Sara Andrews listened to the short trial and sentence of Matthew Towns in Chicago in early January, 1924, with narrowed eyelids, clicking her stenographer’s pencil against her teeth. She was not satisfied. She had followed the Klan meeting with professional interest, then the porters’ strike and Matthew’s peculiar case. There was, she was certain, more here than lay on the surface, and she walked back to Sammy Scott’s office in a brown study.
Sara Andrews was thin, small, well tailored. Only at second glance would you notice that she was “colored.” She was not beautiful, but she gave an impression of cleanliness, order, cold, clean hardness, and unusual efficiency. She wore a black crépe dress, with crisp white organdie collar and cuffs, chiffon hose, and short-trimmed hair. Altogether she was pleasing but a trifle disconcerting to look at. Men always turned to gaze at her, but they did not attempt to flirt—at least not more than once.
Miss Andrews was self-made and independent. She had been born in Indiana of the union of a colored chambermaid in the local hotel and a white German cook. The two had been duly married and duly divorced after the cook went on a visit to Germany and never returned. Then her mother died, and this girl fought her way through school; she forced herself into the local business college, and she fought off men with a fierceness and determination that scared them. It became thoroughly understood in Richmond that you couldn’t “fool” with Sara Andrews. Local Lotharios gave up trying. Only fresh strangers essayed, and they received direct and final information. She slapped one drummer publicly in the Post Office and nearly upset evening prayer at St. Luke’s, to the discomfiture of a pious deacon who sat beside her and was praying with his hands.
For a long time she was the only “colored” person in town, except a few laborers; and although almost without social life or intimate friends, she became stenographer at the dry goods “Emporium” at a salary which was regarded as fabulous for a young woman. Then Southern Negroes began to filter in as laborers, and the color line appeared, broad and clear, in the town. Sara Andrews could have ignored it and walked across so far as soda fountains and movie theaters were concerned, but she wouldn’t. A local druggist wanted to marry her and “go away.” She refused and suddenly gave up her job and went to Chicago. There, in 1922, she became secretary to the Honorable Sammy Scott.
The Honorable Sammy was a leading colored politician of Chicago. He was a big, handsome, brown man, with smooth black hair, broad shoulders, and a curved belly. He had the most infectious smile and the most cordial handshake in the city and the reputation of never forgetting a face. Behind all this was a keen intelligence, infinite patience, and a beautiful sense of humor. Sammy was a coming man, and he knew it.
He was, in popular parlance, a “politician.” In reality he was a super-business man. In the Second Ward with its overflowing Negro population, Sammy began business in 1910 by selling the right to gamble, keep houses of prostitution, and commit petty theft, to certain men, white and black, who paid him in cash. With this cash he bribed the city officials and police to let these people alone and he paid a little army of henchmen to organize the Negro voters and see that they voted for officials who could be bribed.
Sammy did not invent this system—he found it in full blast and he improved it. He replaced white ward heelers with blacks who were more acceptable to the colored voters and were themselves raised from the shadow of crime to well-paid jobs; some even became policemen and treated Negro prisoners with a certain consideration. Some became clerks and civil servants of various sorts.
Then came migration, war, more migration, prohibition, and the Riot. Black Chicago was in continual turmoil, and the black vote more than doubled. Sammy’s business expanded enormously; bootlegging became a prime source of graft and there was more gambling, more women for sale, and more crime. Men pushed and jostled each other in their eagerness to pay for the privilege of catering to these appetites. Sammy became Alderman from the Second Ward and committeeman, representing the regular Second Ward Republican organization on the County Central Committee. He made careful alliance with the colored Alderman in the Third Ward and the white Aldermen from the other colored wards. He envisaged a political machine to run all black Chicago.
But there were difficulties—enormous difficulties. Other Negro politicians in his own and other wards, not to mention the swarm of white bosses, had the same vision and ambition as Sammy—they must all be reconciled and brought into one organization. As it was now, Negroes competed with each other and fought each other, and the white party bosses, setting one against the other, got the advantage. It was at this stage of the game that Sara Andrews joined Sammy’s staff.
When Sara Andrews applied to the Honorable Sammy for work, he hired her on the spot because she looked unusually ornamental in her immaculate crépe dress, white silk hose, and short-trimmed hair. She had intelligent, straight gray eyes, too, and Sammy liked both intelligence and gray eyes. Moreover, she could “pass” for white—a decided advantage on errands and interviews.
Sammy’s office was on State Street at the corner of Thirty-second. Most of the buildings around there were old frame structures with living-quarters above and stores below. On each corner were brick buildings planned like the others, but now used wholly for stores and offices. The entrance to Sammy’s building was on the Thirty-second Street side; a dingy gray wooden door opened into a narrow hall of about three by four feet. Thence rose a flight of stairs which startled by its amazing steepness as well as its darkness. At the top of the stairs, the hall was dim and narrow, with high ceilings, At the end was a waiting-room facing State Street. It was finished with a linoleum rug that did not completely cover the soft wood floor; its splinters insisted on pulling away as if to avoid the covering of dark red paint. There were two desks in the waiting room, some chairs, and a board upon which were listed “Apartments for rent.” Sash curtains of dingy white, held up with rods, were at the windows, and above them in gold letters were painted the names of various persons and of “Samuel Scott, Attorney at Law.”
