving the patient, he was still looking sad, turned
to look back at the lingering brother, and figured that he would
be coming back there within the week.
"He sighed deeply, looked sad, and Stanfield stepped on the
gas and they started back to Memphis.
"Due to what happened later, we will just imagine what passed
between Brown and the Doctor on the way back to Memphis that
day," said Bob. Accordingly, we will just visualize the events
that follow.
"Well, Brown, how's business anyhow?” Stanfield inquired, his
eyes on the paved highway ahead. He didn't even look around
and into Brown's face — but he knew the answer before Brown
spoke.
"Rotten, Doc.” Brown turned and glanced back at the house
they had just left, as good as to imply, "but it'll pick up in a few
days—a little, anyhow.”
Doctor Stanfield understood why he turned to look back at his
patient's house and smiled to himself while Brown was doing so.
Brown was talking again.
"Niggers seem to be in splendid health now-a-days." As he
finished, he glanced back at the house they had just left again,
and Doctor Stanfield smiled to himself again as he noted the action.
"Not enough of 'em dying for my business, so it's rotten. So
rotten it stinks! How's yours?"
Stanfield shrugged his shoulders, and replied:
"Not so good, Brown, not so good.”
Brown glanced across at him, did some thinking, then ven-
tured, suggestively:
“Kinda 'fraid to 'play round' since that case, eh?”
“Oh, I don't know,” Stanfield replied, carelessly.
"Yes you do, nigger," said Brown, bluntly, and laughed.


244
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Don't be crude, Brown,” said Stanfield with a deep frown, his
eyes on the highway down which they were rolling.
"After all I am a doctor, and doctors are not supposed to
speak in such crude terms. Please try to respect me that much.
We'll get along better if you do.”
“ 'Scuse me, Doctor," Brown said, apologetically. "I'm glad
you beat the rap at that, Doc. I was afraid they were going to
send you up. And that wouldn't have been so good. There's
some Negroes that don't like you so well in Memphis, especially
after you built that fine house out there on South Parkway and are
able to ride around in a fine car like this—and possess such a
beautiful wife.”
Doctor Stanfield frowned invisibly on hearing his wife men-
tioned. His wife wasn't taking things so well. Stayed at home,
almost never going out. Brown was talking again, so Doctor
Stanfield had to take his mind off of his wife to listen to what
Brown was saying.
"If they had sent you away—for only a year even, they'd
have taken your license to practice away, and a lot of Negroes
would have shouted for joy. They ain't been so fond of you since
you stepped in and married old Doctor Vaughn's pretty daughter.
Dorothy was considered the biggest catch in black Memphis. She
could have married just about anybody she cared to pick. I often
wonder why she married you ..."
“I'm not interested in what you're talking about, Brown. In
fact, I'd rather not talk about that at all.”
"Beg pardon, Doc. I'm sorry. What do you want to talk
about?"
“We were talking about business. I asked you how you were
doing?”
“And I said that my business was rotten. I ain't making any
money."
“Too bad, Brown,” and the Doctor shook his head as if he was
sorry for Brown. Brown turned and looked at him; studied him
for a moment.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
245
“What do you mean by 'too bad?' anyhow? Come on cut, say
what's on your mind and quit hinting at something."
"Was I hinting at something, Brown?” and for the first time
since leaving his patient's bedside, Stanfield turned to look straight
at Brown out of those peculiar eyes. Brown started and tried to
meet the gaze that Stanfield turned on him for only a brief mo-
ment, but which seemed to stab clear through him.
“This is one strange nigger,” Brown said to himself. "I wonder
what's on his mind, anyhow?"
Doctor Stanfield, among the many other arts he possessed,
knew how to be sarcastic, and his tone in the question he had just
repeated to Brown was most sarcastic.
"Aw, gwan man,” cried Brown, baffled, as it were, "and get
down to earth. You know I ain't educated to use big words like
you. Now why are you asking me questions, anyhow?” said
Brown and dared look straight at the Doctor who was aware of
how Brown was doing and what he was trying to think. The Doc-
tor kept his eyes on the road, not turning to look any other way.
"I was thinking, Brown,” he said and turned and glanced at
Brown out the corner of his eye, which glance spoke more than
words—yet said nothing.
"Thinking? Well, being a doctor, you can do something like
that. If you was an ordinary darky like me”
“Tut, tut, Brown!” exclaimed the Doctor, chidingly. “There
you go again! Just like an ignorant Negro. You ought to know
that I don't like hearing you or anybody else using the word
‘darky.'”
“All right, Doc, all right. When I'm in the company of one
of you confounded Negro doctors, I've got to be that careful and
almost select every word to use before I speak. You make me
forget. What the hell were we talking about, anyhow?"
“About your business, Brown, which you said was bad,” Stan-
field reminded him.
"Oh, yeh. And I asked you why you was asking—"
“_'were', Brown, please.”


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Confound it, man!” exclaimed Brown, impatiently. "Can't i
talk like I know how without you forever correcting me?"
"Go ahead, Brown. I promise not to correct you again."
“All right, then,” said Brown, with a frown. “I wanted to
know why you were asking me about my business, and seemed to
be so interested. Then you said that you were thinking.' I said
that I thought you could do something like that because you were
educated. I started then to say that if you was an ordinary Negro
like me, and you tried to do much thinking, you'd fall asleep and
when you woke up, you'd have forgotten what you was trying to
think about. Now what were you thinking about, anyhow?”
“Of a way that you and I might make some extra money."
“Oh!” cried Brown, perking with a new interest. "How you
and me might make some extra money, eh?”
“Yes, Brown, some extra money."
“Mm. This sounds interesting.” Brown paused to look straight
at Stanfield who did not turn to meet his gaze, but kept his eyes
on the road ahead, driving carefully as he did so.
Now Brown was doing some thinking-and some remembering.
He was wondering before committing himself, if the plan Doctor
Stanfield had in mind whereby they were to make some extra
money, involved the kind of risk the Doctor had gotten out of.
He admired the Doctor, and had in talking about him, said: "He's
a smart nigger.” Yet no sooner had he said it on other occasions,
but that he could have added a word of suspicion and doubt. Well,
he could at least listen to this plan the Doctor had in mind whereby
they might make some extra money. He didn't have to go in on it
if he didn't want to. So glancing across at the calm and unruffled
Stanfield, who was always, as he recalled their past acquaintance,
calm and unruffled, he asked him, a bit anxiously but calmly:
“How?"
It was fully thirty seconds before the Doctor answered, but it
seemed to Brown to be thirty minutes, he was that anxious. He
began to wonder if the Doctor heard him and was about to repeat
the question, but louder, when Stanfield, not deigning to look at


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
247
him, replied:
“We're coming to a cross road. Down that cross road as you
know, about five miles, perhaps, there's a small lake with some
cool shade trees all around it. I'm going to turn right, into that
cross road when we arrive and drive down to the lake. When we
get there and relax by the banks of the little lake, I'll tell you
what's on my mind, Brown.”
Brown was strangely relieved; so pleased that he spoke up
promptly:
"Okeh by me, Doc. I'm always open to a proposition that
promises to make some money. I sure need to,” and with a deep
and happy sigh, he relaxed into patience as the Doctor swung the
car to the right and they rolled onto the crossroac and headed for
the lake, five or six miles away.
An hour later Brown and Stanfield rose to their feet from an
old log beside the lake upon which they had sat while Stanfield
outlined that "plan" to make some extra money. Brown was
perspiring. Brown was known as a perspiring man when he was
excited. And Junius Brown was very much excited at the moment.
So he was perspiring “most much”—and very freely.
Before saying another word they walked over to the car, then
turning, they leaned their backs against it. Withdrawing a large
handkerchief from a hip pocket, Brown wiped the perspiration
from his forehead and spoke.
"Dangerous, man."
"What do you mean, dangerous," said Stanfield. He knew it
was dangerous but his was a show of bluff—for Brown's benefit!
"Dangerous as hell,” said Brown, and wiped the perspiration
again.
"Ah!” exclaimed Stanfield, with more bluff. He was a master
at control, and in spite of the obvious danger of the plan he had
outlined, he was trying to play the dangerous to their freedom side
of it down-for Brown's benefit.
"Not so dangerous, Brown. It's the thought about doing it
that's got you frightened."


248
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"I still say that it's dangerous. They sent two nigger under-
takers up from Atlanta, for pulling that self-same thing. I know
what I'm talking about. Regardless what we do, it will still be
risky and dangerous if and when it's done, regardless.".
"I don't agree with you,” argued Stanfield. His face was an-
noyed as he opened the door of the car to let Brown get in, and
after closing the door, went around on the driver's side and got in.
Brown was busy wiping perspiration while he did this, and was
annoyed at sweating so much. The fact is, Brown was more ex-
cited at the moment than he'd ever been. His acting was confined
largely to pretended weeping over a corpse — for the relatives'
benefit. Now he was up against something requiring cold nerve,
proper, and it was making him perspire as he had never perspired
before.
Stanfield did not start the motor at once, but sat there looking
at Brown, wiping the sweat from his brow and wondering if he
was going to be able to persuade him to take the chance.
• Stanfield was somewhat on the anxious seat about it himself,
for he needed money. It had cost him plenty in high-powered
legal talent to beat the abortion rap, and it had about cleaned out
most of his cash. He was afraid to return to the practice, so had
concocted this new scheme with a view to picking up something
very quick. It required that he be allied with some undertaker,
and, knowing Brown and that he was hard up, had selected him
as the medium through which to work his new scheme.
So he was very much annoyed while sitting there, waiting on a
black Negro to get through perspiring and get down to business.
Was he coming in or was he not? That is what Doctor Stanfield
wanted to know, but he had to wait until Brown committed him-
self one way or the other.
Stanfield, to say the least, was an impatient man. In the prac-
tice of abortion through which he had made a lot of money—and
right quick, he had worked alone, so was free to act when and as
it pleased him. He liked that way of operating—but now he was
confronted with a proposition that required the active co-operation


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
249
of an experienced undertaker—and with sufficient nerve to do
what he was ordered to do. He was thinking of this as he sat
looking at the worried and frightened Brown.
Finally, with some resignation and a little sigh, he could wait
no longer, so inquired as calmly as he could bring himself to:
"So you won't go in for it?"
"I said it was dangerous, man, and I stick to what I said.
I'm still thinking about those two brothers who pulled it in At-
lanta and who are still reposing at the state prison farm in Millidge-
ville, Georgia, for their trouble. It's dangerous, damned dangerous;
as dangerous as hell.”
“Oh, the hell with it!” exclaimed Stanfield, his patience ex-
hausted. He touched the starter and stepped on the accelerator.
A few minutes later they were speeding down the highway on their
way back to Beale Street in Memphis.
Three days went by and Stanfield was temporarily stymied.
He had not seen Brown, although his parlors were just below his
office, and he wondered if he was still considering what he had
proposed.
Stanfield was sitting idly in his private office, wearing a white
smock, his feet resting on the edge of his operating table. He had
just about decided to write Brown out of his scheme of things and
turn to some other plan to make that extra money when he heard
a light knock on his outer door. A moment later somebody pushed
the door open softly, and he turned to see who it was and the
black face of Brown appeared. Pushing his head far enough in-
side for the Doctor to see who it was, and to also observe that he
was perspiring, Brown nodded and turned to glance around. Stan-
field, on a sudden impulse was conscious of anger. He started to
tell Brown to vamoose. On second thought he changed his mind
and getting to his feet, stood there and called across the room:
“Come in."
Brown ventured inside, stealthily, closed the door, paused after
a couple of steps to look around in that same stealthy-like manner,
and then turning his eyes back to the Doctor, inquired:


250
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Are we-alone?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, and then with a bold lie, went on:
“But I've been very busy all the morning.” Brown knew he was
lying and wanted to tell him so, but Brown had something more
important on his mind. So he crossed Stanfield's reception room,
and entered the Doctor's office and operating room and paused,
after closing the reception room door, leading into the Doctor's
office behind him.
"Well,” said the Doctor, gruffly. “Take a seat and quit look-
ing around like a frightened rabbit, and tell mc what's on your
mind."
“Be patient, Doc. I only wanted to be sure that we were alone
-all alone, that's all.”
"Well, we are. I guess I ought to know."
“Of course," said Brown. “Of course," and withdrawing his
handkerchief, wiped some more perspiration. Stanfield stood look-
ing at him, then shook his head from side to side, amusingly.
"You sure are one perspiring man! I can't recall ever having
seen you when you weren't sweating all over like a roustabout.
Well, I asked you to sit down, so park your buttocks on that
chair,” and Doctor Stanfield shoved it closer to Brown. Brown
sat down and let the sweat stand on his temples for a moment
like a lot of little pimples. Stanfield walked out of the office,
crossed the reception room and locked the outside door from the
inside. He returned to his private office and after closing that
door, sat down on his swivel chair and turned to face Brown, who
could not stand the sweat falling down on his shirt longer, so
raised his hand holding his kerchief and mopped it, smiling a bit
embarrassed as he did so.
“Well, Brown," Stanfield began. “What's on your mind by
now?"
Brown paused to look around the room again carefully, as if
by instinct, before answering. Then, as if convinced to his own
satisfaction that they were alone, turned and looking at Stanfield
oddly before speaking, began:


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
251
"I've got a big funeral coming off Sunday ..."
“Is that so?” said Stanfield, his face for the first time since
Brown entered, showing interest. "Who are you burying?”
“Old man Moses ..."
"Mm. I heard he had died. Pretty well fixed, wasn't he?”
"Had good inshoance. I've seen the policy ...”
“Yes?"
"Yeah ..."
"How much is his folks spending on the funeral?”
"About a thousand—maybe ..."
"Maybe, what?”
"Aw, about a thousan'. We'll leave the maybe out.”
"That's better. Just about how much is the casket costing?”
"Around five hundred.”
"It's always ‘about' and 'around and etc. You're pretty vague
and indefinite, Brown. I wonder if you can be trusted—very far?"
"I wouldn't be calling here to see you—after what we talked
about out there — you know where and when, if I couldn't be
trusted.”
“Oh, all right. You understand, of course, that you need a
smart associate when it comes to something like what I planned.
I expect-and know, of course, that you're going to get yours.
That's you, Brown. But what about me? It's my idea. Now after
all expenses have been deducted, including yours which are liberal
I know, how much do I come in for? What'll be my cut? I'll
take most of the responsibility.”
"What do you mean about you taking most of the responsibility?
You ain't taking none. I'm the goat from beginning to end. But
I 'lows that I should have a smart dar- Negro as a standby. That's
you.”
"How much will my cut be? We can go into the details later.
How much do I get, Brown?”
“About a hundred and a ha'f.”
“About again. Why can't you ever be definite about any-
thing, and leave out the vagueness and the indefinition?”


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
me
"A hundred an'a ha'f, Doc.”
"All right. Then it's a hundred and fifty dollars for me. Very
well, I'm on. You say that the funeral is-Sunday?”
“Sunday, two p. m.”
"Very well then. I'll work out all the details and make the
thing air tight. In short, I'll do all the thinking. Don't you go
trying to do any and get balled up. I'll attend to all that. Go
ahead with all arrangements, and be sure to see me Saturday.”
"All right, Doctor,” Brown said, rising to his feet as if relieved
and glad that that much was over.
Stanfield walked over and opened the door, with Brown follow-
ing. He crossed the reception room, unlocked the door opening
into the hallway and Brown left the office, taking out his handker-
chief as he went down the hall to wipe the perspiration from his
forehead and the back of his head and his fat, black neck as he
reached the stairway and started downstairs, and disappeared.


Chapter XVII
THE RIGHT REVEREND JOSHUA SIMPSON, pastor of
the Antioch Baptist Church, of Memphis, preached old man
- Moses' funeral on Sunday and had many people weeping
before it was over, including Undertaker Brown, who wept more
profusely than Moses' widow and children did. Old man Moses
had a $2,500 policy in Doctor Vaughn's insurance company, and
belonged to many secret orders, all of whom contributed to give
him one of the biggest funerals that Memphis had seen for some
time.
The relatives insisted, since it was the last thing that could be
done for brother Moses, he should be given a good funeral, and
agreed with Undertaker Brown that he should be put away "right!”
Undertaker Brown, few seemed to think about at the time, was
making a very good profit on “putting brother Moses away right.”
N. D. Stanfield attended the funeral, merely as a spectator, but
viewed what went on very carefully.
It was a beautiful day and the country was inviting, and many
followed old man Moses to his last resting place, far back from the
highway in Kidd's cemetery, to the family plot on a sort of knoll.
There was considerable weeping at the grave, before they began
to shovel the dirt on top of brother Moses' body and Junius Brown
climaxed the success of the funeral by a near-collapse at the grave.
He didn't altogether faint, but it looked like he was going to by
the sudden burst of tears, and the brothers and sisters gathered
around to comfort and console Brother Brown whom they said
was "so sympathetic.”
253


254
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
That was late Sunday afternoon. The people left the cemetery
and returned to their homes, leaving poor old brother Moses alone
out there in Kidd's cemetery to rest in peace forever more. But
was he to? Let us now see what happened.
It was early autumn, and time for boys to go squirrel and
rabbit hunting, including going out at night to hunt opossum and
raccoon.
Some boys, returning from hunting opossum the next night,
which was a Monday, reported to their parents that they had seen
a wagon, drawn by two horses, all in black, driving toward Kidd
cemetery by a back road, late that night. They said it frightened
them and after one look, they ran away, but that they heard the
horses and wagon turn into Kidd cemetery, they were sure. They
declared that it must have been a "hant,” and doubted if they
would ever go near any cemetery to hunt opossum again—espe-
cially at night, unless some grown person was with them.
In spite of being frightened, they decided to go back, after
running away, and at a safe distance, see what became of the
"hant.”
They reported seeing some men digging a grave to bury some-
body in, but that instead of lowering a body into the grave, they
took something out of the grave. But only for a moment. In
fact, just long enough to turn the casket over. They swore they
saw a dark object fall out of the casket the men turned over, and
that they heard a dull thud from the bottom of the grave as the
dark object landed in the pine box below. That was enough, and
almost frightened out of their wits, they turned and ran again-
this time all the way to their homes on the outskirts of Memphis.
"Now, Brown,” Doctor Stanfield said in his office on Beale
Street the next day, after Brown came upstairs to give him his
"cut.” “After showing you how to make some much needed extra
money, you start off by lying to me and cheating.”
Brown registered indignation, or at least he tried to. His eyes
flashed from long practice and he opened his big mouth to start


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
255
lying again, but the words died on his lips as he turned to find
Stanfield staring hard at him out of those strange gray eyes, which
seemed to bore clear through him and froze the new lie on his
lips. Brown now turned to the next thing in a lying Negro's
vocabulary-alibi.
"Well, Doc, it's lak this. I may have to keep that casket three
months before I dare offer it to another customer, before I succeed
in selling it."
"Another lie, Brown. That's three lies you've told in con-
nection with this deal already. I happen to know that you're re-
serving sale of it until my patient on the Jonesboro road dies. And
as his attending physician, I know, and have told you, that he'll
be dead in less than a week.”
Brown tried to be indignant. He had actually forgotten lie
number one.
"Now what are you talking about, Doctor?”
"That I have figured everything out to the penny, and I'm
entitled to twice as much as you agreed to pay me for my cut, or
$150. However, I won't stage a big argument. I'll settle for two
and a half.”
"For heaven sake, Doctor! You want it all.”
“Rats, Brown! I told you that I had figured everything out
to a penny. Do you want to see the figures?"
Brown didn't like figures any too much. He usually did his
calculating on his fingers, and he had it all figured out, too. He
had figured that Doctor Stanfield would jump him for more, so he
came prepared to pay him $200 and call it a day, but hadn't plan-
ned on forking over $250. However, he reckoned, because of the
confidential nature of the transaction, that he could stand another
fifty, so replied, with a shrug of his shoulders:
"Oh, all right, Doc. I'll send you a check for two fifty," and
turning started toward the door. Doctor Stanfield stopped him,
with a shake of the head. Brown was surprised and paused, won-
deringly.
"Please bring, not send, especially by mail, $250, and in cash


256
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
I don't want any checks in connection with a transaction like this
to possibly pop up later and have one shoved before my eyes as
exhibit A or B or as an exhibit at all, get what I mean?”.
With another shrug of the shoulders, Brown brought forth a
large handkerchief and began to wipe perspiration.
"All right then, I'll bring the cash,” he said glumly, and again
started toward the door. The Doctor followed and in the door
he said:
“And remember, Brown. I'm letting you off cheap.”
This seemed to anger Brown, and he paused and whirled around
with:
“What do you call, cheap? Two and a half cheap. You're
crazy! You're just shaking me down for an extra hundred be-
cause you're a shrewd Negro and know that you can.” Without
another word, Brown turned and left, leaving Stanfield standing
looking after him with a cunning smile on his face.
“Recoveries were fair,” Bob said, after a brief pause. "But
not enough to satisfy Stanfield, who was both ambitious to get
into big money, in addition to which he was also greedy. Not
merely ambitious to get into big money but determined to do so.
The fact that Memphis had become a Mecca for funeral associa-
tions, added to the drag on business by the smaller fellows like
Brown. At least two to three big white insurance companies had
muscled over into the Negro end of it, through some colored under-
taker whom they usually bought out and if he was any good, put
him in charge of their Negro office as manager, and they were
offering to bury Negroes so cheap that expensive funerals were
becoming a thing of the past. Meanwhile, Stanfield, who had
always been chemically minded, stepped up greater research, and
was near to developing a formula that we will get to later. I'd
call it a new card up his sleeve,” said Bob.
“This was inspired to some degree, perhaps, by meeting two
white insurance agents, and getting very well acquainted with
them. These two former insurance collectors had been recently
discharged by the Metropolitan for stealing.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
257
“As stated, they managed to learn about Doctor Stanfield, pos-
sibly through his indictment and trial for abortion. Anyway, they
made the Doctor's acquaintance and called on him several times
before the Doctor was inclined to listen to them seriously. Listen-
ing to the trial later, their conversation at the time they agreed to
work together ran about like this, I imagine."
"There are more than a thousand people in Memphis, Doctor,
who permit their insurance policies to lapse each year," said
Grimes, the agent, who acted as spokesman during their transac-
tions which followed, although his partner, McDonald, had much
to say later.
"I don't doubt it,” Doctor Stanfield replied. “What about it?”
“We can pick out and reinstate as many of those lapsed policies
as we want toand without the insured knowing anything about
it,” said Grimes with a cunning expression in his half-closed eyes.
“I'm listening," said the Doctor, with his usual calm. “Go on.”
“We then proceed to pay the premiums for say, as many as
two to four months ..."
"And then what happens?”
“The insured dies.” Grimes put an emphasis on “dies.”
“Do they actually die?”
"Hell, no!"
“This is very interesting," observed the Doctor. "Go on. As
I said, I'm listening.”
“They won't and don't need to know anything about it,” said
Grimes.
“Then what?"
“A licensed physician signs a death certificate ..."
"And?"
“We collect the insurance."
“Oh, we?”
“Well,” replied Grimes in reply to the 'we' as emphasized by
the Doctor, “It's our idea. We plan to set up the system. We
will have to select the 'insured.?”
“And what am I supposed to do?”


