Part 57 (1/2)
Suppose I refuse?”
”Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh in gla.s.s when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened.
Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh--nice lettersh. One of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business, _p.r.o.nto_.”
”Yes, it might,” admitted Peter ruminatively.
”Sure it will--but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?” he asked.
Peter was silent for a moment. And then,
”I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's,” he said. ”They're exactly alike, you say--both incriminating. And if you've got your paper handy----”
Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another gla.s.s of whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged.
”No use, Pete,” he said huskily. ”I said I had paper and I _have_ paper handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that floatin' roun' universh with _my_ name signed to it.”
”I don't blame you,” said Peter dryly.
Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to pour out a new gla.s.sful.
”Goo' whisky this--goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll get pater, Peep--I mean Peter pape--Oh H---- Paper. _You_ know.”
”I'll have to think about it, Jim.”
”Can't think when yer drunk, Pete,” he muttered with an expiring grin.
”To-morr'. 'Nother drink an' then we'll go sleep. Don't mind my sleepin'
here, Pete. Nice plache shleep. Goo' old shleep....”
Peter paused in the act of pouring out another drink for him and then at a sound from Kennedy set the bottle down again. The man suddenly sprawled sideways in the chair, his head back, snoring heavily. Peter watched him for a moment, sure that he couldn't be shamming and then looked around the disordered room. Hawk's overcoat and hat lay on the bed. On tiptoe Peter got up and examined them carefully, watching the man in the chair intently the while. Hawk stirred but did not awaken.
Peter searched the overcoat inch by inch. There was nothing in the pockets, but a tin of tobacco and a Philadelphia newspaper. So Peter restored the articles and then hung the hat and coat on the nails behind the door. Hawk Kennedy did not move. He was dead drunk.
The repulsive task of searching the rec.u.mbent figure now lay before him.
But the game had been worth the candle. If the fateful confession was anywhere in Hawk's clothing Peter meant to find it and yet even now he hesitated. He put the whisky bottle away, cleared up the mess and then bodily picked his visitor up and carried him to the bed. Hawk muttered something in his sleep but fell p.r.o.ne and immediately was snoring stertorously. Then Peter went through his pockets methodically, removing an automatic pistol from his trousers, and examining all his papers carefully by the light of the lamp-a hotel bill receipted, some letters in a woman's hand, a few newspaper clippings bearing on the copper market, a pocketbook containing bills of large denomination, some soiled business cards of representatives of commercial houses, a notebook containing addresses and small accounts, a pa.s.s book of a Philadelphia bank, the address of which Peter noted. And that was all. Exhausting every resource Peter went over the lining of his coat and vest, inch by inch, even examined his underwear and his shoes and stockings. From the skin out, Hawk Kennedy had now no secrets from Peter. The incriminating confession was not on Hawk Kennedy's clothing.
At last Peter gave up the search and went out into the air, and lighted his corncob pipe, puzzled at his failure. And yet, was it a failure after all? Hawk had eluded every attempt to discuss his copy of the confession. He had it ”handy,” he had said. A safe deposit box at the Philadelphia bank of which Peter had made record would be handy, but somehow Peter thought the chances were much against Kennedy's having put it there. Men of his type usually carry everything they possess about their persons. Peter remembered the ragged wallet of the _Bermudian_.
What if after all these years of hards.h.i.+p the paper had been worn so that it was entirely illegible, or indeed that in Kennedy's many wanderings it had been lost? Either of these theories was plausible, but none provoked a decision. So after awhile Peter went indoors and opening all the windows and doors to cleanse the air, sat in the big chair and bundling himself in a blanket fell asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
FACE TO FACE
We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations the G.o.ds conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take our joys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, being wholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposed to question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangers which might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went home through the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there to smile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to a.s.sure herself that never since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more glad that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all the world for her.
Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a dark ma.s.s against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines, through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially with a.s.surance that the night could not be long and that beyond the night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even to dream.
Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing and polis.h.i.+ng, finis.h.i.+ng to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away, the s.h.i.+ny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped.
Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and dust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything was right with the world.