CHAPTER III
HERRICK GUESSES AT THE MYSTERY AND GETS IN SOMETHING'S WAY
The light in the little tea-room was rather dim. Christina spread outHerrick's copies of the two blackmailing letters upon the table andstudied them, propping her chin on her hands. Herrick, in surrenderingthem, had dreaded the squalid clutch which they laid upon herself. Butwhen she lifted her eyes it was to say--"We must never let them creditthis trash about Nancy!"
"None of it, then--?"
"Not a syllable! Not a breath!--Jim! Little she cared for Jim, poorchild! She was unhappy, but not with that unhappiness. It's true heronly love-affair had come to grief. That's what my mother means bycalling her secretive--even I have never been able to get out of herwhat happened to it. But disgrace--run away! Disgrace could never havelooked at her, and never in her life did she run away from anything! Andif she were alive and free, anywhere upon this earth, the first wordagainst me would have brought her back. She would butt walls down, withher little red head, to stand by a friend's side!"
"That's what my sister says. It's odd!"
"Odd?"
"I mean--Well, there's the circumstance that the hour when she called onIngham was the hour when the ribbon was to have signaled from thewindow. And she didn't give her name, you know; she said, 'The lady heexpects.' Then one remembers that this mysterious woman who passed Joehad red hair. Joe says she had on a white lace dress, Miss Hope--well,Miss Cornish was in white with lace trimming. He mistook her for you.Still, he was very sleepy, and though she's not so tall as you are,she's not short, and she's very slender, too. Forgive me for making youimpatient. But the boy's devoted to you, isn't he?"
"I suppose so," Christina ingenuously replied.
"Well, he knows, now, that Nancy Cornish is your dear friend. I can'taltogether rely upon his not recognizing her photograph."
"I can," said Christina, almost tartly. "White--everybody's in white. Iwore a white dress that night, myself. It wasn't Nancy. You may put thatout of your mind."
Herrick considered. "That business of the variegated eyes--people seemto suppose he threw it in for good measure. But could such an effect beproduced by make-up?"
"I think not. On the stage we generally use blue pencil to darken ourlashes. Well, once in a way, some one from the front assures us that wehave blue eyes. Or else brown, if we use brown. But close to, and--andin combination--surely not! And why try so thin a disguise?"
"To suggest a striking mark of identification which does not reallyexist. That would explain so much. Why she was willing to make aconspicuous impression on the boy--she may have been a dark woman, youknow, in a red wig, only too glad to leave behind her the picture of ablonde. There always lingers the impression that it may have been someone whom Joe knew, or was used to seeing, and that it was merely thisvague familiarity which he recognized before he had time to be taken inby her disguise. Ingham was on his mind; that may have been why he firstthought of you.--Miss Hope, do you know what other impression, orsuperstition, or whatever you like, I can't get rid of? That themystery of who fired the shot is part of the answer to the mystery ofthat bolted door. When we know how he got out, we shall know who hewas."
"He?"
"Well--man or woman. It's ridiculous, it's silly, but I feel as if thatpersonality were somehow still imprisoned in those rooms. As though, ifwe knew how to look, it would be there and there only we should find thetruth."
Christina murmured a soft sound of regret and wonder. "What a strangething! His poor mother--she feels so, too! She won't have a thing in hisrooms touched till the lease is up. She says the secret is still there."
He loved the pity in Christina's face. And then he watched herreabsorption in the letters. But though they absorbed, they did notimpress her. They somehow seemed even to bring her mind relief."Heavens!" said she, presently. "Is it altogether a bad joke?--'The Armof Justice!'"
"I did think at first they were a hoax of some sort. But the Inghams arefar from thinking so."
"They think--?"
"Yes. They've accepted these letters as changing the whole course of theinvestigation. They believe now that the scandalous, the personal motivewas an entirely wrong lead; that Ingham was murdered in cold blood, as amatter of business; that the woman was only a cat's paw. And they'relooking for a man."
"Dear God!" said Christina. "How hot it is in here! That fan--can't theystart it?" She took off her hat; the cool air from the fan came abouther face, carrying to Herrick's nostrils a scent of larkspur and verbenaand candy-tuft (how she clung to those garden flowers!), and she closedher eyes.
Herrick sat watching her with concern. He thought of how she had saidher mother had had anxiety enough. It seemed now, to Herrick, thatChristina, too, had had anxiety enough. "Evadne!" he said, suddenly.
She opened her eyes, smiling at him.
