Burke was a persistent man, and he had set himself to getting the
murderer of Griggs. Foiled in his efforts thus far by the opposition
of Mary, he now gave himself over to careful thought as to a means
of procedure that might offer the best possibilities of success. His
beetling brows were drawn in a frown of perplexity for a full quarter
of an hour, while he rested motionless in his chair, an unlighted
cigar between his lips. Then, at last, his face cleared; a grin of
satisfaction twisted his heavy mouth, and he smote the desk joyously.
“It's a cinch it'll get 'im!” he rumbled, in glee.
He pressed the button-call, and ordered the doorman to send in Cassidy.
When the detective appeared a minute later, he went directly to his
subject with a straightforward energy usual to him in his work.
“Does Garson know we've arrested the Turner girl and young Gilder?” And,
when he had been answered in the negative: “Or that we've got Chicago
Red and Dacey here?”
“No,” Cassidy replied. “He hasn't been spoken to since we made the
collar.... He seems worried,” the detective volunteered.
Burke's broad jowls shook from the force with which he snapped his jaws
together.
“He'll be more worried before I get through with him!” he growled.
He regarded Cassidy speculatively. “Do you remember the Third Degree
Inspector Burns worked on McGloin? Well,” he went on, as the detective
nodded assent, “that's what I'm going to do to Garson. He's got
imagination, that crook! The things he don't know about are the things
he's afraid of. After he gets in here, I want you to take his pals one
after the other, and lock them up in the cells there in the corridor.
The shades on the corridor windows here will be up, and Garson will see
them taken in. The fact of their being there will set his imagination to
working overtime, all right.”
Burke reflected for a moment, and then issued the final directions for
the execution of his latest plot.
“When you get the buzzer from me, you have young Gilder and the Turner
woman sent in. Then, after a while, you'll get another buzzer. When you
hear that, come right in here, and tell me that the gang has squealed.
I'll do the rest. Bring Garson here in just five minutes.... Tell Dan to
come in.”
As the detective went out, the doorman promptly entered, and thereat
Burke proceeded with the further instructions necessary to the carrying
out of his scheme.
“Take the chairs out of the office, Dan,” he directed, “except mine and
one other--that one!” He indicated a chair standing a little way from
one end of his desk. “Now, have all the shades up.” He chuckled as he
added: “That Turner woman saved you the trouble with one.”
As the doorman went out after having fulfilled these commands, the
Inspector lighted the cigar which he had retained still in his mouth,
and then seated himself in the chair that was set partly facing the
windows opening on the corridor. He smiled with anticipatory triumph as
he made sure that the whole length of the corridor with the barred
doors of the cells was plainly visible to one sitting thus. With a final
glance about to make certain that all was in readiness, he returned to
his chair, and, when the door opened, he was, to all appearances, busily
engaged in writing.
“Here's Garson, Chief,” Cassidy announced.
“Hello, Joe!” Burke exclaimed, with a seeming of careless friendliness,
as the detective went out, and Garson stood motionless just within the
door.
“Sit down, a minute, won't you?” the Inspector continued, affably. He
did not look up from his writing as he spoke.
Garson's usually strong face was showing weak with fear. His chin, which
was commonly very firm, moved a little from uneasy twitchings of his
lips. His clear eyes were slightly clouded to a look of apprehension,
as they roved the room furtively. He made no answer to the Inspector's
greeting for a few moments, but remained standing without movement,
poised alertly as if sensing some concealed peril. Finally, however,
his anxiety found expression in words. His tone was pregnant with alarm,
though he strove to make it merely complaining.
“Say, what am I arrested for?” he protested. “I ain't done anything.”
Even now, Burke did not look up, and his pen continued to hurry over the
paper.
“Who told you you were arrested?” he remarked, cheerfully, in his
blandest voice.
Garson uttered an ejaculation of disgust.
“I don't have to be told,” he retorted, huffily. “I'm no college
president, but, when a cop grabs me and brings me down here, I've got
sense enough to know I'm pinched.”
The Inspector did not interrupt his work, but answered with the utmost
good nature.
“Is that what they did to you, Joe? I'll have to speak to Cassidy about
that. Now, just you sit down, Joe, won't you? I want to have a little
talk with you. I'll be through here in a second.” He went on with the
writing.
Garson moved forward slightly, to the single chair near the end of the
desk, and there seated himself mechanically. His face thus was turned
toward the windows that gave on the corridor, and his eyes grew yet more
clouded as they rested on the grim doors of the cells. He writhed in his
chair, and his gaze jumped from the cells to the impassive figure of
the man at the desk. Now, the forger's nervousness increased momently it
swept beyond his control. Of a sudden, he sprang up, and stepped close
to the Inspector.
“Say,” he said, in a husky voice, “I'd like--I'd like to have a lawyer.”
“What's the matter with you, Joe?” the Inspector returned, always with
that imperturbable air, and without raising his head from the work that
so engrossed his attention. “You know, you're not arrested, Joe. Maybe,
you never will be. Now, for the love of Mike, keep still, and let me
finish this letter.”
