“Ah, Tate! Come right in; the party hasn’t started yet!”
The newcomer was a short, thickset man, clean shaven, with coarse dark
hair streaked with gray. The hand he gave the men in succession as they
gathered about him for Burgess’s introduction was broad and heavy. He
offered it limply, with an air of embarrassment.
“Governor Eastman, Mr. Tate; that’s your seat by the governor, Tate,”
said Burgess. “We were just listening to some old stories from some of
these fellows, so you haven’t missed anything. I hope they didn’t need
me at that tile meeting; I never attend night meetings: they spoil my
sleep, which my doctor says I’ve got to have.”
“Night meetings,” said the governor, “always give me a grouch the next
morning. A party like this doesn’t, of course!”
“Up in the country where I live we still stick to lodge meetings as an
excuse when we want a night off,” Tate remarked.
They laughed more loudly than was necessary to put him at ease. He
refused Burgess’s offer of food and drink and when some one started a
political discussion they conspired to draw him into it. He was County
Chairman of the party not then in power and complained good-naturedly
to the governor of the big plurality Eastman had rolled up in the last
election. He talked slowly, with a kind of dogged emphasis, and it was
evident that politics was a subject to his taste. His brown eyes, they
were noting, were curiously large and full, with a bilious tinge in the
white. He met a glance steadily, with, indeed, an almost disconcerting
directness.
Where the governor sat became, by imperceptible degrees, the head of
the table as he began seriously and frankly discussing the points of
difference between the existing parties, accompanied by clean-cut
characterizations of the great leaders.
There was nothing to indicate that anything lay behind his talk; to all
appearances his auditors were absorbed in what he was saying. Tate had
accepted a cigar, which he did not light but kept twisting slowly in
his thick fingers.
“We Democrats have had to change our minds about a good many things,”
the governor was saying. “Of course we’re not going back to Jefferson”
(he smiled broadly and waited for them to praise his magnanimity in
approaching so near to an impious admission), “but the world has
spun around a good many times since Jefferson’s day. What I think we
Democrats do and do splendidly is to keep close to the changing current
of public opinion; sometimes it seems likely to wash us down, as in the
free-silver days; but we give, probably without always realizing it, a
chance for the people to express themselves on new questions, and if
we’ve stood for some foolish policies at times the country’s the better
for having passed on them. These great contests clear the air like a
storm, and we all go peacefully about our business afterward.”
As he continued they were all covertly watching Tate, who dropped his
cigar and began playing with the pencil before him, absently winding
and unwinding it upon the string that held it to the tablet. They were
feigning an absorption in the governor’s recital which their quick,
nervous glances at Tate’s hand belied. Burgess had pushed back his
chair to face the governor more comfortably and was tying knots in his
napkin.
Now and then Tate nodded solemnly in affirmation of something the
governor said, but without lifting his eyes from the pencil. His
broad shoulders were bent over the table, and the men about him were
reflecting that this was probably an attitude into which his heavy body
often relaxed when he was pondering deeply.
Wearying of the pencil--a trifle of the dance-card variety--he dropped
it and drew his own from his waistcoat pocket. Then, after looking up
to join in a laugh at some indictment of Republicanism expressed in
droll terms by the governor, he drew the tablet closer and, turning
his head slightly to one side, drew a straight line. Burgess frowned
as several men changed position the better to watch him. The silence
deepened, and the governor’s voice rose with a slight oratorical ring.
Through a half-open window floated the click of billiard balls in the
room below. The governor having come down to the Wilson Administration,
went back to Cleveland, whom he praised as a great leader and a great
president. In normal circumstances there would have been interruptions
and questions and an occasional jibe; and ordinarily the governor, who
was not noted for loquacity, would not have talked twenty minutes at
a stretch without giving an opportunity to his companions to break in
upon him. He was talking, as they all knew, to give Tate time to draw
the odd device which it was his habit to sketch when deeply engrossed.
The pencil continued to move over the paper; and from time to time Tate
turned the pad and scrutinized his work critically. The men immediately
about him watched his hand, wide-eyed, fascinated. There was something
uncanny and unreal in the situation: it was like watching a wild animal
approaching a trap and wholly unmindful of its danger. The square box
which formed the base of the device was traced clearly; the arcs which
were its familiar embellishment were carefully added. The governor,
having exhausted Cleveland, went back to Jackson, and Tate finished a
second drawing, absorbed in his work and rarely lifting his eyes.
Seeing that Tate had tired of this pastime, the governor brought his
lecture to an end, exclaiming:
“Great Scott, Burgess! Why haven’t you stopped me! I’ve said enough
here to ruin me with my party, and you hadn’t the grace to shut me off.”
“I’m glad for one,” said Tate, pushing back the pad, “that I got in in
time to hear you; I’ve never known before that any Democrat could be so
broad-minded!”
“The governor loosens up a good deal between campaigns,” said Burgess,
rising. “And now, let’s go into the library where the chairs are
easier.”
