THE CONFESSION
I caught the wicked, snaky gleam of the Creole's eyes. All his early
suspicion of me had revived instantly.
"At the landing," he hastened to explain. "How could I tell? He said
he knew you, M'sieur."
"Oh, he did, hey! Well, all I know about him is that he blew in here
last night with a woman; claimed to be young Henley, and took
possession of the place. I reckon it 's about time I saw some papers
to prove what yer are, young feller, 'for yer go snoopin' round at
daylight. What's yer game enyhow?"
The man's bluster gave me my clew. The thought suddenly occurred to me
that, for some reason, he was more afraid of me than I of him. And if
I met him on the same ground he was of the disposition to give way
first.
"You can see my authority, Coombs, any time you are ready to exhibit
your own," I returned coolly, leaning back against the side of the
cabin, and staring him straight in the eyes. "I 've got more occasion
to question you, you big brute, than you have me. Who is going to
prevent my walking about these grounds? You? Just try the experiment,
and see how it comes out. If you are the overseer here, then it is my
money that is paying your wages, and from the look of things," and I
swept my hand toward the surrounding weeds, "you 'll not hold the job
long at that."
Coombs did not cringe, but my tone brought him uneasiness.
"The niggers won't work," he returned gruffly. "Thar ain't a nigger on
the place."
"Apparently white men enough hanging around. What 's the matter with
the negroes?"
"Ghosts," and the fellow laughed. "Maybe yer've seen sum?"
I straightened up, stung by the sneer in his voice.
"No; but I 've seen something more to the point--a murdered man."
"What?"
"Just what I said. There was a man killed last night in that back room
upstairs. Shot in the head through the window. I heard the shot and
investigated. His body lies there now."
I saw Broussard's snaky eyes flash across toward Coombs' face, but the
latter remained motionless.
"It's a damn lie!" he ejaculated roughly. "There is no body there."
"Easily settled. Come with me, and I 'll show you."
Rather to my surprise neither objected to the test, and we tramped in
single file toward the house. Some precaution kept me at the rear, and
I followed silently when Coombs entered the open door of the kitchen.
Unknown to me there was a narrow back stairway, and we mounted this
without exchanging a word. In the upper hall Coombs threw open the
rear door, and, stood aside, not even looking within.
I glanced past him. There was the furniture as I remembered it, the
dirty walls, the opened window. But the overturned chair stood against
the wall, the cards were stacked on the table, and there was no body
lying on the floor. So startled was I by this discovery that I could
scarcely credit my eyesight, but was brought to a realization of the
truth by Coombs' harsh laugh.
"Well, where 's yer dead man? I reckon ye don't see none, hey!"
"No," I insisted, "but I did see one--twice. The body lay there where
the stain shows on the floor. It has been carried away within half an
hour."
"A likely story. Who could do the job? Nobody round this shebang but
Sallie an' me. I sure ain't been in yere, an' I reckon it wan't
Sallie. So cut it out, young feller. After breakfast you an' I 'll
hav' a talk, an' find out a few things. Come on, Broussard, an' let 's
talk over that matter o' ours."
The two went down the stairs together, and I closed the door of the
rear room, and stepped out into the hall. Sallie was in the kitchen,
for I heard her voice questioning the men as they passed through. Out
of the window I caught a glimpse of them both disappearing through the
weeds toward the bayou. As to myself I was more at sea than ever. The
sudden disappearance of the body had left me bewildered, yet more
strongly convinced than before that this was no ordinary affair.
Evidences of a plan, of cooperation, rendered the situation serious.
That dead body had not moved itself; human hands had accomplished the
deed during the brief period of my absence outside. Whose hands could
have done it? Not those of Coombs, surely, for he could not have
passed me and attained the house while I was in the garden unseen. Nor
Sally, for she possessed no strength to more than drag the dead man to
some near-by covert. With the possibility of this in mind I searched
the vacant rooms of that floor, closets and all, thoroughly, but to no
result. There was, therefore, but one conclusion possible--unknown
parties were involved. We were not alone in the house in spite of its
apparent desertion.
