Part 18

Jean sprang to her feet, her own woes forgotten in her horrified perception of Amy's dire need. Tearing out the paragraph, she penciled across its head-lines, "I have gone to her," and enclosing it in an envelope addressed to Atwood, set it conspicuously on his desk.

XXIX

Early as she reached the Lorna Doone, Jean found others before her, drawn by the morbid lure of sudden death. The hawkers of "extras" already filled the street with their cries; open-mouthed children swarmed about the entrance of the apartment-house as if this, not the park, were the historic ground; while Amy's narrow hall was choked with reporters, amidst whom Amy herself, colorless, bright-eyed, babbled wearilessly of the drummer's virtues.

"He was the best salesman they ever had," she was saying. "Put that in the paper, won't you? In another year he'd most likely have had an interest in the business. They couldn't get along without him, they said. He was the best salesman they ever had. People just had to buy when Fred called. He seemed to hypnotize customers. One man--" and she rambled into the story of a conquest, beginning nowhere and ending in fatuity with the unceasing refrain, "He was the best salesman they ever had."

The sight of Jean shunted her from this theme to self-pity. She clung to her hysterically, declaring she was her only friend and calling upon the reporters to witness what a friend she was! They had, of course, heard of Francis Craig Atwood, the great artist? This was his wife--her old friend, her only friend. Jean urged her gently toward the bedroom, and, shutting the door upon her, turned and asked the pressmen to go. They assented and left immediately, save one of boyish face who delayed some minutes for sympathetic comment on the tragedy.

"I'm only a cub reporter, Mrs. Atwood," he added, "and I have to take back something. That's the rule in our office--get the story or get out. Poor Mrs. Chapman was too upset to give me anything of value. Perhaps you'd be willing to help me make good?"

"I know nothing but what the papers have told," Jean replied.

"I don't mean the shooting--merely a fact or two about Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, whom you know so well. When were they married?"

"I can't tell you," she said hastily. "I--I was not present."

"But approximately? I don't want the dates. She looks a bride, and you know the public is interested in brides. They haven't lived here long, I suppose?"

"No; not long," she assented, thankful for the loophole; "a few weeks."

"This was their first home?"

"Practically. They boarded for a time. Excuse me now, please. You must see how much she needs me."

"She is lucky to have you, Mrs. Atwood. Girlhood friends, I presume?"

"Yes, yes. Go now, please."

She turned him out at last and paused an instant to brace her nerves before joining Amy. At the far end of the hall the parlor door stood ajar, and she saw with a shiver that the shades were down. Then Amy peered from the bedroom in search of her, a grief-stricken figure with wringing hands.

"Don't keep me in here," she moaned. "Let me walk, walk." And she moved toward the darkened room.

"Not there!" Jean cried, preventing her. "Not there!"

Amy stared an instant and then uttered a laugh more terrible than tears.

"He is not in the parlor," she replied. "They took him to an undertaker's. There's a man--I forgot to tell you--there's a man from the undertaker's here now. He wants clothes, black clothes. He's in the spare room, hunting. I--I couldn't touch them. I told him to look for himself. You help him, Jean. I couldn't touch Fred's things. It seemed--oh, I just couldn't!"

Jean let her wander where she would, and opened the guest-room door. A heavy-jowled man pivoted about at her entrance and stuffed a handful of letters into a pocket of one of the dead drummer's coats. The garment was not black.

"What are you doing there?" she demanded. "That coat might answer for a horse-race, not a funeral."

The man had a glib answer ready.

"I took it down to look behind," he said. "The letters fell out."

She doubted his word and, walking to the closet, made a selection from the more sober wear.

"Take these," she ordered.

He thanked her, gathered the clothing together, and left the room; and she heard the hall door close after him while she lingered a moment to replace the things his rummaging had disturbed. Coming out herself, the first object to meet her eye was a telltale bit of cloth protruding from the umbrella-rack, into which, she promptly discovered, the supposed undertaker's assistant had stuffed every article she had given him. The sight unnerved her, and she sought Amy in the parlor and told her what she had seen.

