Perhaps a week after the conversation between St. Clair and Walcott,
Randolph Mason stood in the private writing-room of the club with his
hands behind his back.
He was a man apparently in the middle forties; tall and reasonably broad
across the shoulders; muscular without being either stout or lean. His
hair was thin and of a brown color, with erratic streaks of gray. His
forehead was broad and high and of a faint reddish color. His eyes were
restless inky black, and not over-large. The nose was big and muscular
and bowed. The eyebrows were black and heavy, almost bushy. There were
heavy furrows, running from the nose downward and outward to the corners
of the mouth. The mouth was straight and the jaw was heavy, and square.
Looking at the face of Randolph Mason from above, the expression in
repose was crafty and cynical; viewed from below upward, it was savage
and vindictive, almost brutal; while from the front, if looked squarely
in the face, the stranger was fascinated by the animation of the man and
at once concluded that his expression was fearless and sneering. He was
evidently of Southern extraction and a man of unusual power.
A fire smouldered on the hearth. It was a crisp evening in the early
fall, and with that far-off touch of melancholy which ever heralds the
coming winter, even in the midst of a city. The man's face looked tired
and ugly. His long white hands were clasped tight together. His entire
figure and face wore every mark of weakness and physical exhaustion; but
his eyes contradicted. They were red and restless.
In the private dining-room the dinner party was in the best of spirits.
Samuel Walcott was happy. Across the table from him was Miss Virginia
St. Clair, radiant, a tinge of color in her cheeks. On either side,
Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant and Marshall St. Clair were brilliant and
light-hearted. Walcott looked at the young girl and the measure of his
worship was full. He wondered for the thousandth time how she could
possibly love him and by what earthly miracle she had come to accept
him, and how it would be always to have her across the table from him,
his own table in his own house.
They were about to rise from the table when one of the waiters entered
the room and handed Walcott an envelope. He thrust it quickly into his
pocket In the confusion of rising the others did not notice him, but
his face was ash-white and his hands trembled violently as he placed the
wraps around the bewitching shoulders of Miss St. Clair.
"Marshall," he said, and despite the powerful effort his voice was
hollow, "you will see the ladies safely cared for, I am called to attend
a grave matter."
"All right, Walcott," answered the young man, with cheery good-nature,
"you are too serious, old man, trot along."
"The poor dear," murmured Mrs. Steuvisant, after Walcott had helped them
to the carriage and turned to go up the steps of the club,--"The poor
dear is hard hit, and men are such funny creatures when they are hard
hit."
Samuel Walcott, as his fate would, went direct to the private
writing-room and opened the door. The lights were not turned on and in
the dark he did not see Mason motionless by the mantel-shelf. He went
quickly across the room to the writing-table, turned on one of the
lights, and, taking the envelope from his pocket, tore it open. Then he
bent down by the light to read the contents. As his eyes ran over the
paper, his jaw fell. The skin drew away from his cheek-bones and his
face seemed literally to sink in. His knees gave way under him and he
would have gone down in a heap had it not been for Mason's long arms
that closed around him and held him up. The human economy is ever
mysterious. The moment the new danger threatened, the latent power
of the man as an animal, hidden away in the centres of intelligence,
asserted itself. His hand clutched the paper and, with a half slide, he
turned in Mason's arms. For a moment he stared up at the ugly man whose
thin arms felt like wire ropes.
"You are under the dead-fall, aye," said Mason. "The cunning of my enemy
is sublime."
"Your enemy?" gasped Walcott. "When did you come into it? How in God's
name did you know it? How your enemy?"
Mason looked down at the wide bulging eyes of the man.
"Who should know better than I?" he said. "Haven't I broken through all
the traps and plots that she could set?"
"She? She trap you?" The man's voice was full of horror.
"The old schemer," muttered Mason. "The cowardly old schemer, to strike
in the back; but we can beat her. She did not count on my helping
you--I, who know her so well."
