CROSSED WIRES
When I awoke the next morning from a short and unrestful interval of
sleep, it was with an oppressive sense of something being wrong. Then
I remembered. Wrong it was, certainly, but it was not my affair. The
only way in which it touched me (so I thought then) was as it affected
my client, Clyde. How would he take the news? I imagined his receiving
it in one way and another, and I felt that there were embarrassing
contingencies connected with the matter. Finally I determined to call
him up by my room telephone, if possible, and tell him the news as
news. I rang him up, therefore, before going down to my breakfast.
Perhaps "Central" was sleepy or tired, or the wires were crossed at
some unknown point on the circuit. I didn't get Clyde and I couldn't
attract Central's attention after the first response, though I shook
the receiver and made remarks. Then suddenly, across the silence, out
of space and into space, a man's voice spoke with passion:
"But Barker is dead, I tell you! You are free! Now will you marry me?"
And then again the buzzing silence of the "dead" wires!
Talk about the benefits of modern inventions! They don't come without
their compensating disadvantages. I hung to that telephone till
Central finally woke up and sleepily inquired if I were "waiting."
"Who was on this wire just now?" I demanded.
"Nobody," she said sweetly.
I called for "Information," and laid the case before that encyclopedic
sphinx. Someone had been talking across my wire and in the interests
of justice and everything else that would appeal to her, I must know
who it was. With a rising accent and perfect temper she assured me
that she didn't know, that no one knew, that if they knew they
wouldn't tell, and that I probably had been dreaming, anyhow. I knew
better than that, but I saw that there was no way of getting the
information from her. I should have to go to headquarters,--and then
probably the girl would not be able to answer. But who was it that
knew, before the papers were fairly on the street, that Barker was
dead? Who was it that would cry, with passion, "_Now_ will you marry
me?" I gave up the attempt to get Clyde, and went down to breakfast.
I had a suite of rooms in a private family hotel where everybody knew
everybody else, and as I entered the common breakfast room I was
assailed by questions. Never before had I so completely held the
center of the stage! I could hardly get a moment myself to read the
account in the paper which had set them all to gossiping. It was
fairly accurate. The police reporter had his story from headquarters.
It was not until I read at the end, "At this writing the police have
found no clue," that I realized, by my sense of relief, the anxiety
with which I had followed the report.
I wanted to see Clyde, but I thought it best to go to my own office
first, and communicate with him from there. Fellows had not arrived
when I reached there,--the first time in years that I had known him to
be late. When he came he looked excited, though with his usual
stoicism he tried to conceal all evidence of his feelings.
"Well, your friend Barker has met with his come-up-ance," I said at
last, knowing he would not speak.
"Yes," he assented, and a nervous smile twitched his lips
involuntarily. "But not at the hands of the law. I told you the law
couldn't reach him."
"The law will probably reach the man who did it."
Fellows did not speak for a moment. Then he said slowly, "He was
killed as justly as though it had been done under the order of the
court. Shall I look up these cases for you now, Mr. Hilton?"
"Was Barker married?" I asked abruptly, disregarding his readiness to
get to work.
"I don't know." He looked surprised.
"I wish you would find out. Also, if possible, who she is, where she
lives, any gossip about her,--everything possible."
"How shall I find out?"
"Oh, I leave that to you," I said confidently. Fellows was not learned
in law books, but he was a great fellow for finding out things. I was
usually content to accept the results without inquiring too closely
how he obtained them.
"All right," he said, shortly. Some minutes later he looked up from
his work to remark, with his familiar bitterness, "I suppose, like as
not, he has a wife who will be heart-broken over his death, scoundrel
as he was, though if he had once been in prison no woman would look at
him."
I had been thinking. "I'm not so sure she will be heart-broken, but
you might find out about that, with the other things. Now call up Mr.
Clyde's office, and find out if he can see me if I come over."
"Mr. Clyde is ready to see you," he reported after a minute.
