XLI
For months Beverly Carlysle had remained a remote and semi-mysteriousfigure. She had been in some hearts and in many minds, but to most ofthem she was a name only. She had been the motive behind events shenever heard of, the quiet center in a tornado of emotions that circledabout without touching her.
On the whole she found her life, with the settling down of the piece toa successful, run, one of prosperous monotony. She had re-opened and wasliving in the 56th Street house, keeping a simple establishment ofcook, butler and maid, and in the early fall she added a town car and adriver. After that she drove out every afternoon except on matinee days,almost always alone, but sometimes with a young girl from the company.
She was very lonely. The kaleidoscope that is theatrical New Yorkhad altered since she left it. Only one or two of her former friendsremained, and she found them uninteresting and narrow with thenarrowness of their own absorbing world. She had forgotten that thetheater was like an island, cut off from the rest of the world, havingits own politics, its own society divided by caste, almost its ownreligion. Out of its insularity it made occasional excursions to dinnersand week-ends; even into marriage, now and then with an outlander. Butalmost always it went back, eager for its home of dressing-room andfootlights, of stage entrances up dirty alleys, of door-keepers andmanagers and parts and costumes.
Occasionally she had callers, men she had met or who were brought tosee her. She saw them over a tea-table, judged them remorselessly, andeliminated gradually all but one or two. She watched her dignity and herreputation with the care of an ambitious woman trying to live down thepast, and she succeeded measurably well. Now and then a critic spoke ofher as a second Maude Adams, and those notices she kept and treasured.
But she was always uneasy. Never since the night he had seen JudsonClark in the theater had they rung up without her brother havingcarefully combed the house with his eyes. She knew her limitations; theywould have to ring down if she ever saw him over the footlights. Andthe season had brought its incidents, to connect her with the past. Onenight Gregory had come back and told her Jean Melis was in the balcony.
The valet was older and heavier, but he had recognized him.
"Did he see you?" was her first question.
"Yes. What about it? He never saw me but once, and that was at night andout of doors."
"Sometimes I think I can't stand it, Fred. The eternal suspense, thewaiting for something to happen."
"If anything was going to happen it would have happened months ago.Bassett has given it up. And Jud's dead. Even Wilkins knows that."
She turned on him angrily.
"You haven't a heart, have you? You're glad he's dead."
"Not at all. As long as he kept under cover he was all right. But if heis, I don't see why you should fool yourself into thinking you're sorry.It's the best solution to a number of things."
"What do you suppose brought Jean Melis here?"
"What? To see the best play in New York. Besides, why not allow the mana healthy curiosity? He was pretty closely connected with a hectic partof your life, my dear. Now buck up, and for the Lord's sake forget theFrenchman. He's got nothing."
"He saw me that night, on the stairs. He never took his eyes off me atthe inquest."
She gave, however, an excellent performance that night, and nothing morewas heard of the valet.
There were other alarms, all of them without foundation. She went on herway, rejected an offer or two of marriage, spent her mornings in bed andher afternoons driving or in the hands of her hair-dresser and manicure,cared for the flowers that came in long casket-like boxes, and beganto feel a sense of security again. She did not intend to marry, or tobecome interested in any one man.
She had hardly given a thought to Leslie Ward. He had come and gone,one of that steady procession of men, mostly married, who battered theirheads now and then like night beetles outside a window, against the hardglass of her ambition. Because her business was to charm, she had beencharming to him. And could not always remember his name!
As the months went by she began to accept Fred's verdict that nothingwas going to happen. Bassett was back and at work. Either dead or afugitive somewhere was Judson Clark, but that thought she had to keepout of her mind. Sometimes, as the play went on, and she was able tomake her solid investments out of it, she wondered if her ten years ofretirement had been all the price she was to pay for his ruin; butshe put that thought away too, although she never minimized herresponsibility when she faced it.
