"I paid them," she confessed. "Five dollars apiece. That is, all but
the leader. He--he got ten."
Mr. Bugbee made no comment on this disclosure. But his silence fairly
screamed at her. "Wipe your feet before you come into the house," he
said. He kicked the muddied snow off his boots and opened the door.
They entered where efforts had been made to create a showing of
holiday cheer. There were greens about and a sprig of synthetic
mistletoe dangled above the lintel, and on the mantel was a composition
statuette of good Saint Nicholas, rotund and rosy and smiling a painted
smile. In the act of crossing the threshold they were aware of the
presence of a visitor. Very rigidly and rather with the air of being
peevish for some reason, a lantern-jawed person stood in the middle of
the floor.
"Oh," said Mrs. Bugbee advancing to make the stranger welcome. "How do
you do? It's Mr. Sisson, isn't it? My husband told me you were coming."
"He said eleven o'clock." Mr. Sisson's voice was condemnatory. "It's
nearly twenty past."
"I'm so sorry--we are a trifle late, aren't we? Detained down in the
Cove, you know."
"Personally I alluz make it a point to be on time, myself." Mr. Sisson
accepted the outstretched hand of his hostess and shook it stiffly
but he did not unbend. He aimed a sternly interrogative glance at Mr.
Bugbee: "Whut business did you want to have with me?"
"No business," explained that gentleman. "Pleasure, I hope. We asked
you here so that we might wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New
Year."
"And to offer you a small remembrance," supplemented Mrs. Bugbee. "And
here it is--with our very best compliments." She took from a side
table a longish, roundish parcel enclosed in white tissue with ribbon
bindings and a bit of imitation holly caught in the bow-knot at the
top. She put it in his somewhat limp grasp.
Immediately though, his clutch on the object tightened. He fingered its
contours. "Feels to me sort of like a bottle," he opined.
"It is," said the jovial Mr. Bugbee. "Open it and see."
The recipient opened it. He tore away the festal wrappings, and held
the contents to the light. His eye seemed to kindle. "Looks to me sort
of like licker," he said.
"That's what it is."
Mrs. Bugbee was hovering alongside awaiting the expected outburst of
gratitude, puzzled though that it should be so long delayed.
"Mind ef I taste it right here?"
"Not at all."
"Got a corkscrew handy?"
"I think I can locate one."
"And a glass?"
Mrs. Bugbee brought a tumbler. Mr. Bugbee found a corkscrew.
Deftly Mr. Sisson unstoppered the bottle. Into the glass he poured a
taste of the liquid. He did not invite them to share with him. There
was about him no suggestion that he meant to make a loving-cup of it.
He sipped briefly. "That's sufficient--I jest wanted to make sure," he
stated. "This here is a stimilent containing' more'n one-half of one
percent alcohol by volume."
"I should say it is. That Scotch was made back in--" He checked, for
Mr. Sisson was behaving very peculiarly indeed.
Mr. Sisson was recorking the bottle and sliding it carefully into a
side pocket of his overcoat. From other pockets he brought forth a
revolver, a folded document of an official and formidable appearance,
it having a seal upon its outermost side, and finally a clanking
pair of very new looking, very shiny handcuffs. He laid these one by
one upon a convenient table-top and next he cast a determined and
confounding stare upon the startled faces of Mr. and Mrs. Bugbee.
The lady's fascinated eyes were fixed for the moment upon the
horrifying steeliness of those glinting cuffs, and spasmodically she
thrust her hands wrist deep in her ulster pockets. It was evident that,
be this daunting intruder's purposes what they might, Mrs. Bugbee
did not mean to be manacled without a struggle. But Mr. Bugbee stood
unresistingly and blinked like a man coming out of a distressful trance
and not sure yet that he is out.
"You're both under arrest," expounded Mr. Sisson. "Fur endeavorin' to
ply a third party with alcoholic stimilents."
"But--but we gave it to you--of our own free will!" faltered Mrs.
Bugbee.
"Givin', sellin' outright or barterin', the law don't recognize no
difference. Anything you say further kin be used ag'inst you. Still, I
guess there's evidence aplenty to convict. Prob'ly it'll go the worse
with you fur offerin' it to an officer of the law. That's whut I am--an
officer of the law. Here's my credentials to prove it. And ef you don't
believe me, here's my badge." He flipped back a lapel to display a
large and silverish decoration pinned under the flap.