I went over at once,--the distance was not great. Clyde was alone, and
he looked up and nodded when I entered. His manner was pleasant
enough, yet I was instantly aware of something of reserve that had not
been there at our former interview. "He is sorry he took me into his
confidence, now that it has turned out this way," I thought to myself.
"Well, somebody saved us the trouble of paying further attention to
Mr. Barker," he said lightly.
"So it seems."
"Did you speak to him at all?"
"No."
"I didn't know but that you might have seen him since--since I spoke
to you about him."
"I did see him the other day, but not to speak to him." And I told him
of the incident in the Ph[oe]nix Building. He listened with close
attention.
"I have no doubt he had enemies on all sides," he said with a certain
tone of satisfaction. "From what we know of his methods, it is easy to
guess that. He has lived an underground life for years, but always
keeping on the safe side of the law. His end was bound to come sooner
or later."
"Do you know whether he was married?"
"I don't know. How should I?"
"I merely wondered." For some reason I did not care to repeat that
puzzling communication I had heard over the phone.
"I know nothing about him. If he has any family, they will probably
come forward to claim the body. But I doubt very much that the man who
fired the shot will ever be taken."
"What makes you so sure?"
"He planned things carefully. And he is probably supported this minute
by a sense of right,--and my sympathies are with him."
He flung up his head with open defiance of my supposed prejudices.
"Don't forget that Barker may have committed some of his valuable
secrets to writing," I warned.
He looked startled for a moment, then he threw up his head.
"I don't believe it. He's dead, and a good job done."
It was not my place to croak on such an occasion, but as I walked down
the street to my own office, I reflected that the law would not look
at a shot from ambush in that light, no matter what the judgment of
the Lord might be.
I stopped at Barney's stand for my buttonhole rose,--and at once I
knew, by the gleam in his eye, that he had something special to tell
me.
"So it's yourself is the celebrity this morning, Mr. Hilton," he said
eagerly.
"I? Oh, no. I wasn't killed and didn't kill anybody."
"But ye know a power about the happenin's, I'll be bound."
"Yes, I know as much as anybody does," I said, supposing that he
wanted to ask me about some particular.
"It's the hard and revengeful heart he must have, and him so young, to
shoot a man that the law has set right," said Barney, craftily.
"What?" I said sharply. "What do you mean, Barney?--if you mean
anything!"
"Sure, an' I can't be tellin' ye anything that ye didn't know!"
"Have they found the murderer?" I asked, yet with a nervous dread of
his answer.
"Divil a bit. He found himself, and couldn't keep the secret," Barney
said, entirely happy in being able to give me this surprising
information. "The officer on the beat this morning tould me that the
whole departmint fell over itself when the young lad walked into the
station with his head up like a play-actin' gossoon, and says, 'I
killed him for that he killed me fayther.' The exthra will be out by
now."
I heard the boys calling an extra as he spoke, and I waited and
beckoned the first one that hove into sight. There, on the glaring
front, I read:
"MURDERER CONFESSES
Eugene Benbow gives himself up
to the Police.
Fired the Fatal Shot
to Avenge his Father.
"Barker killed Senator Benbow ten years ago and was acquitted on the
plea of self-defense.
"The slayer of Alfred Barker has been found. Driven by the spur of a
guilty conscience, he gives himself up to the police. The fatal shot
was fired by Eugene Benbow, the son of Senator Josephus Benbow, who
was shot and killed by Barker in Saintsbury just ten years ago.
"Senator Benbow, whose home was in Deming, was in attendance on the
State Legislature when he fell foul of Barker, who was trying to lobby
through a measure which Benbow did not hesitate to call a steal. He
was instrumental in defeating Barker's measure, and this led to
bitterness and threats on both sides. One day they met on the street,
and after some hot words Barker drew his revolver and shot Benbow
dead. When brought to trial, he succeeded in convincing the jury that
he believed (?) his life to be in danger from a motion which Benbow
made toward his pocket, although it was proved that the senator was,
as a matter of fact, unarmed.