The governor rose with the others, but remained by his chair, talking
to Tate, until the room cleared, and then resumed his seat.
“This is perfectly comfortable; let’s stay here, Mr. Tate. Burgess,
close the door, will you.”
Tate hesitated, looked at his watch, and glanced at Burgess, who sat
down as though wishing to humor the governor, and lighted a cigar.
“Mr. Tate,” said the governor unhurriedly, “if I’m not mistaken, you
are George Avery’s brother-in-law.”
Tate turned quickly, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered in slow, even tones; “Avery married my sister.”
“Mr. Tate, I have in my pocket a pardon all ready to sign, giving Avery
his liberty. His case has troubled me a good deal; I don’t want to sign
this pardon unless I’m reasonably sure of Avery’s innocence. If you
were in my place, Mr. Tate, would you sign it?”
The color went out of the man’s face and his jaw fell; but he recovered
himself quickly.
“Of course, governor, it would be a relief to me, to my sister, all
of us, if you could see your way to pardoning George. As you know,
I’ve been doing what I could to bring pressure to bear on the Board
of Pardons: everything that seemed proper. Of course,” he went on
ingratiatingly, “we’ve all felt the disgrace of the thing.”
“Mr. Tate,” the governor interrupted, “I have reason to believe that
there was a third man at Avery’s bungalow the night Reynolds was
killed. I’ve been at some pains to satisfy myself of that. Did that
ever occur to you as a possibility?”
“I suspected that all along,” Tate answered, drawing his handkerchief
slowly across his face. “I never could believe George Avery guilty; he
wasn’t that kind of man!”
“I don’t think he was myself,” the governor replied. “Now, Mr. Tate,
on the night of the murder you were not at home, nor on the next day
when your sister called you on the long-distance telephone. You were in
Louisville, were you not?”
“Yes, certainly; I was in Louisville.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Tate, you were not in Louisville! You were
at Avery’s bungalow that night, and you left the quarry station on a
freight train that was sidetracked on the quarry switch to allow the
Chicago train to pass. You rode to Davos, which you reached at two
o’clock in the morning. There you registered under a false name at the
Gerber House, and went home the next evening pretending to have been
at Louisville. You are a bachelor, and live in rooms over your bank,
and there was no one to keep tab on your absences but your clerks, who
naturally thought nothing of your going to Louisville, where business
often takes you. You were there two days ago, I believe. But that
has nothing to do with this matter. When you heard that Reynolds was
dead and Avery under suspicion you answered your sister’s summons and
hurried to Torrenceville.”
“I was in Louisville; I was in Louisville, I tell you!” Tate uttered
the words in convulsive gasps. He brushed the perspiration from his
forehead impatiently and half rose.
“Please sit down, Mr. Tate. You had had trouble a little while before
that with Reynolds about some stock in a creamery concern in your
county that he promoted. You thought he had tricked you, and very
possibly he had. The creamery business had resulted in a bitter
hostility between you: it had gone to such an extent that he had
refused to see you again to discuss the matter. You brooded over that
until you were not quite sane where Reynolds was concerned: I’ll give
you the benefit of that. You asked your brother-in-law to tell you
when Reynolds was going to see him, and he obligingly consented. We
will assume that Avery, a good fellow and anxious to aid you, made a
meeting possible. Reynolds wasn’t to know that you were to be at the
bungalow--he wouldn’t have gone if he had known it--and Avery risked
the success of his own negotiations by introducing you into his house,
out of sheer good will and friendship. You sat at a table in the
bungalow living-room and discussed the matter. Some of these things
only I have guessed at; the rest of it----”
“It’s a lie; it’s all a damned lie! This was a scheme to get me here:
you and Burgess have set this up on me! I tell you I wasn’t at the
quarry; I never saw Reynolds there that night or any other time. My
God, if I had been there,--if Avery could have put it on me, would he
be doing time for it?”
“Not necessarily, Mr. Tate. Let us go back a little. It had been in
your power once to do Avery a great favor, a very great favor. That’s
true, isn’t it?”
Tate stared, clearly surprised, but his quivering lips framed no answer.
“You had known him from boyhood, and shortly after his marriage to
your sister it had been in your power to do him a great favor; you
had helped him out of a hole and saved the quarry for him. It cost
me considerable money to find that out, Mr. Tate, and not a word of
help have I had from Avery: be sure of that! He had been guilty of
something just a little irregular--in fact, the forging of your name
to a note--and you had dealt generously with him, out of your old-time
friendship, we will say, or to spare your sister humiliation.”
“George was in a corner,” said Tate weakly but with manifest relief at
the turn of the talk. “He squared it all long ago.”