But her price had been heavy at that. She was childless and alone,lavishing her aborted maternity on a brother who was living hisprosperous, cheerful and not too moral life at her expense. Fred was,she knew, slightly drunk with success; he attended to his minimum oflabor with the least possible effort, had an expensive apartment on theDrive, and neglected her except, when he needed money. She began to see,as other women had seen before her, that her success had, by taking awaythe necessity for initiative, been extremely bad for him.
That was the situation when, one night late in October, the trap ofBassett's devising began to close in. It had been raining, but in spiteof that they had sold standing room to the fire limit. Having got thetreasurer's report on the night's business and sent it to Beverly'sdressing-room, Gregory wandered into his small, low-ceiled officeunder the balcony staircase, and closing the door sat down. It was theinterval after the second act, and above the hum of voices outside thesound of the orchestra penetrated faintly.
He was entirely serene. He had a supper engagement after the show,he had a neat car waiting outside to take him to it, and the night'sbusiness had been extraordinary. He consulted his watch and then pickedup an evening paper. A few moments later he found himself reading overand over a small notice inserted among the personals.
"Personal: Jean Melis, who was in Norada, Wyoming, during the early fallof 1911 please communicate with L 22, this office."
The orchestra was still playing outside; the silly, giggling crowds weremoving back to their seats, and somewhere Jean Melis, or the friends ofJean Melis, who would tell him of it, were reading that message.
He got his hat and went out, forgetful of the neat car at the curb, ofthe supper engagement, of the night's business, and wandered down thestreet through the rain. But his first uneasiness passed quickly. Hesaw Bassett in the affair, and probably Clark himself, still livingand tardily determined to clear his name. But if the worst came to theworst, what could they do? They could go only so far, and then theywould have to quit.
It would be better, however, if they did not see Melis. Much better;there was no use involving a simple situation. And Bev could be kept outof it altogether, until it was over. Ashamed of his panic he went backto the theater, got a railway schedule and looked up trains. He shouldhave done it long before, he recognized, have gone to Bassett in thespring. But how could he have known then that Bassett was going to makea life-work of the case?
He had only one uncertainty. Suppose that Bassett had learned aboutClifton Hines?
By the time the curtain rang down on the last act he was his dapper,debonair self again, made his supper engagement, danced half the night,and even dozed a little on the way home. But he slept badly and was upearly, struggling with the necessity for keeping Jean Melis out of theway.
He wondered through what formalities L 22, for instance, would haveto go in order to secure a letter addressed to him? Whether he had topresent a card or whether he walked in demanded his mail and went away.That thought brought another with it. Wasn't it probable that Bassettwas in New York, and would call for his mail himself?
He determined finally to take the chance, claim to be L 22, and if Melishad seen the advertisement and replied, get the letter. It would be easyto square it with the valet, by saying that he had recognized him in thetheater and that Miss Carlysle wished to send him a box.
He had small hope of a letter at his first call, unless the Frenchmanhad himself seen the notice, but his anxiety drove him early to t
heoffice. There was nothing there, but he learned one thing. He had togo through with no formalities. The clerk merely looked in a box, said"Nothing here," and went on about his business. At eleven o'clock hewent back again, and after a careful scrutiny of the crowd presentedhimself once more.
"L 22? Here you are."
He had the letter in his hand. He had glanced at it and had thrust itdeep in his pocket, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He wheeled andfaced Bassett.
"I thought I recognized that back," said the reporter, cheerfully. "Comeover here, old man. I want to talk to you."
But he held to Gregory's shoulder. In a corner Bassett dropped thefriendliness he had assumed for the clerk's benefit, and faced him withcold anger.
"I'll have that letter now, Gregory," he said. "And I've got a damnedgood notion to lodge an information against you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Forget it. I was behind you when you asked for that letter. Give ithere. I want to show you something."
Suddenly, with the letter in his hand, Bassett laughed and then tore itopen. There was only a sheet of blank paper inside.
"I wasn't sure you'd see it, and I didn't think you'd fall for it ifyou did," he observed. "But I was pretty sure you didn't want me to seeMelis. Now I know it."
"Well, I didn't," Gregory said sullenly.