"Young Benbow was at that time a lad of ten. The tragedy made a deep
impression upon him, and he grew up, dreaming of revenge. Yesterday he
heard that Barker was in town, and at once armed himself. Last night
he carried his deadly purpose into effect.
"It seems that after shooting Barker in his office in the Ph[oe]nix
Building, young Benbow returned to the rooms which he occupies in the
house of Mr. Howard Ellison, who is his guardian and a distant
relative. He spent the night there, and apparently decided then to
give himself up, for he appeared at police headquarters at half-past
six, in a highly nervous condition, and astonished the sergeant by
declaring himself the person who shot Alfred Barker. The special
officers who had been detailed to investigate the murder have been
recalled."
"The poor little girl!" I said to myself. The vision of Jean Benbow as
I had seen her last night, gallant and boyish, rose before me. This
would be a terrible morning for her. I do not often make the mistake
of rushing in where I know that only angels may safely tread, yet I
was filled with a well-nigh irresistible impulse to go and look out
for her. That was absurd, of course, since she was with friends,--only
I should have liked some assurance that they would understand her! I
hardly thought of her brother, though, since he was her twin, he could
be nothing but a boy, and certainly presented a touching figure, with
his medieval ideas of personal vengeance.
But I was to have ample occasion to think of Eugene. Before the
morning was over, Mr. Howard Ellison's card was brought to me. Mr.
Ellison, who followed his card, was elderly, rather small and somewhat
bent, but alert mentally and active physically. He had the dry, keen,
impersonal aspect of a student, and I could see at a glance why Mrs.
Whyte thought him cold-blooded. He was given to a sarcastic turn of
speech which heightened this impression--and did him an injustice if,
as a matter of fact, he was especially tender-hearted.
"You have probably seen the papers this morning, Mr. Hilton."
I bowed.
"I have come to see if you will undertake that young fool's defense.
As his guardian, I suppose it devolves on me to see that he is
provided with a lawyer."
I am not in criminal practice, and ordinarily I should not have cared
for such a retainer, but in this instance I did not hesitate for a
moment.
"I shall be very glad to do so."
"That's all right, then. You look after things, and let me know if
there is anything I have to know. I am engaged in some important
researches, and it is most inconvenient to have interruptions, but of
course in such a case I shall have to put up with it."
"Possibly you may even find them interesting," I said, in amaze. He
took me up at once.
"Events are not interesting, Mr. Hilton. They are merely
happenings,--unrelated and unintelligent. Take this case. Gene
dislikes Barker. That is interesting in a measure, although it is
rather obvious. But he goes and shoots him, and what is there
interesting in that? It is the mere explosive event. Besides,
Gene was a fool to go and tell the police about it. That was
hardly--gentlemanly."
"I suppose it weighed on his conscience."
"Conscience,--fiddlededee! What is conscience? Merely your idea of
what someone else would think about you if he knew. If you are
satisfied yourself that your actions are justified, what have you to
do with the opinions of other people or the upbraidings of conscience?
If it was right to kill Barker, it was sheer foolishness to tell."
"Do you think it is ever right to kill?"
"Young man, your experience of life is limited if you can put that
question seriously and sincerely. I studied surgery as a young man and
spent three years in a hospital in Vienna. After that I was for two
years connected with the English army in India. I have no foolish
prejudices left about taking life--when necessary."
"You have belonged to privileged classes," I said, striving to match
his nonchalance. "But unfortunately your young cousin does not."
"No, he has been merely a young fool," he said concisely. "But Jean
insisted that I should come and see you about it. She is his sister."
"I am honored by Miss Benbow's confidence," I said. I felt a good deal
more than I expressed. If I didn't do the best that could be done for
her brother, it would be merely because I didn't know how. "Will you
tell me something about the young man? He lives with you?"
"Yes. He has the library for his study. Of course he has the run of
the house. The only stipulation I ever made was that he should keep
out of my way and not distract my mind. This is the consideration
which he shows!"
"How long has he lived with you?"
