Joe Garson had shouted his confession without a second of reflection.
But the result must have been the same had he taken years of thought.
Between him and her as the victim of the law, there could be no
hesitation for choice. Indeed, just now, he had no heed to his own fate.
The prime necessity was to save her, Mary, from the toils of the law
that were closing around her. For himself, in the days to come, there
would be a ghastly dread, but there would never be regret over the
cost of saving her. Perhaps, some other he might have let suffer in his
stead--not her! Even, had he been innocent, and she guilty of the crime,
he would still have taken the burden of it on his own shoulders. He had
saved her from the waters--he would save her until the end, as far
as the power in him might lie. It was thus that, with the primitive
directness of his reverential love for the girl, he counted no sacrifice
too great in her behalf. Joe Garson was not a good man, at the world
esteems goodness. On the contrary, he was distinctly an evil one,
a menace to the society on which he preyed constantly. But his good
qualities, if few, were of the strongest fiber, rooted in the deeps of
him. He loathed treachery. His one guiltiness in this respect had been,
curiously enough, toward Mary herself, in the scheme of the burglary,
which she had forbidden. But, in the last analysis, here his deceit
had been designed to bring affluence to her. It was his abhorrence
of treachery among pals that had driven him to the murder of the
stool-pigeon in a fit of ungovernable passion. He might have stayed his
hand then, but for the gusty rage that swept him on to the crime. None
the less, had he spared the man, his hatred of the betrayer would have
been the same.... And the other virtue of Joe Garson was the complement
of this--his own loyalty, a loyalty that made him forget self utterly
where he loved. The one woman who had ever filled his heart was Mary,
and for her his life were not too much to give.
The suddenness of it all held Mary voiceless for long seconds. She was
frozen with horror of the event.
When, at last, words came, they were a frantic prayer of protest.
“No, Joe! No! Don't talk--don't talk!”
Burke, immensely gratified, went nimbly to his chair, and thence
surveyed the agitated group with grisly pleasure.
“Joe has talked,” he said, significantly.
Mary, shaken as she was by the fact of Garson's confession, nevertheless
retained her presence of mind sufficiently to resist with all her
strength.
“He did it to protect me,” she stated, earnestly.
The Inspector disdained such futile argument. As the doorman appeared in
answer to the buzzer, he directed that the stenographer be summoned at
once.
“We'll have the confession in due form,” he remarked, gazing pleasedly
on the three before him.
“He's not going to confess,” Mary insisted, with spirit.
But Burke was not in the least impressed. He disregarded her completely,
and spoke mechanically to Garson the formal warning required by the law.
“You are hereby cautioned that anything you say may be used against
you.” Then, as the stenographer entered, he went on with lively
interest. “Now, Joe!”
Yet once again, Mary protested, a little wildly.
“Don't speak, Joe! Don't say a word till we can get a lawyer for you!”
The man met her pleading eyes steadily, and shook his head in refusal.
“It's no use, my girl,” Burke broke in, harshly. “I told you I'd
get you. I'm going to try you and Garson, and the whole gang for
murder--yes, every one of you.... And you, Gilder,” he continued,
lowering on the young man who had defied him so obstinately, “you'll go
to the House of Detention as a material witness.” He turned his gaze to
Garson again, and spoke authoritatively: “Come on now, Joe!”
Garson went a step toward the desk, and spoke decisively.
“If I come through, you'll let her go--and him?” he added as an
afterthought, with a nod toward Dick Gilder.
“Oh, Joe, don't!” Mary cried, bitterly. “We'll spend every dollar we can
raise to save you!”
“Now, it's no use,” the Inspector complained. “You're only wasting time.
He's said that he did it. That's all there is to it. Now that we're sure
he's our man, he hasn't got a chance in the world.”
“Well, how about it?” Garson demanded, savagely. “Do they go clear, if I
come through?”
“We'll get the best lawyers in the country,” Mary persisted,
desperately. “We'll save you, Joe--we'll save you!”
Garson regarded the distraught girl with wistful eyes. But there was
no trace of yielding in his voice as he replied, though he spoke very
sorrowfully.
“No, you can't help me,” he said, simply. “My time has come, Mary....
And I can save you a lot of trouble.”
“He's right there,” Burke ejaculated. “We've got him cold. So, what's
the use of dragging you two into it?”
