ONE WOMAN EXONERATED
Atkins and I were still at breakfast when, to my surprise, the detective
was announced.
Atkins started to his feet.
"Any news of my wife?" he inquired, anxiously.
"None, I regret to say," answered Merritt.
I was still very much annoyed with him for having been so indiscreet and
tactless in his interview with May Derwent, but he looked so dejected
that my anger melted a little.
Atkins left us almost immediately, and started on his weary search. When
he was gone, I motioned Merritt to take his place.
"Have you had any breakfast?"
"Well, not much, I confess. I was in such a hurry to hear whether
anything had been heard of Mrs. Atkins or not that I only gulped down a
cup of coffee before coming here."
"You must have something at once," I urged. "Here's some beefsteak and
I'll ring for the boy to----"
"Hold on a moment. Are you very sure the hatchet is buried?" he
inquired, with a quizzical smile.
"For the time being, certainly," I laughed. "But I reserve the right of
digging it up again unless things turn out as I wish them to."
A sad look came over his face.
"Ah, Doctor, things so rarely do turn out just as one wishes them to!"
"And now, Merritt," I demanded, when, breakfast being over, we had
lighted our cigars, "will you kindly tell me what made you talk as you
did yesterday to Miss Derwent?"
"I had a purpose."
"What possible good could it do to remind Miss Derwent of an incident
which all her friends are most anxious to have her forget?"
"It may do no good."
"Do you think you have the right to harrow a delicate girl
unnecessarily?"
"Have a little patience, Doctor; I am not a brute!"
"And to talk of Mrs. Atkins as you did! Don't you know that her husband
especially wishes to keep her flight secret?"
"I know. But Miss Derwent is no gossip."
"How do you know?"
"Hold on, Doctor; I'm not in the witness box yet. Can't you wait a day
or two?"
A commotion in the hall put an end to our conversation. Merritt and I
looked at each other. Could that be Atkins's voice which we heard?
Indeed it was; and the next minute the man himself appeared, beaming
with happiness, and tenderly supporting his wife. Pale and dishevelled,
staggering slightly as she walked, she was but the wreck of her former
self. Her husband laid her on a divan and, kneeling down beside her,
murmured indistinguishable words of remorse and love. She lay quite
still, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short gasps. I rushed off
for some brandy, which I forced down her throat. That revived her, and
she looked about her. When her eyes fell on the detective, she cried
aloud and tried to struggle to her feet, but her husband put his arm
around her and pulled her down again.
"Don't be afraid of him. He's all right."
"Really?"
She seemed but half reassured.
"You can trust me, I promise you," said the detective. "We are all quite
sure you had nothing to do with the man's death. Only we must find out
who he was, and when and how he left you. If you will tell us all that
occurred, it may help us to discover the criminal."
"Did you know, Larrie, that the man came to the building to see me?"
Atkins nodded.
"And you are not angry?"
"No, indeed! Tell us all about it."
"Oh, I will, I will! I could never be real happy with a secret between
us." She paused a moment. "Well, his name was Allan Brown, and years and
years ago, when I was nothing but a silly girl, I fancied myself in love
with him, and--and--I married him."
Atkins started back, and I feared for a moment that he would say or do
something which neither of them would ever be able to forget. But the
past two days had taught him a lesson; the agony he had been through was
still fresh in his mind; so, after a short struggle with himself, he
took his wife's hand in his, and gently pressed it. The pretty blush,
the happy smile, the evident relief with which she looked at him must
have amply repaid him for his self-control.
"He treated me just shamefully," she continued, "and after three weeks
of perfect misery, I left him. Pa at once began proceedings for a
divorce, and, as Allan didn't contest it, it was granted me very
shortly. I resumed my maiden name, and went back to live with my father.
My experience of married life had been so terrible that I couldn't bear
ever to think or speak of it. Years went by without anything occurring
to remind me of my former husband, and I had almost succeeded in
forgetting that there was such a person, when I met you, Larrie. The
idea of marrying again had always been so abhorrent to me that I did
not at first realise where we were drifting to, and you were such an
impetuous wooer that I found myself engaged to you without having had
any previous intention of becoming so. Of course, I ought then to have
told you that I had been married before; there was nothing disgraceful
in the fact, and you had a right to know it. Only, somehow, I just
couldn't bear to let the memory of that hateful experience sully my new
happiness, even for a moment; so I kept putting off telling you from
day to day till the time went by when I could have done so, easily and
naturally. At last, I said to myself: Why need Larrie ever know? Only a
few of my old friends heard of my unfortunate marriage, and they were
little likely ever to refer to the fact before you. It was even doubtful
if you ever would meet any of them, as we were to live in New York. So I
decided to hold my tongue. And all went well till one morning, a little
over a fortnight ago. I was walking carelessly down Broadway, stopping
occasionally to look in at some shop window, when a man suddenly halted
in front of me. It was Allan Brown. I knew him at once, although he
had altered very much for the worse. I remembered him a tall, athletic
young man with fine, clear-cut features and a ruddy brown complexion. He
was always so fussy about his clothes, that we used to call him 'Wales.'