"Why, ever since the family was broken up. Barker shot Senator Benbow,
you know, and his wife died soon after. Shock. You know, there is
something interesting in the question how a purely mental blow can
have effect on the physical plane. Well, Benbow was a cousin, and as
my own wife was dead, there seemed to be plenty of room in the house
for the boy, so I took him. I supposed he would grow up the way other
boys did. I simply told him never to bother me. For the rest he could
do as he liked."
"He seems to have followed your teaching. How old is he?"
"Just twenty. It was his birthday yesterday. He was celebrating last
night with some of his college mates."
"How? Where, and with whom?"
"At his Fraternity House. They had a supper for him. He is a senior at
Vandeventer College."
"I see. You were out for dinner, too, last night, were you not?"
He looked up sharply, surprised, almost suspicious. "How do you know
that?"
"I understood that no one was at home."
"Well, you are right, though I don't remember telling you. I had
dinner at the club to meet a distinguished professor of psychology who
is here. It is a subject in which I am interested."
"May I ask who compose your household?"
"Me, first. Then Gene. Then Mrs. Crosswell, the housekeeper, and
Minnie, the houseworker. There's a yardman and a laundress, but they
don't live in the house."
"Were both the women away last night?"
"No, Minnie was at home. Mrs. Crosswell has been away for a few days."
"Miss Benbow arrived last night."
"Yes, I believe so. I didn't see her till this morning. She came
rushing into my room most inconsiderately with this confounded report
in her hand,--the paper, I mean. What possessed Gene to do such a
thing--"
"He must have been laboring under some excitement that carried him
away--"
"Man, I am not talking about the shooting. That may or may not have
been justified. But why he should make all this trouble by going to
the police!"
"Do you know if anything happened at his supper to excite him?"
"Yes. His chum, Al Chapman, has been in to see me. It seems that some
one spoke of seeing Alfred Barker, and it upset Gene. He came away
early."
"What sort of a boy is he? Violent? Revengeful?"
"I can't say that I have noticed. He never bothered me much. I have an
idea that he is a pretty hard student,--"
"Has he been working hard?--overstraining himself?"
He grinned. "Brainstorm idea? Well, perhaps you might work it. He has
been doing a little extra Latin with a tutor. You might make the most
of that."
"Who is his tutor?"
"Mr. Garney. One of the instructors at Vandeventer."
I made a note of Mr. Garney's name, also of Al Chapman's.
"You don't think of anything else that I ought to know,--anything
having a bearing on Benbow's actions or his state of mind?"
He hesitated, looked at me and shifted his eyes to the window, and
finally pursed up his lips and shook his head. "No."
"Then let us go down to the jail so that I can meet my client."
We went down together to the jail and were admitted to see Eugene
Benbow. Certainly he did not look like a murderer as we are apt to
picture one. He was a tall, slender youth, with a sensitive face, and
in spite of his nervousness he had the best manners I ever saw. He was
sitting with his face in his hands when we came in, but he sprang to
his feet at once with a self-forgetful courtesy that made him seem
like an anxious host rather than a prisoner.
"So good of you to come, Uncle Howard," he murmured. "I--I'm afraid I
have disturbed you,--I'm so sorry,--"
"Sorry!" snorted Mr. Ellison. "Much good it does to think of that now.
And what you ever expected to have come from your going to the police
with that story--Well, there's no use talking. This is Mr. Hilton,
Gene. He is a lawyer, and he is going to look after your case, now
that you're in for it."
Eugene bowed. "Oh, that's most kind of you. It won't be any trouble?
I'm so sorry to put you to any inconvenience--"
"Don't let that disturb you," I said. "Mr. Ellison was kind enough to
think I might be of use,--"
"And now I'll leave you to talk things over," said Mr. Ellison,
plainly anxious to get away. "When I'm wanted, you know where to call
on me, Mr. Hilton." And he hurried away.
"That's what I wanted," I said, cheerfully. I could see that the boy
was in so nervous a condition that the first necessity was to steady
him. "We want to talk this over together. You know, of course, that
anything and everything that you tell me is in professional
confidence, and that you should not hesitate to be perfectly frank."