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"You finance the premiums, select the doctors to sign the death
certificates and work with the undertakers."
“To bury somebody still living, not dead at all?"
“Well,” said Grimes, again shrugging his shoulders. “That is
where we need a smart associate. Getting a licensed physician,
two or three or even four or five is our stumbling block. We've
reckoned as to how you could manage this, and also about the
undertakers.”
"In plain words," declared Doctor Stanfield, "it's simply a
racket.”
"I guess that's what we'll have to call it,” replied Grimes with
a sigh.
"Pretty certain to land everybody in the penitentiary connected
with it, if it is discovered.”
Grimes shrugged his shoulders again.
“Well, I guess I'll have to admit that it will. But I've learned
lots of ways to get around the dangerous angles. I helped engineer
something like it in Cincinnati a few years ago.”
“How'd you come out?”.
Again Grimes shrugged his shoulders and admitted:
"Had to do three years at the Ohio State at Columbus."
“And now you have a plan to have us all do a few years at
the Tennessee State," and as serious and as grave as it was, they
were all forced to laugh.
“That's how, what and where I learned what I know," assured
Grimes. "I can avoid the mistakes we made up there. I have it
all figured out.”
Doctor Stanfield rose to his feet, his face thoughtful. The
men followed suit, but their faces were anxious. The Doctor
walked across to the door and they followed him. At the door
Doctor Stanfield paused and turning back to them, said:
"It's dangerous. Still, I'll think about it.”
Grimes and McDonald thanked him and left. Doctor Stan-
field returned to his office, adjusted some matters, then after leav-
ing the office, went downstairs, got into his car and drove into


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
259
the country, to the small lake, south of Memphis, where he could
seem to think more clearly. When he returned to his home on
South Parkway later that afternoon, he had made up his mind.'
“I'll take a flyer at it,” he told Grimes and McDonald, when
they called at his office a day or two later. They were cheered,
and said so.
"But not exactly and altogether in the way you laid out.” The
two men nodded, which was a question. Doctor Stanfield pro-
ceeded to enlighten them.
"I can get three other physicians to sign death certificates,
along with myself, which'll make four. I can also get an under-
taker to 'bury' the corpses."
“Our ears are open, Doctor. Just how have you figured it all
out?”
“Well,” said the Doctor. “There's a whole lot to be worked
out according to the way I have checked it.”
“I agree with you,” said Grimes.
“But I think I'd better tell you at the outset, just how I think
the money should be split-I mean, the take.”
“That's what we're anxious to hear.”
“The doctors want 25 per cent for each certificate they sign,
for their share."
“Should be fair enough."
“The undertakers have got to be taken care of.”
"Naturally.”
"Somebody's got to lay out a lot of money on premiums, and
this has got to be laid out fully a month or more before we spring
a death.”
“That's right.”
“All of which amounts to quite an investment."
“We still agree with you."
"You expect me to manage this finance?”
“That's our idea. We wouldn't be able to.”
"In fact, all you do is to dig up the names and addresses of
lapsed policy holders and proceed to get their policies reinstated.” .


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: THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"A lot of intricate work. We can't afford to make mistakes,
understand?”
“I do. Well, I'll assume the major responsibilities and cut you
in for 25 per cent of all the collections.”
Grimes looked at McDonald. McDonald looked back at Grimes
ard nodded his head in acceptance. Grimes turned back to Doctor
Stanfield.
“We accept your offer, Doctor."
“Thank you. Now that is settled, leaving all the details and
proceedure to be worked out.”
“So we start from there,” said Grimes.
“Now I'll explain about my plan. I have for a long time been
interested in chemical research.”
“Chemical research? What has that to do with this deal?”.
"Plenty. I have just about developed a formula that will per-
mit me to bury a human being alive, let him stay buried for ten
hours and then dig him up, still alive.”
The men started, and rose to their feet as if in horror.
“Say, Doctor,” cried Grimes. "We're serious about this thing.
What is the joke, anyhow?"
Doctor Stanfield waved them back to their seats.
“Sit down and listen to what I have to say."
Doctor Stanfield then went on to lay his plan before them in
detail.
"Instead of burying brick bats, sawdust, cement and etc., I
propose to develop a stooge, a live human being whom we will make
up as any kind of person we want, and whom we decide to have
'die' at a prescribed time. We will lay this stooge out and have
him play at being dead. We will advise the insurance company
where the body is, and expect their adjuster to come and view it.
With that and a death certificate, duly signed by a licensed phy-
sician, we will encounter little, if any difficulty in collecting the
insured's money."
“W-h-e-w!” exclaimed Grimes and his partner in chorus. “You
have been doing some planning!”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
261
"Not only play at being dead, but we will send him to the
cemetery now and then and—bury him!”
Again the two insurance thieves jumped to their feet, with an
exclamation of fright and horror.
“What?” they cried.
The Doctor, as in the past, was cool and collected. He waved
them back to their seats, but it was two frightened men who sat
back down again.
"I'll explain," said the Doctor, and calmly poured all three
drinks and drank his and seemed to enjoy it before going on. He
then offered each cigars and cigarettes, a light, lit his, sat back
down and smoked for fully two minutes before resuming his ex-
planation.
"As I've told you, I've always been interested in chemistry,
and have been studying it for a long time to devise an oxygen con-
tent that will permit me to bury a human being alive and dig
them up hours later, still alive and unharmed or uninjured for
their experience.” Again the two men started, and almost as
violently as before, looked at each other, sighed, but remained
seated, knowing that the Doctor would order them back if they
rose up. The Doctor looked at each and smiled.
"Don't be so frightened. I am not planning to ask either of
you to act as guinea pigs,” and laughed again. The others laughed
too, when they realized that he was not planning to bury either
of them.
"I have my guinea pig angle all thought out and planned, too.
Just burying brick bats, sawdust and cement, is, to my way of
thinking, entirely insufficient. We must lay a live person out now
and then to look like a corpse. I have the man in mind, for this
purpose. An actor who knows how to make up and make down.
He also knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“With regard to policies and risks, we don't have to confine
our efforts to lapsed policies, you know, Doctor.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We can and will insure some lamp posts, some mailboxes, and


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
a few trees even,” said Grimes, which caused the doctor to look
across at him a bit sharply.
"I'm not joking. We can do it. I know how—and get away
with it.”
“Seems rather far-fetched to me," observed the Doctor with a
frown on his face.
“New agents, finding it hard to get anybody to insure, and on
a salary from their companies, have done it often—wrote up lamp-
posts, mailboxes, a tree now and then, all of which, of course, must
have addresses."
“When they write them a letter, then what?”
“I know how to have it received. They never know the dif-
ference.”
The Doctor shook his head, and they could see that he was
thumbs down on taking such risks.
"I am interested in the stooge angle at the moment. This
man that I have in mind can make himself up as any character we
choose: black man, yellow man, brown woman, yellow woman-
old man, young man, boy or girl. Any kind of corpse we order.
Sometimes he'll even have whiskers.”
This brought a huge laugh. The Doctor even had to smile.
The Doctor then went into detail and explained all about his
plan in connection with burying a man alive; of how he had worked
out a way for the man, while buried, always with the box deeper
than the coffin was high so as to permit the stooge to push the lid
of the coffin upward and be able to touch the top of the pine box
with his hands; of how he had planned a flash light to be placed
at the foot of the corpse, out of sight, along with an auger, which
the stooge could use to bore a hole through the top of the coffin
box. Then a contraption something like a slender periscope which
could be shoved upward through the loose dirt and a bicycle pump
whereby the stooge could then pump air down into his coffin and
get along very comfortably until the men were sent to dig him up.
Grimes and McDonald were inclined to be dubious about it, but


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
263
not the Doctor, who had it all thought out and the only thing he
was anxious about was the stooge.
The man for the purpose was in Memphis for he had met him
two or three times, and moreover, he was in need and the Doctor
had helped him out on occasion. Now since the matter had de.
veloped to the stage it had, he had been thinking and planning a
job for Jackson, which was his name. He was better known,
however, as just plain Sam.
Years before, or during the last three years that Stanfield had
studied medicine in Nashville, Jackson had often befriended him.
Stanfield was fond of motion pictures but was too short of money
to pay even 10 cents to get into the Bijou Theatre. Sam, who
worked at this theatre, had met and become acquainted with him,
and used to tell Stanfield of his past experiences in and off the
stage and in the end would slip Stanfield into the theatre through
a side door. This had gone on, as stated, during Stanfield's last
three years at Meharry, and Stanfield had told Jackson that he
hoped someday to repay him. As it now stood, Sam Jackson had
drifted into Memphis, and was not doing well and the Doctor as he
recalled him, felt sure that he could persuade Sam to act as stooge
for which he would be well paid.
Having so decided, after Grimes and McDonald left the office,
Stanfield went down on Beale Street and proceeded to look for
Sam Jackson.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
265
night. He stood and watched Sam a moment before speaking.
Doctor Stanfield bowed to Sam when he caught his eye and
beckoned him to follow and left the gambling table and went into
the front part of the tavern, where he paused and greeted Sam
cheerfully when he came up.
"Well, Sam, how're you doing?"
"Bad, Doctor Stanfield. Good and bad. I ain't had no luck
since I 'rived in Memphis.”.
"That's too bad, Sam,” said Doctor Stanfield with a sympathetic
frown. "I'm sorry to hear that.”
"Just to prove how bad things is, I ain't eat since yistidy," and
Sam looked at the steaming pig feet, sweet potatoes and collard
greens on the lunch counter nearby. The hint was sufficient and
Doctor Stanfield saw his chance to inveigle Sam into his scheme
of things, then and there.
"Why, Sam, why do you punish your stomach like that when
you know that my office is right up the street on the corner?”
"Well, Doctor, you've thrown me a piece of change almost
every time you've seen me since I been heah. Didn't jes' lak tu
ride a free hoss' tu death.”
"Tut, tut, Sam,” cried the Doctor, deprecatingly, laying a
kindly hand on Sam's shoulder. “I haven't forgot what you did for
me in Nashville during those three hard years not long ago. Now
just park yourself on a stool at that lunch counter and eat all you
can hold.” He turned now and beckoned to the man who ran it.
"Jim, give Sam, here, all he can eat and take it out of that,"
whereupon he threw a dollar on the counter. "If there's anything
left when he gets through, just give it to him, see?"
"Sho' sho', Doctuh Stanfield, sho' sho',” cried Jim, and bustled
forward and met Sam with a smile as he clambered on to a stool
to fill his stomach for the first time since he got stranded across
the river.
Doctor Stanfield walked up beside Sam, with his most dignified
professional air, and said:
"Sorry, Sam, but since I am so very busy at the office, I'll


266
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
have to leave you now," and shook Sam's hand and started away.
After two steps he paused and came back to Sam, a frown on his
face.
"I'll be idle for a few minutes in about a half hour, Sam. If
you're not busy, run by the office in half an hour. I'll be free then
and would like to talk about old times for a few minutes."
Naturally Sam was greatly flattered, and glad to get close
enough to the Doctor to ask him for the price of a meal at another
time.
At the appointed moment, there was a knock on Doctor Stan-
field's door. Sam was duly admitted, and for a half hour the
Doctor listened to him recite his simple tales of past adventures.
“Now, Sam, I'm about to go into an unusual undertaking,” he
said, his face serious. "A strange and mysterious undertaking,
Sam, and I'm thinking about asking you to help me out.”
"You mean that—you might have a job for me, Doctor?"
The Doctor looked at him a moment before answering. In
that moment those calm, boring gray eyes looked clear through
Sam Jackson and made him feel awed. He hesitated and tried to
return the strange gaze.
“Yes, Sam,” the Doctor replied in a still more strange voice
that all but frightened Sam. He could not speak for a moment
but seemed held in a peculiar thralldom.
"Yes, Sam," he repeated, oddly, Sam thought. "I do have a
job for you. A good job, Sam; a job in which you may make a
very great deal of money, providing—" and then he broke off and
looked straight at Sam, those masterful eyes boring seemingly right
through Sam, who heard himself answering in a weird sort of voice;
words he wasn't entirely aware that he was saying.
"_providing? Providing—what, Doctor Stanfield?”
Doctor Stanfield was still gazing at him; straight into his eyes,
and Sam was wondering if he was being hypnotized.
"You can keep your mouth shut, Sam ..."
"Mah mouf shet? Sho I can do dat, Doctuh Stanfield. I've
always been with you. You know that."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
267
"Yes, Sam, I know you have. This job I am planning for you
is the best you've ever had a chance to have. It is strictly confi-
dential work, however. Nobody must know what it is all about.
And, nobody will ever know, if you keep your mouth shut and just
do what I say, do you understand, Sam?”.
"Ob 'cose I does, Doctuh. Youah mah friend. I'd lak to be
yo' friend. I'll be glad to do anything to oblige you."
"Anything, Sam?"
Sam was bewildered, he wondered just what Doctor Stanfield
was hinting at; and why he was so insistent about him keeping his
mouth shut. The Doctor was talking again now.
"Well, I've got to go now, Sam. Meanwhile, where are you
staying?”
Sam answered with a shrug of his shoulders and a grin which
was self-explanatory.
"You don't have a room? I understand, and, of course, I'm
sorry.”
“Yessuh.”
“Well, I'm going to advance you enough for a room—but on
second thought, I'm going to take you to a room, Sam.”
“Aw, Doc,” Sam cried. "I"
“That is all right, Sam, my boy! I'm your good friend. You
didn't need to be living like you've been when you had a good
friend like me so near. I'll take you to a room and pay for it for
one week, maybe longer. I want you to take a hot bath, clean
yourself up so that you can sleep well. I'll give you breakfast
money, and tomorrow morning, I'll drive by the room and take
you down on Main Street and buy you some clothes. . I don't want
to see a friend of mine looking like a bum and going hungry. Now,
Sam,” he concluded, rising to his feet. "Are you ready to go to
the room?”
The Doctor's reason for suddenly deciding to take Sam to the
room where he would, of course, pay for it, was because he doubted
Sam's will power. He remembered that Sam was addicted to dice;
that back in Nashville when he would come to the Bijou Theatre


268
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
and didn't find Sam where he was supposed to be, he soon learned
where to look for him—around behind the theatre in a crap game.
Often the ante was only a few pennies, but he had not forgotten
how fond Sam was of rolling them; and he decided that it would
be safer to take Sam to a room and pay for it himself than to ad-
vance Sam the money and take a chance of Sam finding one and
paying for it. For Sam might decide, all of a sudden, while passing
T. B.'s Emporium, that he felt lucky, take the money into the back
room—and be pretty sure of losing it, then laying around sleeping
on a bench and coming up the next morning tired and hungry,
soiled and unfit to listen to the proposition he had in mind for him.
Moreover, if Sam was to play the stooge, the Doctor wanted
him to stay somewhere he wouldn't have a chance to talk so easily,
so freely. Every intelligent and practical Negro knows the ten-
dency of most Negroes to talk. Doctor Stanfield then thought of
the motion pictures that had been made with colored casts; and
of how the producers on the Pacific Coast, when they started mak.
ing them, and upon investigation found, or were told, of how
Negroes liked Gang pictures, and proceeded to try make them.
During the years that Sidney Wyeth made Negro pictures, he had
never made any Gang pictures in the sense that the Pacific coast
producers did, because Sidney Wyeth being a Negro, knew that
a Negro was not a gangster in the sense that other nationalities
were; gangsters who are supposed to bump somebody off—"rub”
them out, as it were, after which they usually go about their busi-
ness, perhaps to a cabaret and have a good time—but that they
never "talked”.
He recalled that even when the "gang” got a feeling that one
or the other might be planning to talk, that he was usually in
turn, "bumped” off and nobody ever knew who did it.
And Doctor Stanfield knew as just about every other Negro
knows, that few Negroes could be depended on not to "talk." He
was likely to tell about it in the first pool hall argument he got
into—if for no other reason than to seem bad, and a tougher guy
than the other Negroes. So his one concern regarding Sam now


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
269
was if he could depend on him to keep his mouth shut.
When they reached Beale Street after leaving the office, Stan-
field paused suddenly and abruptly, and turned to Sam so quickly
that Sam bumped into him, and grinning, offered an apology.
"I just happened to think, Sam, now that your belly is full of
pig feet and sweet potatoes, whether you wouldn't like a big stiff
drink of good liquor before going to the room?”
The Doctor waited, more anxious now than for a long time.
Sam's reply would determine largely if they would be able to go
along together, for if by any chance Sam didn't happen to drink,
and he recalled that he had never seen him drink, or even smell
liquor on his breath, it would make all the difference. So the Doctor
awaited his reply anxiously.
"Naw, Doctuh. Ah'm sorry, but as big a fool as I have often
been, I ain't nevuh took to drinking—unless you call drinking a
coke, now and then, drinking.”
"Is that so?”
“You cain't remembuh eve seein' me drink, can yuh, Doctuh?”
"Now that I come to think of it, I haven't, Sam. Still there's
no harm in taking a little whiskey now and then. If you don't
want a drink at the bar, what about a-half pint to take to your
room?"
"That might be all right, providin' ah' turned up sick, other-
wise, ef yuh jes' must buy me something tu drink, I'd lak some
coca cola tu take wid us.”
"I'll buy you as many as you want, Sam.” Doctor Stanfield
paused to run his hand into his pocket, withdrew a half dollar, and
tossing it to Sam, said: "Run across the street and get six bottles.
I'll have the lady where I'm taking you to let you put them on
ice and you can have a cool coke whenever you feel thirsty."
Sam ran across the street and made the purchase, and upon
returning, offered the Doctor the change.
"Keep it, Sam,” replied the Doctor and Sam didn't know how
much the other was relieved. If Sam stayed sober, he could per-
haps depend on him not running off at his big mouth. Stanfield


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
smiled with strange satisfaction then, and crossing to his car, in-
vited Sam into the front seat beside him and drove him to a room
on the corner of Floyd Avenue and Fry's Alley where an old woman
that he knew, and attended, free, lived.
"Now, Aunt Caroline,” he said, after he had greeted her and
introduced Sam, "I've brought you a good roomer who will stay
with you for—perhaps some time.”
“Tanke, Doctor Stanfield,” replied Aunt Caroline.
"If you'll tell me how much you are charging for the room,
Auntie, I'll pay you something in advance.”
“Tanke, Doctuh. De room will be $2.00 a week.”
"And with breakfast thrown in, Aunt Caroline, how much?”
Aunt Caroline figured on her fingers a moment, then raising
her eyes:
“Dat'll be fo’ fifty, Doctuh."
Stanfield gave her a ten dollar bill.
"He wants a bath at least twice a week, Auntie, so keep the
extra money for baths. All right, Auntie?”
“God bless yuh, Doctuh Stanfield.”
“That's all right, Auntie.” He thought for a moment, then
turning to Aunt Caroline, he went on:
"Sam here, mother, and I are going to have some important
business together shortly, so I'm depending on you to look after
him. Please see that he goes to bed early like a good boy, sleeps
well and always give him a good breakfast, before he leaves the
house each morning, see?”.
Doctor Stanfield had always been a solicitous sort of person,
and he knew how to make people like him. Added to his great
personality and ability to work wonders with his eyes, he captivated
Sam and Aunt Caroline completely. Both were flattered when he,
a great Doctor, condescended to even talk to people like them.
So when Doctor Stanfield drove away that night, he left two happy
people behind him who were willing and glad to do just about
anything he might ask them to.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
271
Doctor Stanfield drove by at ten o'clock the next morning and
picking up Sam, who was waiting for him, drove down on Main
Street as he had promised and bought Sam two suits, shirts, under-
wear, hat and shoes. When they returned to Aunt Caroline's, Sam
was almost weeping with gratitude.
"Youah doin' too much fo me, Doctuh,” he said with tears in
his eyes. He wanted to ask the Doctor why he was doing so
much, but was afraid to. He had looked at the Doctor at times
and wondered just what it was all about.
White people, Sam also observed, meant no more to the Doctor
than Negroes. He seemed to dominate everybody he met, and
they promptly became solicitous.
"Now Sam, after you have started to work, and are making
enough to do so, I'll expect you to reimburse me for these—ad-
vances I'm making.”
“Ob cose, Doctuh, ob cose,” cried Sam, glad the Doctor said
what he did. It made him feel easier.
"I'll be glad to pay you for all you are doing for me, Doctuh.
I-don't 'zactly know why you are, but since you has done it, all
I can do at this time is to jes' tank yuh.” Sam shed some tears this
time, and the Doctor pretended not to see it.
"Now that we are alone, Sam," the Doctor said, his face very
sober. He looked out into the sitting room. Aunt Caroline was
out in the back yard hanging clothes on the line that she had
washed that morning, which the Doctor was careful to observe, so
with a smile of satisfaction, he took a seat, pointed to one near
and Sam sat down and turned to face him.
"Now, Sam, I'm on a big deal, and I want you to listen very
closely."
“Sho, Doctuh, sho, sho.”
"Rich white people have always exploited Negroes, Sam.”
Sam didn't know just what he was driving at, but every Negro
is willing to admit that white people have exploited Negroes. This
is always a subject on which they can all agree—and promptly!
“Dey sho' have, Doctuh. Been robbin' us eveh since we been


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
free. Hit's a shame.”
“They were robbing us before we were free, Sam. They owned
us before and worked us as slaves for two hundred years, beat us,
prostituted our women and paid us nothing."
"Ain't hit so!”
"I've got a chance to get even with the bastards, Sam, and I
want you to help me.”
"I sho' will, Doctuhef I can. Ah'll be glad to.”
The Doctor then went on to explain his plan to "get even” and
how he, Sam, was to play an important part in the deal.
"You will be paid from $25 to $50 for laying out and playing
dead, and after we get started, you'll be required to make up as
any person we want you to imitate. I had you in mind for this role,
for I always thought you were a great actor, and a master in the
art of make-up, and when I saw a chance in the way I have out-
lined, I considered that you were about the only man who could
play this stooge role as I want it played.”
Of course Sam felt flattered, and agreed to all the Doctor out-
lined, although he didn't dwell on the coffin end of it at much
length, since few Negroes like coffins, but he was with the Doctor
in all he wanted him to do.
The Doctor did not say anything at the time, about his plan
to "bury” the stooge now and then, feeling that it was best to go
easy with what Sam had to do and then after they started opera-
tions, they could later persuade Sam to consent.
He presently left Sam, telling him that he would get in touch
with him later at his office, drove to his home, had his lunch, and
then drove to his office where he called up Grimes and told him
and McDonald to meet him at his office early that evening, where
he would try to have Sam and they could go further into the matter
under discussion.
The foursome met in Stanfield's private office late that after-
noon, and the Doctor explained the plans and that Sam had con-
sented to play Stooge and all were cheerful as the Doctor led them
downstairs to Brown's establishment when through, and back to


