In Matthewson’s Chambers
Charles Matthewson read with impatience the name on the card just
brought him--Isaac Trafford. It was a breach of the understanding
between them, that this man should trouble him further. He was on the
point of refusing to see him, when he recalled Trafford’s possession of
the papers taken from Theodore Wing’s desk after his murder. This he
had not known at the time of their previous interview. It was possible
that here was the opening of negotiations for their sale. He ordered
him admitted. Still he could not avoid resenting the intrusion.
“I understood you were not to trouble me further.”
“Until I became satisfied that your visit to Millbank had something to
do with Wing’s murder,” the detective answered.
“Then I may take this visit as evidence that you are satisfied that it
had to do with the murder!”
Trafford nodded.
“Why don’t you arrest me then?”
“Because I am satisfied you did not murder him, but can tell me who
did,” Trafford answered.
“A sort of accessory after the fact?” Matthewson demanded.
“No,” said Trafford. “I’m inclined to think you never suspected that
you knew anything about it or that you could tell me. At the same time,
I’m almost certain you saw the murderer and talked with him that night.”
Matthewson started at this statement of the matter. He had not the
nerve of either his mother or brother, and his power of concealing his
emotions was greatly less than that of either. However, he quickly
recovered himself.
“I refuse to be put in the position of laying accusations. I’ve no
objection to aid in convicting a criminal, but I don’t purpose holding
one end of a drag-net, for the mere sake of catching some one who may
or may not be guilty.”
Trafford did not deem it best to answer this directly, but instead went
on, as if nothing had been said of objection:
“You saw Charles Hunter and his brother Frank--but were they all?”
Matthewson drummed on his desk and looked out of the window. What was
there, he asked himself, that was drawing him into this tragedy, of
which he really knew nothing? Did this man know also what Cranston
had discovered? Was there, after all, to grow out of this murder, of
which he knew nothing, a scandal that was to overwhelm his family, and
finally destroy the great influence they exercised in the State?
While he asked these questions of himself Trafford waited, the model of
patience. If he had anything to disturb his mind, he did not show it.
Evidently, Matthewson could take his time and be sure that the other
would be there to receive his answer, when he was ready to give it.
Finally Matthewson turned to the detective and said:
“I was in Millbank on my own private business. I saw the men whom that
business concerned and no others. The men whom I saw are one and all
as incapable of committing this murder as I am. I must decline to
subject any of them to the annoyance I am now subjected to.”
“I don’t know whether you are incapable of committing murder or not. I
shouldn’t want to affirm it of any one--not even myself. I am convinced
that you saw and talked with Wing’s murderer that night. I must know
the name of every man you saw while in Millbank, and if I can’t find it
out in one way, I will in another.”
“It pleases you to threaten,” Matthewson said, not wholly unconscious
of an uneasy feeling.
“Not to threaten, but simply to show you that I am in earnest,”
Trafford assured him. “Still, I may appeal to you on another ground. I
have named two men whom you saw. If I am to suppose they were the only
ones, then I must regard one or the other as the real murderer, and
this because you persist in concealing from me the name of the man who
may be guilty. Have you a right to do this?”
“As much right,” retorted Matthewson hotly, “as you have to throw
suspicion on these gentlemen, simply because of the coincidence of my
meeting them during a hasty visit to Millbank on the night that Wing
was murdered. It would be just as reasonable to suspect me of the
murder.”
“It is possible that I do,” said Trafford.
“Come,” exclaimed Matthewson, “this is going a trifle far. It’s not
five minutes since you said you were satisfied I did not murder him.”
“But that was before you refused to tell me whom you met.”
Just at that moment a loud voice was heard in the outer room, demanding
to see Mr. Matthewson. He rose and turned the key in the door,
notwithstanding a movement on Trafford’s part to stop him. As he turned
to his desk, Trafford asked:
“Do you recognise the voice?”
“No,” said the other, shortly and indignantly; “but I propose to finish
this matter here and now, so that there will be no need to reopen it.”
“That’s Cranston, the detective whom you, your brother, and Charles
Hunter have hired,” said Trafford. “I advise you to see him, and let
me be in a cupboard or behind a screen while he is here.”
“Superb!” said Matthewson, with a vicious sneer. “You’ll know all he’s
found out--steal his thunder! Excellent!”