A railing about three feet high made an inner sanctum, and beyond was a closed door marked “Private.” Back here in Sammy’s private office lay the real center of things, and in front of this and within the rail, Sammy installed Sara. The second day she was there, Sammy kissed her. That was four years ago, and Sammy had not kissed her since. He had not even tried. Just what happened Sammy never said; he only grinned, and all his friends ever really knew was that Sammy and Sara were closeted together for a full half-hour after the kiss and that Sara did most of the talking. But Sara stayed at her job, and she stayed because Sammy discovered that she was a new asset in his business; first of all, that she was a real stenographer. He did not have to dictate letters, which had always been a difficult task. He just talked with Sara and signed what she brought him a few minutes later.
“And believe me,” said Sammy, “she writes some letter!”
Indeed Sara brought new impetus and methods into Sammy’s business. When that kiss failed, Sammy was afraid he had got hold of a mere prude and was resolved to shift her as soon as possible. Then came her letter-writing and finally her advice. She listened beautifully, and Sammy loved to talk. She drew out his soul, and gradually he gave her full confidence. He discovered to his delight that Sara Andrews had no particular scruples or conscience. Lying, stealing, bribery, gambling, prostitution, were facts that she accepted casually. Personally honest and physically “pure” almost to prudery, she could put a lie through the typewriter in so adroit a way that it sounded better than the truth and was legally fireproof. She recognized politics as a means of private income, and her shrewd advice not only increased the office revenue, but slowly changed it to safer and surer forms. “Colored cabarets are all right,” said Sara, “but white railroads pay better.”
She pointed out that not only would the World-at-Play pay for privilege and protection, but the World-at-Work would pay even more. Retail merchants, public service corporations, financial exploiters, all wanted either to break the law or to secure more pliable laws; and with postwar inflation, they would set no limit of largesse for the persons who could deliver the goods. Sammy must therefore get in touch with these Agencies in the White World. Sammy was skeptical. He still placed his chief reliance on drunkards, gamblers, and prostitutes. “Moreover,” he said, “all that calls not only for more aldermen but more members of the legislature and Negroes on the bench.”
“Sure,” answered Sara, “and we got to push for Negro aldermen in the Sixth and Seventh Wards, a couple of more members of the legislature, a judge, and a congressman.”
“And each one of them will set up as an independent boss, and what can I do with them?”
“Defeat ’em at next election,” said Sara, “and that means that you’ve got to get a better hold on the Negro vote than you’ve got. Oh, I know you’re mighty popular in the policy shops, but you’re not so much in the churches. You’re corralling the political jobs and ward organizations, but you must get to be popular—get the imagination of the rank and file.”
Sammy hooted the suggestion, and Sara said nothing more for a while. But she had set Sammy thinking. She always did that.
In fine, Sara Andrews became indispensable to the Honorable Sammy Scott, and he knew that she was. He would have liked to kiss and cuddle her now and then when they sat closeted together in the den which she had transformed into an impressive, comfortable, and singularly official office. She was always so cool and clean with her slim white hands and perfect clothes. But all she ever allowed was a little pat on the shoulder and an increase in salary. Now and then she accepted jewelry and indicated clearly just what she wanted.
Then for a while Sammy half made up his mind to marry her, and he was about sure she would accept. But he was a little afraid. She was too cold and hard. He had no mind to embrace a cake of ice even if it was well groomed and sleek.
“No,” said Sammy to himself and to his friends and even to Sara in his expansive moments, after a good cocktail, “no, I’m not a marrying man.”
Sara was neither a prude nor a flirt. She simply had a good intellect without moral scruples and a clear idea of the communal and social value of virginity, respectability, and good clothes. She saved her money carefully and soon had a respectable bank account and some excellent bonds.
Sammy was born in Mississippi the year that Hayes was elected. He had little education but could talk good English and made a rattling public speech. With Sara’s coaching he even attempted something more than ordinary political hokum and on one or two public occasions lately had been commended; even the Tribune called him a man of “real information in current events.” Sara accordingly bought magazines and read papers carefully. She wrote out his more elaborate speeches; he committed them to his remarkable memory in an hour or so.
Why then should Sammy marry Sara? He had her brains and skill, and nobody could outbid him in salary. Of that he was sure. Why spoil the loyalty of a first-class secretary for the doubtful love of a wife? Then, too, he rather liked the hovering game. He came to his office and his letters with a zest. He discovered the use of letters even in politics. Before Sara’s day there was a typewriting machine in Sammy’s office, but it was seldom used. Previous clerks had been poor stenographers, and Sammy could not dictate. Besides, why write? Sara showed him why. He touched her finger tips; he brought her flowers and told her all his political secrets. She had no lovers and no prospective lovers. Time enough to marry her if he found he must. Meantime love was cheap in Chicago and secretaries scarce, and, in fine, “I’m not a marrying man,” repeated the Honorable Sammy.