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
273
the mortuary where two corpses were reposing. The atmosphere
seemed suddenly to chill at the sight of the stiffs, and especially
with Sam. Corpses had always fired his imagination — and an
innate desire to keep as far away from such sights as he con-
veniently could. But he restrained his impulse, and hoped the
meeting down there would be over shortly, and decided to see the
deal through, although he knew that he would have been much
happier if the Doctor could have given him another kind of job.
He stood while the others seated themselves, and cast an anx-
ious eye in the direction of the dead bodies now and then and let
escape an unheard sigh, and as stated, looked forward to the mo-
ment when the meeting would be over and he could stroll over to
T. B.'s as a diversion.
“Sit down, Sam,” Stanfield said and pushed a chair near him.
When he pointed to the corpses and told Sam that he was simply
to act like that, Sam had difficulty restraining the desire to spring
to his feet and rush out of the place.
“Now, Sam, I didn't explain it this morning, as I didn't want
you to have too much to think about, but to make our little dead
seem real, we will have to bury you once in awhile."
This time Sam could restrain his impulse to do something and
say something no longer. So springing to his feet, his mouth flew
open and words came before he could make any effort to hold
them back.
"Bury me alive? Say, men, what is you all talkin' 'bout,
anyhow?"
He was very much excited and Grimes and McDonald, who
could appreciate his fright, more than the Doctor, developed a
fear that he would not do it.
"Sit down, Sam," the Doctor said, calmly, waving at him with
an air as if being buried alive was no more than just sitting there,
listening to him talk about it.
“Just take it easy and listen until I get through.”
Sam sat down, and glanced down at his new suit and began to
realize now why the Doctor had been so kind. He apparently


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had a card up his sleeve in being so. Now he was beginning to
lay his cards on the table and Sam would have to see it through,
or go on record as a quitter and an ingrate. He sighed aloud and
said to himself as the Doctor passed a package of cigarettes around
and followed it up with his lighter.
"Nothin' doin', gentlemen, nothin' doin', not me, naw, naw!”
Sam actually said nothing, however, but listened in cold fear as
the Doctor explained all about it. Meanwhile, Grimes and Mc-
Donald watched Sam's reaction; studied the changing expression
on his face, glanced at each other and when the meeting ended and
Sam was permitted to leave, they were confident he would not
return.
“Well, Doctor,” said Grimes after Sam left the place, shaking
his head. “You scared that man almost to death with what you
talked about. It looks like a cold deck to me.”
"Oh, I'm not so sure about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I know Sam; I know Negroes. I admit that he was
scared stiff at the idea, and if he had another job, or could get
one even, it would be another story. But he hasn't and—well, he'll
be back.”
“I'd like to lay a bet that he won't.”
"I don't want to take your money, but never you mind. In
due time we'll see Sam again, because he'll be back.”
When Sam left the three men, he was in a state of terror. He
felt that he simply had to do something to get it off his mind.
He paused on the sidewalk in front of Brown's place, looked
at a coffin displayed in the window and read the sign, “Complete
funeral for $125”, and turned away and shuddered. He turned
as a crowd of men who had just been paid, turned into T. B.'s
place, and knew that they would end up around the dice table very
shortly. He felt in his pockets. He withdrew five one dollar bills
—the money Doctor Stanfield had advanced him, in addition to all
the other things he had done for him. He shook his head, sadly,
but he had to do it-go into T. B.'s place and take a chance with


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
275
it. Whatever the outcome, he knew it would take his mind off
what he was thinking about—and he wanted to forget it just as
long as he could.
So he went into T. B.'s place. The men who had just entered
were lingering at the bar, drinking and being sociable. When he
paused, those who worked there gathered around him to admire.
his new clothes. This brought Sam back to himself, and he looked
down at himself and swelled with a new pride.
“Won't you-join us, brother?” said one. “I'm just buying.”
Sam thanked him and took a cigar. They looked at him in
surprise.
- "Sam doesn't drink, men,” the bartender said, by way of ex-
planation. “His specialty is dice. He's the crap-shootin'est man
in Memphis,” the bartender said and laughed, hilariously. Sam
smiled.
"Oh, dice,” cried the men at the bar in chorus. “Then he
talks our language! What about a little game now-right now?"
one of them cried. Sam shrugged his shoulders, by way of consent.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” cried another and led the way
toward the rear, followed by the others, including Sam.
The game got under way forthwith, and Sam chanced a dollar,
winning three straight bets without a break. He shot it all—and
won, and within thirty minutes was fifty dollars winner.
At this point a big, black, burly Negro pushed up to the crowded
table, for by this time considerable of a crowd had gathered, and
everybody was intensely interested. They called him Klondike,
and he was known to be disagreeable when he lost. In short, he
was known to be a poor loser.
Sam had won some of the money that Klondike, a few minutes
later found himself the loser of, and while Sam's winnings up to
this point had reached seventy-five dollars, Klondike began to get
disagreeable. Sam, dressed in a new outfit from head to foot, and
with a pile of one dollar bills in his hand, around which he kept
a ten spot as a wrapper, was feeling his oats, and didn't want to
be bothered.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
He paused and looked at his winnings and thought that if
that kept up, he might decide to try to get out of the new job he
had promised to take. He decided to coast along for awhile, how-
ever, shooting only a dollar and if he lost a few times, to just slip
quietly out of the game.
The dice finally got around to him again and picking them up,
he rattled them a few times, blew his breath on them, then paused,
threw a dollar and a nickel on the table and cried:
"Shoot a dollar!” The five cent piece represented the house's
cut. He was promptly faded, and after he was covered, blew his
breath on the dice and let them roll!
"Seben ah 'leben," he cried, as the red dice went bouncing
and jumping across the long pool table. The big burly Klondike,
who was standing directly facing him at the other end of the table,
reached a big hand out and caught them. This always angers a
player, who as often feels that he might have made a winning point
had the dice not been caught.
Klondike glared at Sam and held the dice a moment, then
glanced at them and threw them back to Sam, with the words:
"Ah don't lak no niggah blowin' his bref on dice dat ah'm
bettin' he can't make,” and glared at Sam again as Sam paused
before throwing the dice again. Sam glared back at him, and it
was easily seen that no love was lost between the two. Sam picked
them up, blew on them again, perhaps unconsciously and from
force of habit. He then talked to the dice, calling them pet names,
then rattling them, did the curve that only Negroes seem to know
how to do, and threw the berries, bouncing and tumbling across
the long table again, crying as he did so:
“Seben ah leben!”—and again Klondike reached out his big
black hand and caught them!
"Goddamned black sonofabitch!” Sam cried, and struck the
table resoundingly with his closed fist. Klondike smiled and threw
the dice back with the words:
"I jes' lef’ Bumin’ham. A niggah with putty haiuh and a big
scar on his face, wha' some darkey tried to cut his throat, did jes'


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
277
aught them bouncine with hate
lak you looks lak you'se tryin' tu do—and cleaned eve' niggah in
Bumin'ham! He cleaned out eve body down daiuh, so I don't
intend to stand heah and see you repeat on him, niggah. Now
tho'm agin'."
Sam picked up the dice, restraining his anger with effort, looked
up, glared at the big Klondike with hate in both his eyes and his
heart, and threw them bouncing across the table again—and again
Klondike caught them. He threw them back to Sam and smiled
as though it pleased him to taunt Sam.
"Well,” said Sam, trying to control his anger, "Dat's the las'
time you can ketch them with yo' big black paw, so heah goes 'n
ah daiuh's yuh to lay a hand on 'em agin'."
He threw the bouncers and they turned up eleven, which tickled
Sam and made Klondike glare darkly. Sam doubled his bet and a
few minutes later his winnings had reached $100. Then something
happened within. He decided to shoot it all. The house and
those who still had something left, lost two minutes or more cover-
ing him, but finally managed to, and taking off his coat, for Sam
by this time was very warm and perspiring freely. A man beside
him held his coat and the situation was by now, very tense.
Sam went through all the motions known to crapology, before
he finally loosed the honies and they started for the other end of
the table, with everybody's eyes on them as Sam cried, loud and
excitedly:
“Seben ah 'leben!”
Klondike caught the dice, and made everybody present, by
doing so, very angry.
Twice again with the same excitement attendant, Sam threw
the dominos and twice again Klondike caught them, and grinned
as he threw them back again.
"Playin' with my hund'ed dolluhs! Ef I lose, niggah, I swear
that I'll cut yo’ black hea't out!” Sam meant it, but it took more
than that to frighten Klondike, whom everybody feared, because
he was so much bigger than anybody else.
But Sam didn't have to cut Klondike's heart out that time-


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for he made a point and after three rolls, it turned up again and
Sam lost all self control. In short, and as they talked about it
later—he went clean crazy!
“Shoot it all!” he cried, and again the house had to come to
the assistance of those playing with him to cover, this time, twice
the size of the bet before, or $200. In fact, they had to go and
get T. B. before they were finally able to cover it. During the
while he waited, dressed in his new clothes, and standing there at
the head of the table, Sam was envied by about everybody present
and was the biggest Negro, while it lasted, on Beale Street. He
glanced at Klondike in the meantime, and by the expression on his
face, dared Klondike to catch them the next time. The expression
awed Klondike, and he dropped back a step. Sam knew he didn't
dare catch the dice again. Besides, T. B. had gotten into it now,
and everybody feared T. B.
As the bet was being covered, and the dealer was counting all
the money involved, some Negro who lived around the corner on
Fourth Street, came shuffling by an open window at the rear of
T. B.'s, going, no doubt, for a can of beer, singing an old song
that everybody present knew, and paid little attention to as the
Negro sang it.
"I thought I heard somebody say,
dirty butt, stinkey butt
take it away,
Aw yuh dirty butt, stinkey butt
take it away.”
The bet was faded, the money was all down, the big show was
on! Everybody present waited with bated breath. Sam suddenly
developed nervousness. It came to him, all of a sudden that he
had acted foolishly. He should have bet only half of his winnings
and if he lost, could still have left the place with money enough
to last for a month—even longer, perhaps.
But the bets were down; his "shoot it all” was covered, he had
to throw the dice. With eyes starry, and his fingers trembling,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
279
while all those looking on noticed and exchanged expressions, he
laid the dice on the table and rubbed his hands across them, finally
picking them up and raising the dice high above his head, began
to talk to them. His voice seemed hollow and incoherent. He
grew more nervous, but with all eyes on him, he at last resorted
to cold abandon and after stalling a moment or two longer, he
swung his hand far out, then brought it forward in a well-timed
curve, and with a last word for them to “bring home the bacon,"
let them roll!
They went dancing away from him like little red devils, bent
upon a disastrous mission. He raised his eyes and hoped Klondike
would catch them this time, but Klondike sulked and wished him
bad luck, but didn't raise a hand. Both dice bounced clear across
the table, struck up against the cushion at the other end, and
rebounded. One turned face up, six, while the other seemed
caught in a spin, turned and balanced on one corner for a fleeting
second, then settled close by the other end and lay there, still and
silent-but registered the sad news—six! Six—and craps!
The onlookers relaxed, and big T. B. smiled as the dealer
handed him a hand filled with bills. Four hundred dollars, which
included the five dollars even, that Sam had started with. The
crowd was silent and licked out their tongues with envy as big
T. B. smiled across at Sam, and turning, left the room, leaving
Sam staggered and bewildered. Sam turned, managed to put his
coat on and tried to walk over by the window for a breath of air,
since the place seemed to have grown suddenly warm-almost suf-
focating! At the window he looked out into the alley and was
hardly aware of the approach of the Negro who had passed it,
going the other way, just a few minutes before. He was totally
unaware of Sam, on the inside, no doubt, who was bewildered and
feeling strange-stupified!
But Bozo, which was his name, had his can of ice-cold beer
and was returning to a little shack on the alley off Fourth Street,
happy and carefree and singing another verse from the low-down
song.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Then ah thought ah hea'd somebody shout,
Open up the window and let the funk blow out,
Aw yuh dirty butt, stinkey butt, take it away,
Aw yuh dirty butt, stinkey butt, take it away!”
Sam looked at him as he shuffled by, thinking how happy he
was—all because of a can of beer, while he, because of a sudden
fit of uncontrollable insanity, had gone off the button, “shot it all”
and lost $200 that he had won in less than an hour. Lost it all,
including his pitiful five dollars the Doctor had given him to eat
on for, perhaps, two or three days.
What would he do, he asked himself. Then through his clouded
and thumping brain, he recalled that he had been in conference
with Doctor Stanfield and two white men. He had got excused
for a few minutes, upon his promise to return.
He had got excused to let the fear out of himself, at sight of
and because of being so near to two corpses. Now he found him-
self anxious to get away from the scene of a real disaster to his
promising fortunes, and the fact that what he had left had upset
him with so much fear, to return to the mortuary, might serve to
make him forget his losses.
Thereupon he turned and walked, staggering slightly, from the
place, across the room, through the tavern and onto the street
where he paused and removed his hat as if to get back to himself.
As he stood there, his attention was attracted to a group of
Negroes, sitting in an old car, parked just across the sidewalk
from where he stood, who were laughing and talking, as one re-
lated the experiences of another, perhaps a pal or companion.
“Ole Corn-bread was sho' funny," he was saying. "The way
he acted, Ah taught sumpin' had happened to him.”
"Dey had," said another.
"Say's you. I hadn't seen him fo' a long time ontel dat day.
Wonduh wha' 'es been?”
"In jail,” the other answered, without a smile. The others
turned to look at him.
“In jail?” asked the first speaker. “What fo’?"


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
281
“Winkin' at a white 'oman."
They all laughed. Even Sam, with all that he was worrying
about, had to smile.
"Gwan',” cried one, as if regarding it as a joke, yet curious.
“Winkin' at a white 'oman? I don't b’lieve it. Winkin' at a
white 'oman. Corn-bread knowed bettuh dan dat. Is you sho'
dat's what dey locked him up 'bout?”
“Ah wuz in Jedge Fuquay's co't when 'e sentenced 'im."
“Well ah'll be jiggered! Whut wuz Corn-bread's alibi; his
'scuse?”
"Said he had a twitchin' in one ob his eyes.” Again all laughed
and struck each other. It was Beale Street stuff completely, and
Sam had grown so much amused until he had forgotten his losses
of a few minutes before.
"What did de jedge say tu dat?”.
"Said: “Ah'm givin' you thu'ty days to git ovuh hit. Thu'ty
days on de chain gang to git ovuh dat twitchin' ob de eye, and de
next time you git hit, remembuh ef you'se brought befo' me agin,
ah'll gib you ah yeah. Niggahs should look de udder way when
ah white lady passes. So remember dat, niggah!'"
They laughed again, uproariously and Sam recalled where he
had started for, so turning, entered Brown's undertaking parlors.
During Sam Jackson's absence, which seemed much longer
than it actually was, Grimes had risen from his chair to walk the
floor impatiently. He presently paused, turned to face the Doctor,
who sat at his desk, drawing away at a cigar calmly.
"Looks like you were mistaken about the fellow this time,
Doctor.” The Doctor grunted noncommittally.
"If he went to a dice game," ventured McDonald, “and hap-
pened to win, he'll sure not come back. Have you thought about
that; that he might win? Sometimes they do, you know, and
then—"
"_they can't quit. They never do. But just calm your nerves
and take it easy. Sam may win, but in the end he's sure to lose,
and when he does, he'll come back," said Doctor Stanfield, and


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
smiled like one who knew what he was talking about.
As we know, Sam had won, but duly lost, and when they heard
a knock on Doctor Stanfield's office door, all knew that Sam had
come back.
Doctor Stanfield glanced across at the others and smiled lacon-
ically. Grimes and his partner started, looked at each other, nod-
ded their heads as if to admit that Doctor Stanfield was right-
had been right all along, and concluded to weigh anything he said
seriously, in the future, when he made a prophecy for most of the
time anyhow, he knew what he was talking about.
As Sam came in, and thought as he did, of how he had sky-
rocketed into big money, and then dropped back to nothing, all in
the period of a half hour, he looked sheepish and mighty small.
He decided to be very humble, try to do as he was told and trust
to Doctor Stanfield.
"Well, Sam,” Stanfield said, regarding him with a smile around
the corners of his mouth. “You've come back?”
“Yessuh, Doctuh Stanfield,” Sam lied very humbly. "Ah got
through with what I went out to do, and ah'm back.” As he fin-
ished, he looked around at the white men and grinned. Doctor
Stanfield grinned, too, but with another meaning.
"You mean that you 'shot it all once too often, Sam, and in
due time got broke," said Doctor Stanfield, and both the white
men and himself broke into laughter.
"Now that you have, perhaps, won and lost, are you ready to
go back downstairs so that we can put on a little demonstration
as we had planned?"
"Well, yassuh,” Sam said, "but" then broke off and hesitated.
"Yes, Sam, but. But what, Sam?”
“Couldn't we-talk about it up heah, the same as — down-
staiuhs?"
"Why, yes, Sam," Doctor Stanfield replied. “We could, but
there's a few things we'd like to-try out, and are better prepared
to do so downstairs than up here, understand?”
“Yassuh,” Sam said, trying to swallow, but suddenly found


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
that Doctor Stanfield meant what he said, and decided not to do
anything very soon to anger the Doctor and cause him to become
impatient.
Sam proved, after entering T. B.'s place, that he could be
conservative-especially after losing two hundred dollars that he
had won quickly and so easily.
He pushed himself on a stool at the lunch counter and, ate
350 worth of food, which left him exactly fifteen cents.
Through, he went back to the dice table, got into the game
somehow,-and quit ten minutes later, after running it up to ten
dollars.
To his own surprise, he left the place, walked straight to Aunt
Caroline's and went to bed.


CHAPTER XIX
TOW DOCTUH, 'N YOU WHITE FO’KS, explain tu me
agin' jes' what it is you all wants me tu do," Sam Jackson
said, with an effort at bravery when he met with them the
next afternoon.
"Well, the first thing we are telling you, is that in whatever
we do or even talk about, Sam, you must remember to keep your
mouth shut," the Doctor warned, his face serious almost to a
threat in the way he looked at Sam. Sam understood, and nodded
his head to indicate that he did, as he replied:
"Ah knows how to keep mine shet all right. Ah show knows
how." His tone was reassuring and the Doctor was satisfied, but
added.
"Be sure that you do, Sam. Now, in regards to what we were
going to talk about, you didn't give us much chance yesterday to
explain. You stalled around," said the Doctor, "and finally ran
out on us after first one excuse and then another. Now we hope
you'll just take it easy and listen and when you have, you'll see
that just because you're supposed to lay stretched out in a coffin
for an hour or two now and then, playing at being dead, isn't
very hard to do at all.” They had all been standing, including
Grimes and McDonald, as the Doctor talked. Now as he paused,
and looked around, he said:
"Meanwhile, sit down, Sam, and you, Grimes and McDonald,
too, all of you sit down and let's get down to business."
All became seated, after arranging their chairs so that all were
facing Sam, who was necessary and essential as we understand
285


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
287
and when you're ready to lay down in it for a few minutes, I'll
place the formula inside, with the coffin right out here on the floor.
I want you to step over here now and get in the coffin." .
“Get in a coffin an' I ain't daid?” Sam cried, again springing
to his feet excitedly. Grimes and McDonald smiled, in spite of
the anxiety on their faces. Sam shook his head very doubtfully.
The Doctor frowned and all smiles promptly disappeared. All
were beginning strangely to fear Doctor Stanfield. No one could
seem to become accustomed to his strange and peculiar eyes, when
he flashed them on a person.
"As I was saying, Sam. After you get in the receptacle," the
Doctor was trying for a name to call the coffin other than it was,
for the mention of the word seemed to have a chilling effect on
Sam, "and lay down, I place the oxygen at the foot and close the
lid. Since the receptacle is air-tight, you will get no air while
inside. You will be breathing oxygen alone, Sam, and that is what
you can do for many hours without employing the other way, which
I haven't been allowed to explain up to this point.”
“Yes, I understands what you're explaining all right, Doctor,"
he said, walking over beside the Doctor and pausing. "But I'm
frank to tell you in front that I don't lak the idea. I jes' don't
lak the idea of being buried while I'm still alive."
"Please let me finish explaining what is to be done, before you
go to getting scared, Sam," and the Doctor showed a bit of im-
patience. “Our whole scheme depends on you being strong willed
and I've done just about everything to convince you that I am
honest and sincere as regards you, Sam. So why do you keep
threatening to let me down?"
"Ah'm sorry, Doctuh. I ain't goin' tu let yuh down. Ah
wouldn't think about it. You is my bes' friend and ah knows
hit. Now go ahead," and Sam tried hard to show that he could
be brave.
“Very well!” the Doctor resumed. "Now we'll assume that
you are inside," and the Doctor laid a hand on the coffin, and went
on: "Inside, you are imagining that you are dead."