"Just the same, I expect to see him. The day's early yet, and that'snot a common name. But I'll take darned good care you don't get any moreletters from here."
"What do you think Melis can tell you, that you don't know?"
"I'll explain that to you some day," Bassett said cheerfully. "Some daywhen you are in a more receptive mood than you are now. The point atthis moment seems to me to be, what does Melis know that you don't wantme to know? I suppose you don't intend to tell me."
"Not here. You may believe it or not, Bassett, but I was going to yourtown to-night to see you."
"Well," Bassett said sceptically, "I've got your word for it. And I'vegot nothing to do all day but to listen to you."
To his proposition that they go to his hotel Gregory assented sullenly,and they moved out to find a taxicab. On the pavement, however, he heldback.
"I've got a right to know something," he said, "considering what he'sdone to me and mine. Clark's alive, I suppose?"
"He's alive all right."
"Then I'll trade you, Bassett. I'll come over with what I know, ifyou'll tell me one thing. What sent him into hiding for ten years, andmakes him turn up now, yelling for help?"
Bassett reflected. The offer of a statement from Gregory was valuable,but, on the other hand, he was anxious not to influence his narrative.And Gregory saw his uncertainty. He planted himself firmly on thepavement.
"How about it?" he demanded.
"I'll tell you this much, Gregory. He never meant to bring the thing upagain. In a way, it's me you're up against. Not Clark. And you can bepretty sure I know what I'm doing. I've got Clark, and I've got thereport of the coroner's inquest, and I'll get Melis. I'm going to get tothe bottom of this if I have to dig a hole that buries me."
In a taxicab Gregory sat tense and erect, gnawing at his blond mustache.After a time he said:
"What are you after, in all this? The story, I suppose. And the money. Idaresay you're not doing it for love."
Bassett surveyed him appraisingly.
"You wouldn't understand my motives if I told you. As a matter of fact,he doesn't want the money."
Gregory sneered.
"Don't kid yourself," he said. "However, as a matter of fact I don'tthink he'll take it. It might cost too much. Where is he? Shooting pillsagain?"
"You'll see him in about five minutes."
If the news was a surprise Gregory gave no evidence of it, except tocomment:
"You're a capable person, aren't you? I'll bet you could tune a piano ifyou were put to it."
He carried the situation well, the reporter had to admit; the onlyevidence he gave of strain was that the hands with which he lighted acigarette were unsteady. He surveyed the obscure hotel at which the cabstopped with a sneering smile, and settled his collar as he looked itover.
"Not advertising to the world that you're in town, I see."
"We'll do that, just as soon as we're ready. Don't worry."
The laugh he gave at that struck unpleasantly on Bassett's ears. Butinside the building he lost some of his jauntiness. "Queer place to findJudson Clark," he said once.
And again:
"You'd better watch him when I go in. He may bite me."
To which Bassett grimly returned: "He's probably rather particular whathe bites."
He was uneasily conscious that Gregory, while nervous and tense, wascarrying the situation with a certain assurance. If he was acting it wasvery good acting. And that opinion was strengthened when he threw openthe door and Gregory advanced into the room.
"Well, Clark," he said, coolly. "I guess you didn't expect to see me,did you?"
He made no offer to shake hands as Dick turned from the window, nordid Dick make any overtures. But there was no enmity at first in eitherface; Gregory was easy and assured, Dick grave, and, Bassett thought,slightly impatient. From that night in his apartment the reporter hadrealized that he was constantly fighting a sort of passive resistance inDick, a determination not at any cost to involve Beverly. Behind that,too, he felt that still another battle was going on, one at which hecould only guess, but which made Dick somber at times and grimly quietalways.
"I meant to look you up," was his reply to Gregory's nonchalantgreeting.
"Well, your friend here did that for you," Gregory said, and smiledacross at Bassett. "He has his own methods, and I'll say they'reeffectual."