“Then, they go clear?” Garson exclaimed, eagerly. “They ain't even to be
called as witnesses?”
Burke nodded assent.
“You're on!” he agreed.
“Then, here goes!” Garson cried; and he looked expectantly toward the
stenographer.
The strain of it all was sapping the will of the girl, who saw the man
she so greatly esteemed for his service to her and his devotion about
to condemn himself to death. She grew half-hysterical. Her words came
confusedly:
“No, Joe! No, no, no!”
Again, Garson shook his head in absolute refusal of her plea.
“There's no other way out,” he declared, wearily. “I'm going
through with it.” He straightened a little, and again looked at the
stenographer. His voice came quietly, without any tremulousnesss.
“My name is Joe Garson.”
“Alias?” Burke suggested.
“Alias nothing!” came the sharp retort. “Garson's my monaker. I shot
English Eddie, because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon, and he got
just what was coming to him.” Vituperation beyond the mere words beat in
his voice now.
Burke twisted uneasily in his chair.
“Now, now!” he objected, severely. “We can't take a confession like
that.”
Garson shook his head--spoke with fiercer hatred, “because he was a
skunk, and a stool-pigeon,” he repeated. “Have you got it?” And then, as
the stenographer nodded assent, he went on, less violently: “I croaked
him just as he was going to call the bulls with a police-whistle. I used
a gun with smokeless powder. It had a Maxim silencer on it, so that it
didn't make any noise.”
Garson paused, and the set despair of his features lightened a little.
Into his voice came a tone of exultation indescribably ghastly. It
was born of the eternal egotism of the criminal, fattening vanity in
gloating over his ingenuity for evil. Garson, despite his two great
virtues, had the vices of his class. Now, he stared at Burke with a
quizzical grin crooking his lips.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “I'll bet it's the first time a guy was ever
croaked with one of them things! Ain't it?”
The Inspector nodded affirmation. There was sincere admiration in
his expression, for he was ready at all times to respect the personal
abilities of the criminals against whom he waged relentless war.
“That's right, Joe!” he said, with perceptible enthusiasm.
“Some class to that, eh?” Garson demanded, still with that gruesome air
of boasting. “I got the gun, and the Maxim-silencer thing, off a fence
in Boston,” he explained. “Say, that thing cost me sixty dollars, and
it's worth every cent of the money.... Why, they'll remember me as the
first to spring one of them things, won't they?”
“They sure will, Joe!” the Inspector conceded.
“Nobody knew I had it,” Garson continued, dropping his braggart manner
abruptly.
At the words, Mary started, and her lips moved as if she were about to
speak.
Garson, intent on her always, though he seemed to look only at Burke,
observed the effect on her, and repeated his words swiftly, with a
warning emphasis that gave the girl pause.
“Nobody knew I had it--nobody in the world!” he declared. “And nobody
had anything to do with the killing but me.”
Burke put a question that was troubling him much, concerning the motive
that lay behind the shooting of Griggs.
“Was there any bad feeling between you and Eddie Griggs?”
Garson's reply was explicit.
“Never till that very minute. Then, I learned the truth about what
he'd framed up with you.” The speaker's voice reverted to its former
fierceness in recollection of the treachery of one whom he had trusted.
“He was a stool-pigeon, and I hated his guts! That's all,” he concluded,
with brutal candor.
The Inspector moved restlessly in his chair. He had only detestation
for the slain man, yet there was something morbidly distasteful in the
thought that he himself had contrived the situation which had resulted
in the murder of his confederate. It was only by an effort that he shook
off the vague feeling of guilt.
“Nothing else to say?” he inquired.
Garson reflected for a few seconds, then made a gesture of negation.
“Nothing else,” he declared. “I croaked him, and I'm glad I done it. He
was a skunk. That's all, and it's enough. And it's all true, so help me
God!”
The Inspector nodded dismissal to the stenographer, with an air of
relief.
“That's all, Williams,” he said, heavily. “He'll sign it as soon as
you've transcribed the notes.”