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Imagining that ah's daid? Does ah keep breathin'?” The
others laughed, whereupon the Doctor turned on them with a huge
frown and they shut up promptly.
“When you stop breathing, Sam, you will be dead, actually
dead," and the Doctor had to smile at his own humor.
"But that don't happen,” said Sam. I jes' make out lak ah’m
daid?"
“That's right, Sam. You just make out like you're dead."
"Aw, that's all right,” said Sam, with an expression of relief
on his face. "I won't mind jes' making out lak ah’m daid. Go
ahead.”
"All right, Sam. Now you're dead,” the Doctor resumed. Sam
started, and his eyes opened wide. Looking at him, the Doctor
was compelled to smile.
“We then close the lid, which hasn't any lock. I want you to
stay in there until you count to five hundred.”
“Count tu five hundred! I cain't. Think of something easier.”
"Then stay in there for half an hour.”
“How'm ah goin' know when the ha'f houh is up?"
“Well, stay in there until we open it; until we raise the lid,”
the Doctor explained. Sam nodded his head understandingly.
"Now," the Doctor said, walking across the room and picking
up a vial, and returning to the coffin and Sam standing beside it.
“We're ready for the demonstration.”
Doctor Stanfield now opened the lid of the coffin, and leaned
over to look inside. Sam moved back a step, a frown on his face.
The Doctor looked up and tried to frown, but it was half a smile.
“Step up beside the thing, Sam.”
Sam moved up and looked inside a bit gingerly.
“Get in,” the Doctor said, and waved his hand toward it after
moving back a step as if to give Sam more room to do so.
Sam looked into it again and frowned.
“Sam," the Doctor repeated, his hand over the open coffin.
“Get in the receptacle and close the lid behind you. As I've said,
it is air-tight. I will place my chemical formula inside. When


THE STORY OF DOROTHY ŠTANFIELD
289
you close the lid, after I place it there, it will start to work. You
will find that you can breathe as comfortably inside as you are
breathing now. We will go back to the office, remain a half hour,
then come back and raise the lid."
Again Sam looked in the coffin, frowned and shaking his head,
replied:
“Naw. I'm afraid. I ain't never figu'd on gittin' in no coffin
myself. I plan to die of old age and then be put into a coffin by
somebody else."
"Please, Sam," argued the Doctor, holding back his impatience
with effort. “All you have to do while in there, if you must get
out because you are frightened, is to push the lid up and get out.
But don't do that, please, unless you can no longer breathe. Now
will you try it, Sam-please?”.
Sam sighed, but finally permitted them to help him get in the
coffin where he sat up, then laid down, then sat quickly up again.
"Ah don't lak this kinda job and never will,” he said, as he sat
there.
"Take it easy, Sam," the Doctor said, "and just try it. Lie
down again, make yourself comfortable and close your eyes.”
"I may lay down and close mah eyes,” said Sam, wryly, “but
I'll never be comfortable in a coffin ontel ah won't know ah’m
in it."
Presently, after looking around gingerly, Sam laid down again,
but again rose to a sitting posture, quickly.
"I don't feel right when I lay down, even," and then with a
big shrug of his shouders, went on: “But dammit tu hell, I've
promised to go along wid yuh and ah'm goin' tuh see it through."
Sam laid down then and called: “Close the lid!”
They obeyed him. In two seconds, however, Sam pushed it
up and sat up again.
“I wanna get out, men!” he said and started to cry. “I jes'
cain't go through wid a thing lak dis—ah jes' cain't!”
Stanfield laid a hand on his shoulder consolingly, and smiled
at him. Sam was not looking in his face, else he might have de-


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tected a cunning smile around the corners of the Doctor's mouth.
“Now lay down again, Sam, please.”
Sam looked up at him, frowned, and after another shrug of his
shoulders, laid back down again. Doctor Stanfield brought the lid
down gently—but the moment it was closed, he quickly turned
the latch, and stepped back and smiled.
They could hear Sam calling out and beating his hands against
the top of the coffin. Grimes and McDonald, plainly disturbed,
stepped forward but paused as the Doctor turned to look at them,
a sneer on his face as he cried:
"Damn fool!” He turned his eyes back to the coffin, while
Sam kept on calling for them to let him out and beating his hands
against the top of the coffin.
“I'll leave you in there for thirty minutes as I said I would.”
He turned back to the men, and beckoning with a jerk of his
right hand, said, short and abrupt: “Come on!”
He turned and started away, the white men followed, but Grimes
after a couple of steps, paused and turned back toward the coffin,
where they could still hear Sam crying to be let out and pounding.
Grimes' face was very uneasy.
“Do you—think we should-leave him there, Doctor?”
"Sure!” said the Doctor, firmly, a frown on his face. “It's
perfectly safe! I've tried it with myself in the coffin a half dozen
times. The Negro is just scared. He'll be all right in thirty
minutes-in ten times that much longer. I know what I'm doing,
so what the hell!” He turned and over his shoulder called back:
“Come on!” and went out the back way, followed by the
others, and up a flight of stairs and entered his office from the
rear.
When they returned after forty minutes, the white men were
seriously on the anxious seat. Not with Doctor Stanfield. He
was as calm and undisturbed as a cucumber. He unlatched the
lid, opened the coffin and Grimes and McDonald started, their
jaws dropping, goose flesh rising up all over their bodies. Sam
lay there, as silent as a tomb. The Doctor in the meantime, as


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291
calm as ever, leaned over him and listened, then smiled, rose up
and beckoned to them. They came forward, leaned over and could
hear Sam breathing normally. The white men were smiling as
they rose again and looking at the Doctor, joined in his smile.
“Asleep,” said Stanfield. “What did I tell you?”
He reached into the coffin and brought forth the small tray
containing the formula, looked at it carefully, then smiling with
satisfaction, turned to the men.
"Enough to keep him breathing comfortably from six to eight
hours!”
He paused and was briefly thoughtful, then perking with a new
thought, turned to the men.
“Suppose we let him sleep awhile longer?”
“Okay by us,” replied Grimes, as if speaking for both.
"I'll close the lid but won't latch it. If he wakes before we
return-say,” and he paused to consult his watch on his wrist.
“In two hours, he can just push the lid up and get out.”
"A good idea, Doctor," said McDonald, enthusiastically.
Grimes, still smiling, gave his consent by a nod.
The Doctor let the lid down, but did not latch it, and the trio
left and went back upstairs by the back stair again. Once in the
office, to pass the time, the Doctor suggested a game of cards, and
they fell to playing after the Doctor found a deck of cards and
shuffled them.
The card game, started by betting a dime, had grown to bet-
ting dollars at the end of three hours, and all forgot about Sam,
sleeping in the coffin below, when they were interrupted by a
knock on the door. All started abruptly and promptly thought
of Sam.
“Damn!” cried Grimes, looking at his watch. “We forgot all
about Sam. He might be dead!” At this point the knock was
repeated and Doctor Stanfield, with his usual calm, called:
“Come in!”
The door was pushed open-and in it stood Sam.
“Why, Sam!” the Doctor exclaimed, rising to his feet, he went


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around the table and crossed to Sam, standing in the door. He
laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and shook him. Sam smiled
broadly, no worse, obviously, for his experience, which cheered
the Doctor, who turned back to the white men.
"Well, men, here's our Sam, as sound and well as ever." He
slapped Sam on the shoulder, smiled at him, and went on:
“Come on in, Sam—and tell us how you feel.”
Sam walked in, the Doctor closed the door behind him and
turned and found a chair for Sam and sat him down upon it.
“Well, Sam. How do you feel by now?"
“All right, gene’mens. I must have fell off tu sleep. What
time is it anyhow?”.
“Time you went downstairs to T. B.'s and had some pig's feet
and sweet potatoes, Sam. You've slept nearly four hours."
"Come to think of it, ah does feel a little hongry," and Sam
felt of his stomach.
“Glad to hear that you are, Sam,” Grimes said and handed
him a half dollar.
“Tanke, boss,” Sam said, appreciatively, pocketing the coin.
"Now what does you all want me to do?”.
"Nothing at all, Sam," Doctor Stanfield said, rising to his
feet, happy in the satisfaction that his experiment had turned out
so well. “Just take a stroll down Beale Street and have a good
time—shoot a little craps if you want to, or at least until you
lose this dollar,” and Stanfield handed him a dollar bill.
As Sam reached the door, the Doctor was possessed with a
new thought, raised his hand.
“Just a minute, Sam, and then you may go." Sam turned to
face him, curiously.
"Are you convinced now that my formula is safe; that it can
take care of you fine until we return to the cemetery and dig
you up?"
“Y-e-s,” Sam said, a trifle hesitantly, a frown of anxiety de-
veloping. “Only does you all have to—actually bury me?”
“That will be necessary now and then, Sam; but not often.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
293
We want to make our play seem real, understand?”.
"Well, all right," Sam said, slowly. Then bracing, he stood
erect as if with an air of bravado. “I'll try it-once, anyhow.”
Immediately the others were relieved and were promptly enthu-
siastic. They gathered around him and shook his hand.
"That's the way to talk, Sam. That makes you one of us, to
share in some real money that we expect to make. Now go on
out and have a good time, but remember always and be sure, Sam,
to keep that mouth of yours shut tight, always, Sam. Don't talk;
don't get confidential with anybody—not even your girl friend, get
me, Sam?"
"Ah got yuh, Doc, and you can depend on me. Ah understands
eve'thing.”
When Sam at last turned and left the office, the men were
convinced that they could depend on and trust Sam, and all
breathed a deep sigh of relief.


CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER
XX
01
OCTOR STANFIELD AND HIS ASSOCIATES waited
five weeks before staging their first “death,” that of an
old woman. "She” carried a thousand dollar policy in
one of the big white insurance companies. Doctor Stanfield signed
this death certificate and planned to sign at least two more before
turning to one of the other doctors he had succeeded in inveigling
into the scheme, and who needed the money badly enough, he
knew, to sign anything that would bring them some.
They reported that the body was at Brown's Undertaking
Parlors. Sam made himself up as an old woman and they laid
him out in Brown's dead room, where the adjuster came, took a
look at the "corpse,” expressed satisfaction, recommended payment
of the claim and in a few days Doctor Stanfield and his associates
split the take, and everybody was tickled pink, including Sam,
who promptly lost his down in T. B.'s and was waiting and anxious
to be laid out again, and declared to himself that he would not
act a fool again. He always said the same thing after he was
broke, but let us turn to more important phases in connection with
the swindle.
"Brown,” Stanfield said, his feet on the side of his desk in his
private office, while he swayed back comfortably in his swivel
chair. “I think it will be advisable for you to contact some of
the other undertakers that are not doing so well, with a view to
buying them out and opening up a branch or two.”
This pleased Brown, who sat reared back in another comfort-
able chair by the window, where he could look down into Beale
- 294


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
295
Street when he wanted to. He was smoking a fat cigar and for
once since he had become acquainted with Doctor Stanfield, he
was not perspiring. It was because, perhaps, that Brown was free
of any worries, with a good outlook, in view of how well the first
act went off, and with the bright hope of making much more.
"I agree with you, Doctor.”
“As I view it, it might not look so good for you to so suddenly
begin getting a great number of funerals. Might arouse suspicion,
understand?"
"Sho' do, Doc. It's jes' what we should do, and I have in
mind the man to contact, right off. In fact, two uv'm.”
“Memphis has so many Negro undertakers.”
"Three-fourths of whom are so hard up that they would go
in for anything in order to get a funeral now and then and make a
little money."
“Whoever you have in mind, Brown, understand this: they
must get a funeral now and then, or, putting some of these deaths
through their parlor will also look suspicious. Meanwhile, whom
do you have in mind?”
"Jeff Watkins, out in east Memphis for one. He'd be glad to
sell out and—cheap, too."
"I don't doubt it. He just about has no business at all. Who
else can you consider?”.
"Well, there's Jenkins and Company, which means Jenkins
himself. He is also the Company."
Stanfield was thoughtful a moment, then turned to Brown.
"Do you think we could trust the darkey?”
"I've known Jenkins for a long time. I think we would be
safe to trust him. He is not inclined to talk much. That's the
kind of associates we must select.”
"You said a mouthful, Junius."
"I'll go see him, and feel him out if you want me to,” Brown
said, blowing a mouthful of sweet smoke into the air.
"Then do that, Brown,” the Doctor said, putting his feet on
the floor and rising, standing and stretching himself. “Bring


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
them around to see me, or I'll go out and see them. The purpose
is, to feel the Negro out, see if he can be trusted to keep his mouth
shut. Even with that, I intend to impress upon the minds of
everyone, that if he talks and gets us messed up, that they are
an accessory after the fact and will be charged in the same propor-
tion with us.”
“They must not talk, that's the main thing not to do,” said
Brown. “If they look like they want to, I'm for taking the bas-
tards for a ride. In other words, put'm on the spot, take'm for
a ride and shoot'm through the head! That's what the dagoes do."
"You've been going to see gang pictures at the Palace Theatre.
The ideas you get from pictures are no good-except to thrill and
excite you,” and the Doctor smiled and, walking over to a window,
looked down into Beale Street.
"I'm pretty sure we can trust Jenkins. I'm willing to take
the risk, as far as I'm concerned, anyhow. I'm not so sure about
Watkins.”
“Then we'll buy his place outright and you can, along with
Jenkins, if we get together, look after all three places. That
should be enough for a while.”
“Well, all right, contact him and let me know."
Brown rose up, crossed to the door and went out.
As Brown went down the hall on his way out, he passed Doctor
Thurston, apparently on his way to Stanfield's office. He was
wearing a deep frown and seemed so preoccupied that he did not
notice Brown until Brown paused and called his name, whereupon
he started suddenly, and, Brown thought, looked frightened.
“Oh, Brown, you!” he said, after throwing off his preoccupation.
“Yes, me, Thurston. Looks like you're worried. What's got
you looking that way, anyhow?"
Doctor Thurston looked surprised.
"Do I seem worried, Brown?”
"Like you had lost your mammy."
Thurston laughed, but behind it Brown could see that he was
worried. Then it occurred to him that Thurston might be one of


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297
the doctors Stanfield had arranged with to sign death certificates.
Thereupon Brown patted Thurston on the shoulder and lied
glibly:
“I was just joking, Doctor. You never looked better in your
life. So long," he ended and slapped Thurston on the shoulder.
"I'll see you the next time.”
Laughing broadly, Brown went on downstairs and about his
business.
Five minutes later, seated facing Doctor Stanfield across his
desk, Thurston began:
“Well, Stanfield, I've been waiting to hear from you,” and
waited to hear what the other had to say.
“We got started, Thurston,” Stanfield said.
“Understand that you had a funeral ... How'd things go?”
“Went off all right, Thurston. As smooth as satin.”
“Good! How much insurance did you have her in for?”.
“A grand, Thurston," and Doctor Stanfield held up one finger.
"In moving-picture language, that means a thousand dollars,
am I right, Stanfield?”
“That's right, doctor."
"Gee! But that's great! Looks like you're in to make some
dough.”
"Perhaps,” said Stanfield. His face was serious, and he frowned
a bit as he went on:
"I've had to spend a lot of money before we were able to get
started, however. Got to have half a dozen funerals before I will
be able to see any clear money."
"I agree with you. Looks like a way out, however—for a
while at least.”
Doctor Stanfield frowned. He didn't like to hear it implied
that it might not last. At the present time, he was satisfied, and
visualized keeping it that way.
"What do you mean by 'for a little while,' Doctor?”
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and was sorry that he had
said it. It seemed to demonstrate a lack of confidence, and he .


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
.
realized that in saying it as and when he did, he had made a
mistake. But he had and knew that now he'd have to make the
best of it.
"Oh, nothing in particular, Stanfield, so forget it. I guess it
was because it was new and when or until we become accustomed
to something new, we tend to unconsciously doubt its possibilities.”
Doctor Thurston then, after a brief pause, ventured: “When
do you think you'll get around to me?”
Doctor Stanfield looked up thoughtfully, and checked on his
plans, mentally.
"Well, let me see, Doctor. I had planned to sign the first
three certificates myself. I've signed one already. We are plan-
ning to try two next week, after which I'll let you sign one."
"I'll be glad when you can, Doctor. I confess to being rather
hard up and could use some cash mighty handily. You couldn't,
perhaps, permit me to sign for one of those you say you've planned
for next week?"
"Next week,” Doctor Stanfield repeated. “I'll try to do that,
Thurston. We are only carrying a five hundred dollar policy on
each of those next week, however.”
"I see,” replied Thurston, doing some mental calculating. “That
will mean—"
"About one hundred dollars, allowing for the premiums that
we've already paid and other charges, then splitting the net at say,
about four hundred dollars to us, and a hundred to you."
"Sounds fair enough,” Doctor Thurston agreed. "Meanwhile,
I wonder.”
Stanfield started and looked up quickly. "Wonder, Doctor?”
The matter was already giving Doctor Stanfield a slight case
of nerves. He was ever on the alert for something, even the least
thing—an unusual suggestion, for instance, was causing him to
start abruptly. "You were wondering-about-what, Thurston?”
Doctor Thurston looked at him quickly, since he noted a bit
of alarm in Stanfield's voice. He smiled pleasantly and replied:
“Oh, nothing in particular, Doctor. I was merely wondering


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
299
if you could manage and advance to me, say, of about twenty-five
dollars? I need money so badly and such an amount would help
me a lot.”
Doctor Stanfield relaxed happily, glad that it was not some-
thing more serious, and running his hand in his pocket, withdrew
a large roll of bills that caused, Doctor Thurston at the sight of it,
to open his eyes wide in surprise. He envied Doctor Stanfield,
whom he had always considered shrewd, notwithstanding the
trouble his erstwhile shrewdness had got him into. Doctor Stan-
field peeled off twenty-five dollars and passed it over to him care-
lessly, with an:
"Oh, sure, Thurston. Glad to be able to help you out."
"Thank you, Doctor Stanfield,” cried Doctor Thurston, grate-
fully, picking up the bills, glancing at same for a moment happily,
then putting them in his pocket. “That's very fine of you and I
am profoundly grateful. In fact, you just about saved my life,
in a way.”
Both laughed and rose to their feet. They crossed to the door
and when Thurston stepped outside and went down the hall, he
little realized that he had put his neck into a noose that might
someday tighten around it. Doctor Stanfield stood in his door and
watched him out of sight, and then smiled with a peculiar satis-
faction as he closed the door and turned back to his desk.
A few minutes later, Sam came by to "borrow" a few dol-
lars. He had been duly paid, as stated above, for his first act,
which he had pulled off with complete satisfaction, and the Doctor
smiled as he handed him five dollars, but as he recalled that he
had paid him a substantial sum the day before, a frown replaced
the smile and he pointed to a chair and implied that Sam sit down.
Sam obeyed.
"I wish you'd keep away from shooting craps so much and
losing all your money so quickly, Sam. I'm afraid it'll start you
to drinking before it is all over; and when you start to drinking,
you're liable to start to talking, and I wouldn't like that at all."
"I promise to from now on, Doctuh,” Sam agreed readily.


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"You give promises too freely for me to depend entirely on your
keeping them. I do hope you'll try to keep them. A promise given
freely is liable to be broken just as freely," and the Doctor forced
a smile through his frown.
"You'se mah friend, Doctuh Stanfield. You bought me these
nice suits and dressed me up, I couldn't let you down, unduhstand?”
"We'll be having another 'funeral soon, Sam,” he said, and
smiled as he watched Sam start, then relax when he remembered
what it was all about.
"Oh, yeh, Doc, sho', sho',” he replied forcing a laugh. "Ah
keeps fo’gittin'."
"You must start to remembering, Sam. Try to remember that
a good actor never misses his cue; is always there waiting when
the curtain goes up, and never lets his audience down." This was
all to flatter Sam, who swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Sam
swelled with pride, and watching him out of half closed eyes, the
Doctor smiled.
"You can count on me being Johnnie-on-the-spot!” Sam said.
“We may have to 'bury' you the next time, Sam," the Doctor
said, watching closely to observe how he reacted to the news.
Sam started in earnest this time, his eyes opened wide and his
face went cold with sudden fear, and when he tried to swallow,
found that his throat was as dry as cotton.
"Take it easy, Sam," the Doctor said calmly, soothingly. "Have
you been forgetting again so quickly?" Sam forced himself to
relax, but found it most difficult to seem enthusiastic.
"Naw, ob cose not, Doc. Ob cose not. Guess ah did fugit,
howevah. Ah’m sorry."
“You're 'dying next week in St. Louis, Sam.”
“What!"
“And they will be shipping your 'body' to the Brown Under-
taking Parlors in Memphis for burial. The next day after it
arrives here, we plan to 'bury' you out in Kidd's cemetery."
“Great goodness alive!” Sam exclaimed, and leaned against the
wall for support, shivering all over the while. Doctor Stanfield


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if we went holding your funeral at night. So we will have to stand
by the current rule and bury you as late in the afternoon as it
might be appropriate. As quickly as it becomes dark, we will
send the men and rescue you, however, Sam," the Doctor said,
carelessly—just as though it was no more than a visit to the park.
“Rescue," Sam mumbled to himself as the Doctor rose to his
feet, and Sam knew that the interview was at an end.
“Well, I'm rather busy this afternoon, Sam, so you'll have to
excuse me now. I'll see you early next week,” he concluded as he
crossed to the door. They left the office then, the Doctor going
downstairs and getting into his car and driving toward home. Sam
lingered on the sidewalk idly for a moment, then turning, he left
Beale Street and strolled down Fourth for a block where he paused,
still unaware of where he was going, if anywhere. As he stood
there, the voice of a woman, familiar to him, came to his ears. He
listened closely. The woman was singing an old Beale Street song:
“You may be a todolo shaker, but all I want
Is your hard labor, I'm satisfied,
Good grindin' gwine tu bring you back,
Good grindin' gwine tu bring you back."
Sam started! That voice was familiar to him all right. He
walked a few steps and paused at the entrance to the house and
looked up. A pair of steps were before him and he went up these
steps and paused at the top to listen and see where the woman
was, or in which room the voice came from. As he did so, the
voice came floating into his ears again from a room on the right,
down the hall through the open door in front of which he was
standing.
"Ef yuh want tu sleep wid me,
Yuh'll have to sign yo' name wid de
Bailiff Lee, ah’m satisfied,
Good grindingwine tu bring yuh back,
Good grindin' gwine tu bring yuh back.”
The next moment Sam went running down the hall, crying out:
"Lucy, oh, Lucy, gal!”


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
303
The woman stopped singing and crossing to the door, looked
out, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Sam Jackson!” she cried. "Come heah tu me, yuh ugly
rascal!”
The next moment they had embraced, and a few minutes later
Sam was sitting by an open window, he and Lucy, while each talked
of old times when they had been on Eph Williams' "Silas Green
from Noo O'leans” show together.
Walter Le Baron interrupted Bob's telling of the story when
he referred to Doctor Thurston.
"Pardon me, Bob, for interrupting the telling of the most inter-
esting story I've ever heard; but you referred to a Doctor Thurs-
ton,” he said, reflectively. “Does he happen, as far as you might
know, to have a-sister? Quite a highly educated girl, who calls
herself an anthropologist?”
"He had a sister, and the one you refer to is she,” Bob replied,
looking at him a bit wonderingly.
“What do you mean by 'he had' anyhow?"
"I think I should have said that she had a brother."
“I still don't understand what you mean?”
"Because Doctor Thurston has since died.”
“Died? You mean that he is-dead?”.
“That's what I said,” Bob replied. "Sad case, but if I pause
here to tell you how and why he died, I'll be away ahead of the
story I'm telling you. In a few minutes, however, I'll reach it
and then you'll understand better.”
"All right, Bob,” Le Baron said. "I'll wait until you get to
it, but I know this sister-sort of went with her for awhile, once
upon a time.”
“You did?” and Bob turned to him with a smile. "What
happened?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. It's quite a long story itself. I
met her and a girl friend of hers in Washington, years ago, when
I was, of course, much younger and she was just about the same


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
age. She was attending Howard University, studying journalism-
that is, she was majoring in journalism. She was a brilliant girl,
or I should say, that she had a brilliant mind and I found her very
interesting from the start. In due time the other girl and she both
graduated. The other girl was studying dentistry.'
"Ora was this Thurston girl's name. The other girl's uncle,
who had gone to great expense to put her through dental college,
set her up—that is, he outfitted her, and she set up dental practice
in Pittsburgh, where I saw her a few times before she gave it up
out there and came to New York and resumed her practice.
"Meanwhile, Ora continued to come to New York, and we went
around together and I rather liked her because the girl was so
smart.”
“So that was a love affair of yours, eh, or developed into one?"
Le Baron shook his head in the negative.
“As far as I was concerned, it never got beyond the 'I like
you very much' stage; but some years later she told me that I was
the only man she ever loved-after she had married three hus-
bands, however," and Le Baron paused to laugh. Bob joined him.
"She's been here,” Bob said.
"I wouldn't be surprised. She developed into an adventuress,
and I haven't seen her for years. But getting back to where I
left off. The first man she married was a student, whom I met.
and who seemed dizzy. It must have been a dream affair for it
didn't last long, though I don't recall just how long it did last,
however. Anyway, in due time she freed herself of it and took on
another and that was next to the last time I recall seeing her and
talking to her. It must have been then, instead of after, she mar-
ried the third time, that she talked to me. She didn't stay with
the second one any longer than she had the first one. When I
talked with her and asked her why she was changing husbands so
rapidly, she shrugged her shoulders and said that I ought to know
why. I professed ignorance, for I was in fact, ignorant and didn't
know what she was talking about. "Well,' she then told me, 'be-
cause I was in love with neither.' I said, 'Why did you marry


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
305
them?' She said, 'Because of you. I never loved any man but
you, Walter.'' Le Baron broke off to laugh at this. Bob seemed
surprised.
“Why are you laughing?” he wanted to know.
“Because the girl was like a great many of our group who go
to school, acquiring one degree after another and continue to stay
in and out of school over a long period of years—many, until they
actually get old. This girl, whom I actually admired during the
early years of our acquaintance, had by that time let herself de-
velop temperament, and was on the way to a controlled insanity-
in short, she was by that time, crazy, yet sane. I wasn't in love
with her because I've always tried to understand and appreciate
what might happen if one let themselves become mixed up with
an overeducated person, and a temperamental one. I don't like
this temperamentalism on the part of Negroes. It isn't worth-
while, for as I see it, all of us need to learn more about developing
and producing something that might make a profit and some
money first, for we are, as a race, so confounded poor that nobody
envies any of us, nor respects us.
"In Ora's case, she had, along with thousands of others of that
ilk, become too educated. They are forever dreaming of doing
something so great it staggers their imagination and makes them
unfit, then many take up Communism or resort to some other crazy
ideology, and then the biggest thing they do is to try to persuade
somebody to give them some money for some insane illusion, all
the while, think they are succeeding, and talk about their success;
success without money. We Negroes seem to be about the only
group to claim success without making any money, without even
learning how to make any, yet regard ourselves as successful and
call themselves successful. And that is what, among other things,
happened to Ora. I didn't hear, but I imagine that she must have
become Communistic along with so many other Negroes that are
calling themselves Communists, and for two purposes, more or
less, only."
Bob laughed, took a sip at his drink. Le Baron, with a humor-