I paused in doubt before Mrs. Bernard's door, convinced this was the
truth. Should I tell her frankly the story of the night, my vague
discoveries, my suspicion? I surely had no right to deceive the woman,
or keep her with me. I had determined myself to face it out, to risk
life if need be, to learn the truth. But I had no right to further
involve her. She had accompanied me thus far innocently enough,
accepting my explanation, driven to acquiescing by the desperate
situation in which she found herself. Already she regretted her hasty
action. To involve her still deeper would be heartless. I could not
do it, at least not without full confession.
I rapped at the door twice before there was any movement within. Then
her voice asked who was there, and at my answer she came out fully
dressed, fronting me with questioning eyes.
"The night has rested you," I said smilingly, my heart beating in swift
appreciation of her beauty. "Are you ready for breakfast?"
"For anything to escape the loneliness of that room," she replied
seriously. "If I really look rested, it is not from sleep for I have
passed the night in terror." She held out her hands as though seeking
to assure herself of my real presence. "Tell me what is wrong with
this house? What occurred last night?"
"I am not altogether sure myself," I said, striving to speak quietly,
and holding her hands tight, "But I will tell you all I know, after you
have explained. Were you disturbed?"
"Yes, but I hardly comprehend what was reality, and what dream. I
slept some, I am sure, lying pressed upon the bed. At first I thought
that was impossible, I was so frightened, and I had so much to think
about, but found myself too utterly exhausted to keep awake. Yet my
slumber was fitful, and filled with dreams. But I am sure of some
things--my door was tried twice, and I heard someone prowling about the
hall--"
"That might have been me," I interrupted, "as I was out there during
the night, but I certainly never tried your door."
"You had a light?"
"Yes."
"I saw that shining over the transom; it was much later when my door
was tried; not long before daylight I think. Whoever it was, passed
out the front hall window onto the porch roof. My light was burning,
although turned low, and no doubt he saw me sitting up, wide awake on
the edge of the bed, for he had disappeared by the time I gained
sufficient courage to approach the window and look out."
"Climbed down the trellis, probably," I said, deeply interested. "It
appears strong enough to support a man. I wish you had got sight of
the fellow."
She lifted her hands to her head.
"But I was so frightened. My head throbs now with pain. I cannot
explain, but--but I had begun to hate this mission of ours before we
ever reached here, and then this awful house, and that man and woman.
I almost begged you not to leave me alone, yet I conquered that
weakness, and said good night, and locked my door. You never realized
how I felt."
"No, not entirely, although I did comprehend you were sorry you had
consented to come."
"Not that altogether," and her eyes uplifting met mine, "I was
frightened last night in the darkness. I confess I completely lost my
nerve, and would have run away if I could. Perhaps I even said things
which made you believe I regretted my action in coming with you. But I
am more myself now, and I mean to remain, and discover what it all
means. Can you guess why?"
"No; I would naturally suppose the night would have added to your
terror, your desire to get away."
"Then you do not suspect even now who I am?"
"Who you are? Only as you have told me."
"And I told you only a half truth. I am the wife of Philip Henley."
Her cheeks flushed, a touch of passion in her voice as she faced me.
"That is the truth. Do you suppose that I would ever have come here
with you otherwise? No matter how desperate my condition was that
would have been impossible. I should have despised myself. Even as it
was I have been thoroughly shamed to have permitted you to think of me
as you must. Now I tell you the truth--I consented to come because I
am Philip Henley's wife."
My surprise at this swift avowal kept me silent, yet I could not
conceal the admiration from revealment in my eyes. She must have read
aright, for she drew back a step, grasping the knob of the door.
"I--I wanted to tell you yesterday--all the way coming down here. I
felt that I could live the deceit no longer. I do not blame you, Mr.
Craig, for you are a man, and you had every reason to believe that you
were doing nothing really wrong. I wanted to learn all I could before
I confessed my identity, and--and I wanted to discover just what you
were like."
"You mean whether I could be trusted?"
"Yes; I--I could not tell at first. We met so strangely, and merely
because I liked you from the beginning was not enough. You understand?"
"Yes, and now?"
She looked at me frankly.
"Now I am simply going to trust you fully. I must; there is no other
way. I thought it all over and over again last night, and determined
to confess everything as soon as we met this morning. I am Viola
Henley, Mr. Craig, and I need you."