It's the crookedest gambling joint in the city, at least judging by
the stories they tell of losses there. And so beastly aristocratic,
too. Read that."
O'Connor shoved a letter into Kennedy's hand, a dainty perfumed and
monogramed little missive addressed in a feminine hand. It was such a
letter as comes by the thousand to the police in the course of a year,
though seldom from ladies of the smart set:
* * * * *
Dear Sir: I notice in the newspapers this morning that you have just
been appointed first deputy commissioner of police and that you have
been ordered to suppress gambling in New York. For the love that you
must still bear toward your own mother, listen to the story of a
mother worn with anxiety for her only son, and if there is any justice
or righteousness in this great city close up a gambling hell that is
sending to ruin scores of our finest young men. No doubt you know or
have heard of my family--the DeLongs are not unknown in Hew York.
Perhaps you have also heard of the losses of my son Percival at the
Vesper Club. They are fast becoming the common talk of our set. I am
not rich, Mr. Commissioner, in spite of our social position, but I am
human, as human as a mother in any station of life, and oh, if there
is any way, close up that gilded society resort that is dissipating
our small fortune, ruining an only son, and slowly bringing to the
grave a gray-haired widow, as worthy of protection as any mother of
the poor whose plea has closed up a little poolroom or low policy
shop.
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