306
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
ous smile, did likewise.
“Two purposes mostly,” said Bob, with a smile. "Name them?”
"First, to get some money. Second, the men at least, to go
North, and possibly marry a white woman.”
"Do you think that is the reason why so many Negro men
have been marrying white women lately?”.
“That is, to my way of thinking, the biggest reason,” Le Baion
said. "Negroes do not know the fundamentals of Communism,
whatever they are. This much I do know, however, and which
is, that Communism thrives best on hard luck and discontent. A
large share of our people who thought at the outset that they could
educate themselves by staying in school, majoring in first one ideol-
ogy and then another, into success, and found after having acquired
all the education they could crowd into their heads, that it did not
fit them to make any money, the possession of which they found
to be so necessary to one's daily needs and conveniences. So they
turned to Communism where they found plenty of others who
would agree with their charge that something about our government
was wrong, including the people that are administering it. One of
the first things advocated then is that it is a 'free country' and
that nobody should be restrained from doing what they wanted to.
Communism is filled with women, and since all know that inter-
marriage of races in America is somewhat forbidden, and frowned
on, this seems to have been another reason that so many desired
to break it up. The whites start out by calling their colored asso-
ciates 'brother' and 'sister and it seems to me, that the whites,
knowing that a Negro does not always feel comfortable in the
presence of white people socially, set out to convince the Negroes,
that all the old traditions are wrong and in error, including the
forbidding of marriage between the races. They then, advocate
the intermarriage of races which seems to have, at the present
time, and in the North at least, gotten out of control—but I have
talked clear away from what I started to tell, and which was about
Ora,” and Le Baron laughed as he paused.
- “What you've been talking about and explaining, has been


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
307
most interesting to me. Go on, tell me all about it,” Bob said.
“The reason I brought the subject up was, that when you kept
speaking about Doctor Thurston, I recalled that Ora and I were
friends, and before she went off on this tangent of marriage, and
other things, we had some interest in common, and something else
I'll have to tell you about, before I get through. She would
ask me when I returned to New York and ran into or called on
her, and told her that I had been in Memphis, if I had called on
her brother while there. As you know, I rarely get off Beale
Street, or very far from it when I'm here. So I never got to even
inquire about her brother much less to go call on him.”
"He lived in East Memphis and kept his office there,” Bob
interrupted to explain, "and that, perhaps, is why you never met
him. East Memphis is a long way out, and I know that I never
took you out there."
"She always asked if I had seen him and grew to sort of em-
barrass me about it. But the singular part of it was, that I had
decided to look him up this time for sure, so that I could tell her
when and if I ever happen to see her again, that I had called on
her brother. Now to be told that the man is dead! I'm so sorry.”
“Died as the result of what I am talking about. I'll explain
all about it when I get to that part of the story. I've got lots to
tell you before we get that far, however, meanwhile, I'm interested
in what happened to this sister, now that we are on that subject.
I understand that she finally turned to writing. Is that so?”
"She surely did. Wrote five books, all within a few years, and
one of the biggest publishers brought them out.”
"Well, that should have made her some money. Did it?"
"I don't know, but I don't think the books did. I don't really
know what happened to Ora during the last few years. I do know,
however, that she went into the business of acquiring scholarships,
awards and into so many ways of getting money to live on from
white people that her life and career and entire existence has be-
come a mystery to me. When I was talking with Sidney Wyeth,
about her, and about the books she had written, he told me that


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none ever got out of the first edition, which means that they did
not sell well. The last I heard of her, she was said to be living
with some rich white family in Hollywood but that didn't last,
either, for she has been back in New York since. So I really don't
know what became of Ora, and that is all. And now, please go on
with the story that you were telling me, thank you."


CHAPTER
CHAPTER XXI
AM JACKSON HAD PLAYED at being dead the week be-
fore, and played the part so successfully, that he rather liked
it and at this time didn't seem to mind playing the role again
and again-if it could be confined to just laying there in a coffin,
made up as first one person, then another, man or woman, for a
few people to look at. Then, after not more than two or three
hours of display, being pushed off the floor into the dead room
and permitted to get out of the coffin, which they would then fill
with brickbats, old cement and sawdust and then haul the same
off to a cemetery and bury it.
But the thought of having to remain in the coffin or casket, be
taken to the cemetery, for it was the plan of Doctor Stanfield and
his associates, to place the coffin in a hearse and after hauling him
to the cemetery, where they would have a preacher to read his, or
her. as the case may be. last rites and then to be actually lowered
six feet into a grave, and after the lid of the coffin box was pushed
down on top of the coffin, to hear the first dirt thrown in. After a
few shovels full had been dumped on top of the lid of the pine box,
Sam could not, of course. hear any more. He had to just imagine
the rest. for he was given a watch and was told not to move out
of a laving position for one hour. other than to use his flashlight
to see that an hour had passed, since he was lowered into 'his
grave.'
Every precaution was taken to safeguard him, so that he could
be returned as quickly as possible to "die" again and be "buried”
again, and again, but he kept an ear open on this first time he
309


312
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
then finding his pump, smiled happily when he felt the cool air
from above come pouring down and he breathed it.
“So far, so good,” Sam said to himself, and knew then that
everything was going off according to plan, and all that was left
to be anxious about was for the men to come around seven-thirty
and dig him out.
He then found the food, a whole fried chicken, cut into pieces,
and a half of a sweet potato pie, six nice biscuits that simply melted
in his mouth and Sam ate his full. There was cold iced tea in the
thermos, and when Sam had eaten all this, lo and behold, thanks
to his friend, the thoughtful Doctor, he found an Arty magazine,
filled from start to finish with the pictures of nude women, pretty
women, young women-great!
Sam then decided that if this went off all right, as it seemed
to thus far be going, he wouldn't kick thereafter, for he was paid
so much more for this kind of act. The Doctor had said: “You
see, Sam, when we actually bury you, it is so much safer. We
have plenty witnesses to testify that they saw you buried, -all
"just in case.”
With his belly filled and passion temporarily cooled after going
through and through the book of art, Sam fell off to sleep and was
awakened suddenly by a voice, coming down through his periscope.
“Hey down thaiuh!”
He sat up and listened, strangely bewildered as he looked
around, for he had forgotten where he was.
"Hey, down thaiuh, Sam!" the voice from above repeated.
“Why don't yuh ansuh?"
Still Sam was bewildered and not sure. It sounded like the
voice of Lige Renfro. He listened again. He heard the voice
again, but which seemed to be directed at somebody else.
"Ah wonduhs 'f the niggah's daid?”
"He mought be," said the voice of another.
Sam by now was fully awake and had become aware of where
he was and what it was all about. So he was amused, being at the
same time relieved, and listened at the others talk, and what they


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"Take it easy, sister, dear," Arthur said consolingly, or trying
to be consoling. He knew that Dorothy was worried; that she
lived in a state of worry and anxiety, and he was sorry for her.
"It must be about the-Doctor then?" she said slowly, know-
ing before he could answer that it was.
“Yes, Dorothy. It is about something connected with the Doc-
tor's activities, I fear. Meanwhile, are you very busy?"
“No, Arthur. I'm not busy. Why?”
“Because I'd like for you to come down to the office."
“Very well, brother. What time do you want me to?"
"If you're not busy as you say, I'd like for you to come right
away. It is most important that I see you and talk to you.
"You can't tell me over the phone, Arthur?"
“Oh, I'd rather not, dear. Decidedly not.”
“Very well, Arthur. I'll be down as quickly as I can dress,"
and both hung up. Dorothy paused before rising to her feet. Her
heart was beating fast and she was afraid. She felt sure that it
was about something relating to the Doctor's activities, which
were, and had always been since he started his new racket, shrouded
in mystery. She didn't know how he was making so much money,
only knew that he was and that was all. But she knew that it
must be something she had been dreading; and was sure would
come to light some day.
And now Arthur was no doubt going to tell her something that
would cause her to worry more than before. She sighed deeply
and turned to go to her room upstairs where she would dress and
go down and see her brother and hear what this something im-
portant that he had to talk to her about, was.
Just as she reached the foot of the stairway, she heard a key
turn in the lock, and since only her husband had a key to the house
other than herself, she knew that it must be he. She paused and
stood facing the door as it was pushed open and the Doctor walked
in. At that distance she saw that he had been drinking, a habit
he had taken up since he started into this new and mysterious way
of making money–much money.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
317
He swayed a bit as he turned to close the door and with a
frown on her face, she crossed to meet him, and to assist him,
which seemed necessary.
“Why, Doctor," she cried. “You home so soon? I wasn't ex-
pecting you. Has something happened?"
"No, no, dear," he said a bit thickly, "Just felt a bit tired
and thought I'd come home and have a nap."
"That was very thoughtful of you, dear. You need it, I know,
for you haven't been sleeping so well of late. In fact, for quite
awhile,” she said, as she recalled many long and restless nights on
his part.
"Oh, it is all right, nothing serious, not at all.”
"I'm sure there is something on your mind, Doctor. Has been
for a long time and I've all but pleaded with you to tell me, but you
just won't. Why don't you tell me now?"
"Nothing on my mind but money, Dorothy. Nothing but
money. I'm trying to get rich like your people are, and that's
taxing my energy, my mentality.” As he finished, he started across
the hall for the stairway, but staggered, after swaying so danger-
ously that she rushed to his side and caught him by the arm. She
led him across the room to the foot of the stairway, where he
paused and caught the banister, and paused, it seemed, as if to
rest. She withdrew her hand and turned to face him more squarely,
whereupon he drew a deep breath and let it out and the stench of
liquor on his breath almost felled her. She turned her face away
and her frown was deep.
"Oh, Doctor," she cried, complainingly, "You've been drinking
again."
He knew that she didn't like him to drink and had complained
about it every time she smelled it on his breath.
“Just a nip, honey. Just a few drops to steady my nerves.
Besides, it'll help me to get off to sleep." As he finished, he swung
his case to the left hand, leaving his right free to help him by
holding onto the banister to get upstairs. He always carried his
case, though she knew that he had not attended a patient since


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
she couldn't remember when.
“I hope it will,” she said, “but I wish you wouldn't drink so
much. Patients become afraid of you when they smell whiskey on
your breath.”
“T'hell with patients!” he cried, abruptly. "Damned broken
niggers, haven't got anything to pay a doctor with. T'hell with
all of them! I'm making plenty of money without having to call
on the buzzards! T'hell with all of them!” he exclaimed, and
swung his hand around in a gesture of contempt.
“Why, Doctor!"
He turned, his face torn with sudden and contemptuous anger,
and looked at her a moment, swaying as he did so.
Presently he decided to continue on up to his room, and gath-
ered himself for something of an effort and started. She stepped
forward and raised her hand to help him.
"I'll help you,” she said, as she laid her hand on his arm. He
shook his arm free and with some effort stood straight and erect.
"Don't need any help! I'm not drunk as you seem to think!
Just a little tired, that's all.”
With another effort, and swinging his kit wide, he started up
the stairs while she stood where she was and watched him, ner-
vously, her heart in her throat. She felt sure he would fall before
he reached the top and when he was about half way up and had
begun to sway, dangerously, she screamed and taking hold of her
skirts she started up. He paused, turned to look down at her, and
raised a commanding hand, crying:
"Stop, Dorothy! I won't have you helping me like I was a
drunken man! Tell you I'm all right, so stand where you are, or
go away. You screamed like you thought I was going to fall. I'm
not going to. I keep telling you that I'm all right.”
"Oh, Doctor,” she pleaded, pitifully, "please let me help you
-steady you. Don't try another step by yourself. I'm afraid
you'll fall and hurt yourself.” So saying she again started up to
him, but he turned suddenly and again raising his hand command-
ingly, cried dramatically:


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
319
“Stay where you are, Dorothy! Go back to the foot of the
stairs and remain there! I'll show you that I can take care of
myself.” Thereupon he straightened himself, stood erect like a
soldier for a moment. She retreated to the bottom of the stairway
as she had been ordered by him to do, and waited anxiously. She
was afraid of him and had always been since their honeymoon trip
to Chicago, when he had begun a performance which had never
ended.
"Listen, dear,” she said, “I want to come upstairs to dress.
There is something I want to tell you, too, so won't you let me
come now, assist you, and when we get to the top, I'll tell you
what it is?”
“Tell me something? Why didn't you do so when I came in?”
"Because you—frightened me so by your-condition,” she said,
hesitatingly.
“Tell you I'm all right. You can tell me what it is from where
you are standing, or wait until I have reached the top. Then I'll
listen. Now what is it you want to tell me?".
“Go on upstairs and I'll come up there then and tell you.”
“You've got me curious now to know what it is. Tell me right
now," and he turned so that he could face her, albeit sideways.
"I wanted to tell you that I just had a call from my brother,
Arthur, down at the insurance office.”
"Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor, then paused briefly, and thought-
fully. “What did he want?" He finished his question carefully,
and waited for her to answer.
"Didn't say-in fact, he wouldn't say what he wanted to talk
to me about over the telephone. Just asked me to come down to
the office."
"I see,” the Doctor said, slowly, and again he was thoughtful.
“It didn't happen to be about me?"
"It might be,” she said—and then on second thought, she i
called that her brother had said that it was about the Doct
“Come to think of it, I think he said that it was somethin-
you; or perhaps about something you were doing. I_"


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
she paused, and broke off abruptly, for the Doctor had started
suddenly, and seeming to become angry, started upstairs again
and had almost reached the top when he swayed, swung around
while Dorothy screamed, caught out wildly for the banister, swung
again, entirely out of balance by now, and with a loud scream, he
fell, and came tumbling back downstairs towards her.
She screamed as he came tumbling down and had to get out
of the way, for he seemed to be falling all over the stairs, finally
landing at the foot of them with a dull thud.
Frightened out of her wits, Dorothy fell on her knees and bent
over him and lifted him in her arms to a sitting posture, while he
lay there, looking faint and as if he might be dead.
"Oh, dear, dear,” she was crying. “I was afraid this would
happen! Oh, darling! Are you-hurt?”
"My-my heart, Dorothy,” he said, faintly. "I-I have an
awful pain over my heart." He slumped then and became silent.
She was afraid that he was dead now for sure. He had lost con-
sciousness completely and she was terribly frightened.
With much effort, she dragged him into the parlor and onto
the sofa, and was relieved somewhat to notice that he was still
breathing. She hurried to the cabinet and found some whiskey,
which she kept in the house for medicinal purposes, but for a long
time the Doctor had been drinking it for other purposes. She was
glad that some was left, however, and holding his head in her arms,
forced some down his throat. After an anxious moment or two,
she saw him open his eyes weakly and listen. He then called her
name.
"I'm here, darling,” she said, quickly, bending closer and fan-
ning his face with something she picked up. "How do you feel?”
He raised a hand and placed it over his heart, and said:
“My heart, it is paining me. I-I can hardly-breathe, it's
paining so. Please call Doctor Thurston, dear. Tell him to-
come at once-important."
She left him and hurried to the telephone in the hall. Pickirg
up the receiver, she was trying hard to think of Doctor Thurston's


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
321
phone number without having to look it up in the directory. She
wasn't successful, but did know the company's telephone number
and thinking of it, decided to call her brother. By the time the
girl at the switchboard replied, she decided to talk to her brother
about it. Upon hearing Arthur's voice, she was very anxious and
excited.
“Oh, Arthur, this is Dorothy!"
“Yes, dear, I hear you,” replied Arthur from the other end.
“You seem excited. Has something happened to you?”
“Not to me, Arthur, but to the Doctor.”
“What! And where?"
“Right here in the house, Arthur. He came home right after I
finished talking to you and” lowered her voice to a whisper—"Oh,
Arthur. He was intoxicated! He started upstairs to his room. I
wanted to help him but—he wouldn't let me. Near the top, he
tried to argue when I said that I had to go down and see you,
became angry, and before he could do anything, lost his balance
and fell downstairs.”
"Great goodness!” cried Arthur. “Did he hurt himself badly?”
“I don't know, Arthur. I managed to get him into the parlor
where he is now lying on the sofa. He is complaining about his
heart. Says it is paining him badly, and asked me to send for
Doctor Thurston.”
"Doctor Thurston! Why, Doctor Thurston lives away out in
East Memphis, and has his office there, too! He could be dead, if
he is very ill, before Doctor Thurston could get there."
“That's what I fear. What shall I do?”
"I'll call our Doctor, right here in the building. I'm sure he's
in. Wait a moment, and hold on while I buzz him."
Doctor Blackburn, who had asked Dorothy to marry him years
before, had asked her many times, and who was now the company's
chief medical examiner, was fortunately in, and expressed anxiety
to serve Dorothy in her present predicament.
Less than thirty minutes later therefore, Doctor Blackburn, in
company with Dorothy's brother, drove up before the house and


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
know his handwriting, his signature?" He paused and showed it
to her. She looked at it and started. It was Nathan's signature
without a doubt. Arthur paused and waited, while Dorothy shook
her head as if to give up.
"As unpleasant as this is, it is not all," Arthur was saying
now and Dorothy looked up at him, helplessly. "By which, dear,
it didn't start yesterday but has been going on for some time. Well,
as I started to say, about a year ago we paid a claim. Later, one
of our agents went to New York on his vacation. On his return
to Memphis, he swore that he saw the deceased in New York,
sound and well—and talked to him as I did to this other 'dead'
man in Evansville. He made the same kind of report; that the
policy had lapsed, and that he had never had it reinstated.”
"And had somebody, a doctor, signed a death certificate in that
case, too?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes," replied Arthur. I remember it very well. Doctor
Thurston's signature was on that certificate of death."
“And not Nathan's?”.
"No, but I have a peculiar feeling about the whole thing.”
“Just what do you mean by that, Arthur?”.
“That there's an insurance swindling ring, operating possibly
out of Memphis. I have a suspicion that Nathan's mixed up in it.”
"Oh, he couldn't be, Arthur! Else I'd know something
about it."
“Are you sure that you would, dear? Has your husband con-
fided in you as to why and how he is making so much money?”
Dorothy hesitated, and Arthur knew by that that he hadn't.
“Of course he hasn't, dear. Nathan is entirely too shrewd to
go letting you know or even find out how he happens to be making
so much money."
"So much money, Arthur?”
“Yes, Dorothy. Didn't you know that he has been making a
mighty lot of money for-almost two years; and that he has a lot
of money?”
"Well, I know that he has been doing very well, but he has not


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
325
told me that he's making a lot of money. How would you know
that he is?”
"It was brought to my attention some time ago. I learned
that he was handling a lot of money. In fact, and in confidence,
the teller at the bank at which we carry one of our accounts, tipped
me off as to what was going on. The teller asked me just how he
could be making so much. My interest was inspired, of course,
by the fact of his being married to you.
"Well, I made an investigation, a quiet one, of course, and it
revealed that he has more cash in the Memphis banksif not in
other cities—than any Negro, I venture, in all Memphis.”
“Oh, Arthur,” she cried. “I'm sure you must be mistaken. If
he had so much money, he would have been sure to tell me some.
thing about it.”
"I'm sorry, Dot, but everything I've told you is so, but I'm
worried, also. This something, whatever it is that's going on, can't
last much longer. Somewhere, somehow and sometime, somebody
is going to get wise and do something, say something, and the
bottom is going to suddenly fall out of the entire swindle, for that
is the only way he could be making so much money."
"Oh, lordy me," sighed Dorothy. "I've been afraid of some-
thing for a long time and have lived in a state of fear and anxiety
almost ever since I married Nathan."
"I know it, sister, and it worries the entire family. I don't
know what it is all going to come to, but you might as well resign
yourself to the fact that it is going to end up before long. It
can't miss doing so.”
“What can I do?”.
Arthur shook his head as hopelessly.
“I don't know, Dorothy. To be frank and truthful, I simply
do not know."
Dorothy was thoughtful a moment. Suddenly she perked with
an idea, Arthur looked at her hopefully.
"I know," she cried. “I'll wait up for the Doctor tonight and
I'll tell him about what took place here today, and I'll ask him to


CHAPTER CHAPTER XXI
2
N VERYBODY CONNECTED with Doctor Stanfield's insur-
N ance swindling ring had made money, including Sam, who
had invested his in dice shooting, pretty girls and had
the flashiest car in Memphis. A large roll-back top, which he
kept folded back with a decorated cover, along with every gadget
that had ever been conceived for automobiles, made his car the
show of Beale Street-and Sam was fond of showing it.
This continued display on Sam's part had long since become a
source of annoyance to Doctor Stanfield, and he was trying to
think up some way of stopping, or bringing it to an end. Addi-
tionally he discovered that one of the men whose work was to bury
Sam and dig him up, was willing to play stooge, a quiet man who
neither drank nor gambled, and who was willing to "die" much
cheaper than Sam who had become conscious of his potential value
in the racket and had been upping his cut until he was getting far
more than Stanfield had ever intended paying him.
Three weeks after he fell downstairs at his home, which had
not left him in the best frame of mind Doctor Stanfield was stand-
ing by his window, looking down on Beale Street and the Negroes
moving up and down it, and of others idling about. He could see
from his window, the entrance to T. B.'s joint, where Sam invested
a large share of what he was milking Doctor Stanfield for, in dice.
The front on Beale Street contained a tavern, while in the rear was
the dice table, which earned T. B. by far and over his bigest profit.
As he stood there trying to think some way to get rid of
328


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
331
it all to the dealer, who proceeded to count it.
"Shoot it all, Goddam it tu hell!”
“You's covered Sam,” cried the dealer. "Let 'um roll!”
Sam worked over the dice harder, finally threw them, tumbling
and bouncing again, and when they stopped the Negroes shrieked:
“Two sixes!”-craps again, and Sam in disgust, struck the table
so hard that it shook.
“Goddam sonofabitchin' luck!”.
Negroes standing around and dividing his money gleefully,
smiled and got ready to fade him again—but Sam was broke! In
less than five minutes he had been stripped clean! He paused to
think and started. Turning away, he paused to turn to the dealer,
with:
"I'll be back.” Turned then and taking long strides, left the
place.
Doctor Stanfield opened the door of his private office and beck-
oned to Brown, who promptly joined him. Inside he walked up
to Brown with:
"I've thought of a way to get rid of Sam.”
"Yeh?” Junius Brown became uneasy. "How?"
Doctor Stanfield walked over to him and began whispering
something in his ear, whereupon Brown started violently, and
pulled away a step.
“Aw, naw, Doc. Not that!"
"It's no worse than what we've been doing ever since we started.
Sam's just another nigger. One gone doesn't mean a thing, more
or less.” Brown was sweating now, because Brown was fright-
ened; he was so frightened he was nervous. He went to a chair
and sat down on it, weakly. He found a kerchief and removing his
big hat, began wiping perspiration that seemed to flow more freely
now than it ever had before.
"One crooked thing leads to another, all becoming bolder and
more crooked as we go deeper and deeper into the mires of hell."
Brown, still perspiring freely, got to his feet and started walking
the floor.


