CHAPTER XV. THE CINEMATOGRAPH
On Monday I went out for the first time. I did not go to the office. Iwanted to walk. I thought fresh air and exercise would drive away theblue devils that had me by the throat. McKnight insisted on a long dayin his car, but I refused.
"I don't know why not," he said sulkily. "I can't walk. I haven't walkedtwo consecutive blocks in three years. Automobiles have made legs mereornaments--and some not even that. We could have Johnson out therechasing us over the country at five dollars an hour!"
"He can chase us just as well at five miles an hour," I said. "But whatgets me, McKnight, is why I am under surveillance at all. How do thepolice know I was accused of that thing?"
"The young lady who sent the flowers--she isn't likely to talk, is she?"
"No. That is, I didn't say it was a lady." I groaned as I tried to getmy splinted arm into a coat. "Anyhow, she didn't tell," I finished withconviction, and McKnight laughed.
It had rained in the early morning, and Mrs. Klopton predicted moreshowers. In fact, so firm was her belief and so determined her eye thatI took the umbrella she proffered me.
"Never mind," I said. "We can leave it next door; I have a story to tellyou, Richey, and it requires proper setting."
McKnight was puzzled, but he followed me obediently round to the kitchenentrance of the empty house. It was unlocked, as I had expected. Whilewe climbed to the upper floor I retailed the events of the previousnight.
"It's the finest thing I ever heard of," McKnight said, staring up atthe ladder and the trap. "What a vaudeville skit it would make! Onlyyou ought not to have put your foot on her hand. They don't do it in thebest circles."
I wheeled on him impatiently.
"You don't understand the situation at all, Richey!" I exclaimed. "Whatwould you say if I tell you it was the hand of a lady? It was coveredwith rings."
"A lady!" he repeated. "Why, I'd say it was a darned compromisingsituation, and that the less you say of it the better. Look here,Lawrence, I think you dreamed it. You've been in the house too much. Itake it all back: you do need exercise."
"She escaped through this door, I suppose," I said as patiently as Icould. "Evidently down the back staircase. We might as well go down thatway."
"According to the best precedents in these affairs, we should find aglove about here," he said as we started down. But he was more impressedthan he cared to own. He examined the dusty steps carefully, and once,when a bit of loose plaster fell just behind him, he started like anervous woman.
"What I don't understand is why you let her go," he said, stopping once,puzzled. "You're not usually quixotic."
"When we get out into the country, Richey," I replied gravely, "I amgoing to tell you another story, and if you don't tell me I'm a fool anda craven, on the strength of it, you are no friend of mine."
We stumbled through the twilight of the staircase into the blacknessof the shuttered kitchen. The house had the moldy smell of closedbuildings: even on that warm September morning it was damp and chilly.As we stepped into the sunshine McKnight gave a shiver.
"Now that we are out," he said, "I don't mind telling you that I havebeen there before. Do you remember the night you left, and, the face atthe window?"
"When you speak of it--yes."
"Well, I was curious about that thing," he went on, as we started up thestreet, "and I went back. The street door was unlocked, and I examinedevery room. I was Mrs. Klopton's ghost that carried a light, and clumb."
"Did you find anything?"
"Only a clean place rubbed on the window opposite your dressing-room.Splendid view of an untidy interior. If that house is ever occupied,you'd better put stained glass in that window of yours."
As we turned the corner I glanced back. Half a block behind us Johnsonwas moving our way slowly. When he saw me he stopped and proceeded withgreat deliberation to light a cigar. By hurrying, however, he caughtthe car that we took, and stood unobtrusively on the rear platform.He looked fagged, and absent-mindedly paid our fares, to McKnight'sdelight.
"We will give him a run for his money," he declared, as the car movedcountryward. "Conductor, let us off at the muddiest lane you can find."
At one o'clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small countryhotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time hewas a quarter of a mile behind us, and losing rapidly. Before we hadfinished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots wasunder his arm, and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coatedwith mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. Hechose a table not far from us and ordered Scotch. Beyond touching hishat he paid no attention to us.
"I'm just getting my second wind," McKnight declared. "How do you feel,Mr. Johnson? Six or eight miles more and we'll all enjoy our dinners."Johnson put down the glass he had raised to his lips without replying.
The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft from myweek's inaction, and I was pretty well done up. McKnight, who was a wellspring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction, madeof nearly everything in the bar, and sent it over to the detective, butJohnson refused it.
"I hate that kind of person," McKnight said pettishly. "Kind of a fellowthat thinks you're going to poison his dog if you offer him a bone."
When we got back to the car line, with Johnson a draggled and droopingtail to the kite, I was in better spirits. I had told McKnight the storyof the three hours just after the wreck; I had not named the girl, ofcourse; she had my promise of secrecy. But I told him everything else.It was a relief to have a fresh mind on it: I had puzzled so much overthe incident at the farm-house, and the necklace in the gold bag, that Ihad lost perspective.
