CHAPTER XVI
MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
As the taxi rolled up to her corner I saw that the windows of her floorwere bright. She was still up, which would make things easier--muchbetter than having to wake her from her sleep. In that sort of apartmentthey lock the outer doors at half-past ten and to get at the bells youhave to wake the janitor, which I didn't want to do, as no one must knowI'd been there. So before I rang the outside bell that connects with hislair in the basement, I tried the door, hoping some late comer had leftit on the jar as they sometimes do. It opened--an immense piece ofluck--which made me feel that fate was on my side and braced me like atonic.
In the vestibule I pressed the button under her letter box and in aminute came the click, click of the inner latch and I entered. As Iascended the stairs I heard the door on the landing above softly openand looking up I saw a bright light illumine the dimness and then,through the balustrade, her figure standing on the threshold.
She must have been surprised for the person who mounted into hersight--a girl in a dark coat and hat--was someone she'd never seenbefore. She pushed the door wider, as if to let more light on me,looking puzzled at my face. The one electric bulb was just above her onthe wall and its sickly gleam fell over her, tall and straight in apurple silk kimono. Her black hair curling back from her forehead stoodout like a frame, and her neck, between the folds of the kimono, was assmooth and white as cream. The sight of her instead of weakening me gaveme strength, for in that sort of careless rig, tired and pale, she wasstill handsome enough to make a fool of any man.
"Do you want to see _me_?" she said, "Miss Whitehall?"
"I do," I answered. "I want to see you on a matter of importance. Itcan't wait."
Without another word she drew back from the doorway and let me come in.
"Go in there," she said, pointing up the hall to the curtained entranceof the dining-room, and I went as she pointed.
The room was brightly lit, as was the parlor beyond, and on every sidewere the signs of moving--curtains piled below the windows, furniture inwhite covers, straw and bits of paper on the floor. Two trunks werestanding in the middle of the parlor and on the chairs about were herclothes, all tumbled and mixed up, boots in one place, hats in another,lingerie heaped on the table. There was enough packing to keep her busytill morning, and I thought to myself that was what she intended todo--finish it up tonight and the next day make her move.
All this took only a minute to see and I was standing by thedining-table, clutching tight on my muff to hide the trembling of myhands, when she came in. In the brighter light I could see that shelooked worn and weary, all her color gone except for the red of herlips, and her eyes sunken and dark underneath.
"What do you want with me?" she said, as the curtain fell behind her.
Her manner was abrupt and straight from the shoulder like a person'swho's got past little pleasantnesses and politeness. The glance shefixed on me was steady and clear, but there was a sort of waitingexpectation in it like she was ready for anything and braced to meet it.
"I came," I said, choosing my words as careful as I could, "to tell youof--of--something that's going to happen--to warn you."
She gave a start and her face changed, as if a spring inside her hadsnapped and sort of focussed her whole being into a still, breathlesslistening.
"Warn me," she repeated. "Of what?"
"Miss Whitehall," I said, clearing my throat, for it was dry, "I'm aperson you don't know, but _I_ know you. I've been employed by peoplehere in New York who've been watching you for the past few weeks.They've got the evidence they want--I've been helping them--and they'reready to act."
As I had spoken she had never taken her eyes off me. Big and black andunwinking they stared and as I stared back I could see it wasn'tsurprise or fear they showed but a concentrated attention.
"What do you mean--act in what way?"
"Get you to their office tomorrow and question you about the Harlandcase and make you confess."
She was as still as a statue. You'd have thought she was turned tostone, but for the moving up and down of her chest.
"What am I to confess? What have I done?"
My hands gripped together in my muff and my voice went down to my bootsfor I couldn't say it aloud.
"Been a party to the murder of Hollings Harland."
When I said it I had an expectation that she'd say something, deny it insome violent way that would make me think she was innocent. Maybe JackReddy had influenced me, but I wanted it, I looked for it, I hoped forit--and I was disappointed. If it _had_ been a shock to her, if she_hadn't_ known there'd been a murder, she would never have behaved asshe did. For she said not a word, standing stock still, her face chalkwhite, even the red fading from her lips, and her eyes fixed on the wallopposite, like the eyes of a sleep-walker.
"The murder of Hollings Harland," she whispered, and it was more as ifshe was speaking to herself than to me.
"Yes," I went on. "They've discovered it--a group of us have beenworking in secret, following the clues and gathering the evidence. Nowwe've got it all ready and tomorrow they expect to arrest you."
She suddenly sank down into a chair by the table, her hands bracedagainst its edge, her eyes riveted in that strange, mesmerized stare onthe fern plant in front of her.
"When did they discover it?" she said in a low voice.
_'When did they discover it?' she said in a low voice._]
"Not long after it happened--but that doesn't matter. They've goteverything in their hands. Even if you insist that you're innocentthey've got enough to arrest you on. You've been under surveillance allalong--they've been shadowing you. They followed you that time you triedto go to Toronto."
"I knew that," she said in the same low voice as if she was talking toherself.
"They know how you came out of the building that night--not by theelevator as you said, but by the stairs, and how you didn't get hometill nearly eight. They know about you and Barker."
She lifted her head and said quickly:
"_What_ do they know about me and Barker?"
"That he was in love with you and you with him."
"Oh, _that_!" Her tone was indifferent as if the point was a matter ofno consequence.
"They know how the murder was done. How you and Barker did it."
"Barker and I----" She sank back in her chair, then suddenly leaningacross the table, looked into my face and said, "Tell me how we did it.Let me see what they know."
