Deaths from the wheeled torpedoes that shoot along the city streets are
too monotonously numerous to make a stir in the newspapers unless the
victims have some other claim on the public attention.
Gilfoyle had been writing advertisements of other people's wares, but
nobody was going to pay for the advertisement of him. The things that
he might have become were even more obscure than the things he was. The
pity of his taking-off would have had no more record than a few lines of
small type, but for one further accident.
The taxicab-driver whose reckless haste had sent him down the wrong
side of the street had been spurred on by the reckless haste of his
passenger. The pretty Mrs. Twyford had been for years encouraging the
reporters to emphasize her social altitude, and had seen that they
obtained her photographs at frequent intervals. But on this night she
had gone up-town upon one of the few affairs for which she did not wish
publicity. She had learned by telephone that her husband had returned
to New York unexpectedly, and she was intensely impatient to be at home
when he got there.
When her scudding taxicab solved all of Gilfoyle's earthly problems in
one fierce erasure she made such efforts to escape from the instantly
gathered crowd that she attracted the attention of the policeman who
happened to be at the next corner. He proceeded to take the name
and addresses of witnesses and principals, and he detained her as an
important accessory.
Connery was one of the news-men who had been indebted to Mrs. Twyford
for many a half-column of gossip, and he recognized her at once. He was
a reporter, first, last, and all the time, and he was very much in need
of something to sell.
He was greatly shattered by the annihilation of his friend, but his
instinctive journalism led him to control himself long enough to call
Mrs. Twyford by name and assure the policeman that she was a lady of
high degree who should not be bothered.
Neither the policeman nor Mrs. Twyford thanked him. They were equally
rude to him and to each other, Connery thought the incident might
interest the night city editor of his paper, and so he telephoned a
good story in to the office as soon as he had released himself from the
inquisition and had seen an ambulance carry poor Gilfoyle away.
Mrs. Twyford reached home too late, and in such a state of nerves that
she made the most unconvincing replies to the cross-examination that
ensued. When she saw her name in the paper the next morning her friends
also began to make inquiries--and eventually to deny that they were her
friends or had ever been.
It was her name in the heavy type that caught the heavy eyes of Jim
Dyckman at breakfast the next morning. It was thus that he came upon
the fate of Thomas Gilfoyle, whose death had been the cause of all this
pother.
Before he could telephone Anita--or Kedzie, as he mentally corrected
himself--he was informed that a Mr. Connery was at the door, asking for
him. He nodded and went into the library, carrying the newspaper with
him.
Connery grinned sadly and mumbled: “I see you've seen it. I thought
you'd like to know about it.”
“I should,” said Dyckman. “Sit down.”
Connery sat down and told of the accident and what led up to it. He
spoke in a lowered voice and kept his eye on the door. When he had
finished his story he said, “Now, of course this all comes out very
convenient for you, but I suppose you see how easy it would be for me to
tell what I know, and that mightn't be so convenient for you.”
“Are you beginning your blackmail again so early in the morning?”
“Cut out that kind of talk or there's nothing doing,” said Connery. “I
can make a lot of trouble for you, and I can hush up a lot. Unless I
speak I don't suppose anybody else is going to peep about Miss Adair
being Mrs. Gilfoyle, and about Mr. Dyckman being interested in his wife.
If I do speak it would take a lot of explaining.”
“I am not afraid of explaining to the whole world that Miss Adair is
a friend of mine and that her father and mother were present when I
called.”
Connery met this with a smile. “But how often were they present when you
called?”
Dyckman grew belligerent again: “Do you want me to finish what I began
on you last night?”
“I'm in no hurry, thank you. You can outclass me in the ring, but it
wouldn't help you much to beat me up, would it?--or Miss Adair, either.
She's got some rights, hasn't she?”
“Has she any that you are capable of respecting?”
“Sure she has. I don't want to cause the little lady any inconvenience.
She and Tommie Gilfoyle didn't belong together, anyway. She was through
with him long ago, and the only thing that saved his face was the fact
that he's dead--poor fellow!
“But you see I've got to appear as a witness in the trial of the
taxicab-driver, who'll be held for manslaughter or something. If I say
that Gilfoyle and I had just come from a battle with you and that he got
the wits knocked out of him because he accused you of making a mistress
out of his wife--”
“Be careful!”
“The same to you, Mr. Dyckman.”
Dyckman felt himself nettled. Kedzie's silence about the existence of
a husband had enmeshed him. He would not attempt to justify himself. It
would do no good to thresh about. The big gladiator sat still waiting
for the _retiarius_ to finish him. But Connery's voice grew merciful. It
was a luxury beyond price to extend an alms to this plutocrat.
“What I'm getting at, Mr. Dyckman,” he resumed, “is this: Tommie owed
some money to his landlady. He owed me some money that I could use. He's
got a mother and father up-State. He told me he'd never told them about
his marriage. They'll want him back, I suppose. From what he's told me,
it would be a real hardship for them to pay the funeral expenses. You
could pay all that, and you could even say that he had a little money
in the bank and send that along with him, and never know the difference.
But they would.”
“I see,” said Dyckman, very solemnly.
“You called me some rough names, Mr. Dyckman, and I guess I earned 'em.
Looking things over the morning after, I'm not so stuck on myself as I
was, but you stack up pretty well. I like a man who can use his hands
in an argument. My name is Connery, you know. What you did to me was a
plenty, but it looks better to me now than it felt last night.
“You know a reporter just gets naturally hungry to see a man face a
scandal in a manly way. If you had shown a yellow streak and tried to
buy your way out I would have taken your money and thought I was doing
a public service in getting it away from a quitter. But when you cracked
my bean against poor Gilfoyle's you made me see a lot of things besides
stars.
“There's nothing to be gained by keeping up this war. I want to put it
all out of sight for your sake and for Gilfoyle's mother's sake, and for
the sake of that pretty little Adair lady. I don't know what she's been
or done, but she's pretty and she's got a nice, spunky mother.
“I'm a good newspaper man, Mr. Dyckman, and that means I've kept quiet
about even better stories than I've sprung. If I had a lot of money now
I'd add this story to the list and treat Gilfoyle's folks right without
giving you a look-in. But being dead-broke, I thought maybe you'd like
to see things done in a decent manner. It's going to be hard enough for
that old couple up-State to get Tommie back, as they've got to, without
taking any excess heartbreak up in the baggage-car. Do you follow me?”
“I do,” said Dyckman; and now he asked the “How much?” that he had
refused to speak the night before.
Connery did a little figuring with a pencil, and Dyckman thought that
some life-insurance in the mother's name would be a pleasant thing to
add. Then he doubled the total, wrote a check for it, and said:
“There'll probably be something left over. I wish you'd keep it as
your--attorney-fee, Mr. Connery.”
They shook hands as they parted.