his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard
his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It
was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an
expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual,
she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress
of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built
up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered
deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious
care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and
powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the
perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.
"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you
please come this way?"
That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for, as
she spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the stairs. After an
instant of hesitation, Wharton followed.
As well as his mind, his body was now acutely alive and vigilant. Both
physically and mentally he moved on tiptoe. For whatever surprise, for
whatever ambush might lie in wait, he was prepared. At the top of the
stairs he found a wide hall along which on both sides were many doors.
The one directly facing the stairs stood open. At one side of this the
woman halted and with a gesture of the jewelled fingers invited him to
enter.
"My sitting-room," she said. As Wharton remained motionless she
substituted: "My office."
Peering into the room, Wharton found it suited to both titles. He saw
comfortable chairs, vases filled with autumn leaves, in silver frames
photographs, and between two open windows a businesslike roller-top desk
on which was a hand telephone. In plain sight through the windows he
beheld the garage and behind it the tops of trees. To summon Rumson, to
keep in touch with Nolan, he need only step to one of these windows and
beckon. The strategic position of the room appealed, and with a bow of
the head he passed in front of his hostess and entered it. He continued
to take note of his surroundings.
He now saw that from the office in which he stood doors led to rooms
adjoining. These doors were shut, and he determined swiftly that before
the interview began he first must know what lay behind them. Mrs. Earle
had followed and, as she entered, closed the door.
"No!" said Wharton.
It was the first time he had spoken. For an instant the woman hesitated,
regarding him thoughtfully, and then without resentment pulled the door
open. She came toward him swiftly, and he was conscious of the rustle of
silk and the stirring of perfumes. At the open door she cast a frown of
disapproval and then, with her face close to his, spoke hurriedly in a
whisper.
"A man brought a girl here to lunch," she said; "they've been here
before. The girl claims the man told her he was going to marry her. Last
night she found out he has a wife already, and she came here to-day
meaning to make trouble. She brought a gun. They were in the room at the
far end of the hall. George, the waiter, heard the two shots and ran
down here to get me. No one else heard. These rooms are fixed to keep
out noise, and the piano was going. We broke in and found them on the
floor. The man was shot through the shoulder, the girl through the body.
His story is that after she fired, in trying to get the gun from her,
she shot herself--by accident. That's right, I guess. But the girl says
they came here to die together--what the newspaper calls a 'suicide
pact'--because they couldn't marry, and that he first shot her,
intending to kill her and then himself. That's silly. She framed it to
get him. She missed him with the gun, so now she's trying to get him
with this murder charge. I know her. If she'd been sober she wouldn't
have shot him; she'd have blackmailed him. She's _that_ sort. I know
her, and--"
With an exclamation the district attorney broke in upon her. "And the
man," he demanded eagerly; "was it _he_ killed Banf?"
In amazement the woman stared. "Certainly _not_!" she said.
"Then what _has_ this to do with Banf?"
"Nothing!" Her tone was annoyed, reproachful. "That was only to bring
you here."
His disappointment was so keen that it threatened to exhibit itself in
anger. Recognizing this, before he spoke Wharton forced himself to
pause. Then he repeated her words quietly.
"Bring me here?" he asked. "Why?"
The woman exclaimed impatiently: "So you could beat the police to it,"
she whispered. "So you could _hush it up_!"
The surprised laugh of the man was quite real. It bore no resentment or
pose. He was genuinely amused. Then the dignity of his office, tricked
and insulted, demanded to be heard. He stared at her coldly; his
indignation was apparent.
"You have done extremely ill," he told her. "You know perfectly well you
had no right to bring me up here; to drag me into a row in your
road-house. 'Hush it up!'" he exclaimed hotly. This time his laugh was
contemptuous and threatening.
"I'll show you how I'll hush it up!" He moved quickly to the open
window.
"Stop!" commanded the woman. "You can't do that!"
She ran to the door.
Again he was conscious of the rustle of silk, of the stirring of
perfumes.
He heard the key turn in the lock. It had come. It WAS a frame-up. There
would be a scandal. And to save himself from it they would force him to
"hush up" this other one. But, as to the outcome, in no way was he
concerned. Through the window, standing directly below it, he had seen
Nolan. In the sunlit yard the chauffeur, his cap on the back of his
head, his cigarette drooping from his lips, was tossing the remnants of
a sandwich to a circle of excited hens. He presented a picture of bored
indolence, of innocent preoccupation. It was almost _too_ well done.
