MRS. BOWMAN SPEAKS
Midnight in the sheriff's office at San Jose. And I had to telephone
Barbara. She'd be waiting up for my message. The minute I heard her
voice on the wire, I plunged in:
"Yes, yes, yes; done all I could. A horse can do no more. They've got
Worth. I--" The words stuck in my throat; but they had to come out--"I
left him in a cell."
A sound came over the wire; whether speech or not, it was something I
couldn't get.
"He's taking it like a man and a soldier, girl," I hurried. "Not a word
out of him about my having gone counter to his express orders, arrested
Hughes, and pulled this thing over on us."
"Oh, Mr. Boyne! Of course he wouldn't blame you. Neither would I. You
acted for what you thought was his good. The others--"
"Vandeman's already gone home. Tell you he stood by well, Barbara--that
tailor's dummy! Surprised me. No, no. Didn't let Jim Edwards come with
us; so broken up I didn't want him along--only hurt our case over here,
the way he is now."
"Your case?" she spoke out clearly. "What is the situation?"
"A murder charge against Worth on the secret files. Hughes is
out--Cummings got him--took him, don't know where. Can't locate him."
"Do you need to?"
"Perhaps not, Barbara. What I do need is some one who saw Thomas Gilbert
alive that night after Worth left to go back to San Francisco."
"And if you had that--some one?"
"If we could produce before Cummings one credible witness to that, it
would mean an alibi. I'd have Worth out before morning."
"Then, Mr. Boyne, get to the Fremont House here as quickly as you can.
Mr. Cummings is there. Get him out of bed if you have to. I'll bring the
proof you need."
"But, child!" I began.
"Don't--waste--time--talking! How long will it take you to get here?"
"Half an hour."
"Oh! You may have to wait for me a little. But I'll surely come. Wait in
Mr. Cummings' room."
Half past twelve when I reached the Fremont House, to find it all
alight, its lobby and corridors surging with the crowd of blossom
festival guests. Nobody much in the bar; soft drinks held little
interest; but in the upper halls, getting to Cummings' room, I passed
more than one open door where the hip-pocket cargoes were unloading, and
was even hailed by name, with invitations to come in and partake.
Cummings was still up. The first word he gave me was,
"Dykeman's here."
"Glad of it," I said. "Bring him in. I want you both."
It took a good deal of argument before he brought the Western Cereal
man from the adjoining room where he had evidently been just getting
ready for bed. He came to the conference resentful as a soreheaded old
bear.
"Maybe you think Worth Gilbert will sleep well to-night--in jail?" I
stopped him, and instantly differentiated the two men before me.
Cummings took it, with an ugly little half smile; Dykeman rumpled his
hair, and bolstered his anger by shouting at me,
"This country'll go to the dogs if we make an exempt class of our
returned soldiers. Break the laws--they'll have to take the
consequences, just as a man that was too old or too sickly to fight
would have to take 'em. If I'd done what Captain Gilbert's done--I
wouldn't expect mercy."
"You mean, if you'd done what you say he's done," I countered. "Nothing
proved yet."
"Nothing proved?" Dykeman huddled in his chair and shivered. Cummings
shook out an overcoat and helped him into it. He settled back with a
protesting air of being about to leave us, and finished squeakily,
"Didn't need to prove that he had Clayte's suitcase."
"Good Lord, Mr. Dykeman! You're not lending yourself to accuse a man
like Worth Gilbert of so grave a crime as murder, just because you found
his ideas irregular--maybe reckless--in a matter of money?"
"Don't answer, Dykeman!" Cummings jumped in. "Boyne's trying to get you
to talk."
The old chap stared at me doubtfully, then broke loose with a snort,
"See here, Boyne, you can't get away from it; your man Gilbert has
embarked on a criminal career: mixed up in the robbery of our bank,
with Clayte to rob us; had our own attorney go through the form of
raising money to buy us off from the pursuit of Clayte--"
"How about me?" I stuck in the question as he paused for breath. "Do you
think Worth Gilbert would put me on the track of a man he didn't want
found?"