"You know I have known you very intimately and served you veryfaithfully for an immensely long time. I am your author, and I'm goingto bully you. I want you to drop all this! What is it to you? Somethinghideous, that's over. In no way can the miserable muck of these letterstouch you! Let the Inghams and the police and the District Attorneyworry--it's their business. It's your business to make beautiful thingsfor the world. Dear Evadne, you've got to possess your own soul ifyou're going to polish up ours! Forget these lies!"
It was rather late in the little restaurant and they were the onlypatrons. After a moment the girl leaned toward him, and laid her hand onhis.
"I will try!" she said, gently. "And you will dine with us to-night? AndStan can tell what the detectives say to you, and not to me? Oh, please!You are right. I want to forget. I am worn out, my soul and my body; myheart's drying up. Nancy! Nancy! Oh, Nancy! If I could only know aboutNancy! But for the rest, I don't care. You are my friend, and I willtell you something. Whenever they've wanted to show me they didn't thinkme a murderess, they've said, 'Of course, my dear, you're as eager tohave the criminal caught as any of us.' It's false! Why should I wishfor anything so horrible?"
He looked at her with a start of wonder that was half agreement.
"In what age are we living that I am expected to enjoy an execution? Doyou know what one's like? I've been on trial for my life now, and I'vebeen reading it up! They--"
"Hush!" said Herrick, sternly.
"But isn't it wicked? Why should I wish that done?--to man orwoman?--Or to lock some one up for life--that's worse! Why should itamuse me to have people tortured? Who tortured Jim? Poor fellow, hescarcely could have known! Why should they suffer more than he? For theact of one little minute to burn in fire all the rest of one's life. Oh,my good friend, what's the use of pretending? We know perfectly wellthat some girl's despair may have fired that shot, that if she had abrother or a lover--Can't you stop them, Mr. Herrick? Must they gofrothing on in this man-hunt? It's to clear my name? My name's my own; Iwon't have it put up against any human being's misery! If they catch andkill some unhappy creature for my sake--it will kill me, too. I shalldie of it!"
"What you'll do now," said Herrick, "is to come out of here into thesunlight, and get some air before you go back to rehearsal."
She let him walk with her to the stage-door, and before it swallowedher, she abruptly and almost gaily soliloquized, "A man! A man wrotethose letters! Does one man send a piece of ribbon to another, and askhim to hang it out of his window? Do you mean, to tell me that it was aman who made that remark about my temper? 'The Arm of Justice' forsooth!There's a female idea of a brigand."
It was plain that she inclined to believe the blackmailer some mercenarytrickster, who knew no more of the murder than herself. Some woman, shesaid. But there were two persons in Joe Patrick's testimony. And Herrickbelieved there were two in the attempted blackmail. As to theirknowledge of Ingham's death, one circumstance appeared to him highlysignificant; the changed standpoint of the second letter! He said tohimself, "The first is obviously sincere; it was written in the genuinehope of getting money out of Ingham by a person who really felt that heor she
had a case. And the second is nothing on earth but an attempt todivert suspicion from the murderer by a lot of villainous poppycock.Between the writing of those two letters they lost their case and theylost their nerve. Suppose the first letter had been written by awoman,--by a woman of some cultivation, with a very strong taste forexpressing herself picturesquely. But her picturesqueness all streamsinto one channel--into hatred for Ingham. When she cuts at him, her penscorches the paper. She has only one sentiment of anything like equalstrength--her sympathy with the girl whom Ingham is supposed to havedeserted. There, now, is a person whom she thoroughly admires. Was sheherself once that girl?"
Herrick was on his way to dine at Christina's by the time that hehazarded this runaway guess, and he told himself that he must pull up alittle, now he was on the public street, or he would be holding peoplewith his glittering eye, like the Ancient Mariner.
But one fact continued to strike him. The man whom Joe Patrick had takenup to the fourth floor after the arrival of the red-haired woman did notappear in the narrative.
How if this man himself had written the second letter? The writer hadsacrificed the only other persons mentioned--Christina andNancy--without a scruple, but that curt and silent male it had neveroccurred to him to sacrifice. He was consistently shielded. Having nofeasible way of accounting for him, the writer had not even explainedhim away. He had simply left him out, hoping that, in the definitenessof the accusation of a woman, he would be forgotten. For this reason hehad gone into details of her flight without even touching the great darkpoints of the moving of Ingham's body and the bolted door. He was toobusy pointing: "Look, look, there she goes! The murderess! The woman! Iam calling her Christina Hope. But, in any case, a woman. No man has hadanything to do with it."
