Rush wheeled and looked sharply behind him. For several weeks he had
experienced the recurrent sensation of being followed, but until
to-night he had been too absorbed to give a vague suspicion definite
form. He stood still, and was immediately aware that somebody else had
halted, after withdrawing into the shade of one of the trees that lined
Atlantic Avenue. He approached this figure swiftly, but almost at his
first step it detached itself and strolled forward. Rush saw that it was
a woman, and then recognised Miss Sarah Austin of the _New York Evening
News_. He recalled that she had approached him several times with the
request for an interview with Mrs. Balfame; and that she had taxed his
politeness by trying to draw him into a discussion of the case.
"Oh, good evening," he said grimly. "I turned back because it occurred
to me that I was being followed."
"I was following you," Miss Austin retorted coolly. "I saw you turn into
the Avenue two blocks up, and tried to overtake you--I don't like to be
out so late alone, especially in this haunted village. The knowledge
that everybody in it is thinking of that murder nearly all the time has
a curious psychological effect. Won't you walk as far as Alys Crumley's
with me?"
"Certainly!" Rush, wondering if all women were liars, fell into step.
"I've been given a roving commission in the Balfame case," continued
Miss Austin in her impersonal businesslike manner, which, combined with
her youth and good looks, had surprised guarded facts from men as wary
as Rush. "Not to hunt for additional evidence, of course, but stuff for
good stories. I've had a number of dandy interviews with prominent
Elsinore women, as you may have seen if you condescend to glance at the
Woman's Page. Isn't it wonderful how they stand by her?"
"Why not? They believe her to be innocent, as of course she is."
"How automatically you said that! I wonder if you really believe
it--unless, of course, you know who did do it. But in that case you
would produce the real culprit. What a tangle it is! A lawyer has to
believe in his client's innocence, I suppose, unless he's quite an
uncommon jury actor. I don't know what to believe, myself. But of one
thing I am convinced: Alys Crumley knows something--something positive."
Rush, who had paid little attention to her chatter, which he rightly
assumed to be a mere verbal process of "leading up," turned to her
sharply.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That she knows something. She's over on the _News_ now, understudying
the fashion editor before taking charge, and we lunch together nearly
every day. She's so changed from what she was a year ago, when she was
the life of the crowd--so naive in her eagerness to become a real
metropolitan, and yet so quick and keen she had us all on our mettle.
Great girl, Alys! At first, when I met her here again, I attributed the
change to the same old reason--a man. I still believe she has had some
heart-racking experience, but there's something else--I didn't notice it
so much that first day--but since--well, she's carrying a mental burden
of some sort. Alys has a damask cheek, as you may have noticed, but
nowadays there's a worm in the bud. And those olive eyes of hers have a
way of leaving you suddenly and travelling a thousand miles with an
expression that isn't just blank. They will look as grimly determined as
if she were about to turn her conscience loose, and in a moment this
will relax into an expression of curious irresolution--for her: Alys
always knows pretty well what she wants. So, as this mystery must be in
her consciousness pretty well all the time, when she is at home, at
least, I feel sure she knows something but is of two minds about telling
it to the police."
"Have you any object in telling me this? I thought you modern women who
have deserted the mere home for the working world of men prided
yourselves upon a new code of loyalty to one another."
"That's a nasty one! I'm not disloyal to Alys. Others have noticed that
there's something big and grim on her mind, as well as I. Jim Broderick
is always after her to open up. I have a very distinct reason for
telling you. In fact, I have tried to get a word with you for some
time."
"Have you been following me? Were--were--you in Brooklyn yesterday?"
"Yes, to both questions." Her voice shook, but her eyes challenged him
imperiously; they were under the bright lights of Main Street. "I'll
tell you what I believe Alys knows: that you killed David Balfame; and
she can't make up her mind to betray you even to liberate an innocent
woman."
He was taken unawares, but she could detect no relaxation in his strong
face; on the contrary, it set more grimly.
"And what are you up to?" he asked.
"To find the proof for myself, and get ahead of Jim Broderick."
"I know of no one so convinced of Mrs. Balfame's guilt as Broderick."
"That's all right, but a man with as keen a scent as that is likely to
find the real trail any minute."
"And you believe I did it?"
"I think there are reasons for believing it."
"I won't ask you for them. It doesn't matter, particularly. What
interests me is to know whether you believe that if I had committed the
crime of murder I would let a woman suffer in my stead."
Miss Austin cerebrated.
"No," she admitted unwillingly, "you don't strike one as that sort. But
then you might argue that she is reasonably sure of acquittal and you
would have scant hope of escaping the chair."
Rush laughed aloud. It was a harsh sound, but there was no nervousness
in it, and he continued to look interrogatively at Miss Austin. He had
barely noticed her before, but he observed that she was a handsome girl
with a clean-cut honest face, a bright detecting eye, and the slim
well-set-up figure of an athletic boy. Her peculiar type of good looks
was displayed to its best advantage by the smartly tailored suit.
