“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.
“Will you help me find proof of the truth, whether he’s lying or not? There must be positive proof somewhere, some proof that we can find. If you really believe him you won’t be afraid to help me find it.”
He studied her face awhile before asking: “If I do and we find your positive proof, will you promise to accept it whichever way it stacks up?”
“Yes,” she said readily, “if you will too.”
“And you’ll keep what we find to yourself till we’ve finished the job—found our positive proof—won’t use what we find against him till we’ve got it all?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a bargain,” he said.
She sobbed happily and tears came to her eyes.
He said: “Sit down.” His face was lean and hard, his voice curt. “We’ve got to get schemes rigged. Have you heard from him this afternoon or evening, since he and I had our row?”
“No.”
“Then we can’t be sure how you stand with him. There’s a chance he may have decided later that I was right. That won’t make any difference between him and me now—we’re done—but we’ve got to find out as soon as we can.” He scowled at her feet and brushed his mustache with a thumb-nail. “You’ll have to wait till he comes to you. You can’t afford to call him up. If he’s shaky about you that might decide him. How sure of him are you?”
She was sitting in the chair by the table. She said: “I’m as sure of him as a woman can be of a man.” She uttered a little embarrassed laugh. “I know that sounds—But I am, Mr. Beaumont.”
He nodded. “Then that’s probably all right, but you ought to know definitely by tomorrow. Have you ever tried to pump him?”
“Not yet, not really. I was waiting—”
“Well, that’s out for the time being. No matter how sure you are of him you’ll have to be careful now. Have you picked up anything you haven’t told me about?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I haven’t known very well how to go about it. That’s why I so wanted you to—”
He interrupted her again: “Didn’t it occur to you to hire a private detective?”
“Yes, but I was afraid, afraid I’d go to one who’d tell Paul. I didn’t know who to go to, who I could trust.”
“I’ve got one we can use.” He ran fingers through his dark hair. “Now there are two things I want you to find out, if you don’t know them now. Are any of your brother’s hats missing? Paul says he had a hat on. There was none there when I found him. See if you can find out how many he had and if they’re all accounted for”—he smiled obliquely—“except the one I borrowed.”
She paid no attention to his smile. She shook her head and raised her hands a little, dispiritedly. “I can’t,” she said. “We got rid of all his things some time ago and I doubt if anybody knew exactly what he had anyway.”
Ned Beaumont shrugged. “I didn’t think we’d get anywhere on that,” he told her. “The other thing’s a walking-stick, whether any of them—his or your father’s—are missing, particularly a rough heavy brown one.”
“It would be Father’s,” she said eagerly, “and I think it’s there.”
“Check it up.” He bit his thumb-nail. “That’ll be enough for you to do between now and tomorrow, that and maybe find out how you stand with Paul.”
“What is it?” she asked. “I mean about the stick.” She stood up, excited.
“Paul says your brother attacked him with it and was struck by it while Paul was taking it away from him. He says he carried the stick away and burned it.”
“Oh, I’m sure Father’s sticks are all there,” she cried. Her face was white, her eyes wide.
“Didn’t Taylor have any?”
“Only a silver-headed black one.” She put a hand on his wrist. “If they’re all there it will mean that—”
“It might mean something,” he said and put a hand on her hand. “But no tricks,” he warned her.
“I won’t,” she promised. “If you only knew how happy I am to have your help, how much I’ve wanted it, you’d know you could trust me.”
“I hope so.” He took his hand from hers.
III
Alone in his rooms Ned Beaumont walked the floor awhile, his face pinched, his eyes shiny. At twenty minutes to ten he looked at his wrist-watch. Then he put on his overcoat and went down to the Majestic Hotel, where he was told that Harry Sloss was not in. He left the hotel, found a taxicab, got into it, and said: “West Road Inn.”
The West Road Inn was a square white building—grey in the night—set among trees back from the road some three miles beyond the city limits. Its ground-floor was brightly lighted and half a dozen automobiles stood in front of it. Others were in a long dark shed off to the left.
Ned Beaumont, nodding familiarly at the doorman, went into a large dining-room where a three-man orchestra was playing extravagantly and eight or ten people were dancing. He passed down an aisle between tables, skirted the dance-floor, and stopped in front of the bar that occupied one corner of the room. He was alone on the customers’ side of the bar.
The bar-tender, a fat man with a spongy nose, said: “Evening, Ned. We ain’t been seeing you much lately.”
“ ’Lo, Jimmy. Been behaving. Manhattan.”
The bar-tender began to mix the cocktail. The orchestra finished its piece. A woman’s voice rose thin and shrill: “I won’t stay in the same place with that Beaumont bastard.”
Ned Beaumont turned around, leaning back against the edge of the bar. The bar-tender became motionless with the cocktail-shaker in his hand.
Lee Wilshire was standing in the center of the dance-floor glaring at Ned Beaumont. One of her hands was on the forearm of a bulky youth in a blue suit a bit too tight for him. He too was looking at Ned Beaumont, rather stupidly. She said: “He’s a no-good bastard and if you don’t throw him out I’m going out.”