Cummings cut in ahead to answer for him,
"Just the point. You've not done any good at the inquiry; never will, so
long as you stand with Worth Gilbert. He needed a detective who would
believe in him through thick and thin. And he found such a man in you."
I could not deny it when Dykeman yipped at me,
"Ain't that true? If it was anybody else, wouldn't you see the
connection? Captain Gilbert came here to Santa Ysobel that Saturday
night--as we've got witnesses to testify--had a row with his
father--we've got witnesses for that, too--the word money passed between
them again and again in that quarrel--and then the young man had the
nerve to walk into our bank next morning with his father's entire
holdings of our stock in Clayte's suitcase--Boyne, you're crazy!"
"Maybe not," I said, reckoning on something human in Dykeman to appeal
to. "You see I know where Worth got that suitcase. It came out of my
office vault--evidence we'd gathered in the Clayte hunt. Getting it and
using it that way was his idea of humor, I suppose."
"Sounds fishy." Dykeman made an uncomfortable shift in his chair. But
Cummings came close, and standing, hands rammed down in the pockets of
his coat, let me have it savagely.
"Evidence, Boyne, is the only thing that would give you a license to
rout men out at this time of night--new evidence. Have you got it? If
not--"
"Wait." I preferred to stop him before he told me to get out. "Wait." I
looked at my watch. In the silence we could hear the words of a yawp
from one of the noisy rooms when a passerby was hailed:
"There she goes! There--look at the chickens!"
A minute later, a tap sounded on the door. Cummings stood by while I
opened it to Barbara, and a slender, veiled woman, taller by half a head
in spite of bent shoulders and the droop of weakness which made the
girl's supporting arm apparently necessary.
At sight of them, Dykeman had come to his feet, biting off an
exclamation, looking vainly around the bare room for chairs, then
suggesting,
"Get some from my room, Boyne."
I went through the connecting door to fetch a couple. When I came back,
Barbara was still standing, but her companion had sunk into the seat the
shivering, uncomfortable old man offered, and Cummings was bringing a
glass of water for her. She sipped it, still under the shield of her
veil. This was never Ina Vandeman. Could it be that Barbara had dragged
Mrs. Thornhill from her bed? I saw Barbara bend and whisper
reassuringly. Then the veil was swept back, it caught and carried the
hat with it from Laura Bowman's shining, copper colored hair, and the
doctor's wife sat there ghastly pale, evidently very weak, but more
composed than I had ever seen her.
"I'm all right now," she spoke very low.
"Miss Wallace," Dykeman demanded harshly. "Who is this--lady?"
"Mrs. Bowman," Barbara looked her employer very straight in the eye.
"Heh?" he barked. "Any relation to Dr. Bowman--any connection with him?"
"His wife." Cummings bent and mumbled to the older man for a moment.
"Laura," Barbara said gently, "this is Mr. Dykeman. You're to tell him
and Mr. Cummings."
"Yes," breathed Mrs. Bowman. "I'll tell them. I'm ready to tell anybody.
There's nothing in dodging, and hiding, and being afraid. I'm done with
it. Now--what is it you want to know?"
Cummings' expression said plainer than words that they didn't want to
know anything. They had their case fixed up and their man arrested, and
they didn't wish to be disturbed. She went on quickly, of herself,
"I believe I was the last person who saw Mr. Gilbert alive. I must have
been. I'd rushed over there, just as Ina told you, Mr. Boyne, between
the reception and our getting off for San Francisco."
"All this concerns the early part of the evening," put in Cummings.
"Yes--but it concerns Worth, too. He was there when I came in.... It was
very painful."
"The quarrel between Captain Gilbert and his father d'ye mean?" Dykeman
asked his first question. Mrs. Bowman nodded assent.
"Thomas went right on, before me, just as though I hadn't been there.
Then, when it came my turn, he would have spoken out before Worth of--of
my private affairs. That was his way. But I couldn't stand it. I went
with Worth out to his machine. He had it in the back road. We talked
there a little while, and Worth drove away, going fast, headed for San
Francisco."
