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Finally she said, more gently: "Frank, you'll help him if you can I know." He nodded. It was late. Aleta had to hurry to the theatre. Frank left her there and walked down Sutter street. He turned south toward Heney's office. It was in a little house between Geary and O'Farrell, up a short flight of stairs. Above were the living quarters of Heney and his companion, half clerk, half bodyguard.
Huge black headlines announced that Heney's assailant had shot himself to death in his cell. While Heney lay upon the operating table of a San Francisco hospital, three prominent attorneys volunteered to take his place. They were Hiram Johnson, Matt I. Sullivan and J.J. Dwyer.
The jury disagreed. The Prosecution's first battle against the "higher-ups" had brought no victory. Ruef was failing Heney as a witness for the people. After months of bargaining the special prosecutor withdrew his tacit offer of immunity. Heney's patience with the wily little Boss, who knew no end of legal subterfuge, was suddenly exhausted.
Heney had been insisting that Fulton was in league with the men we were prosecuting, and that he had recommended unfit men. Fulton had been protesting against my following Heney's advice, particularly as regards appointing Judge Wolverton as United States Judge. Finally Heney laid before me a report which convinced me of the truth of his statements.
Scores of graders dropped their tools and started off on a trot. The prospector who had told the fable had thrown his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the general direction. Nobody had thought to ask how far. Many forgot to let go; and Heney's picks and shovels, worth over a dollar apiece, went away with the stampeders.
He saw two men hasten down the steps of Heney's office, almost leap into the car. Instantly it drove off. Frank, who followed to the corner, saw it traveling at high speed toward Fillmore street. He looked about for a motor cab in which to follow. There was none in sight. Reluctantly he turned toward home. He had been outwitted, doubtless by a watcher. But not completely.
"He'll never succeed," said the other explosively. "Frank Heney's not that kind. He'll fight on till he drops.... But I hate to see those boughten lawyers ragging him in court." Langdon, more phlegmatic of temperament, stood the gaff with less apparent friction. Hiram Johnson gave aid now and then which was always of value.
For he was morally certain that one of the men who left Heney's office was Big Jim Gallagher. That visit was significant. From his hotel Frank tried to locate the editor of his paper by telephone. He was not successful. He went to bed, disgusted, after leaving a daylight call. It was still dark when he dressed the next morning, the previous evening's events fresh in his thought.
There was a light in the office, but the shades of the bay-window were tightly drawn. Frank rang the bell, which was not immediately answered. Finally the bodyguard came to the door. "Mr. Heney's very busy, very busy." He seemed tremendously excited. "Very well," said Frank; "I'll come tomorrow." "We'll have big news for you," the man announced. He shut the door hastily and double-locked it.
Everyone had heard the tale from one to half a dozen times. Heney was at the attorneys' table talking animatedly with an assistant. The jury had left the room and Gallagher stepped down from the stand to have a word with the prosecutor. A few feet away was Heney's bodyguard lolling, plainly bored by the testimony. There was the usual buzz of talk which marks a lull in court proceedings.
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