Assured of a witness for the defense, he greeted the woman with a smile.
"Why can't I do it?" he taunted.
She ran close to him and laid her hands on his arm. Her eyes were fixed
steadily on his. "Because," she whispered, "the man who shot that
girl--is your brother-in-law, Ham Cutler!"
For what seemed a long time Wharton stood looking down into the eyes of
the woman, and the eyes never faltered. Later he recalled that in the
sudden silence many noises disturbed the lazy hush of the Indian-summer
afternoon: the rush of a motor-car on the Boston Road, the tinkle of
the piano and the voice of the youth with the drugged eyes singing, "And
you'll wear a simple gingham gown," from the yard below the cluck-cluck
of the chickens and the cooing of pigeons.
His first thought was of his sister and of her children, and of what
this bomb, hurled from the clouds, would mean to her. He thought of
Cutler, at the height of his power and usefulness, by this one
disreputable act dragged into the mire, of what disaster it might bring
to the party, to himself.
If, as the woman invited, he helped to "hush it up," and Tammany learned
the truth, it would make short work of him. It would say, for the
murderer of Banf he had one law and for the rich brother-in-law, who had
tried to kill the girl he deceived, another. But before he gave voice to
his thoughts he recognized them as springing only from panic. They were
of a part with the acts of men driven by sudden fear, and of which acts
in their sane moments they would be incapable.
The shock of the woman's words had unsettled his traditions. Not only
was he condemning a man unheard, but a man who, though he might dislike
him, he had for years, for his private virtues, trusted and admired.
The panic passed and with a confident smile he shook his head.
"I don't believe you," he said quietly.
The manner of the woman was equally calm, equally assured.
"Will you see her?" she asked.
"I'd rather see my brother-in-law," he answered.
The woman handed him a card.
"Doctor Muir took him to his private hospital," she said. "I loaned them
my car because it's a limousine. The address is on that card. But," she
added, "both your brother and Sammy--that's Sam Muir, the doctor--asked
you wouldn't use the telephone; they're afraid of a leak."
Apparently Wharton did not hear her. As though it were "Exhibit A,"
presented in evidence by the defense, he was studying the card she had
given him. He stuck it in his pocket.
"I'll go to him at once," he said.
To restrain or dissuade him, the woman made no sudden move. In level
tones she said: "Your brother-in-law asked especially that you wouldn't
do that until you'd fixed it with the girl. Your face is too well known.
He's afraid some one might find out where he is--and for a day or two no
one must know that."
"This doctor knows it," retorted Wharton.
The suggestion seemed to strike Mrs. Earle as humorous. For the first
time she laughed.
"Sammy!" she exclaimed. "He's a lobbygow of mine. He's worked for me for
years. I could send him up the river if I liked. He knows it." Her tone
was convincing. "They both asked," she continued evenly, "you should
keep off until the girl is out of the country, and fixed."
Wharton frowned thoughtfully.
And, observing this, the eyes of the woman showed that, so far, toward
the unfortunate incident the attitude of the district attorney was to
her most gratifying.
Wharton ceased frowning.
"How fixed?" he asked.
Mrs. Earle shrugged her shoulders.
"Cutler's idea is money," she said; "but, believe _me_, he's wrong. This
girl is a vampire. She'll only come back to you for more. She'll keep on
threatening to tell the wife, to tell the papers. The way to fix _her_
is to throw a scare into her. And there's only one man can do that;
there's only one man that can hush this thing up--that's you."
"When can I see her?" asked Wharton.
"Now," said the woman. "I'll bring her."
Wharton could not suppress an involuntary start.
"Here?" he exclaimed.
For the shade of a second Mrs. Earle exhibited the slightest evidence of
embarrassment.
"My room's in a mess," she explained; "and she's not hurt so much as
Sammy said. He told her she was in bad just to keep her quiet until you
got here."
Mrs. Earle opened one of the doors leading from the room. "I won't be a
minute," she said. Quietly she closed the door behind her.
Upon her disappearance the manner of the district attorney underwent an
abrupt change. He ran softly to the door opposite the one through which
Mrs. Earle had passed, and pulled it open. But, if beyond it he expected
to find an audience of eavesdroppers, he was disappointed. The room was
empty--and bore no evidence of recent occupation. He closed the door,
and, from the roller-top desk, snatching a piece of paper, scribbled
upon it hastily. Wrapping the paper around a coin, and holding it
exposed to view, he showed himself at the window. Below him, to an
increasing circle of hens and pigeons, Nolan was still scattering
crumbs. Without withdrawing his gaze from them, the chauffeur nodded.
