Young Bruce had had no appetite for his part in the Balfame drama. He
had presented himself at the back door, however, at eight o'clock on the
night of the interview with the heroine, assuming that Frieda would be
moving at her usual snail's pace from the day of work toward the evening
of leisure. She slammed the door in his face.
When he persisted, thrusting his cherubic countenance through the
window, she threatened him with the hose. Neither failure daunted him,
and he was convinced that she knew more of the case than she was willing
to admit; but it was obvious that he was not the man to appeal to the
fragment of heart she had brought from East Prussia. The mere fact that
he looked rather German and yet was straight American--employed,
moreover, by a newspaper that made no secret of its hostility to her
country--satisfied him that he would not be permitted to approach her
closely enough to attempt any form of persuasion. He drew the long
breath of deliverance as he reached this conclusion; the bare idea that
he might have to bestow a kiss upon Frieda in the heroic pursuit of duty
had induced a sensation of nausea. He was an extremely fastidious young
man. But even as he accepted defeat with mingled relief and chagrin, the
brilliant alternative occurred to him.
He had ascertained that Frieda was intimate in the home of Conrad
Kraus, otherwise "Old Dutch," of Dobton, the County seat. Conrad, Jr.,
treated her as a brother should, and it was his habit to escort her home
from the popular dance-hall of Elsinore on Saturday nights. Bruce had no
difficulty in learning that the young German-American had been dancing
with his favourite partner when her dead nerve seemed to threaten
explosion and had fraternally run home with her. The energetic reporter
did not wait upon the next trolley for Dobton, but hired an automobile
and descended in front of Old Dutch's saloon fifteen minutes later.
Young Kraus was busy; and Bruce, after ordering beer and cheese and
taking it to an occupied table, drew the information from a neighbour
that Conrad, Jr., would be on duty behind the bar until midnight. It was
the habit of Papa Kraus to retire promptly on the stroke of nine and
take his entire family, save Conrad, with him. The eldest of the united
family continued to assuage the thirst of the neighbourhood until twelve
o'clock, when he shut up the front of the house and went to bed in the
rear as quickly as possible; he must rise betimes and clerk in the
leading grocery-store of the town. He was only twenty-two, but thrifty
and hard-working and anxious to marry.
Bruce caught the next train for New York, had a brief talk with his city
editor, and returned to Dobton a few moments before the closing hour of
the saloon. He hung about the bar until the opportunity came to speak to
Conrad unheard.
"I want a word with you as soon as you have shut up," he said without
preamble.
The young German scowled at the reporter. Although a native son of
Dobton, he resented the attitude of the American press as deeply as his
irascible old father, and he still more deeply resented the suspicion
that had hovered for a moment over the house of Kraus.
"Don't get mad till you hear what I've got to say," whispered Bruce.
"There may be a cool five hundred in it for you."
Conrad glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to twelve. He stood as
immobile as his duties would permit until the stroke of midnight, when
he turned out the last reluctant patron, locked the door and followed
the reporter down the still-illuminated street to a dark avenue in the
residence quarter. Then the two fell into step.
"Now, what is it?" growled Conrad, who did not like to have his habits
disturbed. "I get up--"
"That's all right. I won't keep you fifteen minutes. I want you to tell
me all you know about the night of the Balfame murder."
He had taken the young German's arm and felt it stiffen. "I know
nothing," was the reply.
"Oh, yes, you do. You took Frieda home and got there some little time
before the shooting. You went in the side entrance to the back yard, but
you could see the grove all right."
"It was a black-dark night. I could see nothing in the grove."
"Ah! You saw something else! You have been afraid to speak out, as there
had been talk of your father having employed gun-men--"
"Such lies!" shrieked young Kraus.
"Of course! I know that. So does the press. That was a wild dream of
the police. But all the same you thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to
keep clear of the whole business. That is true. Don't attempt to deny
it. You saw something that would put the law on the right track. Now,
what was it? There are five hundred dollars waiting for you if you will
tell the truth. I don't want anything but the truth, mind you. I don't
represent a paper that pays for lies, so your honour is quite safe. So
also are you."