Mason's face was red, and his eyes burned. In the midst of it all he
dropped his hands and went over to the fire. Samuel Walcott arose,
panting, and stood looking at Mason, with his hands behind him on the
table. The naturally strong nature and the rigid school in which the man
had been trained presently began to tell. His composure in part returned
and he thought rapidly. What did this strange man know? Was he simply
making shrewd guesses, or had he some mysterious knowledge of this
matter? Walcott could not know that Mason meant only Fate, that he
believed her to be his great enemy. Walcott had never before doubted his
own ability to meet any emergency. This mighty jerk had carried him off
his feet. He was unstrung and panic-stricken. At any rate this man had
promised help. He would take it. He put the paper and envelope carefully
into his pocket, smoothed out his rumpled coat, and going over to Mason
touched him on the shoulder.
"Come," he said, "if you are to help me we must go."
The man turned and followed him without a word. In the hall Mason put
on his hat and overcoat, and the two went out into the street. Walcott
hailed a cab, and the two were driven to his house on the avenue.
Walcott took out his latch-key, opened the door, and led the way into
the library. He turned on the light and motioned Mason to seat himself
at the table. Then he went into another room and presently returned with
a bundle of papers and a decanter of brandy. He poured out a glass of
the liquor and offered it to Mason. The man shook his head. Walcott
poured the contents of the glass down his own throat. Then he set the
decanter down and drew up a chair on the side of the table opposite
Mason.
"Sir," said Walcott, in a voice deliberate, indeed, but as hollow as a
sepulchre, "I am done for. God has finally gathered up the ends of the
net, and it is knotted tight."
"Am I not here to help you?" said Mason, turning savagely. "I can beat
Fate. Give me the details of her trap."
He bent forward and rested his arms on the table. His streaked gray hair
was rumpled and on end, and his face was ugly. For a moment Walcott did
not answer. He moved a little into the shadow; then he spread the bundle
of old yellow papers out before him.
"To begin with," he said, "I am a living lie, a gilded crime-made sham,
every bit of me. There is not an honest piece anywhere. It is all lie.
I am a liar and a thief before men. The property which I possess is not
mine, but stolen from a dead man. The very name which I bear is not my
own, but is the bastard child of a crime. I am more than all that--I am
a murderer; a murderer before the law; a murderer before God; and worse
than a murderer before the pure woman whom I love more than anything
that God could make."
He paused for a moment and wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Sir," said Mason, "this is all drivel, infantile drivel. What you are
is of no importance. How to get out is the problem, how to get out."
Samuel Walcott leaned forward, poured out a glass of brandy and
swallowed it.
"Well," he said, speaking slowly, "my right name is Richard Warren. In
the spring of 1879 I came to New York and fell in with the real Samuel
Walcott, a young man with a little money and some property which his
grandfather had left him. We became friends, and concluded to go to the
far west together. Accordingly we scraped together what money we could
lay our hands on, and landed in the gold-mining regions of California.
We were young and inexperienced, and our money went rapidly. One April
morning we drifted into a little shack camp, away up in the Sierra
Nevadas, called Hell's Elbow. Here we struggled and starved for perhaps
a year. Finally, in utter desperation, Walcott married the daughter of a
Mexican gambler, who ran an eating-house and a poker joint. With them we
lived from hand to mouth in a wild God-forsaken way for several years.
After a time the woman began to take a strange fancy to me. Walcott
finally noticed it, and grew jealous.
"One night, in a drunken brawl, we quarrelled, and I killed him. It was
late at night, and, beside the woman, there were four of us in the poker
room,--the Mexican gambler, a half-breed devil called Cherubim Pete,
Walcott, and myself. When Walcott fell, the half-breed whipped out his
weapon, and fired at me across the table; but the woman, Nina San Croix,
struck his arm, and, instead of killing me, as he intended, the bullet
mortally wounded her father, the Mexican gambler. I shot the half-breed
through the forehead, and turned round, expecting the woman to attack
me. On the contrary, she pointed to the window, and bade me wait for her
on the cross-trail below.
"It was fully three hours later before the woman joined me at the place
indicated. She had a bag of gold dust, a few jewels that belonged to her
father, and a package of papers. I asked her why she had stayed behind
so long, and she replied that the men were not killed outright, and that
she had brought a priest to them and waited until they had died.
This was the truth, but not all the truth. Moved by superstition or
foresight, the woman had induced the priest to take down the sworn
statements of the two dying men, seal it, and give it to her. This paper
she brought with her. All this I learned afterwards. At the time I knew
nothing of this damning evidence.