Then, as the stenographer left the room, Burke turned his gaze on the
woman, who stood there in a posture of complete dejection, her white,
anguished face downcast. There was triumph in the Inspector's voice
as he addressed her, for his professional pride was full-fed by this
victory over his foes. But there was, too, an undertone of a feeling
softer than pride, more generous, something akin to real commiseration
for this unhappy girl who drooped before him, suffering so poignantly
in the knowledge of the fate that awaited the man who had saved her, who
had loved her so unselfishly.
“Young woman,” Burke said briskly, “it's just like I told you. You can't
beat the law. Garson thought he could--and now----!” He broke off, with
a wave of his hand toward the man who had just sentenced himself to
death in the electric-chair.
“That's right,” Garson agreed, with somber intensity. His eyes were
grown clouded again now, and his voice dragged leaden. “That's right,
Mary,” he repeated dully, after a little pause. “You can't beat the
law!”
There followed a period of silence, in which great emotions were vibrant
from heart to heart. Garson was thinking of Mary, and, with the thought,
into his misery crept a little comfort. At least, she would go free.
That had been in the bargain with Burke. And there was the boy, too. His
eyes shot a single swift glance toward Dick Gilder, and his satisfaction
increased as he noted the alert poise of the young man's body, the
strained expression of the strong face, the gaze of absorbed yearning
with which he regarded Mary. There could be no doubt concerning the
depth of the lad's love for the girl. Moreover, there were manly
qualities in him to work out all things needful for her protection
through life. Already, he had proved his devotion, and that abundantly,
his unswerving fidelity to her, and the force within him that made these
worthy in some measure of her.
Garson felt no least pang of jealousy. Though he loved the woman with
the single love of his life, he had never, somehow, hoped aught for
himself. There was even something almost of the paternal in the purity
of his love, as if, indeed, by the fact of restoring her to life he had
taken on himself the responsibility of a parent. He knew that the boy
worshiped her, would do his best for her, that this best would suffice
for her happiness in time. Garson, with the instinct of love, guessed
that Mary had in truth given her heart all unaware to the husband whom
she had first lured only for the lust of revenge. Garson nodded his
head in a melancholy satisfaction. His life was done: hers was just
beginning, now.... But she would remember him--oh, yes, always! Mary was
loyal.
The man checked the trend of his thoughts by a mighty effort of will.
He must not grow maudlin here. He spoke again to Mary, with a certain
dignity.
“No, you can't beat the law!” He hesitated a little, then went on, with
a certain curious embarrassment. “And this same old law says a woman
must stick to her man.”
The girl's eyes met his with passionate sorrow in their misty deeps.
Garson gave a significant glance toward Dick Gilder, then his gaze
returned to her. There was a smoldering despair in that look. There
were, as well, an entreaty and a command.
“So,” he went on, “you must go along with him, Mary.... Won't you? It's
the best thing to do.”
The girl could not answer. There was a clutch on her throat just then,
which would not relax at the call of her will.
The tension of a moment grew, became pervasive. Burke, accustomed as
he was to scenes of dramatic violence, now experienced an altogether
unfamiliar thrill. As for Garson, once again the surge of feeling
threatened to overwhelm his self-control. He must not break down! For
Mary's sake, he must show himself stoical, quite undisturbed in this
supreme hour.
Of a sudden, an inspiration came to him, a means to snap the tension,
to create a diversion wholly efficacious. He would turn to his boasting
again, would call upon his vanity, which he knew well as his chief
foible, and make it serve as the foil against his love. He strove
manfully to throw off the softer mood. In a measure, at least, he
won the fight--though always, under the rush of this vaunting, there
throbbed the anguish of his heart.
“You want to cut out worrying about me,” he counseled, bravely. “Why,
I ain't worrying any, myself--not a little bit! You see, it's something
new I've pulled off. Nobody ever put over anything like it before.”
He faced Burke with a grin of gloating again.
“I'll bet there'll be a lot of stuff in the newspapers about this, and
my picture, too, in most of 'em! What?”
The man's manner imposed on Burke, though Mary felt the torment that his
vainglorying was meant to mask.
“Say,” Garson continued to the Inspector, “if the reporters want any
pictures of me, could I have some new ones taken? The one you've got of
me in the Gallery is over ten years old. I've taken off my beard since
then. Can I have a new one?” He put the question with an eagerness that
seemed all sincere.
Burke answered with a fine feeling of generosity.
“Sure, you can, Joe! I'll send you up to the Gallery right now.”
