Part 28 (1/2)

There was a flavor to this old saying of men that had a recent tang--and flavors, like scents, are most reminiscent. Yes, he had heard it--only a very short time before, and under unpleasant circ.u.mstances. A cloud came over the big athlete's face; he tried to put the feeling aside, and in the effort to do so, memory flared up and showed him the facts. It had been in Duke Sheehan's place during his first talk with the burglar, Big Slim. It was the cracksman who had spoken of the undependability of women. Then with a rush came other things which he had said; chief among these was the story of how Nora had followed her husband on the night of the murder. And then, also, there was the thing he had seen himself through the windows at Bohlmier's hotel. But as these thoughts pressed forward in his mind he crushed them back.

”They happened,” said he. ”I don't question those I heard about, and I know what I've seen. But,” and he sighed profoundly, ”she ain't had anything to do with that man's death. There's no doubt about that. The party who did it has given it all up. It's as clear as suns.h.i.+ne on that point; and the other thing can wait; explanations for them can come at any time.”

During the progress of these things through the mind of Mr. Scanlon, the talk had proceeded between Ashton-Kirk and the headquarters man.

”All right,” said Osborne; ”I know you seldom agree with the police about things, but this is one in which there is nothing more to be said.

Burton himself says he did it--and his word is the last one.”

Ashton-Kirk looked at his cigar with a favoring eye; the aroma was rich, and through the smoke he detected that thin spiral, of a denser texture, which spoke of the presence, in a proper proportion, of the leaf he prized.

”The thing which makes me quarrel with the police in most instances,”

said he, quietly, ”is not want of foresight, but almost a complete lack of that vastly commoner gift--hindsight. Take this present case, for an example. You have just claimed that there is nothing more to be said--that young Burton in his confession has spoken the final word. How often,” and he knocked the spear of ash from the cigar, ”have confessions proven false, in your own experience? Look back over the last few years, and you'll find at least six clear cases of confessions which were untrue. On the records of the district attorney's office is written a case, years ago, of a man who confessed to a murder and was hanged. Afterward it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was innocent.”

Osborne laughed once more; nevertheless a shade of doubt darkened the brightness of his humor.

”You're right there,” admitted he. ”Things like that have happened, but they are so few that we can't figure on them. This case,” and his jaw set, ”is sewed up. Young Burton is the man, and I think, when all is done and settled, you'll admit it yourself.”

Ashton-Kirk nodded, and a glint of humor appeared in the keen eyes.

”You can always be depended upon to run close to form, Osborne,” said he. ”However, when all is done and settled, we shall see what we shall see.” Then as he and Scanlon started through the lobby, he said over his shoulder: ”In the meantime it would be well for you not to lose sight of those two clues I gave you last night. They may prove very useful.”

Osborne grinned and waved a hand.

”All right,” said he. ”I'll put them away in camphor. They'll be good and safe there.”

As Ashton-Kirk and Bat emerged from the hotel, the big athlete turned to his friend with serious eyes.

”How much of what you've just been saying to him is right, and how much is just bluff to cover a place where you miscued?” asked he.

”What I gave him are the facts,” replied Ashton-Kirk. ”A confession is not always conclusive, as I have just shown. There are circ.u.mstances under which a man may confess, because he fears to have the real truth come out. And there are indications in this case which rather hold that guilt lies in another direction than young Burton.”

”Do you believe, in spite of his confession, that he is innocent?”

”I believe nothing--as yet I am merely searching for the truth.”

They were standing beside the investigator's car as they talked; and now Ashton-Kirk gestured his friend to get in. But Bat shook his head.

”No,” said he. ”There is plenty of motion in a motor car, but it's not the kind of motion I want. I'm for a walk. And I'll like as not see you in the morning.”

He strode away down the street, and for a moment the investigator stood gazing after him; then he opened the door, got in, and the car drove away.

Bat Scanlon walked for hours, thinking, thinking; and out of it all he got only what the first few moments told him. If young Burton had confessed to a thing of which he was not guilty, it must be as Ashton-Kirk said: fear that the real truth might come out. But fear of what? There could only be one thing: the fear of the charge being placed at the door of some one else.

”And who could that some one else be but the one,” kept repeating in the big athlete's brain. ”Who could it be but”--here he'd feel a sudden snapping in the nerves of his head, and the blood cells would gorge and thunder--”who but she who went to see him to-day--after the news came out that a woman was suspected.”

Leg-weary and with an exhausted mind, Bat reached his gymnasium. Danny, the red-haired office boy, was there, and looked at his employer almost incredulously.

”Gee, boss, you look all in,” he told him. ”You ought to get Sebastian to give you a going over.”

Sebastian was a huge Bohemian rubber, and Scanlon agreed to accept his ministrations. After a bath and a shower, the Bohemian kneaded and punched some suppleness into him; an hour's sleep followed this, and he was pleased to find himself in a mood for dinner.