"You can't do this outrageous thing to us," declaimed Mr. Bugbee, now
fully emerging from coma. His cheeks were blazing. "It's incredible!"
"It's done done," said their accuser calmly. His manner became more
menacing, his tone more emphatic. "Don't think, young man, jest because
I'm kind of a new hand at this line that you kin work any bluff on me.
I've been studyin' to go into the detective business fur quite some
time, havin' took a full course in the Unsleepin' Eye Correspondence
Detective College, Dayton, Ohio. After I got my diplomy I came on up
here to perfect myself in my callin'. Then a new notion come over me
and I took it up with the Government about gittin' onto the revenue
enforcement department." He spoke on in the proud yet unboastful way
of one who is sure his hearers will be interested in following the
successive steps of a brilliant career. "I been writin' back and forth
fur quite a spell with them Washington authorities."
"Oh!" The understanding exclamation popped from Mrs. Bugbee of its own
accord.
"Whut's that?" demanded Mr. Sisson.
"I--I only just said 'oh,'" explained Mrs. Bugbee weakly.
"I thought so." It was as though Mr. Sisson made a mental note of this
admission to be incorporated into the testimony. "But it seems like the
Government force is all full up at present. So only last week I got a
commission from the county to do shadderin' and hunt down these here
Prohibition violators and I been workin' on hidden clues ever since.
I'm whut they call an independent secret operative. Ez it happens,
though, you're my first case--my first two cases I should say.
"Point is that now I've got you I don't know whut to do with you.
Can't git you over to the county-seat tonight, late as 'tis and the
roads the way they are. And tomorrer bein' Christmas the judge won't
want to set to hold you fur trial. Prob'ly"--he caressed the handcuffs
tentatively--"prob'ly I'll have to keep you ez prisoners right here
under guard fur the next forty-eight hours or so. Prob'ly that would be
the best way. Whut do you think?"
Mr. Bugbee made a sign to Mrs. Bugbee that she should withdraw. She did
so with backward apprehensive glances.
"My wife's not trying to escape," explained Mr. Bugbee. "She's only
going into the next room for a few minutes. She's had a shock--in fact
she's had several shocks this evening."
He waited until the latch clicked, then to their captor he said simply:
"How much?"
"Which?"
"I think you got my meaning the first time. How much?"
"Looky here," cried Mr. Sisson indignantly, "ef you're aimin' to
question my honor lemme tell you I got a sacred reputation at stake."
"That is exactly my aim. What is the current quotation on honor in this
vicinity?"
"Oh, well, if you're willin' to talk reasonable, come on over here
closer so's nobody can't overhear us."
* * * * *
Five minutes later Mr. Bugbee went over and opened the hall door. "You
can come out now," he said. "Our Christmas guest has gone. And all is
well."
Mrs. Bugbee came out. She still was pale. "What--what did you do with
him?" She asked it tremulously.
"I have just corrupted the noble soul of the only truly unselfish
individual we have met to date in these mountains. I might add that
corruption comes high hereabouts. City prices prevail." He took her in
his arms and kissed her. "Let us now give thanks for deliverance from
a great peril. We ought to do more than just give thanks. How about a
little Christmas gift from each to the other?"
"But we decided that this year we'd spend that money up here." She
winced.
"Circumstances warrant a redecision. Besides, I'm thinking of useful
presents--presents which will bring joy to both of us. A couple of
those lovely light green railroad tickets back to New York! You give me
one; I'll give you one."
"Oh, Clem!" She hugged him.
"Oh, Felice!" He hugged her. "Where's that time-table? I saw a folder
around here the other day. If we caught a morning train out of the
junction tomorrow we might get in in time for the Baxters' party
tomorrow night. Everybody we know--and like--will be there."
"But you know it's a costume party--fancy dress. And we haven't any
costumes."
Airily he gestured away her quavering objections. "Say, do you know one
thing?" he said. "This place is incomplete. It needs a motto. If I had
time to spare I'd write one out and stick it up as a souvenir of our
visit. I'd write on it the words 'E Pluribus Your'n,' meaning: 'It's
all for you, dear Rousseau, the Bugbees have had enough.'... Now then,
if I could just find that time card? Oh, there it is, yonder behind
the clock. We can put in the rest of the night packing, and bright and
early tomor--"
He broke off, listening. From without came the advancing sound of
slushy foot-treads in a considerable number.