He took off his overcoat and flung it on the bed, and threw a swift,appraising glance at Dick. It was on Dick that he was banking, not onBassett. He hated and feared Bassett. He hated Dick, but he was notafraid of him. He lighted a cigarette and faced Dick with a malicioussmile.
"So here we are, again, Jud!" he said. "But with this change, thatnow it's you who are the respectable member of the community, and I'mthe--well, we'll call it the butterfly."
There was unmistakable insult in his tone, and Dick caught it.
"Then I take it you're still living off your sister?"
The contempt in Dick's voice whipped the color to Gregory's face andclenched his fist. But he relaxed in a moment and laughed.
"Don't worry, Bassett," he said, his eyes on Dick. "We haven't anyreason to like each other, but he's bigger than I am. I won't hit him."Then he hardened his voice. "But I'll remind you, Clark, that personallyI don't give a God-damn whether you swing or not. Also that I can keepmy mouth shut, walk out of here, and have you in quod in the next hour,if I decide to."
"But you won't," Bassett said smoothly. "You won't, any more than youdid it last spring, when you sent that little letter of yours to DavidLivingstone."
"No. You're right. I won't. But if I tell you what I came here to say,Bassett, get this straight. It's not because I'm afraid of you, or ofhim. Donaldson's dead. What value would Melis's testimony have after tenyears, if you put him on the stand? It's not that. It's because you'llput your blundering foot into it and ruin Bev's career, unless I tellyou the truth."
It was to Bassett then that he told his story, he and Bassett sitting,Dick standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece, tall and weary andalmost detached.
"I've got to make my own position plain in this," he said. "I didn'tlike Clark, and I kept her from marrying him. There was one time, beforeshe met Lucas, when she almost did it. I was away when she decided onthat fool trip to the Clark ranch. We couldn't get a New York theateruntil November, and she had some time, so they went. I've got her storyof what happened there. You can check it up with what you know."
He turned to Dick for a moment.
"You were drinking pretty hard that night, but you may remember this:She had quarreled with Lucas at dinner that night and with you. That'strue, is
n't it?"
"Yes."
"She went to her room and began to pack her things. Then she thoughtit over, and she decided to try to persuade Lucas to go too. Things hadbegun all right, but they were getting strained and unpleasant. She wentdown the stairs, and Melis saw her, the valet. The living-room was dark,but there was a light coming through the billiard room door, and againstit she saw the figure of a man in the doorway. He had his back to her,and he had a revolver in his hand. She ran across the room when heheard her and when he turned she saw it was Lucas. Do you remember, Jud,having a revolver and Lucas taking it from you?"
"No. Donaldson testified I'd had a revolver."
"Well, that's how we figure he'd got the gun. She thought at once thatLucas and you had quarreled, and that he was going to shoot. She triedto take it from him, but he was drunk and stubborn. It went off andkilled him."
Bassett leaned forward.
"That's straight, is it?"
"I'm telling you."
"Then why in God's name didn't she say that at the inquest?"
"She was afraid it wouldn't be believed. Look at the facts. She'dquarreled with Lucas. There had been a notorious situation with regardto Clark. And remember this. She had done it. I know her well enough,however, to say that she would have confessed, eventually, but Clarkhad beaten it. It was reasonably sure that he was lost in the blizzard.You've got to allow for that."
Bassett said nothing. After a silence Dick spoke:
"What about the revolver?"
"She had it in her hand. She dropped it and stood still, too stunned toscream. Lucas, she says, took a step or two forward, and fell throughthe doorway. Donaldson came running in, and you know the rest."
Bassett was the first to break the silence.
"She will be willing to testify to that now, of course?"
"And stand trial?"
"Not necessarily. Clark would be on trial. He's been indicted. He has tobe tried."
"Why does he have to be tried? He's free now. He's been free for tenyears. And I tell you as an honest opinion that the thing would killher. Accident and all, she did it. And there would be some who'd neverbelieve she hadn't tired of Lucas, and wanted the Clark money."
"That's a chance she'll have to take," Bassett said doggedly. "The onlyliving witness who could be called would be the valet. And rememberthis: for ten years he has believed that she did it. He'll have built upa story by this time, perhaps unconsciously, that might damn her."