"We struck out together for the Pacific coast. The country was lawless.
The privations we endured were almost past belief. At times the woman
exhibited cunning and ability that were almost genius; and through
it all, often in the very fingers of death, her devotion to me never
wavered. It was dog-like, and seemed to be her only object on earth.
When we reached San Francisco, the woman put these papers into my
hands." Walcott took up the yellow package, and pushed it across the
table to Mason.
"She proposed that I assume Walcott's name, and that we come boldly to
New York and claim the property. I examined the papers, found a copy
of the will by which Walcott inherited the property, a bundle of
correspondence, and sufficient documentary evidence to establish his
identity beyond the shadow of a doubt. Desperate gambler as I now was,
I quailed before the daring plan of Nina San Croix. I urged that I,
Richard Warren, would be known, that the attempted fraud would be
detected and would result in investigation, and perhaps unearth the
whole horrible matter.
"The woman pointed out how much I resembled Walcott, what vast changes
ten years of such life as we had led would naturally be expected to make
in men, how utterly impossible it would be to trace back the fraud
to Walcott's murder at Hell's Elbow, in the wild passes of the
Sierra Nevadas. She bade me remember that we were both outcasts, both
crime-branded, both enemies of man's law and God's; that we had nothing
to lose; we were both sunk to the bottom. Then she laughed, and said
that she had not found me a coward until now, but that if I had turned
chicken-hearted, that was the end of it, of course. The result was, we
sold the gold dust and jewels in San Francisco, took on such evidences
of civilization as possible, and purchased passage to New York on the
best steamer we could find.
"I was growing to depend on the bold gambler spirit of this woman, Nina
San Croix; I felt the need of her strong, profligate nature. She was
of a queer breed and a queerer school. Her mother was the daughter of
a Spanish engineer, and had been stolen by the Mexican, her father.
She herself had been raised and educated as best might be in one of
the monasteries along the Rio Grande, and had there grown to womanhood
before her father, fleeing into the mountains of California, carried her
with him.
"When we landed in New York I offered to announce her as my wife, but
she refused, saying that her presence would excite comment and perhaps
attract the attention of Walcott's relatives. We therefore arranged that
I should go alone into the city, claim the property, and announce myself
as Samuel Walcott, and that she should remain under cover until such
time as we would feel the ground safe under us.
"Every detail of the plan was fatally successful. I established my
identity without difficulty and secured the property. It had increased
vastly in value, and I, as Samuel Walcott, soon found myself a rich man.
I went to Nina San Croix in hiding and gave her a large sum of money,
with which she purchased a residence in a retired part of the city, far
up in the northern suburb. Here she lived secluded and unknown while I
remained in the city, living here as a wealthy bachelor.
"I did not attempt to abandon the woman, but went to her from time to
time in disguise and under cover of the greatest secrecy. For a
time everything ran smooth, the woman was still devoted to me above
everything else, and thought always of my welfare first and seemed
content to wait so long as I thought best. My business expanded. I was
sought after and consulted and drawn into the higher life of New York,
and more and more felt that the woman was an albatross on my neck. I put
her off with one excuse after another. Finally she began to suspect
me and demanded that I should recognize her as my wife. I attempted to
point out the difficulties. She met them all by saying that we should
both go to Spain, there I could marry her and we could return to America
and drop into my place in society without causing more than a passing
comment.
"I concluded to meet the matter squarely once for all. I said that I
would convert half of the property into money and give it to her, but
that I would not marry her. She did not fly into a storming rage as I
had expected, but went quietly out of the room and presently returned
with two papers, which she read. One was the certificate of her marriage
to Walcott duly authenticated; the other was the dying statement of her
father, the Mexican gambler, and of Samuel Walcott, charging me with
murder. It was in proper form and certified by the Jesuit priest.
"Now," she said, sweetly, when she had finished, 'which do you prefer,
to recognize your wife, or to turn all the property over to Samuel
Walcott's widow and hang for his murder?'
"I was dumbfounded and horrified. I saw the trap that I was in and I
consented to do anything she should say if she would only destroy the
papers. This she refused to do. I pleaded with her and implored her to
destroy them. Finally she gave them to me with a great show of returning
confidence, and I tore them into bits and threw them into the fire.