Slowly, very hesitatingly, Garson went back to the chair, and sank
down on it in a limp attitude of dejection wholly unlike his customary
postures of strength. Again, his fear-fascinated eyes went to the row
of cells that stood silently menacing on the other side of the corridor
beyond the windows. His face was tinged with gray. A physical sickness
was creeping stealthily on him, as his thoughts held insistently to the
catastrophe that threatened. His intelligence was too keen to permit
a belief that Burke's manner of almost fulsome kindliness hid nothing
ominous--ominous with a hint of death for him in return for the death he
had wrought.
Then, terror crystallized. His eyes were caught by a figure, the figure
of Cassidy, advancing there in the corridor. And with the detective
went a man whose gait was slinking, craven. A cell-door swung open, the
prisoner stepped within, the door clanged to, the bolts shot into their
sockets noisily.
Garson sat huddled, stricken--for he had recognized the victim thrust
into the cell before his eyes.... It was Dacey, one of his own cronies
in crime--Dacey, who, the night before, had seen him kill Eddie Griggs.
There was something concretely sinister to Garson in this fact of
Dacey's presence there in the cell.
Of a sudden, the forger cried out raucously:
“Say, Inspector, if you've got anything on me, I--I would----” The cry
dropped into unintelligible mumblings.
Burke retained his manner of serene indifference to the other's
agitation. Still, his pen hurried over the paper; and he did not trouble
to look up as he expostulated, half-banteringly.
“Now, now! What's the matter with you, Joe? I told you that I wanted to
ask you a few questions. That's all.”
Garson leaped to his feet again resolutely, then faltered, and
ultimately fell back into the chair with a groan, as the Inspector went
on speaking.
“Now, Joe, sit down, and keep still, I tell you, and let me get through
with this job. It won't take me more than a minute more.”
But, after a moment, Garson's emotion forced hint to another appeal.
“Say, Inspector----” he began.
Then, abruptly, he was silent, his mouth still open to utter the words
that were now held back by horror. Again, he saw the detective walking
forward, out there in the corridor. And with him, as before, was a
second figure, which advanced slinkingly. Garson leaned forward in his
chair, his head thrust out, watching in rigid suspense. Again, even
as before, the door swung wide, the prisoner slipped within, the door
clanged shut, the bolts clattered noisily into their sockets.
And, in the watcher, terror grew--for he had seen the face of Chicago
Red, another of his pals, another who had seen him kill Griggs. For a
time that seemed to him long ages of misery, Garson sat staring dazedly
at the closed doors of the tier of cells. The peril about him was
growing--growing, and it was a deadly peril! At last, he licked his dry
lips, and his voice broke in a throaty whisper.
“Say, Inspector, if you've got anything against me, why----”
“Who said there was anything against you, Joe?” Burke rejoined, in a
voice that was genially chiding. “What's the matter with you to-day,
Joe? You seem nervous.” Still, the official kept on with his writing.
“No, I ain't nervous,” Garson cried, with a feverish effort to appear
calm. “Why, what makes you think that? But this ain't exactly the place
you'd pick out as a pleasant one to spend the morning.” He was silent
for a little, trying with all his strength to regain his self-control,
but with small success.
“Could I ask you a question?” he demanded finally, with more firmness in
his voice.
“What is it?” Burke said.
Garson cleared his throat with difficulty, and his voice was thick.
“I was just going to say--” he began. Then, he hesitated, and was
silent, at a loss.
“Well, what is it, Joe?” the Inspector prompted.
“I was going to say--that is--well, if it's anything about Mary Turner,
I don't know a thing--not a thing!”
It was the thought of possible peril to her that now, in an instant, had
caused him to forget his own mortal danger. Where, before, he had been
shuddering over thoughts of the death-house cell that might be awaiting
him, he now had concern only for the safety of the woman he cherished.
And there was a great grief in his soul; for it was borne in on him that
his own folly, in disobedience to her command, had led up to the murder
of Griggs--and to all that might come of the crime. How could he ever
make amends to her? At least, he could be brave here, for her sake, if
not for his own.
Burke believed that his opportunity was come.
“What made you think I wanted to know anything about her?” he
questioned.
“Oh, I can't exactly say,” Garson replied carelessly, in an attempt to
dissimulate his agitation. “You were up to the house, you know. Don't
you see?”
“I did want to see her, that's a fact,” Burke admitted. He kept on with
his writing, his head bent low. “But she wasn't at her flat. I guess she
must have taken my advice, and skipped out. Clever girl, that!”
Garson contrived to present an aspect of comparative indifference.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I was thinking of going West, myself,” he ventured.
“Oh, were you?” Burke exclaimed; and, now, there was a new note in
his voice. His hand slipped into the pocket where was the pistol, and
clutched it. He stared at Garson fiercely, and spoke with a rush of the
words:
“Why did you kill Eddie Griggs?”
