Part 7 (2/2)

CHAPTER XV THE CINEMATOGRAPH

On Monday I went out for the first time. I did not go to the office. I wanted to walk. I thought fresh air and exercise would drive away the blue devils that had me by the throat. McKnight insisted on a long day in his car, but I refused.

”I don't know why not,” he said sulkily. ”I can't walk. I haven't walked two consecutive blocks in three years. Automobiles have made legs mere ornaments - and some not even that. We could have Johnson out there chasing us over the country at five dollars an hour!”

”He can chase us just as well at five miles an hour,” I said. ”But what gets me, McKnight, is why I am under surveillance at all. How do the police 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 get my splinted arm into a coat.

”Anyhow, she didn't tell,” I finished with conviction, and McKnight laughed.

It had rained in the early morning, and Mrs. Klopton predicted more showers. In fact, so firm was her belief and so determined her eye that I took the umbrella she proffered me. ”Never mind,” I said. ”We can leave it next door; I have a story to tell you, Richey, and it requires proper setting.”

McKnight was puzzled, but he followed me obediently round to the kitchen entrance of the empty house. It was unlocked, as I had expected. While we climbed to the upper floor I retailed the events of the previous night.

”It's the finest thing I ever heard of,” McKnight said, staring up at the ladder and the trap. ”What a vaudeville skit it would make! Only you ought not to have put your foot on her hand. They don't do it in the best circles.”

I wheeled on him impatiently.

”You don't understand the situation at all, Richey!” I exclaimed. ”What would you say if I tell you it was the hand of a lady? It was covered with rings.”

”A lady!” he repeated. ”Why, I'd say it was a darned compromising situation, 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. I take it all back: you do need exercise.”

”She escaped through this door, I suppose,” I said as patiently as I could. ”Evidently down the back staircase. We might as well go down that way.”

”According to the best precedents in these affairs, we should find a glove about here,” he said as we started down. But he was more impressed than 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 a nervous 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 am going to tell you another story, and if you don't tell me I'm a fool and a craven, on the strength of it, you are no friend of mine.”

We stumbled through the twilight of the staircase into the blackness of the shuttered kitchen. The house had the moldy smell of closed buildings: even on that warm September morning it was damp and chilly. As we stepped into the suns.h.i.+ne McKnight gave a s.h.i.+ver.

”Now that we are out,” he said, ”I don't mind telling you that I have been there before. Do you remember the night you left, and, the face at the window?”

”When you speak of it - yes.”

”Well, I was curious about that thing,” he went on, as we started up the street, ”and I went back. The street door was unlocked, and I examined every 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 gla.s.s in that window of yours.”

As we turned the corner I glanced back. Half a block behind us Johnson was moving our way slowly. When he saw me he stopped and proceeded with great deliberation to light a cigar. By hurrying, however, he caught the car that we took, and stood un.o.btrusively on the rear platform. He looked f.a.gged, and absent-mindedly paid our fares, to McKnight's delight.

”We will give him a run for his money,” he declared, as the car moved countryward. ”Conductor, let us off at the muddiest lane you can find.”

At one o'clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small country hotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time he was a quarter of a mile behind us, and losing rapidly. Before we had finished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots was under his arm, and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coated with mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. He chose a table not far from us and ordered Scotch. Beyond touching his hat 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 gla.s.s he had raised to his lips without replying.

The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft from my week's inaction, and I was prettywell done up. McKnight, who was a well spring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction, made of nearly everything in the bar, and sent it over to the detective, but Johnson refused it.

”I hate that kind of person,” McKnight said pettishly. ”Kind of a fellow that 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 drooping tail to the kite, I was in better spirits. I had told McKnight the story of the three hours just after the wreck; I had not named the girl, of course; 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 over the incident at the farm-house, and the necklace in the gold bag, that I had lost perspective.

He had been interested, but inclined to be amused, until I came to the broken chain. Then he had whistled softly.

”But there are tons of fine gold chains made every year,” he said. ”Why in the world do you think that the - er - smeary piece came from that necklace?”

I had looked around. Johnson was far behind, sc.r.a.ping the mud off his feet 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, one way or the other. It was h.e.l.l 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. But if you like her - and I think myself you're rather hard hit, old man - I wouldn't give a whoop about the chain in the gold purse. It's just one of the little coincidences that hang people now and then. And as for last night - if she's the kind of a girl you say she is, and you think she had anything to do with that, you - you're addled, that's all. You can depend on it, the lady of the empty house last week is the lady of last night. And yet your train acquaintance was in Altoona at that time.”

Just before we got off the car, I reverted to the subject again. It was never far back in my mind.

”About the - young lady of the train, Rich,” I said, with what I suppose was 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 believe she is already 'bespoke,' or next thing to it.”

He made no reply, but as I opened the door with my latch-key he stood looking up at me from the pavement with his quizzical smile.

”Love is like the measles,” he orated. ”The older you get it, the worse the attack.”

Johnson did not appear again that day. A small man in a raincoat took his place. The next morning I made my initial trip to the office, the raincoat still on hand. I had a short conference with Miller, the district attorney, at eleven. Bronson was under surveillance, he said, and any attempt to sell the notes to him would probably result in their recovery. In the meantime, as I knew, the Commonwealth had continued the case, in hope of such contingency.

At noon I left the office and took a veterinarian to see Candida, the injured pony. By one o'clock my first day's duties were performed, and a long Sahara of hot afternoon stretched ahead. McKnight, always glad to escape from the grind, suggested a vaudeville, and in sheer ennui I consented. I could neither ride, drive nor golf, and my own company bored me to distraction.

”Coolest place in town these days,” he declared. ”Electric fans, breezy songs, airy costumes. And there's Johnson just behind - the coldest proposition in Was.h.i.+ngton.”

He gravely bought three tickets and presented the detective with one. Then we went in. Having lived a normal, busy life, the theater in the afternoon is to me about on a par with ice-cream for breakfast. Up on the stage a very stout woman in short pink skirts, with a smile that McKnight declared looked like a slash in a roll of b.u.t.ter, was singing nasally, with a laborious kick at the end of each verse. Johnson, two rows ahead, went to sleep. McKnight prodded me with his elbow.

”Look at the first box to the right,” he said, in a stage whisper. ”I want 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 at Baltimore. Outwardly I presume I was calm, for no one turned to stare at me, but every atom of me cried out at the sight of her. She wasleaning, bent forward, lips slightly parted, gazing raptly at the j.a.panese conjurer who had replaced what McKnight disrespectfully called the Columns 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.

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