I took the chair opposite and told her the whole plot and how we'dworked it out. While I was doing it she never said a word, but sat withher profile toward me and her eyes in that blank, motionless stare onthe fern plant.
When I had finished there was a pause, then suddenly she drew a deepbreath, turned toward me and said:
"What brought you here to me tonight?"
It came so unexpectedly I had no answer ready. What I'd looked for was ascene, terror, maybe hysterics and her breaking away as fast as shecould put on her hat. Seeing me stupidly dumb she rose out of her chair,and moved away for a few steps, then stopped and seemed again to fallinto that trance of thinking. It was like everything else in thisnightmare--different to what I'd looked for, and a sickening thoughtcame to me that maybe she was ready to throw up the sponge and go downand confess. And then--for all I knew--Jack Reddy might persuade her tomarry him and go to prison with her. How can you be sure what a mancrazy with love will do? If she got a life sentence he'd probably liveat the gates of Sing Sing for the rest of his days. I was desperate andwent round the table after her.
"Say," I implored. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm thinking," she muttered.
"For God's sake don't _think_," I wailed. "Get up and act. If I go backon the people that employ me and come here in the middle of the night towarn you, isn't it the least you can do to take advantage of it and_go_?"
She wheeled round on me, her face all alight with a wonderful beaminglook.
"_That
's_ the reason," she said. "That's what made youcome--humanity--pity! You've risked everything to help me. Oh, you don'tknow what you've done--what courage you've put into me. And you don'tknow what my gratitude is."
Before I knew it she had seized hold of one of my hands and held itagainst her heart, with her head bowed over it as if she was praying.
Do you guess how _I_ felt? Ashamed?--perishing with it, ready to sinkdown on the floor and pass away. A murderess no doubt but even if amurderess thinks you did her a good turn when you didn't it makes youfeel like a snake's a high-class animal beside you.
"Oh, come on," I begged. "Let go of me and get out."
She dropped my hand and looked at me--Oh, so soft and sweet!--and I sawtears in her eyes. _That_ pretty near finished me and I wailed out:
"Don't stop to cry. You don't know but what they might get uneasy andcome tonight. Put on your things and _go_."
Hadn't I got to hurry her? If Jack made a quick trip he'd be back intown between two and three and he'd come as straight as wheels couldtake him to her door.
"Yes, I'll go," she said.
"Now," I urged, "as soon as you can get into your coat and hat. Don'tbother about this," I pointed to the disorder round us--"They'll thinkyou've had another message from Barker and gone to him."
A curious, slight smile came over her face.
"Yes," she said, "that's what they _will_ think, I suppose."
"Of course it is, and they'll waste time looking for him which'll give_you_ a good start. If there's no train now to the place you're goingto, sit in the depot, ride round in a taxi, walk up and down FifthAvenue, only _get out_ of this place."
"I'll be gone in half an hour," she said, and moved between the trunksand piled up clothes to the bedroom beyond. I followed her and saw intothe room, all confusion like the others, every gas in the chandelierblazing.
"Can I help you?" I said. "Can I pack a suitcase or anything?"
"No--" she halted in front of the mirror, letting the kimono slide offher to the floor, her arms and neck like shining marble under that blazeof light. "I'll only want a few things. There's a bag there I can throwthem into. You'd better go now."
I was afraid she'd not be as quick as I wanted but I couldn't hang roundurging any more after she'd told me to go. Besides I could see she washurrying, grabbing a dress from the bed and getting into it so swiftlyeven I was satisfied.
"Well then I'm off," I said.
She looked up from the hooks she was snapping together and said:
"Before you go tell me who you are?"
"There's no need for that," I answered, thinking she'd probably neversee me again. "I'm just someone that blew in tonight for a minute andwho's going like she came."
"Someone I'll never forget," she said, "and that some day, if all goeswell, I'll be able to pay back."
I was afraid she was going to get grateful again and I couldn't standany more of that. So with a quick "good-bye" away I went, up the hall,opening the door without a sound, and stealing down the stairs as softas a robber.
Out in the street I stopped and reconnoitered. There was no one in sightexcept a policeman lounging dreary on the next corner. Across from theapartment was the entrance of a little shop--tobacco and lightliterature--and into that I crept, squeezing back against the glassdoor. I couldn't be at peace till I saw her leave and for fifteen ortwenty minutes I stood there watching the lights in her windows. Thensuddenly they began to go out, across the front and along down the side,till every pane was black. A few minutes later, she came down the stepscarrying a bag. She stopped close to where I was, and hailed a car, andnot till I saw it start with her sitting by the door, did I steal out ofmy hiding place and sprint up the street to Madison Avenue.
When I reached home I was shivering and wild-eyed, for if Babbitts wasthere what could I say to him? He wasn't--thank Heaven!--and cold asice, feeling as if I'd been through a mangle, I crawled into bed.
There wasn't much sleep for me that night. About all I could say tomyself was that I'd saved Jack. But the others--Oh, _the others_! Icouldn't get them out of my mind. They'd come in a procession across thedark and look at me sad and reproachful. Mr. Whitney, who'd doneeverything in the world for me, and Mr. George, who could put on suchside, but had always been so kind and cordial, and O'Mally, who'd toldBabbitts the case was going to make him, and Babbitts--Oh, _Babbitts_!
I rolled over on the pillow and cried scalding, bitter tears. It wasn'tonly the scoop--it was that I'd have a secret from him forever--him thatup to now had known every thought in my mind, had been like the otherhalf of me. They say virtue is its own reward, and I've always believedit. But that night I had the awful thought that maybe I'd done wrong,for all the reward I got was to feel like an outcast with a stone for aheart.