"That was three months ago. We arranged to go to Spain and do as she
said. She was to sail this morning and I was to follow. Of course I
never intended to go. I congratulated myself on the fact that all trace
of evidence against me was destroyed and that her grip was now broken.
My plan was to induce her to sail, believing that I would follow. When
she was gone I would marry Miss St. Clair, and if Nina San Croix
should return I would defy her and lock her up as a lunatic. But I was
reckoning like an infernal ass, to imagine for a moment that I could
thus hoodwink such a woman as Nina San Croix.
"To-night I received this." Walcott took the envelope from his pocket
and gave it to Mason. "You saw the effect of it; read it and you will
understand why. I felt the death hand when I saw her writing on the
envelope."
Mason took the paper from the envelope. It was written in Spanish, and
ran:
"Greeting to Richard Warren.
"The great Senor does his little Nina injustice to think she would go
away to Spain and leave him to the beautiful American. She is not so
thoughtless. Before she goes, she shall be, Oh so very rich! and the
dear Senor shall be, Oh so very safe! The Archbishop and the kind Church
hate murderers.
"Nina San Croix.
"Of course, fool, the papers you destroyed were copies.
"N. San C."
To this was pinned a line in a delicate aristocratic hand, saying that
the Archbishop would willingly listen to Madam San Croix's statement if
she would come to him on Friday morning at eleven.
"You see," said Walcott, desperately, "there is no possible way out. I
know the woman--when she decides to do a thing that is the end of it.
She has decided to do this."
Mason turned around from the table, stretched out his long legs, and
thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Walcott sat with his head down,
watching Mason hopelessly, almost indifferently, his face blank and
sunken. The ticking of the bronze clock on the mantel-shelf was loud,
painfully loud. Suddenly Mason drew his knees in and bent over, put both
his bony hands on the table, and looked at Walcott.
"Sir," he said, "this matter is in such shape that there is only one
thing to do. This growth must be cut out at the roots, and cut out
quickly. This is the first fact to be determined, and a fool would know
it. The second fact is that you must do it yourself. Hired killers are
like the grave and the daughters of the horse-leech,--they cry always,
'Give, Give,' They are only palliatives, not cures. By using them you
swap perils. You simply take a stay of execution at best. The common
criminal would know this. These are the facts of your problem. The
master plotters of crime would see here but two difficulties to meet:
"A practical method for accomplishing the body of the crime.
"A cover for the criminal agent.
"They would see no farther, and attempt to guard no farther. After they
had provided a plan for the killing, and a means by which the killer
could cover his trail and escape from the theatre of the homicide, they
would believe all the requirements of the problems met, and would stop.
The greatest, the very giants among them, have stopped here and have
been in great error.
"In every crime, especially in the great ones, there exists a third
element, pre-eminently vital. This third element the master plotters
have either overlooked or else have not had the genius to construct.
They plan with rare cunning to baffle the victim. They plan with vast
wisdom, almost genius, to baffle the trailer. But they fail utterly
to provide any plan for baffling the punisher. Ergo, their plots are
fatally defective and often result in ruin. Hence the vital necessity
for providing the third element--the _escape ipso jure_."
Mason arose, walked around the table, and put his hand firmly on Samuel
Walcott's shoulder. "This must be done to-morrow night," he continued;
"you must arrange your business matters to-morrow and announce that you
are going on a yacht cruise, by order of your physician, and may
not return for some weeks. You must prepare your yacht for a voyage,
instruct your men to touch at a certain point on Staten Island, and wait
until six o'clock day after to-morrow morning. If you do not come aboard
by that time, they are to go to one of the South American ports
and remain until further orders. By this means your absence for an
indefinite period will be explained. You will go to Nina San Croix in
the disguise which you have always used, and from her to the yacht,
and by this means step out of your real status and back into it without
leaving traces. I will come here to-morrow evening and furnish you with
everything that you shall need and give you full and exact instructions
in every particular. These details you must execute with the greatest
care, as they will be vitally essential to the success of my plan."
Through it all Walcott had been silent and motionless. Now he arose, and
in his face there must have been some premonition of protest, for Mason
stepped back and put out his hand. "Sir," he said, with brutal emphasis,
"not a word. Remember that you are only the hand, and the hand does not
think." Then he turned around abruptly and went out of the house.