“Mr. Matthewson,” Trafford said, with a touch of dignity in his voice
that his companion could but note, “I would be justified in resenting
such a remark, and you are not justified in making it. Cranston has
discovered nothing that I haven’t known for weeks; but he’s been in
Bangor, and I know what he could find out there. You sent him there
and made a cruel mistake when you did it. I would have stopped it, if
I could. He’s here now to tell you and, if I mistake not, to demand a
price for his silence. If I’m wrong, no harm can come from my hearing.
If I’m right, you’re the man who wants me to hear; it’ll be the best
protection you can have in the future.”
At the mention of Bangor, Matthewson turned pale and then flushed. That
it was made with the purpose of informing him that the detective knew
the secret of his mother’s early life, he could not doubt. There was
but one thing that he ought to do, and that was to pitch the man out
of his room. He would have done it, but for the man on the other side
of the door, to whose presence he was recalled by the turning of the
door-knob. In which of these men did he place the greater trust? He had
only to ask the question to let it answer itself. But this new menace?
He would know it at its worst. That was beyond question.
“Pass through this door, into the next room,” he said. “There you will
find the door of a closet, which has a second door opening into this
alcove. After he has entered and looked into that alcove, as he may,
come out of the closet and--listen.”
Cranston, on entering, did exactly what Matthewson had predicted; he
examined the alcove before taking the chair to which Matthewson pointed
him.
“There’s no one in there,” Matthewson said.
“I can’t take any chances,” said the other insolently. “What I’ve got
to say wants to be between us two--you’ll want it to be when you hear
it.”
Matthewson flushed and an angry retort leaped to his lips. This,
however, he suppressed and made necessity to ask the cause of the visit.
“I’ve come to report,” said Cranston. Then, as the other waited, he
added:
“I’ve been at work in Bangor.” Then, after another pause: “I’ve learned
things in Bangor that you ought to know.”
“It relates to the murder?”
“No, not directly. It relates to Theodore Wing’s mother.” He said it
defiantly; as if he was throwing down the gage of battle.
It required a mighty effort on Matthewson’s part to control himself,
and yet he knew that to fail meant that this terrible thing, which as
yet remained unspoken, would be uttered in words and that he must hear
it.
“I have become satisfied,” he said slowly and with an effort to control
himself and appear dispassionate, “that the identity of Wing’s mother
has no bearing on the murder or on the discovery of the murderer.
You will, therefore, drop that part of the investigation and confine
yourself to the other features. In this all who were concerned in
employing you are agreed.”
“How long since?” the man demanded insolently.
“That is of no consequence,” Matthewson said. “You are now informed of
the fact, so that your new instructions date from this moment.”
“It’s too late for you to accomplish anything by that dodge,” he said.
“I’ve found out who Wing’s mother is. The story’s worth money. I’ll
give you the first chance to buy. Do you want it?”
Matthewson trembled, as he realised the full significance of this
demand. More than his mother possibly could, he knew how such a story
would be received; how impossible it would be, once set afloat, to stop
it or overcome it. Still, he put on a bold front.
“Whatever you may have learned, it was while you were under our pay.
The information belongs to us and you can’t afford to make it a matter
of barter.”
“What I’ve found out,” Cranston returned defiantly, “is worth so much
that I can afford to take some risks. If you want it, you can have it
for a price. If not, the highest bidder gets it, and in a State where
ex-Governor Matthewson’s got as many enemies as he’s got in Maine,
there won’t be any trouble about finding buyers.”
“There’s no need to drag in my father’s name,” Matthewson replied.
“How do you know there ain’t?” the other demanded. “Maybe you’ll be
surprised at the names that are dragged in before we’re through.”
It was Matthewson’s impulse to throw the man out of doors, without
regard to consequences; but before him came a face that had watched
him lovingly and tenderly from his earliest memory--a face that he had
seen only a few days before pleading to him, as he had never dreamed
a woman’s face could plead. His hands clutched nervously; but for the
sake of that face and that love, he held himself in restraint.
“Well, to end this matter,” he said, “what do you want for this
precious information?”
“Hadn’t you better know first what it is?” demanded the other. “Oh,”
he said, as he saw on Matthewson’s face what he regarded as a protest;
“it won’t spoil the goods to show ’em. I’d just as lief tell you before
as after. It’s silence I’m selling; not facts.”
“I don’t need you to repeat your talk; and what’s more, it won’t be
safe for you to,” Matthewson said. “I know perfectly well what it would
be; but I warn you not to dare speak it.”