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THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Take it easy, Brown, take it easy, old boy. It's not as bad
as you are making it.”
“You can think up the darndest schemes that I ever heard of.
Your father must surely have been born of the devil himself.”
Stanfield tried to laugh it off. Brown continued to walk the floor.
"I can't sleep at night no more," Brown was saying as he
walked the floor, back and forth. “My wife notices it and keeps
pestering me with 'What's the matter, Junius? What's the matter?
... You've got something on your mind? What's the matter,
Junius? Why don't you tell me? I'm your wife. You can trust
me. Please tell me what's the matter, Junius. Great heavens,
man," he cried, raising his large arms helplessly. "You're driving
me crazy-crazy!”.
Stanfield stood looking at him and shaking his head, deploringly.
“Lord, heavens! You make me wish that I'd never gone in
on this thing! You've made me sorry that I ever let you persuade
me. I don't have any peace of mind any more at all, no peace of
mind."
"Take it easy, Brown. We've made a lot of money, and we've
got it saved. Resting in plenty of banks. Think of that."
“Yes, but what good does it do when I'm worried half the
time and scared stiff the rest? In time you'll bury me, and I'll be
dead when you do so, honestly dead."
“Take it easy, old boy," Dr. Stanfield said, walking up to him
and patting him on the shoulder. "Come along with me on this
and when it's over I promise to quit-get out of it.”
“That's what you started saying a year ago. The next will be
the last, but it hasn't been. I was ready to quit then, I've been
ready to quit ever since, but I can't because of you. I'm up to
my ears in it and it'll only be when you decide to actually get out,
that I can. I don't believe you'll ever quit until they catch us and
send us away."
At this point there was a knock on the door, and both men
stopped and turned to look at the door, anxiously.
“Who's there?” the Doctor called presently. From outside


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kept upping your cut until there isn't much left for us. Still, we
haven't kicked, have we? So try to go easy with us. We're just
two poor Negroes, like you Sam, working hard and trying to get
along. We're not getting much out of these jobs, lately, Sam.”
“How much is you gettin' outa this one tonight?”
"Only five hundred Sam, and it's our biggest for a long time.
Now figure it out for yourself.” Sam relaxed, but having deter-
mined to go back across the street to T. B.'s game and clean the
Negroes who had beat him so quickly, Sam figured he'd have to
be a little hard this time.
“Well,” Sam said, slowly, “I'll go easier de next time; but I
gotta have two hundred bucks now."
“W-h-e-w!” exclaimed Stanfield. “Umph-umph-umph!”
“Ah jes' gotta have it, Doc. Ah gotta.”
“Soon, Sam, you'll just demand it all.”
“Ah understan', Doc,” Sam went on earnestly. "While ah gotta
have two hundred now, ah'll die de next time fo' a hund'ed.” The
Doctor was shaking his head, ruefully, but pulled a roll of bills out
of his pocket, paused and looked at Sam.
“Sam, you're going to break it all up. I'll give you the two
hundred now, but you've got to promise to die the next time for
nothing, is that agreeable?”
Sam said it was.
“And be buried, including,” said the Doctor. Sam frowned.
He had never let himself get used to being buried, but there before
him stood Doctor Stanfield with $200 in cash, which he was ready
to count out and give to him—then back to T. B.'s Sam would go,
and break every Negro who had just taken his money a few min-
utes before. The next time was the "next time”—but now was now.
“Ah agrees, Doctor Stanfield.”
Stanfield turned to Brown and said: "You're a witness to his
promise, Brown?”
Brown nodded in the affirmative. “All right, Sam, it's a deal
and here's your two hundred." The Doctor courted him out $200.
Sam was tickled pink, smiled all over and kept thanking him until


336
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
we are supposed to go and dig that darkey up; but understand,
Brown, we won't be digging the bastard up! We're going to let
him stay there and rot and stink, the black sonofabitch!” The
Doctor paused to laugh again, long and idiotically. Brown looked
at him as though he felt sorry for him, and presently, shaking his
head, he opened the door and left.


Chapter )
CHAPTER XXII
AM JACKSON MADE HIMSELF UP CAREFULLY that
afternoon. He had been advised that he was to play the part
of an important person, a Doctor who had died in a distant
city. They had him insured in one of the major insurance com-
panies for five thousand dollars. They gave Sam a photograph
to work by, for he had made up before for the insurance adjuster's
benefit. The adjuster had looked at his face, examined the certi-
ficate, found everything in order and ordered the company to pay
the claim.
So Doctor Stanfield had received the check that morning and
was holding the funeral that afternoon. As Sam lay stretched out
in an attractive casket this time, those who came to see him all
remarked about how natural he looked. "Just like he was laying
there asleep,” everybody who saw him told their friends.
On the way to the cemetery a strange thought entered Sam's
mind all of a sudden, and disturbed him so that he trembled. "Sup-
posing one of these times they decided not to dig me up?" The
thought made him tremble and he was half tempted, when they
took the casket out at the graveyard and the preacher read those
lines over him, to cry out.
But Sam didn't get a chance to do anything, for there was no
preacher at the grave to read over him, he neither heard anybody
around, simply felt himself being lifted out of the hearse, carried
to the grave and immediately lowered into it, the top pushed down
on top of the box, and then heard the dirt being shoveled on top
of him, until the top was covered and he heard no more.
337


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
339
“As ye sow," he appealed now to the Lord above. “So ye shall
reap.” Sam looked down at the chemical that was burning and
which always kept air in his lungs until they came to dig him up.
As he did so, he started again. It was a smaller amount than
before, and he groaned. Doctor Stanfield had forgot nothing in
his plan to be rid of him.
In the meantime, let us return to the office where Doctor Stan-
field was to meet Junius Brown and go with him to the party that
his wife was putting on in his honor at home.
Brown was there waiting as the Doctor walked in, wearing tails,
a cape, standing collar, and regulation bow tie; his face even
powdered for the occasion. But Brown was wearing the same
clothes he had on that afternoon. The Doctor was surprised, and
then frowned.
"Say, Brown, what's this? Why aren't you dressed for the
party? In evening clothes as I asked you to wear? You can't
come to my wife's party looking like that,” and he pointed at him.
“Why haven't you dressed for the occasion, Brown?”
"Because I'm not going.”
"Not going?” the Doctor cried, amazed.
“That's it. I'm not going, Doctor, because "
“Because? Because what?”
“I'm going out to the cemetery and dig that man up, that's why
I'm not going!” Brown stuck his jaw out defiantly.
"Why, you fool! You Goddanned black fool! You'll do noth-
ing of the kind!” The Doctor swore vehemently.
“But I will, and you won't be able to stop me!”
“Don't be so sure about that. But come, enough of this. Now
let's get down to common sense.”
"I am down to common sense and my common decency tells
me to go dig that man up. If you've got to kill him, why, take a
gun and shoot him down and tell the law that he threatened you;
that you killed him to keep him from killing you. These crackers
don't do much with a Negro for just killing another Negro, it's
when they dare attack a white man is when they get rough with


340
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
you. But to kill a man the way you've planned this, is more than
I can stand.”
"Brown, don't be a fool,” the Doctor argued, temporizingly.
“That Negro is in our way. Sooner or later he's going to spoil
our game and perhaps mess us up. We've got to get rid of him.
I've attended to that in a way we'll never hear from him again.
Now you, of all men, pop up here with some fool sentiment in
your head and propose to spoil it all.”
“That may be all true according to your way of thinking, and
especially of doing. But I been thinking about it ever since I
left you, and my mind is made up. I'm going out there and save
that man and you nor anybody else is going to stop me!” So
saying he turned to go.
When his back was to Stanfield and he was starting to go, he
heard Stanfield say: "Oh, won't I?” Then withdrawing a small
revolver from some pocket Stanfield let him have it, three times!
Brown gasped, turned, looked at Doctor Stanfield helplessly out
of his dying eyes, then closing them, slumped to the floor, dead.
Stanfield walked over, looked at him, raised his eyes to think,
and then smiled as he recalled that Brown had paused and turned
to face him when he spoke and the shots he fired entered Brown's
body from the front. His alibi was already perfect. He would
call the police station and tell them when they came that Sam
Tackson had shot Brown in an argument over money. They would
look for Sam Jackson, whom of course they wouldn't find. Smil
ing calmly, Stanfield turned and then paused.
He decided suddenly to go on to the party-and say nothing
about what he had done, go to bed afterward, enjoy a good night's
sleep and let somebody else find the body the next morning. In
due time he could offer his alibi, and everything would be all right.
So deciding, Doctor Stanfield turned and going outside, looked
around, was relieved to see that nobody was in sight. Smiling
then, he got into the car and drove to his home where Dorothy was
giving a party in his honor.
Lucy Jackson, the name she went by since it was presumed


THE STORY OF DorotuY STANFIELD
341
that she was married to Sam Jackson, had retired early that night.
She had worked hard all day, washing clothes in the white folks'
laundry, and had returned home tired.
Sleeping hard, she dreamed of something, something so exciting
that she woke suddenly and sat up, perspiring, and looked around
her. She turned and looked at the spot where she often found
Sam sleeping, but Sam wasn't there. She thought of the chippies,
and grunted with jealousy and lay back down again. But Lucy
couldn't sleep. She was strangely worried. She heard an old
clock tick-tocking near and turned to look at it. It was time Sam
was home if he was coming. She lay there for several minutes,
during which everything seemed strange and vague.
She presently got up and walked around the room in her bare
feet, but she couldn't for all she tried, throw off a peculiar feeling
that had settled over her. Then she started as something occurred
to her.
"Slim Thomas and Lige Renfro! They live up the alley not
far. I'll put my clothes on and go up there and ask them about
Sam. They ought tu know.” So saying, Lucy got into her clothes,
talking to herself tbe while. She thought about the dream that
had awakened her. "Dere was something funny 'bout dat dream.
It was so real!” She shook her head.
"Sam's been messin' roun', makin' a lot of money an' throwin’
hit away. It wasn't hones' money, and de Lawd don'lak ugly,
and what Sam's been doin' ain' hones'. Ef you do wrong and keep
on doin' wrong and won't stop to pray, de Lawd gwine take a
hand, and when de Lawd is mad, he gwine to punish you sho'."
She finally left the little house in Fry's Alley, and headed for
Slim Thomas and Lige Renfro, who lived together less than two
blocks away in the same alley.
Arriving there a few minutes later, she knocked on the door
thrre times before getting any response. Finally she heard some-
body turn over, listen and then set up, light a lamp and call out:
"Who dat?"
“Hits me, Lige, Lucy. Lemme in."


342
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
After some moving around inside, a pair of bare feet shuffled
toward the door, where they paused and the door was opened, and
Lige looked out. Lucy entered, and by her excitement they re-
alized something was wrong.
“Git up, Slim,” called Lige. Slim was awake, but sleepy, but
sat up.
“What's the mattuh, gal,” said Lige. “What you doin' up dis
late?"
"It's about Sam. He ain' come home.” Lige started, thought
a moment, then looked at her.
“How come?”
“He jes' ain' come home, dats all.”
“Is dat so?” After a thought, “ 'Scuse me. Lemme talk tu
Slim.” He crossed over to Slim, who had his feet on the floor and
was curious. Lige bent over him, talked in a whisper.
"Sam ain't come home. Doctor Stanfield said dey would go
and dig him up. He ain' nevuh dug him up befo'. What you
think?"
“I dunno, Lige. I dunno what to think.”
"I has a 'spicion, Slim. I ain' never trusted Doctuh Stanfield
too much. I ain' nevuh laked his eye.”
“Me, neidder," said Slim. “Does you reckon dat he's plan-
ing tu git rid ob Sam by not diggin' 'im up?"
"He mought be. Who knows. Meantime, Lucy's heah and
she's worried. Supposin' we git du truck and drive out thaiuh and
see what's happened?”
“Ah’m wid yuh. But don't tell Lucy. Send heh home. Ef
we saves Sam we'll brung him to heh."
"Okeh, Slim.” Lige turned around and went back to poor
Lucy who was weeping now. He laid a hand on her shoulder and
patted it.
"Daiuh, daiuh, Lucy, chile. Don' cry no mo. Me an' Slim
gwine look fo' Sam. Ef he's 'live we'll brung him back.”
"God'll bless you, Lige, and Slim, too. Sam's been messin'
roun' and I ain' been able to get him tu pray. You know, de Lawd


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
347
“Yes, Dorothy. I'm sure they will. You'll probably hear from
the Warden tomorrow."
"I hope I will. And how do you feel by now, Walter ...?”
“Sort of bewildered, Dorothy. But it's about you that I am
most cr.ncerned, dear.”
"I'm glad I'll try to be brave.”
“You are brave Dorothy. You've been a brave girl for a long
time. I know that now. I won't talk longer, dear. At such a
grave time, I think it best that you be left alone for awhile. I'll
call again tomorrow."
“Please do, Walter. I'll be expecting to hear from you.”
“I sha!) not tail you, dear. Good night.”
"Good night, Walter.”
Walter Le Baion was sleeping peacefully when about eight o'
clock the next morning, he was awakened by a boy, yelling loudly:
EXTRA' EXTRA! ALL ABOUT THE SENSATIONAL
MURDER ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF MEMPHIS!
WUXTRA!
Le Baron sat up and listened while the boy went on, repeating
his efforts to take advantage of a murder and sell papers. Cur-
iously, Le Baron got up, crossed to the telephone and called the
hotel office. The clerk answered, and after greeting him, Le Baron
said:
“Purchase one of those extras and bring it up to me, please."
“Yes, Mr. Le Baron. I'll do so at once,” the clerk said and
after hanging up, went to the door and called the boy, bought a
copy, looked at the headlines, and then brought the paper upstairs
to Le Baron.
Answering the knock on his door, Le Baron apologized for
having the clerk bring it up.
"You didn't have to do this, if the bell boy wasn't around, Mr.
Anthony," he said. “Meanwhile, step inside until I can find you a
couple of cigars for your trouble."
"Oh, that'll be all right, Mr. Le Baron. I don't mind. The boy


348
THE STORY INFIEL
RYC
OTI
OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
had gone on an errand, so there was nobody to bring it up but
me, but”
“-I am curious to know what the boy was making all that
noise about, so I am most thankful. Meanwhile, here's a couple
of good cigars, so smoke them with my compliments."
"Well, if you insist, thank you and good morning.”
Anthony left the room and went back to the office. Le Baron
went back to bed. It was broad daylight, so he flattened the paper
and proceeded to read what the murder, if there had been one,
was all about, and became interested at once, as he read:
LAWRENCE VAN REVEL, WEALTHY PLANTER
AND BANKER, SLAIN!
Found dead in bed at his plantation residence by
a servant shortly after midnight! Police report
that he had been shot to death in bed. Colored
housekeeper also murdered by the same killer, no
doubt, whom the police believe to be a depraved
Negro, bent on robbery, but who was frightened
away before he was able to steal anything of
value! A motorcycle patrolman dragnet has
been spread over the whole county!
Le Baron lowered the paper and paused thoughtfully. Then,
turning his eyes back to the article, he read on:
Police report that killer escaped, perhaps into the
hills to the east of Memphis. A group of farmers
are reported organizing a posse to surround and
go into the hills where the Negro is presumed to
be in hiding. Armed with rifles and shotguns, it
is feared that the Negro will be shot on sight, or
lynched if he is captured before the sheriff or his
deputies can reach him to prevent it!
Le Baron adjusted his head on the pillow, laid the paper down
and did some more thinking. He was free now to continue his
search for Cleo Johnson, which had been, as we know, interrupted,


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
349
neglected and delayed for two days as a result of meeting Dorothy
Stanfield in the gas station, and the circumstances that followed
the meeting
After some further thought, he decided to drive out to Bob
Martin's in the meantime, and if Martin was not overly busy to
take Bob with him and drive out to the scene of the murder.
So deciding, he called Martin and was not surprised on getting
him, to be told that he had read all about it also and was curious
to know more. He insisted, however, on driving down to the hotel
in his car and picking Le Baron up there and then driving out to
the plantation, which Bob seemed to know about as well as ex-
actly where it was that the banker had been murdered, as well as
the woman referred to, to try to get to the bottom of it.
"There's something funny about the whole thing," said Bob.
“I don't mean the murder of Van Revel, whom I have seen often,
but about the woman. I don't think the papers have printed the
whole truth-or at least, haven't given all the details in connection
with her death.”
“You don't think so, Bob?”
"I am almost certain they have not. The report regarding her
murder, if you've thought about it, is rather vague and indefinite.
Furthermore, they did not print her name. If we may be per-
mitted to view her body, or if I can learn her name, even, which
of course we will be able to find out very shortly, I bet I'll be able
to put two and two together and it will add up to more than what
is before me in this paper."
“I've had the same feeling," said Le Baron, “but wanted to
get your reaction before telling you how I felt about it.”
"Well, get ready, better steal a bite of breakfast before I get
there, as I am having some coffee and doughnuts before I leave,
and I'll pick you up in half an hour."
"Okay, Bob. I'll be ready and waiting when you arrive."
Both men hung up and a half hour later Le Baron, sitting on
the porch of the hotel, saw Bob coming before he got there and
went out and met him, got into the car and they drove away.


350
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
On the way to Van Revel's plantation, Le Baron turned to
Bob, and picked up where they had left off in their conversation
over the telephone.
"Have you an opinion as to why he killed the housekeeper, too,
Bob?"
"If they'd only gave her name, I think I could have laid a
finger on just why, but until I learn who she was I can only
conjecture.”
"I guess we might as well wait until we get there and find out
more about the whole murder. Meanwhile, I wonder who the
Negro is that did the killing. The paper didn't give any descrip-
tion, so I guess we'll have to wait until we get there before we can
find out more about that, too.”
“Van Revel was one of the richest men in Memphis,” Bob
finally said as they neared the plantation. “In addition to owning
and operating several plantations, the most of which he acquired
by foreclosure, he was also president, or chairman of the board,
perhaps, of one of the biggest banks in Memphis, and of all the
South.”
By this time they were in sight of the magnificent plantation
house which was perched on a hill, surrounded by stately old oaks
on a forty-acre lawn, well kept and beautiful, with the mansion,
with mighty pillars, rising high up, clear across the front, reposing
about a quarter of a mile from the highway which it overlooked.
They were stopped near the entrance by a state policeman and
told that no visitors were permitted, except newspaper men and
policemen. They asked the name of the woman who was murdered,
but the officer said he hadn't heard.
Bob backed his car up, turned around and started back to
town. The officer did tell him that the bodies had been removed,
however, and gave the name of the undertaker where Van Revel's
body had been taken, but didn't know which Negro undertaker
got the body of the woman.
"I'll soon find out where it is,” Bob said, as they started back
down the highway toward Memphis, "for I'll drive around to all


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
351
the big ones immediately we get back. It'll probably be at the
Dixie Funeral House, because that is owned by one of the big
white associations uptown, two of which control all the white under-
taking business in town. So they would naturally send her body
to one of the Negro establishments owned by them.”
"Naturally,” said Le Baron.
They had gone about half a mile when they met an old colored
man who looked like a farm hand and they stopped him and
asked him a few questions.
“Hello, uncle,” Bob said.
"Howdy, gene'men's,” he replied, cordially, and seemed glad to
stop and appeared desirous of exchanging words. "How is bo'f
of you all tuday?"
“We're very well, uncle. Hope your health is good.”
“Ah'm jes' tolable, suh. Yes suh, jes' tolable."
“That's good, uncle. Glad to hear it,” said Bob. "Do you
-happen to work somewhere hereabout?”
“Yassuh. Ah wo’ks at de Van Revel plantation."
“Is that so?” Le Baron said, and was immediately all interest.
“Yassuh,” the old Negro went on, "I's been workin' dare a
long time."
"That's interesting, uncle," Bob said, then turned to Le Baron,
who nudged him.
"Then you were, perhaps, well acquainted with the-murdered
man?”
“Yassuh,” he replied promptly.
“Well, well,” Bob said and looked at Le Baron.
“Knowed his pappy befo' him, and his pappy's pappy befo'
him. Ah wo’ked fo' dem, too."
"Indeed! That's very interesting, uncle," Bob said, smiling
on the old man. Le Baron's face was serious and he was thinking
deeply. Raising his head presently, he inquired:
"Did Van Revel have a family, uncle?”
“Sure did. Seven children, and a wife."
'A real family."


354
The STORY OF Dorothy ŚTANFIELD
of the best Negro sections in Memphis. The house sat behind a
lawn, about forty feet from the sidewalk, had all the appearance,
from the outside, of being well kept, and was perhaps well furnished
on the inside. The lawn seemed to have been mowed only a day
or two before. To one side, in the rear, there was a small but
attractive garage, with a paved runway from the street to it. The
runway gave the appearance of having been used, possibly re-
cently.
To avoid attracting any attention, in view of what had just
happened the night before, they drove on by the house, surveying
all that has been described above carefully as they rolled slowly
by, and stopped in front of the house next door and parked the
car. They got out, stepped upon the sidewalk and stood there,
studying the bungalow at that distance and talking about the
place. Presently, they heard a door open, and turned to see a
man come out of the house in front of which they were standing.
Bob smiled after a moment as if in recognition, but not before
the man paused at the edge of the porch and called:
"Hey, Bob! What are you doing out here? Turned detective?”
“Oh, hello Ransom,” Bob cried, raising his hand and waving
at the other.”
“Come upon the porch, set down and rest yourself, you old
rascal," Ransom called back jovially.
Bob took Le Baron by the arm, and led him up the walkway
to Ransom's porch, where Ransom shook hands with him, both
smiling, and then introduced Le Baron. After they were comfort.
ably seated, Bob turned to Ransom and began to talk. We can
surmise about what.
“So somebody killed your beautiful neighbor, Ransom?"
"Shot the hell out of her, along with Van Revel. Such a tragedy!
It shocked the whole neighborhood.”
“That's too bad-to have to go out like that—all of a sudden.
Too bad,” Bob repeated and shook his head deploringly.
“Yes and no,” Ransom observed casually, whereupon both men
turned to look at him.