Everyone else in the place was attentively silent.
The youth’s face reddened. His attempt at a scowl increased his appearance of embarrassment.
The girl said: “I’ll go over and slap him myself if you don’t.”
Ned Beaumont, smiling, said: “ ’Lo, Lee. Seen Bernie since he got out?”
Lee cursed him and took an angry step forward.
The bulky youth put out a hand and stopped her. “I’ll fix him,” he said, “the bastard.” He adjusted his coat-collar to his neck, pulled the front of his coat down, and stalked off the dance-floor to face Ned Beaumont. “What’s the idea?” he demanded. “What’s the idea of talking to the little lady like that?”
Ned Beaumont, staring soberly at the youth, stretched his right arm out to the side and laid his hand palm-up on the bar. “Give me something to tap him with, Jimmy,” he said. “I don’t feel like fist-fighting.”
One of the bar-tender’s hands was already out of sight beneath the bar. He brought it up holding a small bludgeon and put the bludgeon in Ned Beaumont’s hand. Ned Beaumont let it lie there while he said: “She gets called a lot of things. The last guy I saw her with was calling her a dumb cluck.”
The youth drew himself up straight, his eyes shifting from side to side. He said: “I won’t forget you and some day me and you will meet when there’s nobody around.” He turned on his heel and addressed Lee Wilshire. “Come on, let’s blow out of this dump.”
“Go ahead and blow,” she said spitefully. “I’ll be God-damned if I’m going with you. I’m sick of you.”
A thick-bodied man with nearly all gold teeth came up and said: “Yes you will, the both of you. Get.”
Ned Beaumont laughed and said: “The—uh—little lady’s with me, Corky.”
Corky said, “Fair enough,” and then to the youth: “Outside, bum.”
The youth went out.
Lee Wilshire had returned to her table. She sat there with her cheeks between her fists, staring at the cloth.
Ned Beaumont sat down facing her. He s
aid to the waiter: “Jimmy’s got a Manhattan that belongs to me. And I want some food. Eaten yet, Lee?”
“Yes,” she said without looking up. “I want a silver fizz.”
Ned Beaumont said: “Fine. I want a minute steak with mushrooms, whatever vegetable Tony’s got that didn’t come out of a can, some lettuce and tomatoes with Roquefort dressing, and coffee.”
When the waiter had gone Lee said bitterly: “Men are no good, none of them. That big false alarm!” She began to cry silently.
“Maybe you pick the wrong kind,” Ned Beaumont suggested.
“You should tell me that,” she said, looking up angrily at him, “after the lousy trick you played me.”
“I didn’t play you any lousy trick,” he protested. “If Bernie had to hock your pretties to pay back the money he’d gypped me out of it wasn’t my fault.”
The orchestra began to play.
“Nothing’s ever a man’s fault,” she complained. “Come on and dance.”
“Oh, all right,” he said reluctantly.
When they returned to the table his cocktail and her fizz were there.
“What’s Bernie doing these days?” he asked as they drank.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he got out and I don’t want to see him. Another swell guy! What breaks I’ve been getting this year! Him and Taylor and this bastard!”
“Taylor Henry?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t have much to do with him,” she explained quickly, “because that’s while I was living with Bernie.”
Ned Beaumont finished his cocktail before he said: “You were just one of the girls who used to meet him in his Charter Street place now and then.”
“Yes,” she said, looking warily at him.
He said: “I think we ought to have a drink.”
She powdered her face while he caught their waiter’s attention and ordered their drinks.
IV
The door-bell awakened Ned Beaumont. He got drowsily out of bed, coughing a little, and put on kimono and slippers. It was a few minutes after nine by his alarm-clock. He went to the door.
Janet Henry came in apologizing. “I know it’s horribly early, but I simply couldn’t wait another minute. I tried and tried to get you on the phone last night and hardly slept a wink because I couldn’t. All of Father’s sticks are there. So, you see, he lied.”
“Has he got a heavy rough brown one?”
“Yes, that’s the one Major Sawbridge brought him from Scotland. He never uses it, but it’s there.” She smiled triumphantly at Ned Beaumont.
He blinked sleepily and ran fingers through his tousled hair. “Then he lied, right enough,” he said.
“And,” she said gaily, “he was there when I got home last night.”
“Paul?”
“Yes. And he asked me to marry him.”
Sleepiness went out of Ned Beaumont’s eyes. “Did he say anything about our battle?”
“Not a word.”
“What did you say?”
“I said it was too soon after Taylor’s death for me even to engage myself to him, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t a little later, so we’ve got what I believe is called an understanding.”
He looked curiously at her.
Gaiety went out of her face. She put a hand on his arm. Her voice broke a little. “Please don’t think I’m altogether heartless,” she said, “but—oh!—I do so want to—to do what we set out to do that everything else seems—well—not important at all.”
He moistened his lips and said in a grave gentle voice: “What a spot he’d be in if you loved him as much as you hate him.”
She stamped her foot and cried: “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that again!”
Irritable lines appeared in his forehead and his lips tightened together.
She said, “Please,” contritely, “but I can’t bear that.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Had breakfast yet?”
