Part 22 (1/2)
”Is it not amusing? But he will not allow that Arnold is at all open to suspicion, and of course I have not laid all my evidence before him.”
”But surely the letters are connected with our case, and who else could it be?”
Since the finding of the glove and the testimony of the three gamins Emily was coming around to s.h.a.garach's view of Harry Arnold's possible guilt and the attack on Robert's lawyer had aroused her sympathies so as almost if not quite to convince her.
”Mr. McCausland is very keen--a wonderful man--of deceptive exterior, but like the rest of us, he sometimes makes mistakes,” said s.h.a.garach. ”His defect is that he uses the logical method only and ignores the psychological. It is necessary first to find out if the accused is capable of the crime. I first became sure of Robert Floyd's innocence when I saw him through the cell-bars of the jail. He is incapable of the crime.”
”My son so admires your lover,” added Mrs. s.h.a.garach.
”These other friends of mine,” continued her son, taking down the thumbed volume which he had put back when the tapping startled them, ”commit the opposite error. They are strictly physiological. They predict too much from a man's physical peculiarities.”
The book he opened for Emily was a treatment on criminology, ill.u.s.trated with villainous heads in profile and full face. It was in Italian, so s.h.a.garach exchanged it for another.
”Behold the brands of the true criminal--'enormous zygomae,' 'ear lobes attached to the cheek,' 'spatulate fingernails----'”
”That takes in Mr. McCausland,” said Emily, roguishly. She had got over her fright by this time and the allusion to spatulate fingernails recalled the whole train of events which had ended in the inspector's discomfiture.
”The refutation of such theorists,” said s.h.a.garach, ”is simple. We need only point to the fact that the greatest crimes are committed by men who are not professional criminals at all and who do not belong to the criminal type.”
”Like this man,” said the mother, going to a closet at one side and drawing forth a bundle of photographs. One of them she showed to Emily. It was Harry Arnold, bold and handsome, with the s.h.a.ggy cape coat thrown carelessly over his shoulders.
”Has he enormous zygomae, ear-lobes attached to his cheek?” she asked.
”I wish I could see his fingernails,” laughed Emily.
”Arnold's face in repose does not show much capacity for evil. But it lights up badly. I have seen him crossed and in pa.s.sion.”
”I think he looks as if he were veined of evil and good,” said Emily frankly, studying the portrait long, as she loved to do. She had seen Harry once when he was at his best. Besides, her service in the photograph studio had made her something of a physiognomist, too, though not, of course, such a soul-reader as s.h.a.garach.
”His crimes are of the preventable order and therefore the more culpable. There are men born to crime, as the theorists argue; others driven to crime. For both of these cla.s.ses it is hardly more than a misplaced emphasis, a wrong direction of energies.”
”Here is another volume--I am showing you all my workshop. Does it fatigue you?”
”Nothing which helps to clear up the mystery is dull to me,” answered Emily.
”This treatise deals with 'Incidental Homicide.' Rather legal than clinical. The cases are all parallel to ours. The indictment, by the way, has just been given out. The weakest count charges Robert Floyd with arson and murder in the second degree. The punishment for that is only imprisonment for life.”
”Only! Robert says he would rather be hanged.”
”Let him have no fear of either,” said Mrs. s.h.a.garach, cheerily.
”The newspapers tell us that the government offered much new evidence,” said s.h.a.garach.
”I should like to know what it was,” cried Emily, eagerly.
”So should I. Ordinarily, the grand-jury room is leaky enough, but Mr. McCausland, who is the government in this case, appears to have found a way to seal it hermetically.”
”Perhaps he padlocked the jurors' lips,” suggested Emily, whereat all three were merry.
From time to time during the conversation relapses of the old shudder had come back to Emily, though the tapping had utterly ceased since s.h.a.garach investigated the yard. He had left the curtain half-raised, so that any one approaching the window would be visible from within. It was just at this moment that she happened to change her seat, bringing her face around to the darkened window. Before the others could catch her, she had risen, pointed to the window and fallen to the floor with a terrified shriek.
s.h.a.garach started to raise her, but the terrible detonation of a pistol rung out, sacrilegiously invading their quietude. Then all was darkness, a noise of cras.h.i.+ng gla.s.s telling that the lamp had been shattered and extinguished. Another report followed and another. Mrs. s.h.a.garach, trembling, heard her son quickly crossing to the window. The panes seemed to be broken, and there were sounds of a scuffle, mingled with a gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth and growls more animal than human. Suddenly, with a ripping sound, the scuffle ceased, and rapid footsteps were heard pattering away. Then her son spoke to her in the loud, firm voice which he used in all practical affairs.
”Light the little lamp, mother. It is safe now. There are matches on the mantel.”
”Are you hurt, Meyer?” she asked, anxiously, while lighting the lamp.
”A little,” he answered.
”You were shot, my son?” she cried, embracing him.
”No. Let us revive Miss Barlow. Some water, Rachel,” he said to the old servant who had come to the door.
When Emily came to she found Mrs. s.h.a.garach sponging her forehead, while her son was was.h.i.+ng his hands in a basin of b.l.o.o.d.y water.
”Wrap the cotton around them quickly, Rachel,” he was saying. ”I must notify the police.”
”Meyer, it is not safe.”
Emily heard the mother protesting, then swooned again. When full consciousness returned the lawyer was gone and the three women were alone in the room. Rachel began picking up the fragments of the lamp. Only its chimney and globe had been broken, the metal being still intact. The windowpanes showed great ragged holes, which explained the laceration of s.h.a.garach's hands.
”Poor lady,” cried the mother. ”This is ill treatment we give you. But we are not to blame. It is the wicked enemies who are pursuing us all--your lover and my son.” With terms of endearment she petted the weak girl back into a coherent understanding of her position. But every now and then the remembrance of something would cause her to shudder again visibly; whereat the elder lady would renew her caresses.
”I have notified the policeman. That was the best I could do,” said s.h.a.garach, re-entering. He looked extremely grave. It was a narrow escape for one or more of the three. ”This is all I have to identify him by. It was detached in the struggle.”
He laid a common coat b.u.t.ton down on the table, with a piece of cloth adhering.
”That face! Who could ever forget it?” cried Emily.
”You saw him, then?” asked son and the mother in one breath.
”Shall I call it 'him'? Was it a man?” answered Emily. ”Rather a monster, no more than half-human.”
”It had the form of a man,” said s.h.a.garach, ”as I felt it through the gla.s.s.”
Rachel was busy bandaging his cuts with plaster during this conversation, but they bled through, calling for the surgeon's thread.
”But it snarled like a tiger,” said the mother.
”Oh the wild, blue eyes! They were staring at me through the cleft of the draperies. And the demon leer, and the forehead, retreating like a frog's----”
”It is the oaf I pa.s.sed on the pier,” cried s.h.a.garach, interrupting Emily. ”We have found Mr. Skull-and-Crossbones.”
”Oaf? What is oaf?” asked the mother.
”An idiot, a monster.”