356
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
Negro woman; the most beautiful of Negro women."
"Now about the man suspected of killing her and Van Revel,
too,” observed Le Baron, guardedly.
"That was a sort of counterplot,” said Ransom and smiled as
if it amused him.
“What kind of a counterplot?” inquired Le Baron, listening
to every word Ransom spoke, carefully, and unnoticed by Ransom.
watching him closely.
"That she was playing both ends against the middle.”
“You incline to talk in riddles, Ransom," said Bob with a bit
of a frown, due to his anxiety to learn something about the woman's
murderer quicker. “Make it plainer, please.”
"Well, she was Van Revel's concubine and had been for years,
for one thing."
"Which is an old, old story—as old as the South itself,” said
Bob with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Of course," admitted Ransom. “Rich white men, beautiful
colored women."
"But getting back to the killer, or the man suspected of killing
her, and Van Revel, of course. It is charged that he was a Negro.
What do you know, if anything, about him?”.
It was Ransom who shrugged his shoulders this time, and went
on to draw his answer out, the men thought, unnecessarily.
"I have little respect for colored women who take a white
man's money and permit him to keep them. They know from the
beginning that no white man dares marry themthey don't expect
the white man to do so, so I'd like to kick every one of them
straight down to hell! That's what I think of them.”
“But we haven't asked you what you thought of such women,
Ransom. We asked if you knew anything about the Negro who
is charged with killing the woman we are talking about."
"I understand what you are talking about, exactly what you
are talking about, but if you want to find out what I can tell you,
1 propose to tell it in the way it pleases me to do so.”
“Go ahead and tell it in your own way, Mr. Ransom,” said Le


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
357
Baron and waved his hand toward Bob Martin to keep quiet.
“Knowing that her white man has no thought of marrying
her, the colored 'kept woman' usually finds and proceeds to go
with some Negro on the side, and gives bim the most of her 'love,'
and often the money the white man gives her."
“Usually some pimp," snorted Bob, with contempt.
"Most times,” said Ransom.
“Had she been going with some Negro on the side?" inquired
Le Baron, pointedly.
“Oh, sure!” exclaimed Ransom. “You'd hardly expect a good-
looking bitch like her, not to have at least one darky on the side.
Before this last Negro came along, there were five or sis spooks
running after her.”
"Getting more interesting," observed Le Baron, crossing his
legs and relaxing to listen to a long preamble by Ransom.
"In regards to this 'last' Negro you just referred to, Ransom,”
said Bob. "Was he a pimp, too?"
Ransom shook his head.
"I don't think so," replied Ransom, and again shook his head.
“Then what?"
"Didn't know so much about him," said Ransom.
"Now, Mr. Ransom, this man that you are referring to, is he
the one, in your opinion, that did the killing?"
"I feel sure that he did.”
“Now, this is getting closer to what we want to know," said
Le Baron. "What we're trying to find out."
"If he wasn't a pimp, then what was he; what did he do?” Bob
asked, and waited for Ransom to reply, ansiously. Le Baren was
more anxious.
"I was told that he was a gambler, and a pool shark.”
Both Le Baron and Bob started, almost recoiled in a new es-
citement, and looked at each other, then turned their eyes back
to Ransom, who was talking again.
"They say the nigger (we called him Scarface, due to an ugly
scar on the left side of his face) was the greatest pool expert that


360
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
sending some dirty nigger around here, asking me questions and
trying to find out about her and what she was doing, understand?"
“Ah, I understand now!” cried Bob, shaking his head, then
looking across at Le Baron, cried:
“Understand what he means, Walter?"
"Oh, surely. He's talking about stool pigeons."
"Exactly," said Bob.
“Dirty bastards, stool pigeoning for a white man, keeping one
of their own women!” Ransom became angry as he recalled it.
"I swore to kill the next sonofabitch that came here trying to
find out something. And that's why I acted as I did. I'm sorry
of course, but just a few moments longer at the way you were
going, and I'd have rushed into the house, got my shotgun and
blown hell out of you."
Le Baron and Bob laughed uproariously, in which Ransom,
still laboring from the excitement he had been under, was forced
to join them.
"Well, men, I'm glad everything is cleared up and that Mr. Le
Baron is a real detective and a high class man. Now may we go
on from here? I assure you I'm not liable to go off half-cocked
any more.”
"That's all right, Mr. Ransom, and you expressed both Mar-
tin's and my sentiments. I wouldn't have blamed you at all for
w what you wanted to do. Please go on with your story."
"Let me have the photograph again. I want to study it,” said
Ransom.
Le Baron obliged him.
"The same Negro. Where did you get the photographs any-
how? In New York? From the police department?”
Le Baron shook his head.
"No, and it is somewhat fortunate that I did not. If they'd
had his picture, I might not have been put on the case and been
running into all the excitement you are giving me by what you are
saying. As to the photograph, I got it in Jacksonville, Florida."
"From away down there? How come?"


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
361
Le Baron related how.
“Come to think of it, you've got the inside on the Memphis
police. Some Negro out there, according to the papers, spotted
this guy, but only, perhaps from a distance and didn't evidently
see this scar on his face, else the papers would have said something
about it. Of course, if he's hidden back in those hills as the
papers say, they've got to find him by and by and when they do"
"_but he is not hid away in any hills, Ransom,” said Le Baron,
and Ransom turned to look at him in surprise.
"My guess is that this man is on his way North somewhere
right now, but let's get back to where we were. You were looking
at the photograph and saying something. Well, what?" This
from Walter Le Baron.
"Looks like some Negro took a slash at his throat with a switch
blade or a razor," Ransom said, studying the photograph again.
"It might have been a woman," suggested Le Baron. "I
wouldn't, of course, know.”
"Of course not, of course not,” said Ransom, hastily.
"But they no doubt missed the jugular, which they were slash-
ing at."
“They didn't understand anything about any jugular, only
knew that they were making for his throat and just missed killing
him perhaps, that's all,” laughed Bob.
"Otherwise he wouldn't have been here to kill Van Revel and
this woman,” Le Baron added with a grimace.
“Just about when did he start going with this Lizzie, as they
called her?” Bob asked.
"Oh, about a month ago, more or less," Ransom replied. Le
Baron did some calculating. The length of time corresponded with
his other notes on Johnson's movements.
"Did you get acquainted with him during the time he was
coming to see her?” Bob interjected at this point.
"Oh, yes. She introduced him to me. I noticed that cut on
his face then and said to myself that 'here's a bad nigger and
some spook took a swipe at him and left his sign.'” All three


362
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
laughed at him.
“And you saw him over there only a few hours before Van
Revel drove by and picked her up? Where was Johnson, which
was his real name, if you didn't happen to know, at that time?"
"He had gone downtown, but you refer to him as Johnson.
That was not the name he was called when she introduced him to
me.”
"No?”
"Oh, no. She called him 'Elliott, Mr. Elliott, and called him
by that name when she introduced him to me."
"An alias, no doubt,” Bob suggested, looking at Le Baron,
who nodded.
"Of which he no doubt had plenty," said Le Baron and mo-
tioned Ransom to go on.
"Did he seem to have money, Mr. Ransom?” Bob asked at
this point.
“Oh, plenty! Wore the best clothes, diamonds everywhere.”
“Big shot,” smiled Bob, amused.
"He killed a man and robbed him of fifteen thousand dollars
before he left New York, where I took up his trail,” said Le
Baron, his face serious. Ransom looked up with renewed interest.
“And you have trailed him right up to Memphis??
“Right into Memphis, Mr. Ransom, but I'm afraid he's gotten
away. I'll probably have to pick it up again, this time out of
Memphis.”
"And you don't think he's hid away in the hills, as the paper
said?”
"This killer was too shrewd to go into any hills for the white
people to look for and run him down, and, perhaps lynch him.
He's gone North is my guess, but there's a lot more I want to
find out before I go fishing for his new trail.”
“You don't think that he might head South again?" suggested
Bob.
"No killer would ever head South, a Negro killer especially,"
said Le Baron, shaking his head. "Nor East or West. He's headed


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
365
"All of which makes what happened a very logical thing."
"Exactly!” exclaimed Ransom.
"Now, returning to the murder, what is your opinion as re-
gards it?”
Ransom started, looked across at the house next door, then
turning back to the men, went on to explain something which
seemed to have just occurred to him.
"There's a girl over there," he said, pointing to the house next
door. "She's Lizzie O'Neal's niece. She stays with her aunt and
came there this afternoon. She's frightened and in hiding. She
doesn't want to be taken downtown, perhaps locked up and have a
lot of cracker police questioning her. She asked me not to tell
anybody she was there, but she has a room there and knows more
about this thing than anybody else. I'll tell you all I know, but
she was in the house when the shooting took place, said she heard
it and the row that preceded it, so you can get the whole lowdown
from her. But just leave her be until I've told you what I know
up to the time.”
“Very well. Now we go back to this Lizzie and Elliott, whom
you say had dinner together before Van Revel came along and
picked her up."
"They did. I could see them at the table in the dining room
which is the big room right across the fence," and Ransom pointed
to a room. Bob and Le Baron looked and could see the dining
room table and a sideboard and china closet through the window.
"Right after they finished their dinner, Elliott helped her clear
the table and wash the dishes, for I could see them in the kitchen
which is behind the dining room. This through, Elliott came out
of the house, got into the car and drove away. About a half hour
later I heard a car drive up and stop and on going to the window
and looking out, I saw Van Revel get out of the car and, crossing
the yard, enter the house. About a half hour later he came out
followed by Lizzie. They got into the car and drove away.”
"Did she have on her mink coat?”
"No," replied Ransom. "I particularly noticed that she did


366
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
not. I couldn't see at this distance, of course, if she was wearing
her diamonds, but doubt if she was. I don't think she let Van
Revel see her wearing any of the clothes and diamonds Elliott
gave her. He may have not known about the car, being a rich
and busy man, but some of his stool pigeons, however, might have
told him, though I wouldn't know that. Now that is all that I
know until later, except to advise that Elliott returned around
midnight, for he drove up in the car after I had gone to bed. but
was not asleep and had my light burning.
"The fact is that, after going into the house and not finding
Lizzie home, and on looking over here and seeing my lights still
on, he came over and asked me about her.”
"What did you tell him," asked Le Baron.
"It was no concern of mine, and I told him the truth; that
she had gone away with Van Revel. It seemed to anger him, for
he frowned, but thanked me and went on back to the house, turned
the lights out, locked the door, went out, got into the car and
drove away. Now if you want to,” said Ransom, “I suggest that
you let me go over and get the girl, bring her over here, but we
will go in the house first-in fact, I'll let you in before I go for
her, and I'll bring her back. She told me a plenty, so I'd like
you to hear the story from her own lips. She trusts me, so won't
be afraid, perhaps to tell you what happened, especially if I tell
her that you're all right.”
"Fine, Ransom," cried Le Baron, rising. All stood then and
Bob said:
“We'll be nice to the kid, so assure her about that.”
"Sure," cried Ransom, and led them inside and seated them.
He left then and they saw him cross to the other side, go around
to the back, and a few minutes later saw him come down the back
steps, followed by the girl.
Bob went back to the rear and opened the door, since he could
see Ransom was going to enter from the rear.
A few moments later all three came into the parlor from the


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
373
heard her crack the door. He turned now and sat up, his eyes
on the door. She closed it quickly.
"Lizzie!” he called, loudly. “Is that you?"
Outside, Lizzie laid a hand on her lips and raised her finger
for silence. Elliott had grown angrier. He refused to be quiet
any longer. He shoved Lizzie aside so hard that she fell to the
floor and Van Revel, on hearing her, jumped out of bed, after
crying:
"What the hell's going on around here?”.
He was wearing a nightgown, and in it he strode across to the
door, arriving there just as Elliott pushed it open and started in,
to meet Van Revel face to face. Van Revel paused, his eyes
flashed, his mouth flew open, but he was so shocked at the sight
of the angry Elliott that he stopped dead still, unable for a moment
to speak. Elliott glared at him.
“What the hell?” Van Revel finally managed to say, then looked
past Elliott to where Lizzie was rising from the floor. His mouth
still open in shocked surprise, he turned his eyes back to Elliott,
and found his voice again.
“Lizzie! What does this mean? This damned nigger here?”
“Oh, Mr. Van Revell” Lizzie cried and started toward him.
Elliott with one quick blow, a sort of uppercut, floored her again,
and she tumbled backward to the floor, kicking up her heels, with
her nightie, all that she had on, flying up around her shoulders,
exposing her entire body to her teaties. But neither man noticed
it, they were so intent on glaring at each other.
“Why, you goddamned black, scarfaced nigger, 12” Van Revel
began and started toward Elliott, who with a well directed blow,
cracked him, squarely on the button, and backward and down went
Van Revel, kicking up his heels and exposing all he had also, as
he tumbled. For a moment he was stunned and lay there, breath-
ing hard. Meanwhile, Lizzie had got up and now on her feet,
dashed past Elliott who caught at her but not well enough to hold
her as she dashed past him and fell on her knees beside Van Revel,
crying:


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD 375
what, and his courage had returned. He had been frightened, but
with Lizzie saying what she did, his nerve had also returned.
“Well, you cheap nigger, hasn't she said enough? Enough for
you to turn around and leave here before I get a gun and shoot
the (word used censored by the author) out of you?”
"Naw, I'm not through,” declared Elliott, calmly. "I'm not
through with either of you. I'm just restraining myself until you
and her get through talking, so go on and talk, you old bastard—”
" why you sassy nigger!” cried Van Revel, cutting off Elliott's
speech and making a move toward him. Lizzie held him back,
but cried:
"Not now, Mr. Van Revel! Wait until the scarfaced sonofa-
bitch gets through running off at the mouth, then take care of
him, and I'll help you."
“Go on, both of you bastards—".
“_ don't call us bastards! Remember, you're talking to a
white man, a rich white man, and I'm his sweety!” and she turned
to embrace Van Revel again but desisted and turned quickly to-
ward Elliott as she heard his voice, sharp and quick!
"Stop it, you dirty whore!”
"Well, I never!” cried Lizzie, then turned to Van Revel.
“Get your gun, Mr. Van Revel and shoot this nigger-shoot
him quick and let's be rid of him!”
Van Revel, flaming with anger, started to turn, but Elliott's
voice, sharp and keen and sizzling with anger, halted his move.
He turned to face the enraged Elliott again:
“Listen, you two! A white man and his dirty nigger wench!”
“Why!”
“Shut up, slut!” cried Elliott, whose tone and expression by
now were sufficiently threatening to begin to awe the others.
"Neither one of you are going to leave this room alive, get
what I mean?"
The others started, and their mouths opened wide.
“I'm letting you live a while longer, only to listen to you talk;
to learn more about your treachery."


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
373
heard her crack the door. He turned now and sat up, his eyes
on the door. She closed it quickly.
"Lizzie!” he called, loudly. “Is that you?”.
Outside, Lizzie laid a hand on her lips and raised her finger
for silence. Elliott had grown angrier. He refused to be quiet
any longer. He shoved Lizzie aside so hard that she fell to the
floor and Van Revel, on hearing her, jumped out of bed, after
crying:
“What the hell's going on around here?”.
He was wearing a nightgown, and in it he strode across to the
door, arriving there just as Elliott pushed it open and started in,
to meet Van Revel face to face. Van Revel paused, his eyes
flashed, his mouth flew open, but he was so shocked at the sight
of the angry Elliott that he stopped dead still, unable for a moment
to speak. Elliott glared at him.
“What the hell?” Van Revel finally managed to say, then looked
past Elliott to where Lizzie was rising from the floor. His mouth
still open in shocked surprise, he turned his eyes back to Elliott,
and found his voice again.
“Lizzie! What does this mean? This damned nigger here?”
“Oh, Mr. Van Revel!” Lizzie cried and started toward him.
Elliott with one quick blow, a sort of uppercut, floored her again,
and she tumbled backward to the floor, kicking up her heels, with
her nightie, all that she had on, flying up around her shoulders,
exposing her entire body to her teaties. But neither man noticed
it, they were so intent on glaring at each other.
“Why, you goddamned black, scarfaced nigger, 14” Van Revel
began and started toward Elliott, who with a well directed blow,
cracked him, squarely on the button, and backward and down went
Van Revel, kicking up his heels and exposing all he had also, as
he tumbled. For a moment he was stunned and lay there, breath-
ing hard. Meanwhile, Lizzie had got up and now on her feet,
dashed past Elliott who caught at her but not well enough to hold
her as she dashed past him and fell on her knees beside Van Revel,
crying:


378
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
"Shut up!” declared Johnson, his anger about out of control.
"I don't want to hear any more! I've made up my mind!” and
Johnson gripped the handle of his revolver in his hip pocket.
Lizzie leaned close to Van Revel's ear and whispered, "Get
your gun and shoot him! It's under the pillow. I put it there.
He hasn't any gun. He's just bluffing.”
Van Revel, excited by now beyond control and his face flaming
with anger, nodded, and Cleo, standing facing them smiled enigma-
tically. While Lizzie didn't think it, Cleo had overheard every
word distinctly, and waited prepared to fire the first shot. He
was watching both, and especially Van Revel as he turned, and
made a step toward the bed. Lizzie stood smiling at Cleo con-
lemptibly, a distinct sheer on her face. Johnson was watching
Van Revel and let him get to the bed and even reach his hand
under the pillow when he cried, loudly and sharply:
"Stop, Van Revel! Don't move a single nerve, for I have
you covered!”
Van Revel started, and turned to look into the muzzle of a
.45 automatic pointed straight at him, menacingly. Lizzie started
and opened her mouth wide in surprise. Then her eyes narrowed
and she relaxed, became taut, preparatory to making a dash for
Johnson and grabbing his trigger hand. But Johnson sensed what
she was planning.
“No you don't, bitch! Instead, just go around the bed, on this
side,” and he pointed out the direction.
"I_”
"Shut up and do what I say—and get doing it quick! Mean-
while, I'm watching you Van Revel, and if you try to get that gun
beneath the pillow, I'll let you have it so quick that you won't
know what struck you."
Lizzie went meekly around the bed and paused about halfway
to look back at him.
“Keep going, and get in the bed on the side that you were when
I knocked on the door at the beginning."
“But, Henry, darling,” she began, whimperingly. The sight of


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD. 379
Cleo, actually holding a desperate-looking pistol on them, had
changed her completely. She realized, perhaps too late, that she
had gone too far.
• “Now get into bed, both of you, just like you were awhile
ago.” They hesitated, but when he shook the gun at them menac-
ingly, they obeyed quickly, albeit embarassedly.
"Lay down in the bed, pull the covers up as you would nor-
mally."
They obeyed, both watching him the while.
“Put your arm around her neck, Van Revel, like you would
your wife if you loved her, or better still, as you did when you
got into the bed awhile ago! I want you to go out of the world
like you've been living in it, loving and passionately fond of each
other, a white man and a treacherous, lying and deceitful nigger
wench!"
“What do you mean, Henry?" Lizzie dared to say, and then
shut quickly up.
"Shut up, bitch! I'm doing the talking, and it's too bad for
you. You might have avoided this had you not been so 'sassy,' as
he put it.”
“What do you mean, Henry, dear?"
Again Cleo laughed, and again that hollow, cold and derisive
laugh.
“ 'Henry, dear,'” he repeated, mockingly. “Gee, playing
around for years with a rich guy like Van Revel there, must have
made a bitch like you nervy! Well, I'll get on with what I started
to say.”
“What was that?” from Lizzie.
“When I came, I of course knew what you were doing out
here; but I was going to try to forget it; to tell you to go to the
bathroom and wash your dirty (word used censored by the author)
then I was going to drive you home, beat hell out of you and
take you away, away tonight, on North toward Chicago and try
to be good to you. You're certainly one pretty wench, as he
chooses to call you,” and he pointed to Van Revel, lying there, too


380
THE STORY OF DOROTHY ŠTANFIELD
frightened to move or do anything. "And it's too bad you've got
to go out like this. There's a lot of excitement in that body of
yours yet for some more white men--and fool Negroes like me!”
He said the last words fast and sharp, and his jaw snapped—then
he suddenly started to cough, and took his eyes off them for a
moment-- just long enough for Lizzie to sit up, reach down, get a
slipper and hurl it at him, striking him full in the face.
“Quick, Mr. Van Revel, get your gun!"
Van Revel sat up quickly, started for it, while Lizzie reaching
beneath the bed got her other slipper, hurled it at Cleo, but missed!
Cleo had ducked, and now Van Revel had his revolver, but was
so nervous and frightened that his aim was bad; he pulled the
trigger- but the bullet went wild and missed! The next moment
Cleo had managed to stand up straight, and with perfect aim,
straight at Van Revel, pulled the trigger of his automatic twice,
the sound reverberating through the big house loudly. Lizzie
screamed, which woke the servants in the outside quarters, and
Then Cleo turned the gun on her, as Van Revel sank back dying,
with the blood spurting from his mouth and nose and ears!
Seeming angrier than before, his eyes standing out like sharp
blue diamonds, Johnson aimed the gun straight at Lizzie and pulled
the trigger three times! Lizzie, with a final gasp, sank back upon
the pillow, dead!
Johnson looked around quickly, backed up, turned and looked
around him and listened. He could hear frightened Negroes down-
stairs and out in the yard around the house. He turned, found
the backstairs which he had come up a few minutes before, and
fled.
We now return to Helen, Lizzie's niece, with Bob, Le Baron
and Ransom, listening excitedly to her narration of how Cleo
Johnson killed her aunt and Lawrence Van Revel at the plantation
house the night before.
“I heard Mr. Elliott open the back door and then heard it
slammed. A moment later I heard the car he drove up in, start,
and on Icoking out the window. saw it dash out into the drive way


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
381
and disappear toward the highway, and then I didn't hear any
more," said Helen, so excited she had to pause and look around
at the men vaguely.
“Now, now, that's quite enough, Helen,' said Ransom kindly, in
which Bob and Le Baron concurred.
“But shouldn't I tell you what happened after Mr. Elliott
left?” Helen said, looking from first one to the other. The men
exchanged expressions.
“What do you think, Mr. Le Baron?” Ransom asked, looking
at Walter, who in turn looked at Helen.
"Do you feel like telling the rest of it, Helen?"
"I think I ought to."
“We were afraid that the ordeal you went through and just
told us of overhearing, might have exhausted you. If you feel all
right, however, you may proceed.”
"I feel all right now.”
"Then you may go on if you like, dear,” said Le Baron and
smiled at her. She returned the smile and continued:
"A few minutes after Mr. Elliott fled, the house was swarming
with servants and field hands, all peeping into the room where
Mr. Van Revel and Aunt Lizzie lay in a puddle of blood. Oh, it
was an awful sight!” and Helen paused to shut out the sight which
she had just visualized. Ransom advanced and laid a hand on
her shoulder.
"Oh, my poor auntie! Her face was so covered with blood
that I didn't recognize her. While I was looking at her, somebody
laid a sheet over the faces of both. Then somebody said: 'Why
don't someone call the police?' Nobody said anything, but they
all turned and looked at me. I knew where the phone was. It
was downstairs but there was a connecting phone on a table be-
side the bed, next to where Mr. Van Revel lay. I didn't want to
use it, and, knowing where the main phone was downstairs, I said:
'I'll call them, and I went downstairs. I picked up the receiver
and when the operator answered I told her that there had been a
murder at Mr. Van Revel's plantation; that Mr. Van Revel and


TEE STOKI OF DROTEX STANFELD
my auntie had been killed. She asked me to hold the telephone
and that she would call me back 4 jew moments later a man
called and asked me what happened. I told him. He said not to
tonda fine bodies, and to wait right there.
"Abort a half hom Izter several motorcycle poñcemen rode up
and crowded into the house and ordered in all into the parlor.
They didn't see me, so I went back upstairs and md in my room.
I listened closely and oorld hear everything that went on
"About an hour later, men drove up and said they were from
the press, and at almost the same time, other men drove up and
said they were from the Coroder's oboe, and had the Coroner with
them. It was all exciting and it weet on von der light and then
most of them went away and I slipped out the back way and went
down to the highway and caught a bus for Memphis. *
"Did they question the servants and the others who were gath-
ered in the parlor. Helen?" inquired Le Baron calmly.
"Oh yes, sir! They questioned almost everybody but me. Is
I told you, they didn't know where I ras because I was hid.”
"How did the colored help reply?"
"Well, most of them had not seen anything, for they had all
come up after Mr. Elliott left. . Some said they saw a man run
away, and that they thought it was a strange colored man."
"Nobody, however, described the man who actually did it?"
"I don't think any of them saw his face. I was nearer it than
anybody else, and I only caught a glimpse of him when he came
up the stairs before it all started.”
“Very well, Helen, we thank you. Meanwhile, just remain
here while we go in another room and decide what to do."
Le Baron rose and the others followed. He beckoned them to
follow him into an adjoining room.
"Now Ransom, we've got all the information we need. All
that needs be done now is just to keep quiet about everything
Don't talk, and to keep the sweet little child from having to
answer possibly a lot of questions from policemen and newspaper
men, who'll show up sooner or later, why not keep her here with


