“The Diversity Theatre.”
“MY DEAR MR. GRANICE:
“I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month,
and it’s no use--the play won’t do. I have talked it over with Miss
Melrose--and you know there isn’t a gamer artist on our stage--and I
regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn’t the poetry
that scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can to help
along the poetic drama--we believe the public’s ready for it, and we’re
willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give
them what they want. _But we don’t believe they could be made to
want this._ The fact is, there isn’t enough drama in your play to the
allowance of poetry--the thing drags all through. You’ve got a big idea,
but it’s not out of swaddling clothes.
“If this was your first play I’d say: _Try again_. But it has been
just the same with all the others you’ve shown me. And you remember
the result of ‘The Lee Shore,’ where you carried all the expenses of
production yourself, and we couldn’t fill the theatre for a week. Yet
‘The Lee Shore’ was a modern problem play--much easier to swing than
blank verse. It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds--”
Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope.
Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by
heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand
out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids?
“_It has been just the same with all the others you’ve shown me._”
That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting
work!
“_You remember the result of ‘The Lee Shore.’_”
Good God--as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now in a
drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve
to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his
inheritance on testing his chance of success--the fever of preparation,
the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, the stupid
press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his
friends!
“_It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds._”
No--he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light
curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the
lyrical-romantic--finally deciding that he would no longer “prostitute
his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own
theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had
offered them everything--and always with the same result.
Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The
ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his life! And if
one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation,
preparation--then call it half a man’s life-time: half a man’s life-time
thrown away!
And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled
that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten
minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy
rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for
Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion
as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more
to be alone. ... But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn’t
he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole
business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this
nightmare of living?
He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a
small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give
himself a “hypodermic” with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while
with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head,
between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he
had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and
lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand
that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself
to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly
nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of
the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his
forehead and ran down his quivering face...
He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a
cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and
temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that way. His
attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He
couldn’t make himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life
he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him...
The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for
his delay.
“I didn’t like to say anything while your man was about--but the fact
is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to
feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any
recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal
into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social
gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him.
“My dear fellow, it’s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially
the production of an artist like yours.” Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy
luxuriously. “But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.”
Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment
he was shaken out of his self-absorption.
“_Mrs. Ashgrove?_”
Ascham smiled. “I thought you’d be interested; I know your passion for
_causes celebres_. And this promises to be one. Of course it’s out of
our line entirely--we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to
consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife’s.
And, by Jove, it _is_ a queer case!” The servant re-entered, and Ascham
snapped his lips shut.
Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room?
“No--serve it in the library,” said Granice, rising. He led the way back
to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what
Ascham had to tell him.
While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the
library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes and
bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline
caught his eye.
“ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.
“THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.”
He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author he
had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance
before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true,
then--she _was_ “game”--it was not the manner but the matter she
mistrusted!
Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I
shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.”
He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on,
Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the
way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice
suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage.
As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward
to take a light from Ascham’s cigar.
“Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak
stiffly, as if his lips were cracked.
“Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to _tell_.”
“And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled.
“Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her
choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our
talk.”
“And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?”
“My impression is, very distinctly, _that nothing will ever be known._”
“Ah--?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar.
“I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his
business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital
cigar you’ve given me.”
“You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own
reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals
never _are_ caught?”
“Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen
years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer
ruminated behind his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own
family: I’d forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph
Lenman’s murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?”
As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about
the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale
unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was
as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat
slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain
the Lenman murder myself.”
Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases.
“By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never
mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the
Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a
help.”
Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in
which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were
to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes
and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless
routine of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another
day--displaced his fleeting vision.
“I haven’t a theory. I _know_ who murdered Joseph Lenman.”
Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment.
“You _know?_ Well, who did?” he laughed.
“I did,” said Granice, rising.
He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then
he broke into another laugh.
“Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money,
I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me
all about it! Confession is good for the soul.”
Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from
his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.”
The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham
did not laugh.
“Granice!”
“I murdered him--to get his money, as you say.”
There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of
amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension.
“What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.”
“It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken
painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time
he repeated the words he found they were easier to say.
Ascham laid down his extinct cigar.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?”
“I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want
it known that I murdered him.”
“_You want it known?_”
“Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to
kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in
his throat had been untied.
“Good Lord--good Lord,” the lawyer gasped.
“But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be
murder in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?”
Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice.
Let’s talk.”