“I didn't kill him!” The reply was quick enough, but it came weakly.
Again, Garson was forced to wet his lips with a dry tongue, and to
swallow painfully. “I tell you, I didn't kill him!” he repeated at last,
with more force.
Burke sneered his disbelief.
“You killed him last night--with this!” he cried, viciously. On the
instant, the pistol leaped into view, pointed straight at Garson. “Why?”
the Inspector shouted. “Come on, now! Why?”
“I didn't, I tell you!” Garson was growing stronger, since at last
the crisis was upon him. He got to his feet with lithe swiftness
of movement, and sprang close to the desk. He bent his head forward
challengingly, to meet the glare of his accuser's eyes. There was no
flinching in his own steely stare. His nerves had ceased their jangling
under the tautening of necessity.
“You did!” Burke vociferated. He put his whole will into the assertion
of guilt, to batter down the man's resistance. “You did, I tell you! You
did!”
Garson leaned still further forward, until his face was almost level
with the Inspector's. His eyes were unclouded now, were blazing. His
voice came resonant in its denial. The entire pose of him was intrepid,
dauntless.
“And I tell you, I didn't!”
There passed many seconds, while the two men battled in silence, will
warring against will.... In the end, it was the murderer who triumphed.
Suddenly, Burke dropped the pistol into his pocket, and lolled back in
his chair. His gaze fell away from the man confronting him. In the same
instant, the rigidity of Garson's form relaxed, and he straightened
slowly. A tide of secret joy swept through him, as he realized his
victory. But his outward expression remained unchanged.
“Oh, well,” Burke exclaimed amiably, “I didn't really think you did,
but I wasn't sure, so I had to take a chance. You understand, don't you,
Joe?”
“Sure, I understand,” Garson replied, with an amiability equal to the
Inspector's own.
Burke's manner continued very amicable as he went on speaking.
“You see, Joe, anyhow, we've got the right party safe enough. You can
bet on that!”
Garson resisted the lure.
“If you don't want me----” he began suggestively; and he turned toward
the door to the outer hall. “Why, if you don't want me, I'll--get
along.”
“Oh, what's the hurry, Joe?” Burke retorted, with the effect of stopping
the other short. He pressed the buzzer as the agreed signal to Cassidy.
“Where did you say Mary Turner was last night?”
At the question, all Garson's fears for the woman rushed back on him
with appalling force. Of what avail his safety, if she were still in
peril?
“I don't know where she was,” he exclaimed, doubtfully. He realized his
blunder even as the words left his lips, and sought to correct it as
best he might. “Why, yes, I do, too,” he went on, as if assailed by
sudden memory. “I dropped into her place kind of late, and they said
she'd gone to bed--headache, I guess.... Yes, she was home, of course.
She didn't go out of the house, all night.” His insistence on the point
was of itself suspicious, but eagerness to protect her stultified his
wits.
Burke sat grim and silent, offering no comment on the lie.
“Know anything about young Gilder?” he demanded. “Happen to know where
he is now?” He arose and came around the desk, so that he stood close to
Garson, at whom he glowered.
“Not a thing!” was the earnest answer. But the speaker's fear rose
swiftly, for the linking of these names was significant--frightfully
significant!
The inner door opened, and Mary Turner entered the office. Garson with
difficulty suppressed the cry of distress that rose to his lips. For
a few moments, the silence was unbroken. Then, presently, Burke, by a
gesture, directed the girl to advance toward the center of the room.
As she obeyed, he himself went a little toward the door, and, when it
opened again, and Dick Gilder appeared, he interposed to check the young
man's rush forward as his gaze fell on his bride, who stood regarding
him with sad eyes.
Garson stared mutely at the burly man in uniform who held their
destinies in the hollow of a hand. His lips parted as if he were about
to speak. Then, he bade defiance to the impulse. He deemed it safer for
all that he should say nothing--now!... And it is very easy to say
a word too many. And that one may be a word never to be unsaid--or
gainsaid.
Then, while still that curious, dynamic silence endured, Cassidy came
briskly into the office. By some magic of duty, he had contrived to give
his usually hebetudinous features an expression of enthusiasm.
“Say, Chief,” the detective said rapidly, “they've squealed!”
Burke regarded his aide with an air intolerably triumphant. His voice
came smug:
“Squealed, eh?” His glance ran over Garson for a second, then made
its inquisition of Mary and of Dick Gilder. He did not give a look to
Cassidy as he put his question. “Do they tell the same story?” And then,
when the detective had answered in the affirmative, he went on speaking
in tones ponderous with self-complacency; and, now, his eyes held
sharply, craftily, on the woman.
“I was right then, after all--right, all the time! Good enough!” Of
a sudden, his voice boomed somberly. “Mary Turner, I want you for the
murder of----”
Garson's rush halted the sentence. He had leaped forward. His face was
rigid. He broke on the Inspector's words with a gesture of fury. His
voice came in a hiss:
“That's a damned lie!... I did it!”