MOLLY TELLS THE STORY
As the taxi rolled up to her corner I saw that the windows of her floor
were bright. She was still up, which would make things easier—much
better than having to wake her from her sleep. In that sort of apartment
they lock the outer doors at half-past ten and to get at the bells you
have to wake the janitor, which I didn’t want to do, as no one must know
I’d been there. So before I rang the outside bell that connects with his
lair in the basement, I tried the door, hoping some late comer had left
it on the jar as they sometimes do. It opened—an immense piece of
luck—which made me feel that fate was on my side and braced me like a
tonic.
In the vestibule I pressed the button under her letter box and in a
minute came the click, click of the inner latch and I entered. As I
ascended the stairs I heard the door on the landing above softly open
and looking up I saw a bright light illumine the dimness and then,
through the balustrade, her figure standing on the threshold.
She must have been surprised for the person who mounted into her sight—a
girl in a dark coat and hat—was someone she’d never seen before. She
pushed the door wider, as if to let more light on me, looking puzzled at
my face. The one electric bulb was just above her on the wall and its
sickly gleam fell over her, tall and straight in a purple silk kimono.
Her black hair curling back from her forehead stood out like a frame,
and her neck, between the folds of the kimono, was as smooth and white
as cream. The sight of her instead of weakening me gave me strength, for
in that sort of careless rig, tired and pale, she was still handsome
enough to make a fool of any man.
"Do you want to see _me_?" she said, "Miss Whitehall?"
"I do," I answered. "I want to see you on a matter of importance. It
can’t wait."
Without another word she drew back from the doorway and let me come in.
"Go in there," she said, pointing up the hall to the curtained entrance
of the dining-room, and I went as she pointed.
The room was brightly lit, as was the parlor beyond, and on every side
were the signs of moving—curtains piled below the windows, furniture in
white covers, straw and bits of paper on the floor. Two trunks were
standing in the middle of the parlor and on the chairs about were her
clothes, all tumbled and mixed up, boots in one place, hats in another,
lingerie heaped on the table. There was enough packing to keep her busy
till morning, and I thought to myself that was what she intended to
do—finish it up tonight and the next day make her move.
All this took only a minute to see and I was standing by the
dining-table, clutching tight on my muff to hide the trembling of my
hands, when she came in. In the brighter light I could see that she
looked worn and weary, all her color gone except for the red of her
lips, and her eyes sunken and dark underneath.
"What do you want with me?" she said, as the curtain fell behind her.
Her manner was abrupt and straight from the shoulder like a person’s
who’s got past little pleasantnesses and politeness. The glance she
fixed on me was steady and clear, but there was a sort of waiting
expectation in it like she was ready for anything and braced to meet it.
"I came," I said, choosing my words as careful as I could, "to tell you
of—of—something that’s going to happen—to warn you."
She gave a start and her face changed, as if a spring inside her had
snapped and sort of focussed her whole being into a still, breathless
listening.
"Warn me," she repeated. "Of what?"
"Miss Whitehall," I said, clearing my throat, for it was dry, "I’m a
person you don’t know, but _I_ know you. I’ve been employed by people
here in New York who’ve been watching you for the past few weeks.
They’ve got the evidence they want—I’ve been helping them—and they’re
ready to act."
As I had spoken she had never taken her eyes off me. Big and black and
unwinking they stared and as I stared back I could see it wasn’t
surprise or fear they showed but a concentrated attention.
"What do you mean—act in what way?"
"Get you to their office tomorrow and question you about the Harland
case and make you confess."
She was as still as a statue. You’d have thought she was turned to
stone, but for the moving up and down of her chest.
"What am I to confess? What have I done?"
My hands gripped together in my muff and my voice went down to my boots
for I couldn’t say it aloud.
"Been a party to the murder of Hollings Harland."
When I said it I had an expectation that she’d say something, deny it in
some violent way that would make me think she was innocent. Maybe Jack
Reddy had influenced me, but I wanted it, I looked for it, I hoped for
it—and I was disappointed. If it _had_ been a shock to her, if she
_hadn’t_ known there’d been a murder, she would never have behaved as
she did. For she said not a word, standing stock still, her face chalk
white, even the red fading from her lips, and her eyes fixed on the wall
opposite, like the eyes of a sleep-walker.
"The murder of Hollings Harland," she whispered, and it was more as if
she was speaking to herself than to me.
"Yes," I went on. "They’ve discovered it—a group of us have been working
in secret, following the clues and gathering the evidence. Now we’ve got
it all ready and tomorrow they expect to arrest you."
She suddenly sank down into a chair by the table, her hands braced
against its edge, her eyes riveted in that strange, mesmerized stare on
the fern plant in front of her.
"When did they discover it?" she said in a low voice.
[Illustration: _'When did they discover it?’ she said in a low voice._]
"Not long after it happened—but that doesn’t matter. They’ve got
everything in their hands. Even if you insist that you’re innocent
they’ve got enough to arrest you on. You’ve been under surveillance all
along—they’ve been shadowing you. They followed you that time you tried
to go to Toronto."
"I knew that," she said in the same low voice as if she was talking to
herself.
"They know how you came out of the building that night—not by the
elevator as you said, but by the stairs, and how you didn’t get home
till nearly eight. They know about you and Barker."
She lifted her head and said quickly:
"_What_ do they know about me and Barker?"
"That he was in love with you and you with him."
"Oh, _that_!" Her tone was indifferent as if the point was a matter of
no consequence.
"They know how the murder was done. How you and Barker did it."
"Barker and I——" She sank back in her chair, then suddenly leaning
across the table, looked into my face and said, "Tell me how we did it.
Let me see what they know."