"And that was the last time you saw Thomas Gilbert alive?" Cummings
summed up for her.
"I hadn't finished," she objected mildly. "After Worth was gone, I went
back into the study and pleaded with Thomas for a long time. I pointed
out to him that if I'd sinned, I'd certainly suffered, and what I asked
was no more than the right any human being has, even if they may be so
unfortunate as to be born a woman."
Dykeman looked exquisitely miserable; but Cummings was only the lawyer
getting rid of an unwanted witness, as he warned her,
"Not the slightest need to go into your personal matters, Mrs. Bowman.
We know them already. We knew also of your visit to Mr. Gilbert's study
that night, and that you didn't go there alone. Had the testimony been
of any importance to us, we'd have called in both you and James
Edwards."
I could see that her deep concern for another steadied Laura Bowman.
"How do you know all this?" she demanded. "Who told you?"
"Your husband, Doctor Bowman."
Up came the red in her face, her eyes shone with anger.
"He did follow me, then? I thought I saw him creeping through the
shrubbery on the lawn."
"He did follow you. He has told us of your being at the study--the two
of you--when young Gilbert was there."
"See here, Cummings," I put in, "if Bowman was around the place, then he
knows that Worth left before the crime was committed. Why hasn't he told
you so?"
"He has," Cummings said neatly; and I felt as though something had
slipped. Barbara kept a brave front, but Mrs. Bowman moaned audibly.
"And still you've charged Worth Gilbert? Why not Bowman himself? He was
there. As much reason to suspect him as any of the others. Do you mean
to tell me that you won't accept Mrs. Bowman's testimony--and Dr.
Bowman's--as proving an alibi for Worth Gilbert? I'm ready to swear that
he was at Tait's at five minutes past ten, was there continuously from
that time until a little after midnight, when you yourself saw him
there."
"A little past midnight!" Cummings repeated my words half derisively.
"Not good enough, Boyne. We base our charge on the medical statement
that Mr. Gilbert met his death in the small hours of Sunday morning."
I looked away from Barbara; I couldn't bear her eye. After a stunned
silence, I asked,
"Whose? Who makes that statement?"
"His own physician. Doctor Bowman swears--"
"He?" Mrs. Bowman half rose from her chair. "He'd swear to anything.
I--"
"Don't say any more," Cummings cut her off. And Dykeman mumbled,
"Had the whole history of your marital infelicities all over the shop.
Too bad such things had to be dragged in. Man seems to be a worthy
person--"
"Doctor Bowman told me positively," I broke in, "on the Sunday night
the body was found, that death must have occurred before midnight."
"Gave that as his opinion--his opinion--then," Cummings corrected me.
"Yes," I accepted the correction. "That was his opinion before he
quarreled with Worth. Now he--"
"Slandering Bowman won't get you anywhere, Boyne," Cummings said. "He
wasn't here to testify at the inquest. Man alive, you know that nothing
but sworn testimony counts."
"I wouldn't believe that man's oath," I said shortly.
"Think you'll find a jury will," smirked Cummings, and Dykeman croaked
in,
"A mighty credible witness--a mighty credible witness!"
While these pleasant remarks flew back and forth, a thumping and bumping
had made itself heard in the hall. Now something came against our door,
as though a large bundle had been thrown at the panels. The knob
rattled, jerked, was turned, and a man appeared on the threshold,
swaying unsteadily. Two others, who seemed to have been holding him
back, let go all at once, and he lurched a step into the room. Doctor
Anthony Bowman.
A minute he stood blinking, staring, then he caught sight of his wife
and bawled out,
"She's here all right. Tol' you she was here. Can't fool me. Saw her go
past in the hall."
I looked triumphantly at Dykeman and Cummings. Their star witness--drunk
as a lord! So far he seemed to have sensed nothing in the room but his
wife. Without turning, he reached behind him and slammed the door in the
faces of those who had brought him, then advanced weavingly on the
woman, with,
"Get up from there. Get your hat. I'll show you. You come 'long home
with me! Ain't I your husband?"