334
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
was over by the window looking down at the house next door, and
since he insisted on carrying on so, I got up in my pajamas and
walked over by the window and lookied out. As I did so, this
man got out of the car which he had parked in the driveway and
crossing, went into the house by the back way. I saw the lights
go on and stood there and watched the house until he came out,
turning off the lights before doing so. When he came out, he had
her fur coat and other matter, including her diamonds, which I will
explain about later. Anyway, he had the fur coat and other matter,
including a suitcase and bag. He came out of the house, locked
the door behind him, crossed back to the car, got in and backed
out of the driveway. He turned and went up the street which
was the last I saw of him."
"And that was all?".
“About him, but this morning, about 8:30, her sister came
running over here and knocked on the door excitedly. After letting
her in, she told me that somebody had gotten into the house, stolen
her sister's fur coat and took her car; had also taken several
dresses and her sister's diamonds, which were locked in a case,
but that they had taken the case and all. While we were standing
and she was telling me about it, a boy came along the street crying
'Extra.' I stopped him and bought a paper-and there in big head-
lines, was an account of the murder and the death of her sister.
She was overcome, but I comforted her the best I could and finally
managed to get her back over there, and just as I was about to
leave, little Helen came in, frightened out of her wits, and told us
all about it."
"Well, that is that,” said Le Baron and rose to his feet. The
others followed and they walked to the edge of the porch where
they paused again. Le Baron turned back to Ransom with another
iriquiry.
"If he went that way, it looks like he must have been headed
for the big bridge across the Mississippi, don't you think?".
“That street leads you almost straight to it,” acknowledged
Pansom, and Bob confirmed it.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
381
and disappear toward the highway, and then I didn't hear any
more,” said Helen, so excited she had to pause and look around
at the men vaguely.
"Now, now, that's quite enough, Helen," said Ransom kindly, in
which Bob and Le Baron concurred.
“But shouldn't I tell you what happened after Mr. Elliott
left?” Helen said, looking from first one to the other. The men
exchanged expressions.
"What do you think, Mr. Le Baron?” Ransom asked, looking
at Walter, who in turn looked at Helen.
"Do you feel like telling the rest of it, Helen?”
"I think I ought to."
"We were afraid that the ordeal you went through and just
told us of overhearing, might have exhausted you. If you feel all
right, however, you may proceed.”
"I feel all right now.”
"Then you may go on if you like, dear,” said Le Baron and
smiled at her. She returned the smile and continued:
"A few minutes after Mr. Elliott fled, the house was swarming
with servants and field hands, all peeping into the room where
Mr. Van Revel and Aunt Lizzie lay in a puddle of blood. Oh, it
was an awful sight!” and Helen paused to shut out the sight which
she had just visualized. Ransom advanced and laid a hand on
her shoulder.
"Oh, my poor auntie! Her face was so covered with blood
that I didn't recognize her. While I was looking at her, somebody
laid a sheet over the faces of both. Then somebody said: 'Why
don't someone call the police?' Nobody said anything, but they
all turned and looked at me. I knew where the phone was. It
was downstairs but there was a connecting phone on a table be-
side the bed, next to where Mr. Van Revel lay. I didn't want to
use it, and, knowing where the main phone was downstairs, I said:
'I'll call them, and I went downstairs. I picked up the receiver
and when the operator answered I told her that there had been a
murder at Mr. Van Revel's plantation; that Mr. Van Revel and


Chapter CHAPTER
XXV
FTER BOB MARTIN dropped Walter Le Baron at the
Dolphin Hotel and drove on to his home or South Park-
way, Le Baron went into a huddle with himself. Accord-
ing to his calculations, if Cleo Johnson headed North toward St.
Louis and Chicago, and crossed over into Arkansas to do so, which
is the most popular auto bridge route north out of Memphis, then
he would have crossed the big bridge between three a. m. and five
a. m. that morning. The first thing to check on then would be to
find out what time the collectors of tolls at the bridge's entrance,
which was on the Tennessee side, changed watches.
He got into his car forthwith then, and drove out to the bridge,
got out and went up to the toll station where he was told that there
were three shifts; and that the man who came on at midnight
would be relieved at eight the following morning.
Returning to the hotel he purchased an evening paper, which
also carried a headline account of Van Revel's murder, and that
of Lizzie O'Neal, but in keeping with what had already appeared
in the morning paper, did not refer to her as Van Revel's concu-
bine, nor say that she had been found in bed with Van Revel when
the bodies were discovered. They did not even indicate in any
way that Van Revel was intimate with the woman. Much space
was devoted to the group of farmers who had organized a posse
and were scouring the hills in search of the killer, all of which
caused Walter Le Baron to smile.
It was with quiet satisfaction that Le Baron saw no account or
description of the murderer, further than to say that it was a
386


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
387
Negro. So Walter Le Baron sighed with his quiet satisfaction and
decided that since no one reported seeing Johnson, and there being
no description given of the killer in either of the Memphis papers,
he could inquire anywhere regarding Johnson without arousing sus-
picion. Thereupon he decided to return to the toll station at the
big bridge shortly after midnight and find out if Johnson had
crossed as he felt he had. While Johnson would have more than a
twenty-four hour start, since Le Baron did not plan to leave
Memphis until the following morning or even later, he knew that
he was at last on the heels of his man and could hope to catch up
with him somewhere, in St. Louis or Chicago, though most likely
in Chicago proper where Johnson would probably remain after he
arrived for an indefinite period.
That over, his plans laid, the balance of the afternoon and
evening were open, free and clear--and then he thought of Dor-
othy and sighed happily! Promptly, therefore, he got in touch
with her by telephone.
"Hello, darling,” he said, after hearing her voice from the other
cnd.
"Hello," she called back, and seemed happy and excited on
hearing his voice. "Oh, Walter, where have you been all day?
I've been so anxious regarding you—and your safety.”
“Most busy, sweetheart. So busy that I couldn't even pause
long enough to call you.” .
"I thought that it was, perhaps, something like that, but I did
expect a call from you," she said, poutingly. “I stayed in the
house all day, waiting for and looking for a call from you.”
“That's a darling, Dorothy, dear, and I'm sorry that I didn't
pause and divert from what I was doing long enough to call you.
Please accept an apology now, dear.”
"No apology is necessary, Walter. Duty is first and I can
imagine how important time has been for you today. You gave
up your work to-entertain me a whole day longer than you should
have, so I am satisfied regarding that. I just missed you all day,
and of course, I was longing to see you—and incidentally, anxious


334
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
was over by the window looking down at the house next door, and
since he insisted on carrying on so, I got up in my pajamas and
walked over by the window and lookied out. As I did so, this
man got out of the car which he had parked in the driveway and
crossing, went into the house by the back way. I saw the lights
go on and stood there and watched the house until he came out,
turning off the lights before doing so. When he came out, he had
her fur coat and other matter, including her diamonds. which I will
explain about later. Anyway, he had the fur coat and other matter,
including a suitcase and bag. He came out of the house, locked
the door behind him, crossed back to the car, got in and backed
out of the driveway. He turned and went up the street which
was the last I saw of him.”
"And that was all?”
"About him, but this morning, about 8:30, her sister came
running over here and knocked on the door excitedly. After letting
her in, she told me that somebody had gotten into the house, stolen
her sister's fur coat and took her car; had also taken several
dresses and her sister's diamonds, which were locked in a case,
but that they had taken the case and all. While we were standing
and she was telling me about it, a boy came along the street crying
'Extra.' I stopped him and bought a paper-and there in big head-
lines, was an account of the murder and the death of her sister.
She was overcome, but I comforted her the best I could and finally
managed to get her back over there, and just as I was about to
leave, little Helen came in, frightened out of her wits, and told us
all about it.”
"Well, that is that,” said Le Baron and rose to his feet. The
others followed and they walked to the edge of the porch where
they paused again. Le Baron turned back to Ransom with another
ir:quiry.
"If he went that way, it looks like he must have been headed
for the big bridge across the Mississippi, don't you think?”.
"That street leads you almost straight to it," acknowledged
Pansom, and Bob confirmed it.


CHAPTER
Chapter XXV
FTER BOB MARTIN dropped Walter Le Baron at the
Dolphin Hotel and drove on to his home on South Park-
· way, Le Baron went into a huddle with himself. Accord-
ing to his calculations, if Cleo Johnson headed North toward St.
Louis and Chicago, and crossed over into Arkansas to do so, which
is the most popular auto bridge route north out of Memphis, then
he would have crossed the big bridge between three a. m. and five
a. m. that morning. The first thing to check on then would be to
find out what time the collectors of tolls at the bridge's entrance,
which was on the Tennessee side, changed watches.
He got into his car forthwith then, and drove out to the bridge,
got out and went up to the toll station where he was told that there
were three shifts; and that the man who came on at midnight
would be relieved at eight the following morning.
Returning to the hotel he purchased an evening paper, which
also carried a headline account of Van Revel's murder, and that
of Lizzie O'Neal, but in keeping with what had already appeared
in the morning paper, did not refer to her as Van Revel's concu-
bine, nor say that she had been found in bed with Van Revel when
the bodies were discovered. They did not even indicate in any
way that Van Revel was intimate with the woman. Much space
was devoted to the group of farmers who had organized a posse
and were scouring the hills in search of the killer, all of which
caused Walter Le Baron to smile.
It was with quiet satisfaction that Le Baron saw no account or
description of the murderer, further than to say that it was a
on
386


394
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
“Where, Walter?".
“Yes, dear. You see, he was wanted for the murder of Isadore
Zacarrio before he left New York, where a fifteen thousand dollar
reward has been offered also for his capture and delivery. A con-
viction of course will be forthcoming. Since I left New York with
plans to capture him and take him back there, and since he mur-
dered and robbed Zacarrio before he killed Van Revel and Lizzie
O'Neal, I would rather, if fortunate enough to catch him, return
him to New York than to bring him back here."
"So?"
“Well, I just feel that New York is entitled to him before Mem-
phis, that is all. If they had gotten a picture of him here, or had
secured one in New York, with all that scar on his left cheek, he
would have been picked up long ago.”
"I'll bet,” said Dorothy.
“But with his picture and a complete description of him, I
almost feel that I know Johr-on, so you can appreciate how anxious
I am to pick his trail up and run him to earth just as quickly as
possible, after which I could return to Memphis, marry the love-
liest girl in all the world and get ready for a life of happiness,"
so saying, he caught and squeezed both hands, which squeeze she
returned as warmly. He leaned forward now, and they exchanged
a kiss across the table.
“Not afraid of me like you were last night?”
“Oh, darling, no,” she cried as the blood flushed to her cheeks.
"I wasn't exactly afraid of you then.”
“No?"
“I was afraid of myself. I was afraid to admit-even to my-
self, that it was possible to meet a man and fall so madly in love
with him, as I had with you, all in one day.”
“And yet you had. You had because I had also fallen so
madly in love with you."
“Love is strangely mutual, and that's what makes it so sweet,"
and she smiled up at him happily, and squeezed his hands again
and again. He leaned across the table, and they exchanged an-


398
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
He waited and she paused and continued to look up into his face
with a greater trust, it seemed, even, than she had before. He
knew and she also knew, that she was only playing when she an-
swered, but both were enjoying the play.
“How much do you love me, Walter?”.
He gazed into her eyes, which twinkled, but pleased him, and
she seemed to belong to him more than before, as he did so.
“I could just about eat you, darling, if to love you more were
possible;" and closing his eyes, they found each other's lips and
the kiss exchanged was long and endearing.
“And now I will ask you the question you just asked me,
Walter. Are you quite sure that you love me as much as I do
you, sweetheart?”
"I couldn't love you more; I wouldn't even know how to start
trying. My great effort, and what is worrying me, until I have
run a desperate criminal to earth is, if I can get you off my mind
long enough to concentrate on my search. I'm liable to fall, as I
have fallen since meeting you, into a state of mooning about you
to the point that I might forget for a time, what I am out to do."
On hearing this, the smile died in her eyes and the same was
replaced by sudden fear! She became taut, sat straight up, and
cried, excitedly:
"Oh, Walter, you must not do that! Please, darling, what
would happen to me if--if that desperado should see you first,
conceive that you were a detective and after him—and shoot you
before you could do anything or make any move to protect your-
self?”
“There, there, darling! I said that I felt like forgetting every-
thing and thinking only of you-but that didn't mean that I am
going to that I am even liable to."
“You know, Walter," she went on in that same anxious and
excited manner, "you don't just belong to Walter Le Baron any
longer. You belong to Dorothy Stanfield and when you leave me
to go North after this very bad man, I will be praying and waiting
and longing for you, in due time, to come back to me, darling.


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
399
Please think of that, while you're thinking of me, too, darling.”
"Bless your dear heart, Dorothy,” he said and drew her to
him and kissed her passionately. He held her close and patted
her shoulders and felt her breast, rising and falling as she breathed
against his. After relaxing, and holding his hands and playing
with them unconsciously, she went on:
"Please, Walter, stay on guard all the time and force yourself
to forget me as much as you can, for from the time you leave
Memphis on, I shall start and continue on the anxious seat every
day, just about every hour in the day regarding your safety. Please
let us agree, or at least promise me, that you will try to write me
every day. Just make it a part of your routine to send me some
kind of message. I will be happy to just receive even a word,
like, if no more, just 'Walter. Remember, that will relieve me
greatly, but send something, darling, every day. Will you try
to, Walter?”
“I shall do even more than that, darling. I will send you a
telegram every day, so that you will know that I am safe and well
the same day you get it.”
"Oh, Walter, my beloved," she cried, throwing her arms about
him, “That will be just too wonderful for words!” She kissed
him then, many times.
"So prepare from tonight, dear heart, to look for a message,
and not be afraid when it arrives and before you open it, and think
it means—anything about death.” He paused to laugh and she
laughed also, for both were thinking the same thing; that telegrams
might mean a death.
It seemed to lessen their tension, and permitted him to relax
and turn and look at the clock in the panel before them.
“Gracious!” he cried. "It is after eleven!”
"Time we were starting back," she said, and turned to face
forward, then looked up at him, as he touched the starter and
stepped on the gas.
“I'll say!"
The great motor was throbbing now, and upon looking down,
him
with Walter, my he


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
403
tc that effect. He left the office satisfied, but also left several anx-
ious and even jealous Memphis officers, who had a feeling that if
Van Revel's murderer was finally captured, it was most likely that
Walter Le Baron would be the man who would do it.
Le Baron went back to the hotel, paid his bill, checked out, got
into his car, drove by Dorothy's and kissed her and bid her good-
bye, then struck out for St. Louis, crossing the big bridge to the
Arkansas side, then turned northward for St. Louis, where he ar-
rived about nine o'clock that night.
Having been to St. Louis, he knew where all the hotels that
Negroes frequented were located. He drove around to several
before checking in, but was finally rewarded with the information
he was seeking at a hotel located at Jefferson Avenue and 26th
Street. He was advised that Johnson had spent the previous night
at that hotel, but had checked out early that morning. presumably
for Chicago, although he hadn't said where.
He wired Dorothy regarding the information he had secured,
and that he was spending the night in St. Louis and would drive
on through to Chicago the next day, and would wire her again on
arrival there, then he went to bed.
He enjoyed a good night's sleep, partook of a delightful break-
fast and then swung down the river a few blocks and crossed the
Free bridge across into East St. Louis, Illinois, turned left into
Highway 66, and headed for Chicago via Springfield where he
gassed, had lunch, made some inquiries, and smiled with satis-
faction when told in reply to his question, that Johnson had passed
through Springfield the day before. Furthermore, Johnson had had
lunch at the same place he dined, and left and drove north on 66,
which would be for Chicago as he suspected.
Le Baron knew that Johnson would not stop short of Chicago,
but reckoned that he might not be as easily found there, since the
Negro section of Chicago is about the largest from the standpoint
of square miles of any city in the United States, though New York
City has a larger Negro population. So after his arrival there, he
estimated that he might have to put in a lot of hard work, driving


404
THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
around the Negro section before possibly picking up Johnson's
trail.
He put in the entire first day, following the night of his arrival,
driving from one hotel to another throughout the great Negro
section on the South Side, but failed to pick up any trace of John-
son. The next day he drove to the North Side and made a canvass
there, and from there to the West Side, which has a large colored
population, with the same results, no Johnson had been seen or
heard of anywhere! Yet he felt positive that Johnson was in the
city, and might have gotten wise that it would be safer to stop in
a private home; that the hotels might be canvassed by detectives
in a search for him, since the murder of Van Revel was something
that would perhaps bring about a long and concentrated search
for him.
Operating on a hunch, later, Le Baron started to contact pool
halls, hundreds of which were operating on the South Side, and he
knew it would take days to call on all of them, and if he failed to
pick up Johnson's trail at any, then it would be still harder for
him to get anywhere, seeking out crap-shooters and the thousands
of places they were likely to engage in it.
Three days went by and still he picked up no trace of John-
son. He decided to take an out-of-town flyer. Pickings might be
easier for Johnson in his profession in the towns around Chicago.
Accordingly, he drove to and canvassed Gary, Indiana, then drove
north, canvassed Evanston, then on to Milwaukee, Wisconsin-
still no trace of Cleo Johnson, easily recognizable by the scar on
his face, anywhere!
He began to get anxious about him. Where had the Negro
hidden himself?
He wrote Dorothy a long letter and told her of his thus far, ill
luck, but that he still felt sure that Johnson was in Chicago, and
that he would start on a new round of the pool halls, since Johnson
usually began his gambling operations from pool halls, where he
met men given to shooting craps and Le Baron had learned that
it was at pool halls that one could find out more about where to


410
THE STOPY of DOROTHY STANFIELD
reached for the second one. It was a tense situation, for both
were disturbed and annoyed by the cursing, and scrambling and
shrieking going on in the rear, and were tempted to look for a
moment at least in that direction, for if any had guns, they might
start shooting back there—which would be just too bad!
However, each evidently decided that he had to take that
chance, and to look after his own safety for the gun of the man
facing him, was uppermost. Accordingly, they continued to ex-
change shots at intervals, with Johnson hoping that he could get
Le Baron, and make his escape by the front way before outside
police help would come to Le Baron's assistance.
And while he was trying to think himself out of a desperate
situation, Le Baron was doing some thinking, too. As stated, his
ambition was to take Johnson alive, but if not-dead, of course.
But he was thinking fast, of a way to take him alive first.
He was squatting behind one end of the large and heavy table,
the bottom of which he could see reached within a foot of the floor
upon which it rested. He estimated that if he could fire a shot
under the table and strike Johnson in the foot, he might lose pos-
session of his gun long enough for him to rush forward and go
into action with him at close quarters. It was a long chance and
a risky one, but he knew that he had to do something before he
would have to reload, and which might give Cleo his chance.
Accordingly, he fired a shot across the table to detract atten-
tion and heard Johnson duck low to avoid taking it-and then in
a flash, Le Baron dropped on one knee, looked under the table,
saw Johnson's feet on the floor and the lower half of his buttocks
and knew that he was squatting. Taking careful aim, he pulled
the trigger, the gun barked and the bullet went straight into John-
son's foot and he screamed, fell over, lost possession of his re-
volver, which Le Baron heard slide away, and he bounded to his
feet like a tiger, rushed around the table and jumped on top of
Johnson who was writhing in pain, overpowered him for a moment
and got the handcuffs on one wrist before Johnson could recover,
and realize what was going on! But before Le Baron could get


410
THE STOPY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
reached for the second one. It was a tense situation, for both
were disturbed and annoyed by the cursing, and scrambling and
shrieking going on in the rear, and were tempted to look for a
moment at least in that direction, for if any had guns, they might
start shooting back there—which would be just too bad!
However, each evidently decided that he had to take that
chance, and to look after his own safety for the gun of the man
facing him, was uppermost. Accordingly, they continued to ex-
change shots at intervals, with Johnson hoping that he could get
Le Baron, and make his escape by the front way before outside
police help would come to Le Baron's assistance.
And while he was trying to think himself out of a desperate
situation, Le Baron was doing some thinking, too. As stated, his
ambition was to take Johnson alive, but if not-dead, of course.
But he was thinking fast, of a way to take him alive first.
He was squatting behind one end of the large and heavy table,
the bottom of which he could see reached within a foot of the floor
upon which it rested. He estimated that if he could fire a shot
under the table and strike Johnson in the foot, he might lose pos-
session of his gun long enough for him to rush forward and go
into action with him at close quarters. It was a long chance and
a risky one, but he knew that he had to do something before he
would have to reload, and which might give Cleo his chance.
Accordingly, he fired a shot across the table to detract atten-
tion and heard Johnson duck low to avoid taking it—and then in
a flash, Le Baron dropped on one knee, looked under the table,
saw Johnson's feet on the floor and the lower half of his buttocks
and knew that he was squatting. Taking careful aim, he pulled
the trigger, the gun barked and the bullet went straight into John-
son's foot and he screamed, fell over, lost possession of his re-
volver, which Le Baron heard slide away, and he bounded to his
feet like a tiger, rushed around the table and jumped on top of
Johnson who was writhing in pain, overpowered him for a moment
and got the handcuffs on one wrist before Johnson could recover,
and realize what was going on! But before Le Baron could get


THE STORY OF DOROTHY STANFIELD
413
happy! She read the telegram over and over again to be sure
that it meant what it said, and that her anxiety over the safety
of the man she loved, was at an end, and she could relax at last
into the calm and peace of their romance and await the day when
he would return to Memphis, or when he would send for her, and
they could be happy.
She wrote a telegram to him, rewrote it several times, then
called it to the Western Union Office over the telephone, and retired
to rest and think of him without anything to restrain her great love
any longer.
Dorothy Stanfield was so greatly relieved and happy at the
sudden turn of events, that she remained in bed for many hours
and continued to think of Walter Le Baron. The last barrier to
their marriage and future happiness had been removed by the cap-
ture and arrest of the desperado, Cleo Johnson in Chicago, whom
Le Baron had trailed over most of the South. First, out of the
North into the South, then out of the South back into the North
again. But because of which, however, she might have never met
him in the gas station on Beale Street that Sunday morning. It
was all, as she looked back on it, so strange, so unusual!
As she continued to relive her past with Stanfield, she recalled
when and how unhappiness and disappointment began-on their
boneymoon trip to Chicago! Never had she been able to erase
that trip—and of his almost insane performance that first night in
a Pullman berth on their way North! She recalled how, on their
arrival in Chicago and after registering in at the Vincennes hotel,
that the first thing she did was to sit down and write her parents,
begging them in a long letter, to come and get her, and to apply
for an annulment of the marriage forthwith! Had they done as
she asked them to, years of bitter misery and unhappiness that she
later suffered, could not have happened.
Nevertheless, she had never faulted them for persuading her
to try it longer. Then came his first arrest—and disgrace-chargeri
with the crime of abortion! The trial then, and of his acquittal,
due in a large share to his smart, Jewish lawyer, Leo Bernstein;