The tramping drew nearer and ended just outside. Masculine voices were
uplifted in song:
"Hark-k, the herald angels sing,
Glor-y to the--"
"That ain't right--wrong key!" they heard a dominating voice cutting in
to check the vocal flow. "Git set fur a fresh start."
"My Christmas minstrels," said Mrs. Bugbee.
"Our little band of strikers," murmured Mr. Bugbee. He hurried to the
mantel, plucked something from it, then leaped nimbly thence to a front
window and crouched behind its curtains, his posture tense. "Here's
where I also join the last-straw club," said Mr. Bugbee softly to
nobody in particular.
Once again the unseen troubadours essayed the opening measures of their
serenade:
"Hark-k the herald angels sing,
Glor-y to the new-born king,
Peace on earth--"
Mr. Bugbee snatched a sash up and made a movement as of hurling a
heavy object into the drizzling night. It was a heavy object, too,
judging by the yelp of pain which followed its outward flight. "I'll
peace-on-earth you!" he said, closing the window.
A confusion of noises betokening a retreat died away in the distance.
"Did you throw something?" asked Mrs. Bugbee.
"I did," said Mr. Bugbee. "What's more, I hit something--something in
the nature of a solid ivory dome. My darling, congratulate me not only
on my accuracy but on my choice of a missile. I am pleased to inform
you that I have just beaned the inspired leader of your coterie of
private Christmas choristers with a heavy plaster image of dear old
Santa Claus.... Let me have a look at this schedule.... Ah, here it is.
We can catch a through train at ten-five and--by Jove, look, that's
luck!--it will put us into Grand Central in ample time to make the
Baxters' Christmas party."
"But we've nothing to go in--it's fancy dress. I told you that five
minutes ago," protested Mrs. Bugbee.
"Don't worry," said Mr. Bugbee. "We'll go just as we are--as a couple
of All-Day Suckers!"
THREE WISE MEN OF THE EAST SIDE
[Decoration]
While he was in the death-house Tony Scarra did a lot of thinking. You
couldn't imagine a better place for thinking; it goes on practically
all the time there and intensively. But no matter where the thoughts
range and no matter what elements enter into them--hope or despair,
rebellion or resignation, or whatever--sooner or later they fly back,
like dark homing pigeons, to a small iron door opening upon a room in
which, bolted to the floor, there is a chair with straps dangling from
its arms and from its legs and its head-rest--in short, the Chair. This
picture is the beginning and the end of all the thinking that is done
in the death-house.
Such were the facts with regard to Tony Scarra. As nearly as might
be judged, he felt no remorse for the murdering which had brought
him to his present trapped estate. But he did have a deep regret for
the entanglement of circumstances responsible for his capture and
conviction. And constantly he had a profound sense of injustice.
It seemed to him that in his case the law had been most terribly
unreasonable. Statistics showed that for every seventy-four homicides
committed in this state only one person actually went to the Chair.
He'd read that in a paper during the trial. It had been of some comfort
to him. Now he brooded on these figures. Over and over and over again,
brooding on them, he asked himself about it.
Why should he have to be the unlucky one of seventy-four? Was it fair
to let seventy-three other guys go free or let them off with prison
sentences and then shoot the whole works to him? Was that a square
deal? Why did it have to be that way, anyhow? What was the sense of it?
Why pick on him? Why must he go through with it? Why--that was just
it--why? The question-marks were so many sharp fishhooks all pricking
down into his brain and hanging on.
His calling had made a sort of fatalist out of Tony Scarra. His present
position was in a fair way to make a sort of anarchist out of him.
All the way through, his lawyer kept trying to explain to him touching
on the lamentable rule of averages. He was not concerned with averages
though. He was concerned with the great central idea of saving his
life. To that extent his mind had become a lop-sided mind. Its slants
all ran the same way, like shingles on a roof that slopes.
At length there came a morning when the death-house seemed to close in
on him, tighter and tighter. It no longer was a steel box to enclose
him; it became a steel vise and pinched him. This Scarra was not what
you would call an emotional animal, nor a particularly imaginative
one. Even so, and suddenly, he saw those bolt-heads in the ironwork as
staring unmerciful eyes all vigilantly cocked to see how he took the
news. And his thinking, instead of being scattered, now came to a focus
upon a contingency which through weeks past he had carried in the back
lobe.