"I have nothing to hide," he said. "If you will tell me what you want
to know,--"
"When did the idea of killing Barker come to you?" I asked, watching
him closely.
An involuntary shudder ran through him at my words, but he answered at
once and with apparent frankness. "I don't know. I don't remember
thinking of it at all. Beforehand, I mean."
"When did you think of it?"
"Why, when I woke up. Then I remembered."
"You mean that you went home and went to sleep last night?"
"Yes. Not to bed. I threw myself down on the couch in the library
and went to sleep with my clothes on. It was about five when I woke
up--and remembered. Then I had to wait,--" He looked at me with
anxious appeal for understanding,--"I _had_ to wait until some one
would be up at the station,--"
"Tell me what you were doing yesterday. It was your twentieth
birthday, Mr. Ellison says."
"Yes. Why, I attended lectures at the U all forenoon. Then after lunch
Mr. Garney came over for an hour,--he's tutoring me in Latin. At four
I went to the Gym,--guess I was there about an hour. Then I went home
and read awhile, until it was time to go to the Frat house for supper.
The fellows were giving me a spread because it was my birthday."
"Did anything come up that annoyed you? Was anything said--about
Barker, for instance?"
The boy frowned. "Yes. Grig--I mean Jim Gregory--said that he saw
Barker in town the other day. The other fellows shut him up. Grig is
new here. He didn't know how it would make me feel."
"How _did_ it make you feel?"
The boy's slim white hands were gripping the edges of his chair
nervously. "Desperate," he said, in a voice to match. "Here I was,
singing and laughing and drinking and having a jolly time, and there
was my father dead, shot down and unavenged,--oh, it all seemed
suddenly horrible to me. I couldn't stay."
"You went away early, then. What time was it?"
"I don't know. I never thought of looking. Does it make any
difference?"
"I don't know that it does. Then what did you do? Did you go direct to
the Ph[oe]nix Building?"
He frowned thoughtfully. "No, I must have gone home first, mustn't I?
Yes, of course I went home. My revolver was there. I went into the
library and threw myself down on the couch to think it out,--and
then--why, then I must have got my revolver and gone out."
"Was your revolver in the library?"
"Yes. In the table drawer. Uncle Howard gave it to me that morning, in
the library, and I just locked it into the drawer."
"By the way, how did you know that Barker's office was in the
Ph[oe]nix Building?"
"I don't know. I just knew it, somehow."
"What made you think that he would be there at that time of the night?
It wouldn't be likely, under ordinary circumstances."
"I don't know. I didn't think. I suppose I just took it for granted."
He looked puzzled and anxious, as though he were afraid that he was
not answering my questions satisfactorily.
"What did you have to drink at your spread?" I asked, thinking that
perhaps there might be some explanation in that direction for his
vague recollections.
"Oh, champagne," he said, quickly.
"Did you drink much?"
"Two glasses, I think."
"Are you accustomed to champagne?"
"I've taken it only once or twice before."
"Then I don't wonder that your memory is not quite clear. But tell me
what you can of your movements. I want to follow your actions from the
time you left the house."
He leaned forward, one elbow resting on the table between us, and
fixed his eyes with anxious intentness on a crack in the floor.
"I went down to the Ph[oe]nix Building--"
"Did you walk?"
He hesitated a moment. "Yes."
"Go on."
"I went up to Barker's office on the second floor,--"
"How did you know that it was his office? Excuse my interrupting, but
I want to follow all the details. Barker's name wasn't on the door."
"I don't remember how I knew. Perhaps I asked somebody."
"Whom?"
"I don't remember that I did ask. But I knew the place. I went in
through the outer office to an inner room. There was no one there. I
locked the door between the two rooms and waited inside for Barker to
come. There was a light in the outer office, but the room I was in was
lit only by the light that came in through the glass door between the
two rooms. There was a curtain over this glass door, and I pulled it
aside to watch. A man came in, sat down and waited awhile, and then
went away. Then Barker came. I fired through the door,--one of the
little panes of glass was broken, and I fired through that. Then--then
I opened the window and climbed down the fire-escape and got out into
the street. There were crowds of people going home from the theaters,
and I fell in with the crowd."
