MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
I heard all this late that night from Babbitts. But there was more to it
than I’ve told in the last chapter, for after they left the hospital
O’Mally and Babbitts went to the Whitney office and had a séance with
the old man and Mr. George.
Though Ford had disappointed them his story had made the way clear for a
decisive move. This was decided upon then and there. On Monday morning
they would ask Miss Whitehall to come to Whitney & Whitney’s and subject
her to a real examination. If she maintained her pose of ignorance they
would suddenly face her with their complete information. They felt
tolerably certain this would be too much for her, secure in her belief
that no murder had been suspected. Surprise and terror would seize her,
even a hardened criminal, placed unexpectedly in such a position, was
liable to break down.
The next day was Sunday. I’ll not forget it in a hurry. Many a high
pressure day I’ve had in my twenty-five years but none that had anything
over that one. It was gray and overcast, clouds low down over the roofs
which stretched away in a gray huddle of flat tops and slanting mansards
and chimneys and clotheslines. Babbitts spent the morning on the
davenport looking like he was in a boat floating through a sea of
newspapers. I couldn’t settle down to anything, thinking of what was
going to happen the next morning, thinking of that girl, that beautiful
girl, with her soul stained with crime, and wondering if she could feel
the shadow that was falling across her.
After lunch Himself went out saying he’d take a shot at finding Freddy
Jaspar and going with him up to Yonkers where there’d been some
anarchist row. He was restless too. If things turned out right he’d get
his Big Story at last—and what a story it would be!—he’d get a raise for
certain, and as he kissed me good-bye he said he’d give me the two glass
lamps and a new set of furs, anything I wanted short of sable or ermine.
In the afternoon Iola dropped in all dolled up and decked with a
permanent smile, for she’d landed her new job and liked it fine. As she
prattled away she let drop something that caught my ear, and lucky it
was as you’ll see presently. On her way over she’d met Delia, the
Whitehalls’ maid, who told her the ladies were going to move back to the
Azalea Woods Estates where someone had given them a cottage. Delia had
just been to see them and found that Mrs. Whitehall had already gone,
and Miss Whitehall was packing up to follow on Monday afternoon. Iola
thought it was nice they’d got the cottage but didn’t I think Miss
Whitehall would be afraid of the dullness of the country after living in
town? I said you never could tell. What I thought was that if there was
anything for Miss Whitehall to be afraid of it wasn’t dullness.
At six Iola left, having a date for supper, and a little after that I
had a call from Babbitts, saying he and Freddy Jaspar had found the
anarchist business more important than they expected and he wouldn’t be
home till all hours.
Isabella doesn’t come on Sunday so I got my own supper and then sat down
in the parlor and tried to read the papers. But I couldn’t put my mind
on them. In a few days, perhaps as soon as Tuesday, the _Dispatch_ would
have the Harland murder on the front page. I could see the headlines—the
copy reader could spread himself—and I tried to work out how Babbitts
would write it, where he’d begin—with the crime itself or with all the
story that came before it.
It was near eleven and me thinking of bed when there was a ring at the
bell. That’s pretty late for callers, even in a newspaper man’s flat,
and I jumped up and ran into the hall. After I’d jammed the push button,
I opened the door, spying out for the head coming up the stairs. It
came—a derby hat and a pair of broad shoulders, and then Jack Reddy’s
face, raised to mine, grave and frowning.
"Hello, Molly," he said. "It’s late, but I couldn’t find any of the
others so I came to you."
If he hadn’t seen anyone he didn’t know what had transpired. The thought
made me bubble up with eagerness to tell him the new developments. That
was the reason, I guess, I didn’t notice how serious he was, not a smile
of greeting, not a handshake. He didn’t even take off his coat, but
throwing his hat on one of the hallpegs, said:
"I’ve only just got in from Buffalo. I phoned to the Whitney house from
the Grand Central, but they’re both out of town, not to be back till
tomorrow morning, and O’Mally’s away too. Do you know how Ford is?"
"You bet I do. He’s sat up, taken nourishment and _talked_."
"Talked? Have they _seen_ him?"
"They have." I turned away and moved up the hall. "Come right in and
I’ll tell you."
I went into the dining-room where the drop light hung bright over the
table, and was going on to the parlor when I heard his voice, loud and
commanding, behind me:
"What’s he said?"
I whisked round and there he was standing by the table, his eyes fixed
hard and almost fierce on me.
"Won’t you come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," I said
laughing, just to tease him. He answered without the ghost of a smile:
"No. Go on quick. What did Ford say?"
"All right." I dropped down into Babbitts’ chair and motioned him to
mine. "Sit down there. It’s a long story and I can’t tell it to you if
you stand in front of me like a patience on a monument."
He took the chair and putting his elbows on the table, raised his hands,
clasped together, and leaned his mouth on them. The light fell full on
his face and over those clasped hands his eyes stared at me so fixed and
steady they looked the eyes of an image. I don’t think while I told him
he ever batted a lid and I know he never said a word.
"So you see," I said, when I was through, "Ford’s as much out of it as
you are."
Without moving his hands he asked:
"What do they think?"
"Why, what do you suppose they think? Instead of there being three of
them in it there were two."
"They think she and Barker did it?"
"Of course. They’ve worked it out this way"—I leaned over the table, my
voice low, giving him the details of their new theory. As I told it
there was something terrible in those eyes. All the kindness went out of
them and a fire came in its place till they looked like crystals with a
flame behind them.
When I finished he spoke and this time his voice sounded different,
hoarse and muffled:
"Have they made any plan? Decided on their next step?"
"They’ve got it all arranged," and I went on about the interview that
was planned for the next morning. "With her thinking herself safe the
way she does, they’re sure they can give her such a jolt she’ll lose her
nerve and tell."