“It’s natural, in fact, instinctive, for a man to protect himself, to
exhaust all the possibilities of defense when the law lays it hand
upon him. Avery did not do so, and his meek submission counted heavily
against him. But let us consider that a little. You and Reynolds left
the bungalow together, probably after the interview had added to your
wrath against him, but you wished to renew the talk out of Avery’s
hearing and volunteered to guide Reynolds to the station where the
Chicago train was to stop for him. You didn’t go back, Mr. Tate----”
“Good God, I tell you I wasn’t there! I can prove that I was in
Louisville; I tell you----”
“We’re coming back to your alibi in a moment,” said the governor
patiently. “We will assume--merely assume for the moment--that you
said you would take the train with Reynolds and ride as far as Ashton,
where the Midland crosses and you would get an early morning train
home. Avery went to sleep at the bungalow wholly ignorant of what
had happened; he was awakened in the morning with news that Reynolds
had been killed by blows on the head inflicted near the big derrick
where you and Reynolds--I am assuming again--had stopped to argue your
grievances. Avery--shocked, dazed, not comprehending his danger and
lying there in the bungalow prostrated and half-crazed by the horror
of the thing--waited: waited for the prompt help he expected from
the only living person who knew that he had not left the bungalow.
He knew you only as a kind, helpful friend, and I dare say at first
he never suspected you! It was the last thing in the world he would
have attributed to you, and the possibility of it was slow to enter
his anxious, perturbed mind. He had every reason for sitting tight
in those first hideous hours, confident that the third man at that
bungalow gathering would come forward and establish his innocence with
a word. As is the way in such cases, efforts were made to fix guilt
upon others; but Avery, your friend, the man you had saved once, in a
fine spirit of magnanimity, waited for you to say the word that would
clear him. But you never said that word, Mr. Tate. You took advantage
of his silence; a silence due, we will say, to shock and horror at the
catastrophe and to his reluctance to believe you guilty of so monstrous
a crime or capable of allowing him, an innocent man, to suffer the
penalty for it.”
Tate’s big eyes were bent dully upon the governor. He averted his gaze
slowly and reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so that
he could not lift it, and he glared at it as though it were a hateful
thing.
“I wasn’t there! Why----” he began with an effort at bravado; but the
words choked him and he sat swinging his head from side to side and
breathing heavily.
The governor went on in the same low, even tone he had used from the
beginning:
“When Avery came to himself and you still were silent, he doubtless
saw that, having arranged for you to meet Reynolds at the
bungalow--Reynolds, who had been avoiding you--he had put himself in
the position of an accessory before the fact and that even if he told
the truth about your being there he would only be drawing you into the
net without wholly freeing himself. At best it was an ugly business,
and being an intelligent man he knew it. I gather that you are a
secretive man by nature; the people who know you well in your own town
say that of you. No one knew that you had gone there and the burden
of the whole thing was upon Avery. And your tracks were so completely
hidden: you had been at such pains to sneak down there to take
advantage of the chance Avery made for you to see Reynolds and have it
out with him about the creamery business, that suspicion never attached
to you. You knew Avery as a good fellow, a little weak, perhaps, as you
learned from that forgery of your name ten years earlier; and it would
have been his word against yours. I’ll say to you, Mr. Tate, that I’ve
lain awake at nights thinking about this case, and I know of nothing
more pitiful, my imagination can conjure nothing more horrible, than
the silent suffering of George Avery as he waited for you to go to his
rescue, knowing that you alone could save him.”
“I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” Tate reiterated in a hoarse whisper
that died away with a queer guttural sound in his throat.
“And now about your alibi, Mr. Tate; the alibi that you were never
even called on to establish,” the governor reached for the tablet
and held it before the man’s eyes, which focused upon it slowly,
uncomprehendingly. “Now,” said the governor, “you can hardly deny that
you drew that sketch, for I saw you do it with my own eyes. I’m going
to ask you, Mr. Tate, whether this drawing isn’t also your work?”
He drew out the sheet of paper he had shown the others earlier in the
evening and placed it beside the tablet. Tate jumped to his feet,
staring wild-eyed, and a groan escaped him. The governor caught his arm
and pushed him back into his chair.
“You will see that that is Avery’s letter-head that was used in the
quarry office. As you talked there with Reynolds that night you played
with a pencil as you did here a little while ago and without realizing
it you were creating evidence against yourself that was all I needed
to convince me absolutely of your guilt. I have three other sheets of
Avery’s paper bearing the same figure that you drew that night at the
quarry office; and I have others collected in your own office within
a week! As you may be aware, the power of habit is very strong. For
years, no doubt, your subconsciousness has carried that device, and in
moments of deep abstraction with wholly unrelated things your hand has
traced it. Even the irregularities in the outline are identical, and
the size and shading are precisely the same. I ask you again, Mr. Tate,
shall I sign the pardon I brought here in my pocket and free George
Avery?”
The sweat dripped from Tate’s forehead and trickled down his cheeks in
little streams that shone in the light. His collar had wilted at the
fold, and he ran his finger round his neck to loosen it. Once, twice,
he lifted his head defiantly, but, meeting the governor’s eyes fixed
upon him relentlessly, his gaze wavered. He thrust his hand under his
coat and drew out his pencil and then, finding it in his fingers, flung
it away, and his shoulders drooped lower.