He had been interested, but inclined to be amused, until I came to thebroken chain. Then he had whistled softly.
"But there are tons of fine gold chains made every year," he said. "Whyin the world do you think that the--er--smeary piece came from thatnecklace?"
I had looked around. Johnson was far behind, scraping the mud off hisfeet with a piece of stick.
"I have the short end of the chain in the sealskin bag," I reminded him."When I couldn't sleep this morning I thought I would settle it, oneway or the other. It was hell to go along the way I had been doing.And--there's no doubt about it, Rich. It's the same chain."
We walked along in silence until we caught the car back to town.
"Well," he said finally, "you know the girl, of course, and I don't. Butif you like her--and I think myself you're rather hard hit, old man--Iwouldn't give a whoop about the chain in the gold purse. It's just oneof the little coincidences that hang people now and then. And as forlast night--if she's the kind of a girl you say she is, and you thinkshe had anything to do with that, you--you're addled, that's all. Youcan depend on it, the lady of the empty house last week is the ladyof last night. And yet your train acquaintance was in Altoona at thattime."
Just before we got off the car, I reverted to the subject again. It wasnever far back in my mind.
"About the--young lady of the train, Rich," I said, with what I supposewas elaborate carelessness, "I don't want you to get a wrong impression.I am rather unlikely to see her again, but even if I do, I--I believeshe is already 'bespoke,' or next thing to it."
He made no reply, but as I opened the door with my latch-key he stoodlooking up at me from the pavement with his quizzical smile.
"Love is like the measles," he orated. "The older you get it, the worsethe attack."
Johnson did not appear again that day. A small man in a raincoat tookhis place. The next morning I made my initial trip to the office,the raincoat still on hand. I had a short conference with Miller, thedistrict attorney, at eleven. Bronson was under surveillance, he said,and any attempt to sell the notes to him would probably result in theirrecovery. In the meantime, as I knew, the Commonwealth had continued thecase, in hope of such contingency.
At noon I left the office and took a veterinarian to see Candida, theinjured pony.
By one o'clock my first day's duties were performed, anda long Sahara of hot afternoon stretched ahead. McKnight, always gladto escape from the grind, suggested a vaudeville, and in sheer ennuiI consented. I could neither ride, drive nor golf, and my own companybored me to distraction.
"Coolest place in town these days," he declared. "Electric fans, breezysongs, airy costumes. And there's Johnson just behind--the coldestproposition in Washington."
He gravely bought three tickets and presented the detective with one.Then we went in. Having lived a normal, busy life, the theater in theafternoon is to me about on a par with ice-cream for breakfast. Up onthe stage a very stout woman in short pink skirts, with a smile thatMcKnight declared looked like a slash in a roll of butter, was singingnasally, with a laborious kick at the end of each verse. Johnson, tworows ahead, went to sleep. McKnight prodded me with his elbow.
"Look at the first box to the right," he said, in a stage whisper. "Iwant you to come over at the end of this act."
It was the first time I had seen her since I put her in the cab atBaltimore. Outwardly I presume I was calm, for no one turned to stare atme, but every atom of me cried out at the sight of her. She was leaning,bent forward, lips slightly parted, gazing raptly at the Japaneseconjurer who had replaced what McKnight disrespectfully called theColumns of Hercules. Compared with the draggled lady of the farm-house,she was radiant.
For that first moment there was nothing but joy at the sight of her.McKnight's touch on my arm brought me back to reality.
"Come over and meet them," he said. "That's the cousin Miss West isvisiting, Mrs. Dallas."
But I would not go. After he went I sat there alone, painfully consciousthat I was being pointed out and stared at from the box. The abominableJapanese gave way to yet more atrocious performing dogs.
"How many offers of marriage will the young lady in the box have?"The dog stopped sagely at 'none,' and then pulled out a card that saideight. Wild shouts of glee by the audience. "The fools," I muttered.
After a little I glanced over. Mrs. Dallas was talking to McKnight, butShe was looking straight at me. She was flushed, but more calm than I,and she did not bow. I fumbled for my hat, but the next moment I sawthat they were going, and I sat still. When McKnight came back he wastriumphant.
"I've made an engagement for you," he said. "Mrs. Dallas asked me tobring you to dinner to-night, and I said I knew you would fall all overyourself to go. You are requested to bring along the broken arm, and anyother souvenirs of the wreck that you may possess."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," I declared, struggling against myinclination. "I can't even tie my necktie, and I have to have my foodcut for me."
"Oh, that's all right," he said easily. "I'll send Stogie over to fixyou up, and Mrs. Dal knows all about the arm. I told her."