"I'm just as sore about this as you are, Tony," the lawyer said. "It
hurts me almost as much as it hurts you. Why, look here, yours is the
first case I ever lost--the first capital case, I mean. All the others,
I got 'em off somehow--acquittal or a hung jury or a mistrial or a
retrial or, if it looked bad, we took a plea in the second degree and
the fellow went up the road for a stretch. It's my reputation that's
at stake in this thing; this thing is bound to hurt my record--the
conviction standing and all. So naturally, not only on my own account
but on yours, I've done everything I could--claiming reversible errors
and taking an appeal and now this last scheme of asking the judges
to reopen the case on the ground of newly discovered evidence. We've
fought it along with stays and delays for nearly eight months now,
going all the way up to the highest court in the state, and here today
I have to come and tell you we've been turned down there. It's hard on
me, don't forget that, Tony. It'll hurt me in New York. You know what
your crowd call me there--the Technicality Kid?"
"You was recommended to me as one swell mouthpiece and I sent for you
and you came up and I hired you," answered Scarra in a recapitulation
of vain grievances, "and you took my jack and you kept on taking it
till you milked me clean, pretty near it, and now you stand there and
tell me you're through!"
"No, I'm not through either," the lawyer made haste to say. "There's
still the chance the governor might commute the sentence. You know how
often that happens--men being reprieved right at the very last minute,
as you might say. Oh, I'm going to the governor next. We've still got
nearly a month left, Tony, and a lot could happen in a month."
"Swell chance I've got with this governor, and you know it. He's a
politician, ain't he? Can't you see these here rube papers riding him
if he should let off the 'Big City Gunman'? Ain't that their gentlest
name for me? No, you quit stalling and listen to me a minute."
There was a tight iron grille between them; they talked with each other
through the meshes, and as they talked a keeper watched them, keeping
beyond earshot, though. Even in the death-house the sanctity of the
professional relation as between a convicted man and his legal adviser
was preserved. So the sentry must watch but he might not listen; the
meeting partook of the nature of a confessional. All the same, Scarra
followed the quite unnecessary precaution of sinking his voice before
saying what next he had to say. Saying it, he kept shifting his eyes
away from Attorney Finburg's face to look this way and that--first
this way, toward the heedful but unhearing keeper, then that way toward
the part of the building where, behind soundproof walls, the Chair
stood.
"Finburg," he whispered, "I ain't going to let these guys cook me. I'm
going to beat their game yet--and you're going to help me." He twisted
his mouth into the stiffened shape of a grin; the embalmed corpse of a
grin. "Get that? You're going to help me."
Counselor Finburg had eloquent shoulders. Often in debate he used those
shoulders of his to help out his pleading hands. He lifted both of
them in a shrug of confessed helplessness. Nevertheless his expression
invited further confidences. It was as much as to say that this was a
poor unfortunate friend who, having a delusion, must be humored in it.
"Don't start that stuff with me," went on Scarra, correctly interpreting
the look; "not till you've heard what I got to tell you. Finburg, if
I got to croak, I got to croak, that's all. I took plenty chances in
my time on getting bumped off and I've seen more'n one guy getting
his--what I mean, more'n one besides that hick cop that I fixed his
clock for him. If it hadn't been for him I wouldn't been here. But that
ain't the thing. The thing is that I ain't going to let 'em make cold
meat out of me in that kitchen of theirs out there. They ain't going
to fry me on one side like an egg. I'll beat 'em to it, that's all. I
couldn't stand it, that's all."
"They say it's absolutely--you know"--Mr. Finburg's lips were
reluctant to form the word--"well, painless--and, of course,
instantaneous."
"Who says so? A bunch of wise-cracking doctors, that's who. What do
they know about it? Any of them ever try it to find out? Finburg,
I had a brother and he knew about electricity--was a lineman for a
high-tension power company. I've heard him tell about being caught in
them currents, heard him tell what other guys went through that took
a big jolt of the juice. The first shock don't always put a guy out.
He may look to be dead but he ain't--he's stuck there waiting for the
next shot--waiting, waiting. Well, not for me--I'm going to do my own
croaking--with a little help from outside. That's where you figure in."
Involuntarily, Finburg made as if to back away. His body shrank back
but his feet rooted him fast. A fascination held him.
"You ain't going to lose anything by it," maintained the caged man,
pressing his point. "You're going to make by it."
"No, no, no!" Finburg strove to make his dissent emphatic. "Oh, no,
Scarra, I'd like to do you any favor in my power but I couldn't do
that. Why, man, it's against the law. It's conniving at a suicide. It
makes the man who does it an accessory."