"You hardly look the sort to run a man down," he murmured, and this time
he smiled.
"One gets mighty keen on the chase in this business." They turned into
the deep shade of Elsinore Avenue, and she stood still and lowered her
voice. "If you would tell me," she said, "I'd swear never to betray
you."
"Then why ask me to confess?"
"Oh--it sounds rather banal--but I want to write fiction, big fiction,
and I want to come up against the big tragedies and secrets of the human
soul. If you would tell me the whole story, exactly how you have felt at
every stage and phase before and since, I feel almost sure that I could
write as big a book as Dostoiewsky's "Crime and Punishment"--not half so
long, of course. If we learn from other nations, we can teach them a
thing or two in return. You may ask what you are to expect in return for
a dangerous confidence. I not only never would betray you, but I'd make
it my study to divert suspicion from pointing your way. I could do it,
too. You are safe as far as Alys is concerned. The secret is oppressing
her terribly, and she's driven by the fear that her conscience will
suddenly revolt and force her to speak out--particularly if Mrs. Balfame
broke down in jail, to say nothing of a possible conviction--not that I
believe anything short of conviction would open her lips. You are the
last person on earth she would hand over to the law; it seems odd to me
you can't realise that for yourself."
"Realise what?"
"Oh, I've no patience with men! I never did share the platitudinous
belief in propinquity. Why, Alys has turned half the heads in Park Row.
Even the austere city editor is beginning to hover. How any man could
pass a live wire like Alys Crumley by--and distractingly pretty--for a
woman old enough to be her mother!"
He caught his breath.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Mrs. Balfame."
"And yet you accuse me of letting her lie in prison bearing the burden
of my crime?"
"As the only way to possess her ultimately."
"And how many, may I ask, are saying that I am in love with my client?"
"Not a soul--save, possibly, Alys to herself. She doesn't seem to have
much enthusiasm for the Star of Elsinore. Provincial people are too
funny for words. Maybe we New Yorkers are also provincial in our
tendency to forget there is any other America. I intend to cultivate the
open mind; a writer must, I think. So you see just how in earnest I am.
Don't you believe you could trust me? All the world knows that a
newspaper person is the safest depository on earth for a secret."
"Oh, I have the most touching confidence in your honour, and the most
profound admiration for your candour, and the deepest sympathy for
ambitions so natural to one afflicted with genius. I am only wondering
whether if I gave you the information you seem to need you would permit
Mrs. Balfame to remain in jail and stand trial for her life."
"You are not to laugh at me! Yes, I should. Because I know that she has
ninety-nine chances out of a hundred to get off, and that if she were
condemned you would come forward at once and tell the truth."
"And you really believe I did it?" His hands were in his pockets, and he
was balancing himself on his heels. There was certainly nothing tense
about his tall loose figure, but the light of the street lamp, filtered
through a low branch, threw shadows on his face that made it look pallid
and as darkly hollowed as the face of an elderly actress in a moving
picture. To Miss Sarah Austin he looked like a guilty man engaged in the
honourable art of bluffing, but her mounting irritation precluded pity.
"Yes, Mr. Rush, I do. It is to my mind the one logical explanation--"
"You mean the logical fictional--"
"I'm no writer of detective stories--"
"Just like a novel then?"
"Ah! That I admit. The great novel is a logical transcript of life. The
incidents rise out of the characters, react upon them, are as inevitable
as the personal endowments, peculiarities, and contradictions.
Understand your characters, and you can't go wrong."
"You are the cleverest young woman I ever met. For that reason I feel
convinced you need no such adventitious aid as confession from a
murderer. You will work it out--your premises being dead right--far
better by yourself. It's the contradictions you mentioned I am thinking
of, both in life and character."
"You are laughing at me. It's no laughing matter!"
"By God, it isn't. But you couldn't expect me to plump out a confession
like that without taking a night to think it over."
"If you don't tell me, I warn you I'll find out for myself. And then
I'll give it to my newspaper. To begin with, I'll find out if you really
did see any one in Brooklyn that Saturday night. I'll discover the name
of everybody you know in Brooklyn."
"That's a large order. I fear the case will be over."
"I'll set the whole swarm on the case. But if you will tell me the
truth, you will be quite safe."
"The cause of literature might influence me were it not that I fear to
be thought a coward--by my fair blackmailer."
"Oh! How dare you? Why, I don't want your secret to use against you. I
thought I explained--how dare you!"
"I humbly beg pardon. Perhaps as it is such a new and flattering
variety, it deserves a new name. I suppose the legal mind becomes
hopelessly automatic in its deductions--"
"Oh, good night!"
They were at the Crumley gate. Rush opened it and passed in behind her.
"I think I too will call on Miss Crumley," he said. "I have been too
busy to call on any one for weeks, but to-night I must take a rest, and
I can imagine no rest so complete as an evening in Miss Crumley's
studio. I see a light in there--let us go round and not disturb Mrs.
Crumley."