The man in the alcove almost betrayed himself as he heard this
astounding acknowledgment. After all, had he mistaken what he had seen,
and was this the real secret he had been trying to unravel? Cranston
was speaking again:
“Threatened men live long. You’ll get just as much for as little money,
if you keep a civil tongue. I’ve got silence to sell; but I’m just
blamed fool enough, if you get me mad, to refuse to sell at any price.”
“Then your proposition is that if I pay you your price, you’ll keep
silence regarding your discovery as to Theodore Wing’s mother; and that
if I do not, you’ll sell your information to any one who will pay you
for it, regardless of the injury it may do me or any one connected with
me?”
“That’s about it, in plain English.”
“It’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s it.”
“And you think that this information, if made public, would do me and
those connected with me harm.”
“I don’t know what you call harm, if it wouldn’t. ’Twould be the end of
the Matthewson family, socially and politically. They’d have to find
another boss for Maine after this thing got out.”
“It’s just as well,” said the lawyer, “to keep within bounds in your
remarks; they’re as likely to accomplish your purpose.”
But Cranston was smarting under his previous failure. He had tried to
deal squarely with Mrs. Matthewson and had met refusal and insult.
There was the possibility that, had he adopted a higher tone, he would
have succeeded. He was resolved not to fail from the same cause this
time.
“I’m answering questions,” he said, “and I’ll answer ’em in my own
way. If you don’t like it, you don’t need to.”
It required a terrible effort on Matthewson’s part to prevent his
openly resenting this insolence, and he was conscious of a distinctive
loss of self-respect that he did not at once pitch the fellow out of
the room.
“Let’s get through with this thing and be done with it,” he said. “How
much will your silence cost me?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” answered Cranston.
Mr. Matthewson was startled at the figure.
“Why, man, you’re crazy!” he exclaimed.
“I know it,” said Cranston. “I ought to have a hundred, but I ain’t
going to be hard. I’ve set my price at twenty-five.”
“And you’ll take five,” retorted Matthewson.
“I wouldn’t take twenty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine
dollars and ninety-nine cents,” answered Cranston. “I’ve fixed my
price, and it’s that or nothing.”
“I guess that’s right,” sneered Matthewson. “And how do you want this
easy money?”
“In good, crisp bank-notes that one can feel; and before I leave this
room.”
“Of course you’ll give a receipt when it’s paid over, setting out the
terms of the bargain?”
“Of course, I won’t!” retorted Cranston. “You’ll have to trust to my
honour; that’ll be your protection.”
“Then the bargain is, if I give you twenty-five thousand dollars,
you’ll keep this story quiet. If I don’t, you’ll use it to my
injury----”
“To your ruin,” interrupted Cranston. “I’ll drive you and your family
out of the State; I’ll destroy every shred of your influence, and I’ll
do it with this story!”
“There are no other terms; no other means by which I can stop you?”
“You bet there isn’t; and if this gabble goes on much longer, I’ll
double my price.”
“Then we’ll stop it right here. I buy safety for twenty-five thousand
dollars, and here’s five dollars to bind the bargain. I’m to send out
and get the rest and pay to you before you leave. Are those the terms?”
“Those are the terms, if you get the money quick enough.”
“Then you can get out of this office, you skulking, blackmailing
scoundrel, or I’ll throw you out of the window. Go, and don’t be slow
about it, for my fingers are itching to get hold of you. I’m through
with you!”
For an instant, Cranston was dumbfounded by the sudden revulsion of
position. He had believed the money practically in his grasp, and
instead he encountered this dismissal of contempt and abuse. But his
surprise was only for an instant. Then a flood of senseless anger,
verging on madness, seized him. He had but one impulse and that was to
punish the man who had led him on, only to throw him down. There was a
flash of a pistol in his hand as he said:
“But I’m not through with you, by God!”
“You don’t need that to send you to State’s prison,” said a voice
behind him, as a hand, seemingly of steel, grasped his and wrenched
away the pistol. He turned and saw Trafford standing behind him.
“By God, this is a dirty, contemptible trick, Trafford,” he gasped.
“I guess that’s so, too,” Trafford answered, coolly, as he drew the
charges from the revolver, before handing it back to Cranston; “but
unfortunately there are some situations in life that can’t be reached
by anything else, and this seems to be one of ’em.”
“Now will you go?” demanded Matthewson, “while I’ve a notion to let
you?”
“I’ll go,” the man muttered; “but you aren’t through with me yet!”
“When you feel a particular desire for free quarters at Thomaston, just
meddle with my affairs again,” retorted Matthewson. “Until you do feel
that way, you’d better let them alone.”