Sara smiled coolly and continued:
“I think I see something for us in the Towns case.”
Sammy frowned. “Better not touch it,” he said. “Bolsheviks are unpopular, especially with railroads. And when it comes to niggers blowing up white folks—well, my advice is, drop it!”
So the matter dropped for a week. Then Sara quietly returned to it: “Listen, Sammy”—Sara was quite informal when they were alone in the sanctum—“I think I see a scoop.” Sammy listened. “This Matthew Towns—”
“What Matthew Towns?”
“The man they sent to Joliet.”
“Oh! I thought you’d dropped that.”
“No, I’ve just really begun to take it up. This Towns is unusual, intelligent, educated, plucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him during the trial, and since then I’ve been down to Joliet.”
“Humph!” said Sammy, lighting his third cigar.
“He is a man that would never forget a service. With such a man added to your machine you might land in Congress.”
Sammy laid his cigar down and sat up.
“I keep telling you, Sammy, you’ve got to be something more than the ordinary colored Chicago politician before you can take the next step. You’ve got to be popular among respectable people.”
“Respectable, hell!” remarked Sammy.
“Precisely,” said Sara; “the hell of machine politics has got to be made to look respectable for ordinary consumption. Now you need something to jack you up in popular opinion. Something that will at once appeal to Negro race pride and not scare off the white folks who want to do political business with you. Our weakness as Negro politicians is that we have never been able to get the church people and the young educated men of ability into our game.”
“Hypocrites and asses!”
“Quite so, but you’ll notice these hypocrites, asses, good lawyers, fine engineers, and pious ministers are all grist to the white man’s political machine. He puts forward and sticks into office educated and honest men of ability who can do things, and he only asks that they won’t be too damned good and honest to support his main interests in a crisis. Moreover, either we’ll get the pious crowd and the educated youngsters in the machine, or some fine day they’ll smash it.
“Sammy, have some imagination! Your methods appeal to the same crowd in the same old way. Meantime new crowds are pushing in and old crowds are changing and they want new ways—they are caught by new gags; makes no difference whether they are better or worse than the old—facts are facts, and the fact is that your political methods are not appealing to or holding the younger crowd. Now here’s bait for them, and big bait too. If I am not much mistaken, Towns is a find. For instance: ‘The Honorable Sammy Scott secures the release of Towns. Towns, a self-sacrificing hero, now looms as a race martyr. Towns says that he owes all to the Honorable Sammy!’ ”
“Fine,” mocked Sammy, “and niggers wild! But how about the white folks? ‘Sam Scott, the black politician, makes a jail delivery of the criminal who tried to wreck the Louisville & Nashville Railway Special. A political shame,’ etc., etc.”
“Hold up,” insisted Sara. “Now see here: the Negroes have been thoroughly aroused and are bitterly resentful at the Klan meeting, the lynching of the porter, and Matthew Towns’ incarceration. His release would be a big political asset to the man who pulled it off. And if you are the man and the white political and business world know that your new popularity strengthens your machine and delivers them votes when wanted, and that instead of dealing with a dozen would-be bosses, they can just see you—why, Sammy, you’d own black Chicago!”
“Sounds pretty—but—”
“On the other hand, who would object? I have been talking to the porters and railroad men and to others. They say the judge was reluctant to sentence Towns, but saw no legal escape. The railroad and the Pullman Company owe him millions and were willing to reward him handsomely if he had escaped the law. The Klan owes several hundred lives to him. None of these will actively oppose a pardon. It remains only to get one of them actually to ask for it.”
“Well—one, which one?” grinned Sammy, touching Sara’s fingers as he reached for another cigar.
“The Klan.”
“Are you crazy!”
“I think not. Consider; the Klan is at once criminal and victim. Its recent activities have been too open and bombastic. It has suffered political reverses both north and south. It is accused of mere ‘nigger-baiting.’ Would it not be a grand wide gesture of tolerance for the Klan to ask freedom for Towns? Something like donations to Negro churches, only bigger and with more advertising value.”
“Well, sure; if they had that kind of sense.”
“They’ve got all kinds of sense. Now again, there is something funny about that lynching. I’ve heard a lot of talk. Towns has let out bits of a strange story, and the porters say he was wild and bitter about the lynching. Suppose, now I’m only guessing—Towns knows more than he has told about this woman and her carrying on. If so, she might be glad to help him. A favor for keeping his mouth shut. I mention this, because she has married since the Klan convention and her husband is a high official of the Klan.”
Sammy still didn’t see much in the scheme, but he had a great respect for Sara’s shrewdness.
“Well what do you propose?” he asked.
“I propose to go to Joliet again and have a long talk with Towns. Then I’m going to drop down to Washington. I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ll need a letter of introduction from somebody of importance in Chicago to this woman, Mrs. Therwald.”