And now his coat was unbrushed, his boots were unblackened. He had
grown fat; his features had become bloated, and his skin had a pasty,
unhealthy look. I was so taken aback at his suddenly appearing like a
ghost from my dead past, that I stood perfectly still for a minute.
Then, as I realised the full extent of his impudence in daring to stop
me, I tried to brush past him.
"'Not so fast, my dear, not so fast; surely a husband and wife, meeting
after such a long separation, should at least exchange a few words
before drifting apart again.'
"'You are no husband of mine,' I cried.
"'Really,' he exclaimed, lifting his eyebrows carelessly; 'since when
have I ceased to be your husband, I should like to know?'
"That just took my breath away.
"'For ten years, thank God,' said I.
"'Well, it's always good to thank God,' and his wicked eyes smiled
maliciously at me; 'only in this case he is receiving what he has not
earned.'
"'What do you mean?' I asked.
"'That I have never ceased to be your husband, my dear.'
"'It's a lie, it's a lie!' I cried, but my knees began to tremble; 'I've
been divorced from you for the last ten years, and don't you dare to
pretend you don't know it.'
"'I needn't pretend at all, as it happens, for this is the first I ever
have heard of it; and so, my dear wife, be very careful not to make
another man happy on the strength of that divorce, for if you do, you
may find yourself in a very awkward position, to say the least of it.'
"I looked at him. His manner had all the quiet assurance I remembered so
well. Could what he said be true? Was it possible that my divorce was
not legal? Father had said it was all right, but he might be mistaken,
and, in that case, what should I do? My perturbation must have been
written very plainly on my face, for, after watching me a minute in
silence, he continued. 'Ah, I see that is what you have done--and who is
my unlucky successor, if I may ask?'
"Now, I knew that he was capable of any deviltry, and, if he found out
that I had married again, it would be just like him to go to you, and
make a scene, just for the pleasure of annoying us. Besides, as I had
not told you of my first marriage, it would be dreadful if you should
hear of it from Allan Brown, of all people. You would never forgive me
in that case, I felt sure. So I lifted my head; 'I have no husband,'
said I.
"But he only smiled sarcastically at me, as he calmly lit a cigarette.
"'Prevarication, my dear lady, is evidently not your forte. Out with
it. What is the name of the unhappy man? I only call him unhappy (_bien
entendu_) because he is about to lose you.'
"'I'm not married,' I repeated.
"'I know you are married, and I mean to find out who to, if I have to
follow you all day.'
"I had been walking rapidly along, hoping to shake him off, but he had
persistently kept pace with me. Now I stopped. A policeman was coming
towards us. In my desperation, I decided to ask him to arrest Allan
for annoying me. The latter guessed my intention, and said: 'Oh, no;
I wouldn't do that; I should inform him of the fact that you are my
wife--an honour you seem hardly to appreciate, by the way--and you
would have to accompany me to the police station, where our conflicting
stories would no doubt arouse much interest, and probably be considered
worthy of head-lines in the evening papers. Do you think the man you are
now living with would enjoy your acquiring notoriety in such a way? Eh?'
"'Well,' I cried, 'what is it you want?'
"'The opportunity of seeing you again, that is all; you must acknowledge
that I am very moderate in my demands. I do not brutally insist on my
rights.'
"'But why--why do you wish to see me again?' I asked.
"'You are surprised that I should want to see my wife again? Really, you
are so--so modern.'
"'Don't talk nonsense,' I said (for all this fooling made me mad). 'What
do you want? Tell me at once.'
"'Really, my dear lady, since you are so insistent, I will be quite
frank with you; I really don't know. I am enjoying this meeting
extremely, and I think another may afford me equal pleasure.'
"'You devil!'
"'You never did appreciate me. Well, are you going to tell me what you
now call yourself, or are we going to continue walking about together
all day?'
"'I am Mrs. Henry Smith,' I said, at last.
"'H'm! Smith--not an unusual name, is it? Not much of an improvement on
Brown, eh? And your address?'
"'The Waldorf,' I answered, naming the first place that came into my
head.