Herrick turned off the avenue into Christina's street. And trying toclear his brain lest its feverish contagion should presently reach hers,he told himself, "You're cracked, my friend. You know nothing whatever.Simply cracked." But he could not cure himself. Right or wrong, hisobsession continued. Nonsense or no, there grew steadily within him thenotion of that man who had seen all, who knew all, and who had done hiswork! This figure became strangely potent, and singularly ominous. Theywere all suffering and struggling here, ridiculously ignorant,ridiculously in pain, and he could laugh at them. Not a sound hadescaped him. He had betrayed himself by no melodramatic shadow. "He wasso quiet," Joe Patrick had said, "goin' right along about hisbusiness--" Yes, he had come upon his business, he had accomplished it,he had vanished, and left no trace behind. Blackmailer, slanderer,murderer, and maybe coward and traitor, there was about him a stillnessthat had a strange effect. The very blankness of his passage--he lookedso like "all gentlemen," neither tall nor short, stout nor thin, lightnor dark, thirty, forty, or some other age--why, Beelzebub himself couldnot have accomplished a more complete disguise! It was as if, going soquietly on such an errand, some evil of devilish mockery looked out frombehind that featureless face, as from behind a mask. And about the heartof the big, lean, ruddy youth striding toward his beloved through thewarm August evening, the cold breath of superstition lightly breathed.It was, for one instant, as though it were at him the mockery weredirected; as though, when that mask should be removed, it would be hisblood that would be frozen by the sight. The next moment his strengthexulted. Patience! He must be found, that fellow--he had made Christinasuffer! The young man's heart winced and then steeled itself upon thephrase. He drew deep into his spirit the horrid degradation that hadbeen breathed upon her; the sickening danger that had struck at her; hesaw the thinned line of her cheek, her pallor and her tears, and thedark circles under those dear eyes. He saw and his teeth set themselves.Oh, yes, that featureless and silent fellow should be found! And whenthat hour came, and Herrick's hand was on that mask, it made him laughto think how well its wearer should learn that it was not only a womanat whom he had struck!
Immersed in these thoughts Herrick had not noticed a scudding automobilewhich now passed him so close that he had to spring backward in order toavoid being knocked down. And he was not in the mood when springingbackward could be in the least agreeable to him. The rescuer of ladieswas thrown into a fuming rage. What, he, he, a free-born Americancitizen, he, a knight-errant on his way to the queen of love and beauty,he, Bryce Herrick, a presentable young man of the privileged classes tobound into the air like a ball or a mountebank! Made to retreatignominiously and hurriedly!--actually to--in the language of hischildhood--to "skip the gutter" by the menial of upstarts with hishorn!--By George, the fellow had not blown his horn!
Herrick came to a raging pause and looked about him for a policeman. Hecould at least complain to a policeman! Then he discovered that he waswithin half a block of Christina's corner; her house was on the otherside of the street. To come into her presence was to forget everythingelse. As he reached the corner and started to cross the road he heardthe whirr of another motor and then beheld it speeding toward him, somedistance off, from the same direction as his first enemy. Determined notto skip the gutter this time he advanced at a dignified pace,deliberately fixing the automobile with the power of the human eye. Thewild beast approached headlong, nevertheless, and Herrick, observingthat it, too, dispensed with the formality of blowing its horn, stoppeddead in its path. He was filled with the immense public spirit ofoutraged dignity and pure temper. The automobile was a long, lowtouring-car, gray, with an unfashionable look of hard usage, and therewere three roughly dressed men in it. If they thought he would moveunless that horn were blown, they were mistaken! He glared pointedly atthe number which was streaked, illegibly, with mud. And the truth cameto him, that this was no second automobile--it was the same one! And nowit was so near that, above the man's raised collar, he could see theeyes of the chauffeur looking straight at him. Then it was he knew thatthey did not expect him to get out of the way; that they did not intendto blow the horn; nor did they intend to swerve aside. What theyintended was to run him down! With inconceivable rapidity the thing hadloomed out of the distance and was here; death lunged at him in a flash,bulked right upon him, the wind of it in his angry eyes. The shock ofthat anger utterly controlled him and took up the challenge; he couldnot have changed the set of his whole nature and broken his defiance ifhe would. But from the sidewalk some one screamed. Automatically, hestarted, and the touring-car, as though rocked by the scream, swayed ahair's breadth to one side. Only a hair's breadth! Herrick felt animpact like the end of things; then a horrible, jarring pain as if hisbones were coming out through himself and knocking him to splinters. Andthen--nothing.