Conrad ruminated for a few moments. He was literal and honest and wanted
to be quite positive that he was not asked to do something which would
make him feel uncomfortable while investing those desirable five hundred
dollars in West Elsinore town lots, and could reassure himself that the
truth was always right whether commercially valuable or not. He balanced
the pro's and con's so long that Bruce was about to break out
impatiently just as he made up his mind.
"Yes, I saw something. But I wished to say nothing. They might say that
I was in it, or that I lied to protect Frieda--"
"That's all right. There was no possible connection between her and
Balfame--"
Conrad went on exactly as if the reporter had not interrupted. "I had
seen Frieda through the back door. She was crying with the toothache,
and I heard her run upstairs. I thought I would wait a few moments. The
drops she said she had might not cure her, and she might want me to go
to a dentist's house with her. She had gone in the back-hall door.
Suddenly I saw the kitchen door open, and as I was starting forward, I
saw that it was not Frieda who came out. It was Mrs. Balfame. She closed
the door behind her, and then crept past me to the back of the kitchen
yard. I watched her and saw her turn suddenly and walk toward the grove.
She did not make a particle of noise--"
"How do you know it was not Frieda?"
"Frieda is five-feet-three, and this was a tall woman, taller than I,
and I am five-eight. I have seen Mrs. Balfame many times, and though I
couldn't see her face,--she had a dark veil or scarf round it,--I knew
her height and walk. Of course I watched to see what she was up to. A
few moments later I heard Balfame turn in from Dawbarn Street, singing,
like the fool he was, 'Tipperary,' and then I heard a shot. I guessed
that Balfame had got what was coming to him, and I didn't wait to see. I
tiptoed for a minute or two and then ran through the next four places at
the back, and then out toward Balfame Street, for the trolley. But
Frieda heard Mrs. Balfame when she came in. She was all out of breath,
and, when she heard a sound on the stairs, called out before she
thought, I guess, and asked Frieda if she had heard anything. But Frieda
is very cautious. She had heard the shot, but she froze stiff against
the wall when she heard Mrs. Balfame's voice, and said nothing. We told
her afterwards that she had better keep quiet for the present."
"And you think Mrs. Balfame did it?"
"Who else? I shall not be so sorry if she goes to the chair, for a woman
should always be punished the limit for killing a man, even such a man
as Balfame."
"No fear of that, but we'll have a dandy case. You tell that story to
the Grand Jury to-morrow, and you get your five hundred before night.
Now you must come and get me a word with Frieda. She won't look at me,
and of course she is in bed anyhow. But I must tell her there are a
couple of hundred in this for her if she comes through--"
"But she'll be arrested for perjury. She testified at the coroner's
inquest that she knew nothing."
"An abscessed tooth will explain her reticence on any other subject."
"Perhaps I should tell you that she came to see us to-night--last night
it is now, not?--and told my papa that Lawyer Rush had frightened her,
told her that she might be accused of the killing, that she had better
get out. But Papa advised her to go home and fear nothing, where there
was nothing to fear. He knew that if she ran away, he would be suspected
again, the girl being intimate in the family; and of course the police
would be hot on her trail at once. So, like the good sensible girl she
is, she took the advice and went home."
"All right. Come along. I'm not on the morning paper, but I promised the
story to the boys if I could get it in time."
He hired another automobile, and they left it at the corner of Dawbarn
and Orchard Streets, entering the Balfame place by the tradesmen's gate
on the left, and creeping to the rear of the house. The lane behind the
four acres of the little estate was full of ruts and too far away from
the house for adventuring on a dark night. They had been halted by the
detective on watch, but when their errand was hastily explained, he
joined forces with them and even climbed a lean-to in the endeavour to
rouse Miss Appel from her young and virtuous slumbers. Their combined
efforts covered three hours; and that explains why the tremendous
news-story appeared in the early edition of the afternoon papers instead
of whetting several million morning appetites.
The interview with Frieda, who became very wide awake when the unseemly
intrusion was elucidated by the trustworthy Conrad, and bargained for
five hundred dollars, explains why Mrs. Balfame spent Thursday night in
the County Jail behind Dobton Courthouse.