"Don't let people in here," she warned. "The man was, of course, a reporter. No experienced detective would have left the clothes behind."

Amy plucked at her throat as if stifled.

"What did he w-want?" she chattered. "What did he want?"

"Scandal, probably."

"You think so?" whispered the girl, ghastly white. "You think so? You don't suppose he came because--because he suspects--"

"Suspects whom?"

"Me!" she wailed, her cry trembling to a shriek. "Me! Me! Me! I did it, Jean. I shot him. I killed Fred. I'm the one. I--"

Jean clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Hush!" she implored. "You're mad!"

Amy tore herself free and dropped huddled to the floor.

"I'm not mad. I wish I were. They'd only lock me up, if I were mad. Now they'll kill me, too."

Jean shook her roughly.

"Stop!" she commanded. "Some one might overhear and believe you. Don't say such things. It's dangerous."

Amy threw back her head with a repetition of her awful laugh.

"You don't believe me!" she cried. "I'll make you believe me. Listen: He came home last night after you left. You hadn't been gone ten minutes when he came. He'd been drinking, but he was good-natured, and I thought I would speak to him myself. It didn't seem as if I could wait for you to speak to him, Jean. I thought I could manage it--he was so good-natured--and so I asked him to make me an honest woman. I never mentioned the baby--then! And I wasn't cross or mean with him. I asked him as nice as I knew how. But he wouldn't listen--it was the drink in him--and he struck me. Fred never struck me before in his life. He was always such a gentleman. It was the drink in him made him strike me. After that I went into the bedroom and cried, and I heard him go to the sideboard and pour out more whisky. He did it twice. By and by he came into the hall and took his hat, and I called to him and asked him not to go out again. I said I was sorry for bothering him; but he went out just the same. Then I followed. I knew, I don't know how, but I knew he was going to Stella's, and it didn't seem, after all I'd been through, I could stand for it. Sure enough, he turned down the avenue toward that flat of hers I told you about, with me after him keeping on the other side. I lagged behind a little when he reached Stella's street, for it was lighter by her door than on the avenue, and when I got around the corner he wasn't anywhere to be seen, and I knew for certain he'd gone in at her number. I'd been trembling all over up to then, but now I felt bold as a lion, I was so mad, and I marched straight up to the house myself. I decided I wouldn't ring her bell--it's just one of those common flat-houses without an elevator--but somebody else's, and then, after the catch was pulled, go up and take them by surprise.

"I was half running when I came to the steps, and before I could stop myself, or hide, or do anything, I banged right into Fred, who hadn't been able to get in at all and was coming away. His face was terrible when he saw who it was, but I wasn't afraid of him any more and told him he'd got to hear something now that would bring him to his senses, if anything could. He saw I meant business and said, 'Oh, well, spit it out!' But just then some people came along and walked close behind us all the way to the corner. The avenue was full of people, too, for the show at that little concert-hall near the park entrance was just over, so we crossed into the park to be by ourselves. We were quite a way in before I spoke, for I was thinking what to say, and finally when Fred said he wasn't going a step farther, I up and told him about the baby. He said that was a likely story and started to pull away, and then--then I took out the pistol. It was Fred's six-shooter; he'd kept it in the top bureau drawer ever since the last scare about burglars, and I caught it up when I followed him out. I didn't mean it for him. I only meant to shoot myself, if he wouldn't do right by me when he'd heard the truth. But he thought I wanted to kill him, and he grabbed hold of my arm to get it away. Then, somehow, all of a sudden it was done, and there he was lying across the path with his head in the grass. I don't know how long I stood there, or why I didn't kill myself. I ought to have shot myself right there. But I only stood, numb-like, till all at once I got frightened and began to run. I ran along by the lake and threw the revolver in the water, and went out of the park by another entrance and came back here. Nobody saw me go out; nobody saw me come in. The elevator boy goes home at twelve o'clock. I guess you believe me now, don't you?"