He gave an exclamation, not words, just a choked, fierce sound, and
dropping his hands on the table, burst out like a volcano:
"The dogs! The devils! Dragging her down there to terrify a lie out of
her!"
He leaped to his feet, sending the chair crashing down on the floor. I
fell back where I sat paralyzed, not only by his words, but at the sight
of him.
I think I’ve spoken of the fact that he had a violent temper and he’s
told me himself that he’s conquered it. But now for the first time I saw
it and _believe me_ it was far from dead. I would hardly have known him.
His face was savage, his eyes blazing, and the words came from him as if
they were shot out on the breaths that broke in great heaving gasps from
his lungs.
"Haven’t you," he said, "a woman, any heart in you? Are you, that I’ve
always thought all kindness and generosity, willing to hound an innocent
girl to her ruin?"
He grabbed the back of a chair near him and leaned over it glaring at
me, shaking, gasping, and the color of ashes.
"But—but," I faltered, "she’s _done_ it."
"She hasn’t," he shouted. "You’re all fools, imbeciles, mad. It’s a
lie—an infamous, brutal lie!"
He dropped the chair and turned away, beginning to pace up and down, his
hands clenched, raging to himself. The room was full of the sound of his
breathing, as if some great throbbing piece of machinery was inside him.
And I—there in my seat, fallen limp against the back—saw it all. What a
fool I’d been—what an _idiot_! He with his empty heart and that
beautiful girl—the girl that any man might have loved and how much more
Jack Reddy, knowing her poor and lonesome and believing her innocent and
persecuted. I felt as if the skies had fallen on me. My hero—that I’d
never found a woman good enough for—in love with a murderess!
He stopped in his pacing and tried to get a grip on himself, tried to
speak quietly with his voice gone to a husky murmur:
"Tomorrow do you say? Tomorrow they’re going to do this damnable thing?"
"Tomorrow at ten in Mr. Whitney’s office," I answered, weak and
trembling.
He stood for a moment looking on the ground, his brows drawn low over
his eyes, the bones of his jaw showing set under the flesh. A deadly
fear seized me—a fear that followed on a flash of understanding. I got
up—I guess as white as he was—and went over to him.
"Jack," I said. "You can’t do anything. Everything’s against her.
There’s not a point that doesn’t show she’s guilty."
He gave me a look from under his eyebrows like the thrust of a sword.
"Don’t say that to me again, Molly," he almost whispered, "or I’ll
forget the debt I owe you and the affection I’ve felt for you since the
day we swore to be friends."
"What can you do?" I cried, fairly distracted. "They’ve got the
evidence. It’s there——"
I tried to put my hand on his arm but he shook it off and walked toward
the door. I followed him and during those few short steps from the
dining-room to the hall, it came to me as clear as if he’d said it that
he was going to Carol Whitehall to help her run away.
"What are you going to do?" I said, standing in the doorway as he pulled
his hat off the peg and turned toward the hall door.
"That’s my affair," he threw back over his shoulder.
He had his hand on the knob when a thought—an inspiration flashed on me.
I don’t know where it came from, but when you’re fond of a person and
see them headed for a precipice, I believe you get some sort of wireless
communication from Heaven or some place of that order.
"Miss Whitehall’s not in town now," I said.
He stopped short and looked back at me:
"Where is she?"
"They’ve gone back to New Jersey. Some people loaned them a cottage in
the Azalea Woods Estates."
"I knew that—but they’re not there yet?"
"Yes. They went yesterday, sooner than they expected."
He stood for a moment, looking at the floor, then glanced back at me and
said:
"Thank you for telling me that. Good night."
The door opened, banged shut and I was alone.
I wonder if anyone reading this story can imagine what I felt. It was
awful, so awful that now, here, writing it down peaceful and happy, I
can feel the sinking at my heart and the sick sensation like I could
never eat food again. And _laugh_? It was an art I’d lost and never in
this world would get back.
It was not only that he loved her—_that_ woman, that vampire, who could
sin at the word of an old man—but it was the thought, the certainty,
that he was ready to betray his trust, go back on his partners, be a
traitor to his office. All the work they’d done, all the hopes they’d
built up, all their efforts for success, he was going to destroy. It was
disgrace for him, he’d never get over it, he’d be an outcast. As long as
he lived he’d be pointed at as the man who gave his honor for the love
of a wicked woman.
That was the first of my thoughts and the second was that I wasn’t going
to let him do it. There was just one way of preventing it, and honest to
God—think as badly of me as you like, I can’t help it—when I got what
that way was I was so relieved I didn’t care whether I was a traitor or
not. All that mattered then was if there’d got to be one—and as far as I
could see there had to—it was better for it to be Molly Babbitts, who
didn’t amount to much in the world, than Jack Reddy, who was a big man
and was going to be a bigger.
As I put on my coat and hat I heard the clock strike half-past eleven.
There were no trains out to the Azalea Woods Estates before seven the
next morning. Even if he took his own auto, which I guessed he’d do, it
would take him the best part of an hour and a half to get there, and
long before that she’d have had her warning from me.
Yes—that’s what I was going to do—go to her and tell her before he
could. Dishonest? Well, I guess yes! I know what’s straight from what’s
crooked as well as most. But it seemed to me the future of a man, _that_
man—was worth more than my pledged word, or the glory of Whitney &
Whitney, or Babbitts’ scoop. _That_ was the cruelest of all—my own dear
beloved Soapy—to go back on him too! Gosh!—going over in the taxi
through the dark still streets, _how_ I felt! But it didn’t matter. If I
_died_ when I was through I’d _got_ to do it. Maybe you never
experienced those sensations, maybe you can’t understand. But, take it
from me, there are people who’d break all the commandments and all the
laws to save their friends and, bad or good, I’m one of them.