"Doctor Bowman," peppery little old Dykeman spoke up from the depths of
his chair. "Your wife was brought here to a--to a--"
"Meeting," Cummings supplied hastily.
"Huh?" Bowman wheeled and saw us. "Why-ee! Di'n' know so many gen'lemen
here."
"Yes," the lawyer put a hand on his shoulder. "Conference--over the
evidence in the Gilbert case. No time like the present for you to say--"
"Hol' on a minute," Bowman raised a hand with dignity.
"Cummings," said Dykeman disgustedly, "the man's drunk!"
"No, no," owlishly. "'m not 'ntoxicated. Overcome with 'motion." He took
a brace. "That woman there--'f I sh'd tell you--walk into hotel room,
find her with three men! Three of 'em!"
"How much of this are these ladies to stand for?" I demanded.
"Ladies?" Bowman roared suddenly. "She's m' wife. Where's th' other man?
Nothing 'gainst you gen'lmen. Where's he? I'll settle with him. Let that
thing go long 'nough. Too long. Bring him out. I'll settle him now!"
He dropped heavily into the chair Cummings shoved up behind him, stared
around, drooped a bit, pulled himself together, and looked at us; then
his head went forward on his neck, a long breath sounded--
"And you'll keep Worth Gilbert in jail, run the risk of a suit for false
imprisonment--on that!" I wanted to know.
"And plenty more," the lawyer held steady, but I saw his uneasiness with
every snore Bowman drew.
Barbara crossed to speak low and earnestly to Dykeman. I heard most of
his answer--shaken, but disposed to hang on,
"Girl like you is too much influenced by the man in the case. Hero
worship--all that sort of thing. An outlaw is an outlaw. This isn't a
personal matter. Mr. Cummings and I are merely doing our duty as good
citizens."
At that, I think it possible that Dykeman would have listened to reason;
it was Cummings who broke in uncontrollably,
"Barbara Wallace, I was your father's friend. I'm yours--if you'll let
me be. I can't stand by while you entangle yourself with a criminal like
Worth Gilbert. For your sake, if for no other reason, I would be
determined to show him up as what he is: a thief--and his father's
murderer."
Silence in the room, except the irregular snoring of Bowman, a rustle
and a deeply taken breath now and again where Mrs. Bowman sat, her head
bent, quietly weeping. On this, Barbara who spoke out clearly,
"Those were the last words you will ever say to me, Mr. Cummings, unless
you should some time be man enough to take back your aspersions and
apologize for them."
He gave ground instantly. I had not thought that dry voice of his could
contain what now came into it.
"Barbara, I didn't mean--you don't understand--"
But without turning her head, she spoke to me: "Mr. Boyne, will you take
Laura and me home?" gathering up Mrs. Bowman's hat and veil, shaking the
latter out, getting her charge ready as a mother might a child. "She's
not going back to him--ever again." Her glance passed over the sleeping
lump of a man in his chair. "Sarah'll make a place for her at our house
to-night."
"See here," Cummings got between us and the door. "I can't let you go
like this. I feel--"
"Mr. Dykeman," Barbara turned quietly to her employer, "could we pass
out through your room?"
"Certainly," the little man was brisk to make a way for us. "I want you
to know, Miss Wallace, that I, too, feel--I, too, feel--"
I don't know what it was that Dykeman felt, but Cummings felt my rude
elbow in his chest as I pushed him unceremoniously aside, and opened the
door he had blocked, remarking,
"We go out as we came in. This way, Barbara."
It was as I parted with the two of them at the Capehart gate that I drew
out and handed Mrs. Bowman a small piece of dull blue silk, a round hole
in it, such as a bullet or a cigarette might have made, with,
"I guess you'll just have to forgive me that."
"I don't need to forgive it," her gaze swam. "I saw your mistake. But it
was for Worth you were fighting even then; he's been so dear to me
always--I'd have to love any one for anything they did for his sake."