Jean froze before the horror of it. While she mechanically soothed the hapless creature who, her secret out, had relapsed into ungovernable hysteria wherein Fred's praises alternated with shuddering terror of the future, her own thoughts crowded in a disorder almost as chaotic. She faced a crime, and yet no crime. Must she bid Amy give herself up to the law? Must this frail girl undergo the torture of imprisonment and trial for having served as little more than the passive tool of circumstance? If they held their peace, the mystery might never be cleared. Would justice suffer greatly by such silence? But Amy would suffer! The fear of discovery--the fear Jean herself knew so well--would dog her to her grave. To trust the law was the frank course, but would the law--blind, clumsy, fallible Law whose heavy hand had all but spoiled her own life--would the law believe Amy had gone out, carrying a weapon, without intent to do murder? The dilemma was too cruel.

The door-bell bored itself into her consciousness, and she went out to confront more reporters.

"Mrs. Chapman is too ill to see you," she said curtly.

"But it's you we want to see," returned one, whose face she recalled from the earlier invasion. "There are new developments, and we'd like to have your comment. It's of public interest, Mrs. Atwood."

Her anger flamed out against them.

"What have I to do with your public?" she demanded. "I have nothing to say to it."

"But you consented to an interview this morning," rejoined the spokesman for the group. "Why do you object to another?"

"I consented to an interview!"

"Here you are," he said, producing one of the more sensational newspapers. "'The beautiful wife of the well-known illustrator, Francis Craig Atwood, has been with the heart-broken little bride since early morning. Mrs. Atwood and Mrs. Chapman were schoolgirl chums whose friendship has endured to be a solace in this crushing hour. Mrs. Atwood brokenly expressed her horror at the catastrophe and added one or two touching details concerning the Chapmans' ideal married life. Their wedding--'"

Jean seized the cub reporter's "story" and read it for herself. The drummer shone a paragon of refinement in the light of her friendship and Craig's, for Atwood was not neglected; two paragraphs, indeed, were given over to a résumé of his artistic career.

Tears of mortification sprang to her eyes.

"What an outrage!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Atwood has never seen these people, never set foot in this building! I myself met this unfortunate man but once in my life!"

The group pricked up its ears.

"We shall be very glad to publish your denial," assured the spokesman.

"Oh, don't publish anything," she cried. "Drop us out of it altogether, I beg of you!"

"But in the light of the new developments, it would be only just to you and Mr. Atwood," he persisted.

"What developments?"

"The revelations concerning Chapman's--er--irregular mode of life. His former wife--she lives in Jersey City--has laid certain information before the police. She seems to care for him still, after a fashion. She only heard this morning of his remarriage, though she met and talked with him day before yesterday."

Jean's hand sought the wall.

"What does she know?"

"The police won't disclose. But they say her information, taken with another clew that's come into their hands, will lead shortly to an arrest. Shall we publish the denial, Mrs. Atwood?"

"Yes," she answered; "yes."

As she closed the door, Amy tottered down the hall.

"I heard!" she gasped. "I heard all they said. The police--the police will come next! They've found out I'm not Fred's wife. I'll be shamed before everybody. They'll suspect me first of all. They'll find out everything. You heard what they said about a clew? When they get hold of a clew, they get everything! They'll take me to the Tombs--the Tombs! Hark!"

The fretful bell rang again.

"The police!" chattered Amy. "The police!"

The same fear gripped Jean, but she mustered strength to push the girl into the bedroom and shut the door; and then, with sinking knees, went to answer the summons.

XXX

No uniformed agent of pursuing justice confronted her; only the face of him she loved best; and the great uplifting wave of relief cast her breathless in Craig's arms.

"Come away," he begged, his answering clasp the witness and the seal of their reconciliation. "Come away."

"Craig!" she whispered. "Craig!"

"I only just learned where you were. A reporter came to the studio, showed me his paper--"

"Falsehoods! They perverted my words--"

"I knew, I knew. I'm the one to blame, not you. If I'd gone home, stayed home, you would never have come here. Forgive me, Jean. I've been a fool."

"Hush," she said, laying a hand upon his lips. "We were both wrong. But I must have come to Amy. After what she told me last night, there was no choice. You'll understand when I explain. It's ghastly clear."