(Stogie is his Japanese factotum, so called because he is lean, ayellowish brown in color, and because he claims to have been shippedinto this country in a box.)
The Cinematograph was finishing the program. The house was dark and themusic had stopped, as it does in the circus just before somebody riskshis neck at so much a neck in the Dip of Death, or the hundred-footdive. Then, with a sort of shock, I saw on the white curtain theannouncement:
THE NEXT PICTURE
IS THE DOOMED WASHINGTON FLIER, TAKEN A SHORT DISTANCE FROM THE SCENE OFTHE WRECK ON THE FATAL MORNING OF SEPTEMBER TENTH. TWO MILES FARTHER ONIT MET WITH ALMOST COMPLETE ANNIHILATION.
I confess to a return of some of the sickening sensations of the wreck;people around me were leaning forward with tense faces. Then the letterswere gone, and I saw a long level stretch of track, even the brokenstone between the ties standing out distinctly. Far off under a cloudof smoke a small object was rushing toward us and growing larger as itcame.
Now it was on us, a mammoth in size, with huge drivers and a colossaltender. The engine leaped aside, as if just in time to save us fromdestruction, with a glimpse of a stooping fireman and a grimy engineer.The long train of sleepers followed. From a forward vestibule a porterin a white coat waved his hand. The rest of the cars seemed stillwrapped in slumber. With mixed sensations I saw my own car, Ontario, flypast, and then I rose to my feet and gripped McKnight's shoulder.
On the lowest step at the last car, one foot hanging free, was a man.His black derby hat was pulled well down to keep it from blowing away,and his coat was flying open in the wind. He was swung well out fromthe car, his free hand gripping a small valise, every muscle tense for ajump.
"Good God, that's my man!" I said hoarsely, as the audience broke intoapplause. McKnight half rose: in his seat ahead Johnson stifled a yawnand turned to eye me.
I dropped into my chair limply, and tried to control my excitement. "Theman on the last platform of the train," I said. "He was just about toleap; I'll swear that was my bag."
"Could you see his face?" McKnight asked in an undertone. "Would youknow him again?"
"No. His hat was pulled down and his head was bent I'm going back tofind out where that picture was taken. They say two miles, but it mayhave been forty."
The audience, busy with its wraps, had not noticed. Mrs. Dallas andAlison West had gone. In front of us Johnson had dropped his hat and wasstooping for it.
"This way," I motioned to McKnight, and we wheeled into the narrowpassage beside us, back of the boxes. At the end there was a doorleading into the wings, and as we went boldly through I turned the key.
The final set was being struck, and no one paid any attention to us.Luckily they were similarly indifferent to a banging at the door I hadlocked, a banging which, I judged, signified Johnson.
"I guess we've broken up his interference," McKnight chuckled.
Stage hands were hurrying in every direction; pieces of the side wallof the last drawing-room menaced us; a switchboard behind us was singinglike a tea-kettle. Everywhere we stepped we were in somebody's way. Atlast we were across, confronting a man in his shirt sleeves, who by dotsand dashes of profanity seemed to be directing the chaos.
"Well?" he said, wheeling on us. "What can I do for you?"
"I would like to ask," I replied, "if you have any idea just where thelast cinematograph picture was taken."
"Broken board--picnickers--lake?"
"No. The Washington Flier."
He glanced at my bandaged arm.
"The announcement says two miles," McKnight put in, "but we should liketo know whether it is railroad miles, automobile miles, or policemanmiles."
"I am sorry I can't tell you," he replied, more civilly. "We get thosepictures by contract. We don't take them ourselves."
"Where are the company's offices?"
"New York." He stepped forward and grasped a super by the shoulder."What in blazes are you doing with that gold chair in a kitchen set?Take that piece of pink plush there and throw it over a soap box, if youhaven't got a kitchen chair."
I had not realized the extent of the shock, but now I dropped into achair and wiped my forehead. The unexpected glimpse of Alison West,followed almost immediately by the revelation of the picture, had leftme limp and unnerved. McKnight was looking at his watch.
"He says the moving picture people have an office down-town. We can makeit if we go now."
So he called a cab, and we started at a gallop. There was no sign of thedetective. "Upon my word," Richey said, "I feel lonely without him."
The people at the down-town office of the cinematograph company werevery obliging. The picture had been taken, they said, at M-, justtwo miles beyond the scene of the wreck. It was not much, but it wassomething to work on. I decided not to go home, but to send McKnight'sJap for my clothes, and to dress at the Incubator. I was determined, ifpossible, to make my next day's investigations without Johnson. In themeantime, even if it was for the last time, I would see Her that night.I gave Stogie a note for Mrs. Klopton, and with my dinner clothes therecame back the gold bag, wrapped in tissue paper.