"'How convenient! I am staying there also; so, instead of discussing
our little differences in the street, let us drive back to the hotel at
once,' and, before I realised what he was doing, he had hailed a cab. I
started back.
"'Don't make a scene in public,' he commanded, and his manner became
suddenly so fierce that I was fairly frightened, and obeyed him
automatically. A moment later I was being driven rapidly up town.
"'I don't live at the Waldorf,' I at last acknowledged, as we were
nearing Thirty-third street.
"'Of course not, and your name isn't Smith; I know that; but where shall
I tell the coachman to drive to?'
"There was no help for it; I had to give my real address.
"'And now let us decide when I shall call on you. I don't mind selecting
a time when my rival is out. You see, I am very accommodating--at
present,' he added, significantly.
"What was I to do? I dared not refuse him. I knew you would be out of
town the following evening, so agreed to see him then. He did not follow
me into the Rosemere, as I was afraid he might, but drove quickly off.
I wrote and telegraphed at once to Pa, asking him to make sure that my
divorce was perfectly legal. I hoped that I might receive a reassuring
answer before the time set for my interview with Brown, in which case
I should simply refuse to receive him and confess to you my previous
marriage as soon as you returned. Then I should have nothing more to
dread from him. That day and the next, however, went by without a word
from Father. I couldn't understand his silence. It confirmed my worst
fears. As the time when I expected my tormentor drew near, I became
more and more nervous. I feared and hoped I knew not what from this
meeting. I told both my girls they might go out, as I did not wish them
to know about my expected visitor, and then regretted I had left myself
so unprotected. So I got out my Smith & Wesson, and carefully loaded
it. I can shoot pretty straight, and Allan was quite aware of that
fact, I am glad to say; so I felt happier. He was so very late for his
appointment, that I had begun to hope he was not coming at all, when
the door-bell rang. As soon as I had let him in I saw that he had been
drinking. Strangely enough, that reassured me somewhat; I felt that I
and my pistol stood a better chance of being able to manage him in that
condition than when that fiendish brain of his was in proper working
order. He no longer indulged in gibes and sarcasms, but this time did
not hesitate to demand hush money.
"'What is your price?' I asked.
"'A thousand dollars.'
"Of course, I had no such sum, nor any way of obtaining it. I told him
so.
"'What rot! Why, those rings you've got on are worth more than that.'
"'Those rings were given to me by my husband, and if I part with them he
will insist on knowing what has become of them.'
"'I don't care about that,' he said, settling himself deeper into his
chair; 'either you give me that money or I stay here till your lover
returns.'
"I knew him to be capable of it.
"'Look here,' said I, 'I can't get you a thousand dollars, so that's all
there is about it; but if you'll take some jewelry that Pa gave me, and
which I know is worth about that, I'll give it you on condition that
you sign a paper, saying that you have blackmailed me, and that your
allegations are quite without foundation.'
"'I won't take your jewelry on any consideration,' he answered. 'What
should I do with it? if I sold it I could only get a trifle of what it
is worth, besides running the risk of being supposed to have stolen it.
No, no, my lady; it must be cash down or no deal.'
"After a great deal of further altercation, he agreed to wait
twenty-four hours for his money. I was to employ this respite in trying
to sell my jewelry, but if by the following evening I had failed
to raise a thousand dollars he swore he would sell my story to the
newspapers. He told me that he had an appointment in Boston the next
morning, and that he had not enough money to pay his expenses. So he
made me give him all the cash there was in the house. Luckily, I had
very little. Before leaving, he lurched into the dining-room and poured
himself out a stiff drink of whiskey.
"'Now, mind that you have that money by to-morrow evening, do you hear?
And don't think I shan't be back in time to keep my appointment with
you, for I shall. Never miss a date with a pretty woman, even if she
does happen to be your wife, is my motto,' and with that final shot he
departed. As the elevator had stopped running, I told him he would have
to walk down-stairs. I stood for a moment watching him reel from side
to side, and I wondered at the time if he would ever get down without
breaking his neck. Not that I cared much, I confess; and that was the
last I saw of him alive. The next day was spent in trying to raise that
thousand dollars. The pawn brokers offered me an absurdly small sum
for my jewelry, and wanted all sorts of proof that it was really my
property. I tried to borrow from an acquaintance (I have no friends
in New York), but she refused, and intimated that your wife could not
possibly be in need of money except for an illegitimate purpose. She was
quite right, and I liked her no less for her distrust of me. At last I
made up my mind that it was impossible to raise the sum he demanded, and
returned home determined to brazen it out. Still, no news from Father.
What could be the reason of his silence, I wondered; any answer would be
better than no answer.