I took the chair opposite and told her the whole plot and how we’d
worked it out. While I was doing it she never said a word, but sat with
her profile toward me and her eyes in that blank, motionless stare on
the fern plant.
When I had finished there was a pause, then suddenly she drew a deep
breath, turned toward me and said:
"What brought you here to me tonight?"
It came so unexpectedly I had no answer ready. What I’d looked for was a
scene, terror, maybe hysterics and her breaking away as fast as she
could put on her hat. Seeing me stupidly dumb she rose out of her chair,
and moved away for a few steps, then stopped and seemed again to fall
into that trance of thinking. It was like everything else in this
nightmare—different to what I’d looked for, and a sickening thought came
to me that maybe she was ready to throw up the sponge and go down and
confess. And then—for all I knew—Jack Reddy might persuade her to marry
him and go to prison with her. How can you be sure what a man crazy with
love will do? If she got a life sentence he’d probably live at the gates
of Sing Sing for the rest of his days. I was desperate and went round
the table after her.
"Say," I implored. "What are you going to do?"
"I’m thinking," she muttered.
"For God’s sake don’t _think_," I wailed. "Get up and act. If I go back
on the people that employ me and come here in the middle of the night to
warn you, isn’t it the least you can do to take advantage of it and
_go_?"
She wheeled round on me, her face all alight with a wonderful beaming
look.
"_That’s_ the reason," she said. "That’s what made you
come—humanity—pity! You’ve risked everything to help me. Oh, you don’t
know what you’ve done—what courage you’ve put into me. And you don’t
know what my gratitude is."
Before I knew it she had seized hold of one of my hands and held it
against her heart, with her head bowed over it as if she was praying.
Do you guess how _I_ felt? Ashamed?—perishing with it, ready to sink
down on the floor and pass away. A murderess no doubt but even if a
murderess thinks you did her a good turn when you didn’t it makes you
feel like a snake’s a high-class animal beside you.
"Oh, come on," I begged. "Let go of me and get out."
She dropped my hand and looked at me—Oh, so soft and sweet!—and I saw
tears in her eyes. _That_ pretty near finished me and I wailed out:
"Don’t stop to cry. You don’t know but what they might get uneasy and
come tonight. Put on your things and _go_."
Hadn’t I got to hurry her? If Jack made a quick trip he’d be back in
town between two and three and he’d come as straight as wheels could
take him to her door.
"Yes, I’ll go," she said.
"Now," I urged, "as soon as you can get into your coat and hat. Don’t
bother about this," I pointed to the disorder round us—"They’ll think
you’ve had another message from Barker and gone to him."
A curious, slight smile came over her face.
"Yes," she said, "that’s what they _will_ think, I suppose."
"Of course it is, and they’ll waste time looking for him which’ll give
_you_ a good start. If there’s no train now to the place you’re going
to, sit in the depot, ride round in a taxi, walk up and down Fifth
Avenue, only _get out_ of this place."
"I’ll be gone in half an hour," she said, and moved between the trunks
and piled up clothes to the bedroom beyond. I followed her and saw into
the room, all confusion like the others, every gas in the chandelier
blazing.
"Can I help you?" I said. "Can I pack a suitcase or anything?"
"No—" she halted in front of the mirror, letting the kimono slide off
her to the floor, her arms and neck like shining marble under that blaze
of light. "I’ll only want a few things. There’s a bag there I can throw
them into. You’d better go now."
I was afraid she’d not be as quick as I wanted but I couldn’t hang round
urging any more after she’d told me to go. Besides I could see she was
hurrying, grabbing a dress from the bed and getting into it so swiftly
even I was satisfied.
"Well then I’m off," I said.
She looked up from the hooks she was snapping together and said:
"Before you go tell me who you are?"
"There’s no need for that," I answered, thinking she’d probably never
see me again. "I’m just someone that blew in tonight for a minute and
who’s going like she came."
"Someone I’ll never forget," she said, "and that some day, if all goes
well, I’ll be able to pay back."
I was afraid she was going to get grateful again and I couldn’t stand
any more of that. So with a quick "good-bye" away I went, up the hall,
opening the door without a sound, and stealing down the stairs as soft
as a robber.
Out in the street I stopped and reconnoitered. There was no one in sight
except a policeman lounging dreary on the next corner. Across from the
apartment was the entrance of a little shop—tobacco and light
literature—and into that I crept, squeezing back against the glass door.
I couldn’t be at peace till I saw her leave and for fifteen or twenty
minutes I stood there watching the lights in her windows. Then suddenly
they began to go out, across the front and along down the side, till
every pane was black. A few minutes later, she came down the steps
carrying a bag. She stopped close to where I was, and hailed a car, and
not till I saw it start with her sitting by the door, did I steal out of
my hiding place and sprint up the street to Madison Avenue.
When I reached home I was shivering and wild-eyed, for if Babbitts was
there what could I say to him? He wasn’t—thank Heaven!—and cold as ice,
feeling as if I’d been through a mangle, I crawled into bed.
There wasn’t much sleep for me that night. About all I could say to
myself was that I’d saved Jack. But the others—Oh, _the others_! I
couldn’t get them out of my mind. They’d come in a procession across the
dark and look at me sad and reproachful. Mr. Whitney, who’d done
everything in the world for me, and Mr. George, who could put on such
side, but had always been so kind and cordial, and O’Mally, who’d told
Babbitts the case was going to make him, and Babbitts—Oh, _Babbitts_!
I rolled over on the pillow and cried scalding, bitter tears. It wasn’t
only the scoop—it was that I’d have a secret from him forever—him that
up to now had known every thought in my mind, had been like the other
half of me. They say virtue is its own reward, and I’ve always believed
it. But that night I had the awful thought that maybe I’d done wrong,
for all the reward I got was to feel like an outcast with a stone for a
heart.