"But come away first. Don't give anyone a chance to ferret out your life, Jean. Why should you stay here now?"

A low, convulsive moan issued from the bedroom. Jean sprang to the door.

"Amy!" she called. "Don't be frightened. It's only Craig. Do you hear me? It was Craig who rang. I'll come to you soon."

Atwood followed to the little parlor.

"You see?" she said.

"But there must be some one else, some other woman--"

"There is no one who knows what I know. You must hear it, too, Craig. It's more than I can face alone. You must think for me, help me." And she poured the whole petrifying truth into his ears.

"She must give herself up," he said, at last.

"But--" And the dilemma of moral and legal guilt plagued her again.

He brushed her tender casuistry aside.

"The law must deal with such doubts," he answered. "We must help her face it, help her see that delay only counts against her. She must tell her story before they come at the facts without her."

"She believes they suspect already. They've found out something about that wretched man's life,--the reporters don't say what,--and she lies in that room shaking with terror at every ring of the bell. We thought you were the police."

"We must help her face it," he repeated. "I will drive her to police headquarters."

"Not you, Craig. You must not. The papers shall not drag you into this again. I will go with her."

"Isn't your name mine? You see it makes no difference. I'll not allow you to go through this alone. I've let you meet too much alone. We'll talk to Amy together, if you think best."

Jean's glance fell on Grimes's gilt clock.

"Amy has tasted nothing, and it's nearly noon," she said. "I must make coffee or something to give her strength. Wait till she has eaten."

She started for the kitchen, but brought up, white-faced, at the recurring summons of the bell. Their eyes met in panic. Were they too late? The ring was repeated while they questioned. Jean took a faltering step toward the door, listening for an out-burst from the bedroom; but Amy seemed not to hear. Craig stepped before her into the hall.

"Let me answer it," he said.

Then, before either could act, a key explored the lock, and Paul Bartlett's anxious face peered through the opening. He started at sight of them, but came forward with an ejaculation of relief.

"I remembered I had a key," he explained. "It was so still I thought something had gone wrong. Where's Amy?"

Jean signed toward the bedroom, and the three tip-toed into the parlor and shut the door. An awkward silence rested upon them for an instant. Jean's thoughts raced back to her last meeting with the dentist in this room, and she knew that Paul could be scarcely less the prey of his memories. Atwood himself, divining something of what such a reunion meant, was stricken with a share of their embarrassment.

Paul pulled himself together first.

"I came to help Amy, if I could," he said to Jean; "and also to see you. I've read the papers, and I thought"--he hesitated lamely--"I thought somebody ought to take your place. It's not pleasant to be dragged into a murder case--not pleasant for a lady, I mean," he corrected himself hastily. "_I_ don't mind. Mrs. St. Aubyn won't mind, either. I've 'phoned her--she always liked Amy, you know--and she's coming soon. You needn't wait. You mustn't be expected to--to--oh, for God's sake, sir," he broke off, wheeling desperately upon Atwood, "take your wife away!"

Jean's eyes blurred with sudden tears, which fell unrestrained when Craig's chivalry met the dentist's halfway.

"Now _I_ know you for the true man Jean has praised," he said, gripping Paul's hand. "But I can't take her away. She has a responsibility--we both have a responsibility it's impossible to shirk. Tell him, Jean!"

The dentist squared his shoulders in the old way, when she ceased.

"I'll see that Amy reaches headquarters," he said doggedly. "Neither of you need go. There isn't the slightest necessity. I'm her old friend, the lessee of this flat: who would be more likely to act for her? You convince her that she must toe the mark--I can't undertake that part; and then, the sooner you leave, the better."

Atwood turned irresolutely toward the window and threw up the shade as if his physical being craved light. Jean met the straightforward eyes.

"Why should you shoulder it, Paul?"

Bartlett shot a look at Atwood, who nervously drummed the pane, his gaze fixed outward; and then, with a sweeping gesture, invoked the silent argument of the room.

"I guess you know," he added simply.

Her face softened with ineffable tenderness.

"I'll tell Amy you are here," she said.