“No. I was too anxious to bring my news to you.”
“Fine. You’ll eat with me. What do you like?” He went to the telephone.
After he had ordered breakfast he went into the bathroom to wash his teeth, face, and hands and brush his hair. When he returned to the living-room she had removed her hat and coat and was standing by the fireplace smoking a cigarette. She started to say something, but stopped when the telephone-bell rang.
He went to the telephone. “Hello.… Yes, Harry, I stopped in, but you were out.… I wanted to ask you about—you know—the chap you saw with Paul that night. Did he have a hat?… He did? Sure?… And did he have a stick in his hand?… Oke.… No, I couldn’t do anything with Paul on that, Harry. Better see him yourself.… Yes.… ’By.”
Janet Henry’s eyes questioned him as he got up from the telephone.
He said: “That was one of a couple of fellows who claim they saw Paul talking to your brother in the street that night. He says he saw the hat, but not the stick. It was dark, though, and this pair were riding past in a car. I wouldn’t bet they saw anything very clearly.”
“Why are you so interested in the hat? Is it so important?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m only an amateur detective, but it looks like a thing that might have some meaning, one way or another.”
“Have you learned anything else since yesterday?”
“No. I spent part of the evening buying drinks for a girl Taylor used to play around with, but there wasn’t anything there.”
“Anyone I know?” she asked.
He shook his head, then looked sharply at her and said: “It wasn’t Opal, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Don’t you think we might be able to—to get some information from her?”
“Opal? No. She thinks her father killed Taylor, but she thinks it was on her account. It wasn’t anything she knew that sent her off—not any inside stuff—it was your letters and the Observer and things like that.”
Janet Henry nodded, but seemed unconvinced.
Their breakfast arrived.
The telephone-bell rang while they were eating. Ned Beaumont went to the telephone and said: “Hello.… Yes, Mom.… What?” He listened, frowning, for several seconds, then said: “There isn’t much you can do about it except let them and I don’t think it’ll do any harm.… No, I don’t know where he is.… I don’t think I will.… Well, don’t worry about it, Mom, it’ll be all right.… Sure, that’s right.… ’By.” He returned to the table smiling; “Farr’s got the same idea you had,” he said as he sat down. “That was Paul’s mother. A man from the District Attorney’s office is there to question Opal.” A bright gleam awakened in his eyes. “She can’t help them any, but they’re closing in on him.”
“Why did she call you?” Janet Henry asked.
“Paul had gone out and she didn’t know where to find him.”
“Doesn’t she know that you and Paul have quarreled?”
“Apparently not.” He put down his fork. “Look here. Are you sure you want to go through with this thing?”
“I want to go through with it more than I ever wanted to do anything in my life,” she told him.
Ned Beaumont laughed bitterly, said: “They’re practically the same words Paul used telling me how much he wanted you.”
She shuddered, her face hardened, and she looked coldly at him.
He said: “I don’t know about you, I’m not sure of you. I had a dream I don’t much like.”
She smiled then. “Surely you don’t believe in dreams?”
He did not smile. “I don’t believe in anything, but I’m too much of a gambler not to be affected by a lot of things.”
Her smile became less mocking. She asked: “What was this dream that makes you mistrust me?” She held up a finger, pretending seriousness. “And then I’ll tell you one I had about you.”
“I was fishing,” he said, “and I caught an enormous fish—a rainbow trout, but enormous—and you said you wanted to look at it and you picked
it up and threw it back in the water before I could stop you.”
She laughed merrily. “What did you do?”
“That was the end of the dream.”
“It was a lie,” she said. “I won’t throw your trout back. Now I’ll tell you mine. I was—” Her eyes widened. “When was yours? The night you came to dinner?”
“No. Last night.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. It would be nicer in an impressive way if we’d done our dreaming on the same night and the same hour and the same minute. Mine was the night you were there. We were—this is in the dream—we were lost in a forest, you and I, tired and starving. We walked and walked till we came to a little house and we knocked on the door, but nobody answered. We tried the door. It was locked. Then we peeped through a window and inside we could see a great big table piled high with all imaginable kinds of food, but we couldn’t get in through either of the windows because they had iron bars over them. So we went back to the door and knocked and knocked again and still nobody answered. Then we thought that sometimes people left their keys under door-mats and we looked and there it was. But when we opened the door we saw hundreds and hundreds of snakes on the floor where we hadn’t been able to see them through the window and they all came sliding and slithering towards us. We slammed the door shut and locked it and stood there frightened to death listening to them hissing and knocking their heads against the inside of the door. Then you said that perhaps if we opened the door and hid from the snakes they’d come out and go away, so we did. You helped me climb up on the roof—it was low in this part of the dream: I don’t remember what it was like before—and you climbed up after me and leaned down and unlocked the door, and all the snakes came slithering out. We lay holding our breath on the roof until the last of the hundreds and hundreds of them had slithered out of sight into the forest. Then we jumped down and ran inside and locked the door and ate and ate and ate and I woke sitting up in bed clapping my hands and laughing.”
“I think you made that up,” Ned Beaumont said after a little pause.