Wharton opened his hand and the note fell into the yard. Behind him he
heard the murmur of voices, the sobs of a woman in pain, and the rattle
of a doorknob. As from the window he turned quickly, he saw that toward
the spot where his note had fallen Nolan was tossing the last remnants
of his sandwich.
The girl who entered with Mrs. Earle, leaning on her and supported by
her, was tall and fair. Around her shoulders her blond hair hung in
disorder, and around her waist, under the kimono Mrs. Earle had thrown
about her, were wrapped many layers of bandages. The girl moved
unsteadily and sank into a chair.
In a hostile tone Mrs. Earle addressed her.
"Rose," she said, "this is the district attorney." To him she added:
"She calls herself Rose Gerard."
One hand the girl held close against her side, with the other she
brushed back the hair from her forehead. From half-closed eyes she
stared at Wharton defiantly.
"Well," she challenged, "what about it?"
Wharton seated himself in front of the roller-top desk.
"Are you strong enough to tell me?" he asked.
His tone was kind, and this the girl seemed to resent.
"Don't you worry," she sneered, "I'm strong enough. Strong enough to
tell _all_ I know--to you, and to the papers, and to a jury--until I get
justice." She clinched her free hand and feebly shook it at him.
"_That's_ what I'm going to get," she cried, her voice breaking
hysterically, "justice."
From behind the armchair in which the girl half-reclined Mrs. Earle
caught the eye of the district attorney and shrugged her shoulders.
"Just what _did_ happen?" asked Wharton.
Apparently with an effort the girl pulled herself together.
"I first met your brother-in-law--" she began.
Wharton interrupted quietly.
"Wait!" he said. "You are not talking to me as anybody's brother-in-law,
but as the district attorney."
The girl laughed vindictively.
"I don't wonder you're ashamed of him!" she jeered.
Again she began: "I first met Ham Cutler last May. He wanted to marry me
then. He told me he was not a married man."
As her story unfolded, Wharton did not again interrupt; and speaking
quickly, in abrupt, broken phrases, the girl brought her narrative to
the moment when, as she claimed, Cutler had attempted to kill her. At
this point a knock at the locked door caused both the girl and her
audience to start. Wharton looked at Mrs. Earle inquiringly, but she
shook her head, and with a look at him also of inquiry, and of suspicion
as well, opened the door.
With apologies her head waiter presented a letter.
"For Mr. Wharton," he explained, "from his chauffeur."
Wharton's annoyance at the interruption was most apparent. "What the
devil--" he began.
He read the note rapidly, and with a frown of irritation raised his eyes
to Mrs. Earle.
"He wants to go to New Rochelle for an inner tube," he said. "How long
would it take him to get there and back?"
The hard and distrustful expression upon the face of Mrs. Earle, which
was habitual, was now most strongly in evidence. Her eyes searched those
of Wharton.
"Twenty minutes," she said.
"He can't go," snapped Wharton.
"Tell him," he directed the waiter, "to stay where he is. Tell him I
may want to go back to the office any minute." He turned eagerly to the
girl. "I'm sorry," he said. With impatience he crumpled the note into a
ball and glanced about him. At his feet was a waste-paper basket. Fixed
upon him he saw, while pretending not to see, the eyes of Mrs. Earle
burning with suspicion. If he destroyed the note, he knew suspicion
would become certainty. Without an instant of hesitation, carelessly he
tossed it intact into the waste-paper basket. Toward Rose Gerard he
swung the revolving chair.
"Go on, please," he commanded.
The girl had now reached the climax of her story, but the eyes of Mrs.
Earle betrayed the fact that her thoughts were elsewhere. With an
intense and hungry longing, they were concentrated upon her own
waste-paper basket.
The voice of the girl in anger and defiance recalled Mrs. Earle to the
business of the moment.
"He tried to kill me," shouted Miss Rose. "And his shooting himself in
the shoulder was a bluff. _That's_ my story; that's the story I'm going
to tell the judge"--her voice soared shrilly--"that's the story that's
going to send your brother-in-law to Sing Sing!"
For the first time Mrs. Earle contributed to the general conversation.
"You talk like a fish," she said.
The girl turned upon her savagely.
"If he don't like the way I talk," she cried, "he can come across!"
Mrs. Earle exclaimed in horror. Virtuously her hands were raised in
protest.
"Like hell he will!" she said. "You can't pull that under my roof!"
Wharton looked disturbed.