"I braced myself to meet Allan, hopeless but resigned. However, hour
after hour went by and still no sign of him. When eleven o'clock struck
without his having put in an appearance, I knew that a respite had been
mercifully granted me. I was expecting you home very shortly, so thought
I'd sit up for you. However, the fatigue and excitement of the last few
days proved too much for me, and I fell asleep on the sofa. I had been
longing for you all day, and fully intended to tell you the dreadful
news as soon as I saw you. But somehow or other, when at last you
did arrive you seemed so distant and cold that I weakly put off my
confession till a more favourable moment."
Atkins hung his head.
"The next morning, when there was still no news of my persecutor, I
began to breathe more freely. I was told that there had been an accident
in the building, but that Allan Brown was the victim never occurred to
me. Imagine my horror and consternation when, on being shown the corpse,
I recognised my first husband. A thousand wild conjectures as to the
cause of his death flashed through my mind, and when I heard that he had
been murdered I feared for one awful moment that you might have met him
and killed him either in anger or self-defence. When I learned that the
crime had been committed on Tuesday I was inexpressibly relieved. For on
that day you had not even been in New York. My next anxiety was lest the
fact that the dead man had come to the building to see me should become
known. When asked if I recognised the corpse I lied instinctively,
unthinkingly. It was a crazy thing for me to have done, for I should
have been instantly detected if it had not been for the surprising
coincidence that Greywood (that's his name, isn't it), who had also been
in the building that evening, so closely resembled my visitor. But I
knew nothing of this, and had no intention of casting suspicion on any
one else when I so stoutly denied all knowledge of the man. The
Coroner's cross-questioning terrified me, for I was sure he suspected me
of knowing more than I cared to say. But when that ordeal was over, and
I was again within my own four walls, I could feel nothing but extreme
thankfulness that the evil genius of my life was removed from my path
at last. My only remaining fear was lest I should be suspected of his
death. I imagined that I was being shadowed, and fancied that a man was
stationed in the flat above the Doctor's, who watched this house night
and day. Was that so, Mr. Merritt?"
"Yes'm."
"As the days went by I only became more nervous. The mystery of the
thing preyed on my mind. The thought that I must be living under the
same roof with a murderer gave me the creeps. Therefore, you can
understand what a relief the butler's arrest was to me. But my joy did
not last long. I met you, Doctor, and you let out that Mr. Merritt did
not believe the Frenchman guilty, but was sure that a young woman had
killed Allan. These words revived all my fears for my own safety. I
was convinced that my former relation to the murdered man had been
discovered, and that I should be accused of his death. I could not bring
such disgrace on you, Larrie, so determined to fly if possible before I
was arrested. As you know, I left the house in the middle of the night,
and I hid under a stoop in a neighbouring side-street till morning.
All day long I wandered aimlessly about. I didn't dare to leave the
city, for I was sure the trains would be watched. I daresn't go to
a hotel without luggage. Towards evening I got desperate. Seeing a
respectable-looking woman toiling along, with a baby on one arm and a
parcel in the other, I stopped her. I begged her to tell me of some
quiet place where I could spend the night. Having assured her that I
was not unprovided with money, she gladly consented to take me to her
own home. All she had to offer was a sofa, but, my! how glad I was to
lie down at all. But the heat, the smell, the shouting and cursing of
drunken brutes, prevented me from sleeping, and this morning I felt so
ill I thought I should die. The desire to look once more at the house
where I had been so happy grew stronger and stronger. At last I
couldn't resist it. So I came, although I knew all the time I should be
caught."
"And were you sorry to be caught?" asked her husband.
"No--o--," she answered, as she looked at the detective, apprehensively.
"If I'm not to be imprisoned."
"Pray reassure yourself on that score, madam. The worst that will
happen to you is that you will have to repeat part of your story at the
inquest. No one can suspect you of having killed the man. The body must
have been hidden somewhere for twenty-four hours, and in your apartment
there is no place you could have done this, except possibly in the small
coat closet under the stairs. But your waitress swears that she cleaned
that very closet on the morning after the murder. Neither were you able
as far as I can see to procure a key to the vacant apartment. No, madam,
you will have absolutely no difficulty in clearing yourself."
"But the disgrace--the publicity----"
"There is no disgrace and hang the publicity," exclaimed Atkins.
"You forgive me?"
Atkins kissed her hand.
"But, darling, that divorce?" he asked, under his breath.
"Oh, I heard from Pa about a week ago. He had been travelling about and
hadn't had his mail forwarded. That was the reason why I had had no
answer to my numerous telegrams and letters. He says, however, that my
divorce is O. K., so you can't get rid of me after all."