"Swell law that wants to croak a poor guy and yet calls it a crime if
somebody helps him croak himself!" commented Scarra. "Still, I know
about that part of it already. What if I tell you you ain't running
any risk? And what if you clean up on the deal yourself? You've been
knocking holes in the law ever since you got your license. Why're you
weakening now?"
"But--but if you're determined to go this way, why not use something in
your cell--some utensil, say?" suggested the nervous Finburg. Already
he felt guilty. His cautious voice had a guilty quaver in it.
"With them bringing me my grub already cut up and only a spoon to eat
it with--_huh!_" The murderer grunted. "Why, even the tooth-brush
they gave me has got a limber handle on it. And if they let me have a
lead-pencil to write with, there's a keeper standing alongside to see
I don't try to shove the sharp end of it down my throat. Don't they
search my coop every little while? You know they do. Anyhow, I ain't
craving to make a messy job of it and probably be caught before it's
done, besides. I'm going clean and I'm going quick. What I want is just
a nice little jolt of this here cyanide of potassium. You know about
that stuff? You swallow it and it's all over in a minute. That's what I
want--one little shot of that cyanide stuff. I ain't going to take it
till the last hope's gone--a miracle might happen with that governor
yet. But when they come to take me out to be juiced in that chair, why,
down goes the little pill and out goes Tony, laughing in their foolish
faces. I ain't scared to go my way, you understand, but"--he sucked in
his breath--"but I'm scared to go their way and I might as well admit
it."
Still on the defensive and the negative, Finburg had been shaking his
head through this, but his next speech belied his attitude. Being rent
between two crossed emotions--a sinking fear for his own safety and
a climbing, growing avarice, he said in a soft, wheedling tone: "You
mentioned just now about my making something out of--this? Not that I'd
even consider such a dangerous proposition," he added hastily. "I--I
just wanted to know what you had on your mind, that's all?"
"I thought that'd interest you! Listen, Finburg. All along, I've been
holding out on you. I been keeping an ace in the hole in case we
should lose out on the appeal. You thought you'd taken the last cent
of fall-money I could dig up for fighting my case for me, didn't you?
Well, kid, you guessed wrong there. You remember the big Bergen Trust
Company hold-up down in New Jersey early last spring, don't you?"
"Yes." Finburg's jaws relaxed the least bit to let a greedy tongue lick
out.
"Then you remember, probably, that quite a chunk of negotiable
securities--bonds and things--wasn't never recovered?"
"Yes, I recall." Finburg suggested a furtive jackal, tense with a
mounting hunger and smelling afar off a bait of rich but forbidden food.
"And that the trust company people offered a reward of ten thousand for
the return of that stuff and no questions asked?"
"Yes, go on."
"Well, Finburg, you're smart but here's something you never knew
before. I was in on that hold-up--I engineered it. And inside of three
weeks afterwards, while I was waiting for the squawk over that job
to die down, I came up here and got in this jam and had to plug this
cop and they nailed me. But, Finburg, I've got a safe-deposit box in
a bank on Third Avenue and I've got a key to it stuck away in another
place where a pal's keeping it for me--a pal I can trust. I'll leave
you guess what's in that safe-deposit box. Or, if you want me to, I'll
tell--"
"No, don't tell me--that would be illegal," said the lawyer very
uneasily and yet very eagerly. "It would be more regular, you
understand, if I didn't actually have knowledge of what the contents
were--that is, beforehand. I've been double-crossed before by some of
you hard-boiled people. There was the time when I almost worked my
head off defending Roxie McGill and her mob for shoving phony money,
and every time I think of how that McGill skirt slipped it over on
me, when it came time to settle up"--he winced on what plainly was a
most painful recollection--"well, it's made me careful, Tony, awfully
careful. Not that I'm doubting you, understand. If a man can't trust
a--" He broke off, looking, for him, a trifle embarrassed.
"Say it!" prompted Scarra grimly. "If you can't trust a dying man you
can't trust nobody--that's what you had in your mind, wasn't it? Well,
I'm as good as dead right now and you won't never regret it, playing my
game. It could be fixed up, according to law, couldn't it, like a will,
that me not having any kinfolks, I was leaving you what was in that
safe-deposit box on account of you having been my lawyer and having
worked so hard for me?"
"Oh, yes, I'd know how to phrase the instrument properly. There'd be no
trouble about that, none whatever, Tony."