“Immense!” Garson cried, boisterously. He moved toward Dick Gilder,
walking with a faint suggestion of swagger to cover the nervous tremor
that had seized him.
“So long, young fellow!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “You've
been on the square, and I guess you always will be.”
Dick had no scruple in clasping that extended hand very warmly in his
own. He had no feeling of repulsion against this man who had committed
a murder in his presence. Though he did not quite understand the other's
heart, his instinct as a lover taught him much, so that he pitied
profoundly--and respected, too.
“We'll do what we can for you,” he said, simply.
“That's all right,” Garson replied, with such carelessness of manner as
he could contrive. Then, at last, he turned to Mary. This parting must
be bitter, and he braced himself with all the vigors of his will to
combat the weakness that leaped from his soul.
As he came near, the girl could hold herself in leash no longer. She
threw herself on his breast. Her arms wreathed about his neck. Great
sobs racked her.
“Oh, Joe, Joe!” The gasping cry was of utter despair.
Garson's trembling hand patted the girl's shoulder very softly, a caress
of infinite tenderness.
“That's all right!” he murmured, huskily. “That's all right, Mary!”
There was a short silence; and then he went on speaking, more firmly.
“You know, he'll look after you.”
He would have said more, but he could not. It seemed to him that the
sobs of the girl caught in his own throat. Yet, presently, he strove
once again, with every reserve of his strength; and, finally, he so far
mastered himself that he could speak calmly. The words were uttered with
a subtle renunciation that was this man's religion.
“Yes, he'll take care of you. Why, I'd like to see the two of you with
about three kiddies playing round the house.”
He looked up over the girl's shoulder, and beckoned with his head to
Dick, who came forward at the summons.
“Take good care of her, won't you?”
He disengaged himself gently from the girl's embrace, and set her within
the arms of her husband, where she rested quietly, as if unable to fight
longer against fate's decree.
“Well, so long!”
He dared not utter another word, but turned blindly, and went, stumbling
a little, toward the doorman, who had appeared in answer to the
Inspector's call.
“To the Gallery,” Burke ordered, curtly.
Garson went on without ever a glance back.... His strength was at an
end.
* * * * *
There was a long silence in the room after Garson's passing. It was
broken, at last, by the Inspector, who got up from his chair, and
advanced toward the husband and wife. In his hand, he carried a sheet of
paper, roughly scrawled. As he stopped before the two, and cleared
his throat, Mary withdrew herself from Dick's arms, and regarded the
official with brooding eyes from out her white face. Something strange
in her enemy's expression caught her attention, something that set new
hopes alive within her in a fashion wholly inexplicable, so that she
waited with a sudden, breathless eagerness.
Burke extended the sheet of paper to the husband.
“There's a document,” he said gruffly. “It's a letter from one Helen
Morris, in which she sets forth the interesting fact that she pulled off
a theft in the Emporium, for which your Mrs. Gilder here did time. You
know, your father got your Mrs. Gilder sent up for three years for that
same job--which she didn't do! That's why she had such a grudge against
your father, and against the law, too!”
Burke chuckled, as the young man took the paper, wonderingly.
“I don't know that I blame her much for that grudge, when all's said and
done.... You give that document to your father. It sets her right. He's
a just man according to his lights, your father. He'll do all he can to
make things right for her, now he knows.”
Once again, the Inspector paused to chuckle.
“I guess she'll keep within the law from now on,” he continued,
contentedly, “without getting a lawyer to tell her how.... Now, you two
listen. I've got to go out a minute. When I get back, I don't want to
find anybody here--not anybody! Do you get me?”
He strode from the room, fearful lest further delay might involve him
in sentimental thanksgivings from one or the other, or both--and Burke
hated sentiment as something distinctly unprofessional.
* * * * *
When the official was gone, the two stood staring mutely each at the
other through long seconds. What she read in the man's eyes set the
woman's heart to beating with a new delight. A bloom of exquisite rose
grew in the pallor of her cheeks. The misty light in the violet eyes
shone more radiant, yet more softly. The crimson lips curved to strange
tenderness.... What he read in her eyes set the husband's pulses to
bounding. He opened his arms in an appeal that was a command. Mary went
forward slowly, without hesitation, in a bliss that forgot every sorrow
for that blessed moment, and cast herself on his breast.