The men heard her pass down the hall and knock; wait, knock again, calling Amy's name; wait once more; and then return.

"Shall we let her sleep while she can?" she whispered. "It's a hideous thing that she must meet."

Atwood's look questioned the dentist, whose reply was to brush by them both and assault Amy's door.

"Amy!" he shouted. "Amy!"

They held their breath. Back in the parlor the gilt clock ticked like a midsummer mad insect; the cries of newsboys rose muffled from the street; even a drip of water sounded from some leaky kitchen tap; but from the bedroom came nothing.

Jean tried the knob.

"Locked!"

The dentist laid his shoulder to the woodwork, put forth his strength, and the door burst in with an impetus that carried him headlong; but before either could follow he had recovered himself and turned to block the way.

"Keep back, Jean," he commanded sharply. "Keep back!"

Their suspense was brief. Almost immediately he came out, closed the door gently after him, and held up a red-labeled vial.

"Carbolic acid!" he said hoarsely.

Jean uttered a sharp cry.

"A doctor!" she exclaimed.

Paul shook his head.

"I am doctor enough to know death. Atwood, get your wife away."

"But now--" Jean resisted.

"Go, go!" he commanded, driving them before him. "Mrs. St. Aubyn will do what a woman can. I will attend to the police. You left for rest, believing her asleep. I suspected suicide, and broke down the door. That's our story. Go while you can."

They went out as in a dream, striking away at random when they issued on the street, seeking only to shun the still idling curious, grateful beyond words for release, avid for the pure, vital air. Presently, in some quarter, they knew not where, a cab-driver hailed them, and they passively entered his hansom and as passively sat dependent on his superior will.

"Where to?" asked the man, impatiently.

Atwood shook himself awake. "The Copley Studios," he answered. "Do you know the building? It's near--"

The closing trap clipped his directions, and they drove away. They gave no heed to their course till, passing a park entrance, they came full upon a knot of urchins and nursemaids clustered between lake and drive.

"That's where the Chapman murder took place," volunteered the driver.

Jean shut her eyes.

"This way of all ways!"

"It is behind us now," Craig comforted. "It's _all_ behind us now."

Neither spoke again till they reached the studio, and a porter announced the arrival of several trunks.

"They're yours, Jean," Atwood said. "I ordered them sent here when Julie telephoned for instructions. I realize that there is no going back. She admits that she did you a wrong--she will tell you so herself; but that doesn't alter matters. We must live our own lives. To-night we'll go away for a time. In the mountains or by the sea, whichever you will, we'll plan for the future. It's time the air-castles were made real."

He ordered a luncheon from a neighboring restaurant, forced her to eat, and then to rest. She said that sleep was impossible, and that she must repack against their journey; but her eyelids grew heavy even while she protested, and she was just drowsily aware that he threw over her some studio drapery which emitted a spicy oriental scent.

It was a dreamless sleep until just before she woke, when she shivered again under the obsession of Amy's door-bell. The studio furnishings delivered her from the delusion, but a bell rang on. Where was Craig? Then her eye fell upon a scrawl, transfixed to her pillow by a hatpin, which told her that he had gone to arrange for their departure; and she roused herself to answer the door. Here, for an instant, the dream seemed still to haunt, for the caller who greeted her was the reporter of the morning who had taken her denial.

"I'm right sorry to bother _you_ again, Mrs. Atwood," he apologized. "I'm looking for your husband."

"Mr. Atwood is out."

"Could I see him later, perhaps? It's about five-thirty now. Would six o'clock suit?"

"Why do you annoy him?" she asked wearily. "I told you that he has nothing to do with this awful affair."

"The public thinks he has, and in a way, through your knowing Mrs. Chapman, it's true. Anyhow, I'm authorized to make him a proposition with dollars in it. Our Sunday editor is willing to let him name his own figure for a column interview and a sketch of the Wilkes girl, in any medium he likes, which he can knock off from our own photographs. We got some rattling good snap-shots just as she was taken into custody."

Jean stared blankly into his enthusiastic face.

"Taken into custody?" she said. "The Wilkes girl! You mean--on suspicion--of murder!"