"'Come across'?" he asked.
"Come across?" mimicked the girl. "Send me abroad and keep me there. And
I'll swear it was an accident. Twenty-five thousand, that's all I want.
Cutler told me he was going to make you governor. He can't make you
governor if he's in Sing Sing, can he? Ain't it worth twenty-five
thousand to you to be governor? Come on," she jeered, "kick in!"
With a grave but untroubled voice Wharton addressed Mrs. Earle.
"May I use your telephone?" he asked. He did not wait for her consent,
but from the desk lifted the hand telephone.
"Spring, three one hundred!" he said. He sat with his legs comfortably
crossed, the stand of the instrument balanced on his knee, his eyes
gazing meditatively at the yellow tree-tops.
If with apprehension both women started, if the girl thrust herself
forward, and by the hand of Mrs. Earle was dragged back, he did not
appear to know it.
"Police headquarters?" they heard him ask. "I want to speak to the
commissioner. This is the district attorney."
In the pause that followed, as though to torment her, the pain in her
side apparently returned, for the girl screamed sharply.
"Be still!" commanded the older woman. Breathless, across the top of the
armchair, she was leaning forward. Upon the man at the telephone her
eyes were fixed in fascination.
"Commissioner," said the district attorney, "this is Wharton speaking. A
woman has made a charge of attempted murder to me against my
brother-in-law, Hamilton Cutler. On account of our relationship, I want
YOU to make the arrest. If there were any slip, and he got away, it
might be said I arranged it. You will find him at the Winona apartments
on the Southern Boulevard, in the private hospital of a Doctor Samuel
Muir. Arrest them both. The girl who makes the charge is at Kessler's
Café, on the Boston Post Road, just inside the city line. Arrest her
too. She tried to blackmail me. I'll appear against her."
Wharton rose and addressed himself to Mrs. Earle.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I had to do it. You might have known I could
not hush it up. I am the only man who can't hush it up. The people of
New York elected me to enforce the laws." Wharton's voice was raised to
a loud pitch. It seemed unnecessarily loud. It was almost as though he
were addressing another and more distant audience. "And," he continued,
his voice still soaring, "even if my own family suffer, even if I
suffer, even if I lose political promotion, those laws I will enforce!"
In the more conventional tone of every-day politeness, he added:
"May I speak to you outside, Mrs. Earle?"
But, as in silence that lady descended the stairs, the district attorney
seemed to have forgotten what it was he wished to say.
It was not until he had seen his chauffeur arouse himself from
apparently deep slumber and crank the car that he addressed her.
"That girl," he said, "had better go back to bed. My men are all around
this house and, until the police come, will detain her."
He shook the jewelled fingers of Mrs. Earle warmly. "I thank you," he
said; "I know you meant well. I know you wanted to help me, but"--he
shrugged his shoulders--"my duty!"
As he walked down the driveway to his car his shoulders continued to
move.
But Mrs. Earle did not wait to observe this phenomenon. Rid of his
presence, she leaped, rather than ran, up the stairs and threw open the
door of her office.
As she entered, two men followed her. One was a young man who held in
his hand an open note-book, the other was Tim Meehan, of Tammany. The
latter greeted her with a shout.
"We heard everything he said!" he cried. His voice rose in torment. "An'
we can't use a word of it! He acted just like we'd oughta knowed he'd
act. He's HONEST! He's so damned honest he ain't human; he's a ----
gilded saint!"
Mrs. Earle did not heed him. On her knees she was tossing to the floor
the contents of the waste-paper basket. From them she snatched a piece
of crumpled paper.
"Shut up!" she shouted. "Listen! His chauffeur brought him this." In a
voice that quivered with indignation, that sobbed with anger, she read
aloud:
"'As directed by your note from the window, I went to the booth and
called up Mrs. Cutler's house and got herself on the phone. Your
brother-in-law lunched at home to-day with her and the children and they
are now going to the Hippodrome.
"'Stop, look, and listen! Back of the bar I see two men in a room, but
they did not see me. One is Tim Meehan, the other is a stenographer. He
is taking notes. Each of them has on the ear-muffs of a dictagraph.
Looks like you'd better watch your step and not say nothing you don't
want Tammany to print.'" The voice of Mrs. Earle rose in a shrill
shriek.
"Him--a gilded saint?" she screamed; "you big stiff! He knew he was
talking into a dictagraph all the time--and he double-crossed us!"
End of Project Gutenberg's Somewhere in France, by Richard Harding Davis