Dick moved.
"There's only one thing to do. You're right, Gregory. I'll never exposeher to that."
"You're crazy," Bassett said angrily.
"Not at all. I told you I wouldn't hide behind a woman. As a matter offact, I've learned what I wanted. Lucas wasn't murdered. I didn't shoothim. That's what really matters. I'm no worse off than I was before;considerably better, in fact. And I don't see what's to be gained bygoing any further."
In spite of his protests, Bassett was compelled finally to agree. He wassulky and dispirited. He saw the profound anticlimax to all his effortof Dick wandering out again, legally dead and legally guilty, and heswore roundly under his breath.
"All right," he grunted at last. "I guess that's the last word, Gregory.But you tell her from me that if she doesn't reopen the matter of herown accord, she'll have a man's life on her conscience."
"I'll not tell her anything about it. I'm not only her brother; I'm hermanager now. And I'm not kicking any hole in the boat that floats me."
He was self-confident and slightly insolent; the hands with which helighted a fresh cigarette no longer trembled, and the glance he threw atDick was triumphant and hostile.
"As a man sows, Clark!" he said. "You sowed hell for a number of peopleonce."
Bassett had to restrain an impulse to kick him out of the door. When hehad gone Bassett turned to Dick with assumed lightness.
"Well," he said, "here we are, all dressed up and nowhere to go!"
He wandered around the room, restless and disappointed. He knew, andDick knew, that they had come to the end of the road, and that nothinglay beyond. In his own unpleasant way Fred Gregory had made a case forhis sister that tied their hands, and the crux of the matter had lainin his final gibe: "As a man sows, Clark, so shall he reap." The moralissue was there.
"I suppose the Hines story goes by the board, eh?" he commented after apause.
"Yes. Except that I wish I'd known about him when I could have donesomething. He's my half-brother, any way you look at it, and he had arotten deal. Sometimes a man sows," he added, with a wry smile, "and theother fellow reaps."
Bassett went out after that, going to the office on the chance of aletter from Melis, but there was none. When he came back he found Dickstanding over a partially packed suitcase, and knew that they had cometo the end of the road indeed.
"What's the next step?" he asked bluntly.
"I'll have to leave here. It's too expensive."
"And after that, what?"
"I'll get a job. I suppose a man is as well hidden here as anywhere. Ican grow a beard-that's the usual thing, isn't it?"
Bassett made an impatient gesture, and fell to pacing the floor. "It'sincredible," he said. "It's monstrous. It's a joke. Here you are,without a thing against you, and hung like Mahomet's coffin betweenheaven and earth. It makes me sick."
He went home that night, leaving word to have any letters for L 22forwarded, but without much hope. His last clutch of Dick's hand had asort of desperate finality in it, and he carried with him most of theway home the tall, worn and rather shabby figure that saw him off with asmile.
By the next afternoon's mail he received a note from New York, with afew words of comment penciled on it in Dick's writing. "This came thisevening. I sent back the money. D." The note was from Gregory andhad evidently enclosed a one-hundred dollar bill. It began withoutsuperscription: "Enclosed find a hundred dollars, as I imagine funds maybe short. If I were you I'd get out of here. There has been considerableexcitement, and you know too many people in this burg."
Bassett sat back in his chair and studied the note.
"Now why the devil did he do that?" he reflected. He sat for some time,thinking deeply, and he came to one important conclusion. The storyGregory had told was the one which was absolutely calculated to shutoff all further inquiry. They had had ten years; ten years to plan,eliminate and construct; ten years to prepare their defense, in caseClark turned up. Wasn't that why Gregory had been so assured? But he hadnot been content to let well enough alone; he had perhaps overreachedhimself.
Then what was the answer? She had killed Lucas, but was it an accident?And there must have been a witness, or they would have had nothing tofear. He wrote out on a bit of paper three names, and sat looking atthem:
Hattie Thorwald Jean Melis Clifton Hines.