Part 47 (1/2)

”Thursday morning, right after the funeral. Another thing: he's heels over head in debt.”

”Well, what about it? What are you driving at?” Bristow asked, perceptibly irritable.

”I'm not driving at anything. What's it to us anyway? It stimulates this ugly talk. That's all.”

Bristow was doing some quick thinking. If Withers had left Atlanta early Thursday morning, he might have reached Was.h.i.+ngton by Friday afternoon--and gone to Baltimore! But did he? And did Braceway know of it and keep it to himself?

He recalled that Braceway, during their breakfast together in Was.h.i.+ngton, had said:

”Get one thing straight in your mind, Bristow. Any man I find mixed up in this murder I'm going to turn over to the police. If I thought George Withers had killed his wife, I'd hand him over so fast it would make your head swim. You may not believe that, but I would--in a second!”

Had that been a prophecy? Was Withers in Baltimore at two-thirty Friday afternoon? Could he have been fool enough to p.a.w.n anything? Or did he go there in the hope of incriminating Morley further? All these things were within the realm of possibility, but hardly credible. Braceway might have known of them, and he might not.

Abrahamson, he remembered, had put it into Braceway's head, against Braceway's own desire, that the man with the gold tooth and Withers resembled each other. But n.o.body believed that. It would be futile to consider it.

The chief, as if reading his thoughts, gave more information:

”Abrahamson, the loan-shark, came to my office yesterday; wanted to know where he could reach Braceway by wire. He evidently knew something and wouldn't tell me. Said he wired yesterday morning to Braceway in Was.h.i.+ngton, but the telegraph company reported 'no delivery'--couldn't locate him. I wonder what the Jew knows.”

”It's too much for me.” Bristow dismissed the question carelessly, but immediately flared up peevishly: ”What's getting into these fellows? They act like fools, each of them, Morley and Withers, following Perry's lead and trying to have themselves arrested! But Braceway--if he wasn't in Was.h.i.+ngton, he must be on his way back here. We'll soon have his last say on the case.”

”All the same,” said Greenleaf, ”if I were in that husband's place, I'd stay away from here. The talk's too bitter; worse here among the Manniston Road people than anywhere else.”

”Well, what of it?”

”It wouldn't be the first instance of how easy it is for an innocent man to be--well, hurt.”

”Oh, that sort of thing is out of the question, absurd.”

”Never mind! I'd stay away. That's what I'd do.”

It was almost dark when the chief of police took his departure. Bristow sat watching the last crimson light fade over the mountains. The dim electric, a poor excuse for a street lamp, had flashed on in front of No. 4. The shadows grew deeper and deeper; there was no breeze; the oaks along the roadside and in the backyards became still, black plumes above the bungalows.

Manniston Road was wrapped in darkness. The silence was broken, even at this early hour, only by the distant, faint screech of street-car wheels against the rails, or the far sound of an automobile horn down in the town, or the rattle of a sick man's cough on one of the sleeping porches.

There was something uncanny, Bristow thought, in the velvet blackness and the heavy silence.

He got up and went into the living room, turning on the lights. The night, the stillness, had affected him. Perhaps, he thought, Withers after all would do well to give Furmville a wide berth. If disorganized rumour grew into positive accusation----

And what of himself, Bristow? He had run down the guilty man, had discovered and hooked together the facts that made retribution almost an accomplished thing. Could he have been mistaken, entirely wrong? Would public opinion turn also against him and say he had enmeshed an innocent negro instead of bringing to punishment a jealousy-maddened husband?

Was there a chance that, in condemning Withers, they would destroy his reputation for brilliant work?

Pshaw! He shrugged his shoulders. He was worse than the gossiping women, letting himself conjure up weird and incredible ideas. There was not a weak place, not an illogical point, in the case he had disclosed against Carpenter. He had won. His prestige was a.s.sured. Far from questioning his work, they ought to thank him for----

The reverie was interrupted by the telephone bell. He took down the receiver and shouted ”h.e.l.lo!” as if he resented the call. His irritation showed what a tremendous amount of nervous energy he had expended in the last six days.

”Western Union speaking,” said a man's voice. ”Telegram for Mr. Lawrence Bristow, nine Manniston Road.”

”All right. This is Bristow. Read it to me.”