"And went home?"
"Yes." He drew a sigh, as of relief, and looked up at me.
It is one of the indications that this universe is under divine
direction that a lie cannot masquerade successfully for the truth for
an extended period. As Eugene talked, it had been coming more and more
strongly into my mind that he was not telling the truth. He was going
too cautiously. He seemed to be picking his way among uncertainties
with a studious design to present only irrefutable facts to my
scrutiny. And yet the accident that had put me on the other side of
that closed door should enable me to refute some of his facts, it
seemed to me. I felt that I must make sure.
"You say that a man came into the office and waited awhile and then
went away. Did you know him?"
"No. He was a stranger."
"Would you know him if you saw him?" He hesitated. "No, I think not. I
can't recall his face."
"Or how he was dressed? Business suit, or evening dress?"
"Oh, business suit, I should think."
"You naturally would think so,--unless you knew," I added to myself.
Then I asked abruptly, "Are you fond of apples, Mr. Benbow?"
He looked surprised and politely puzzled. "Apples?"
"Yes. Raw apples."
"No, I don't care for them."
"But you eat them?"
"Why, no, I don't, as it happens. I don't like them."
"Now let's go back to Barker's office," I said, thinking hard. "Can
you describe the office,--the arrangement of the furniture, for
instance?"
He dropped his eyes again to the floor, and frowned intently, as
though he were searching his memory. But in a moment he looked up with
a whimsical, deprecatory smile. "I'm afraid I can't! I can't seem to
remember things connectedly. Do you suppose it was the champagne?"
"That is possible," I said, thoughtful in my turn. It was quite
possible that the champagne _was_ accountable for his vagueness. Then
I remembered another point. "You say that you went home after you
climbed down the fire-escape."
"Yes. Not at once, I think. I seem to remember walking the streets."
"When you woke up this morning, where were you?"
"On the couch in the library."
"Dressed?"
"Yes."
"Then you threw yourself down there when you came in and went to
sleep, just as you did earlier in the evening, when you came home from
the supper?"
"I suppose so."
"When you woke up and remembered what you had done, you wanted to give
yourself up at once to the police?"
"Yes, of course. A gentleman would have to do that, wouldn't he?"
"Undoubtedly," I said, with gravity to match his own. "But why didn't
you think of doing that last night?"
He looked nonplussed. "I--don't know! I couldn't have been quite
myself." Then he looked up earnestly. "But if I remember shooting
Barker, that is the main thing, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," I said, looking at him steadily. "You _do_ remember
that?"
"Yes. Distinctly." But he looked absent and thoughtful, as though the
memory were not quite as clear as his words would imply.
"By the way, how did you know Barker when he came in?"
A sharp change came over his expression. His young face looked set and
stern as that of an avenging angel. "I was by my father's side when
Barker shot him," he said quietly.
"I didn't know. I can understand your feeling. But this idea of
avenging him,--have you cherished it all these years?"
"No, not in that way," he said thoughtfully. "I think it just came
over me of a sudden."
"What did you do with the revolver afterwards?"
"I threw it into an alley as I went by." (It was never found.)
"You spoke to no one of your plan?"
"No."
"And there was no one with you? You were quite alone all the time?"
"I was quite alone."
I talked with him for some time, but there was nothing more definitely
bearing upon the problem which was forming in my mind,--and which was
a very different problem from the question how to handle the case of a
confessed murderer. I went away with this new and puzzling question
putting everything else out of my mind,--Was his confession true? Of
course on the face of it, the question looked absurd. Men don't go
about confessing to crimes they have not committed,--unless there is
some powerful reason for their belying themselves. If Eugene Benbow
was lying, he had chosen his position well to escape detection. I
could see that it would have been hard to defend him in the face of
such circumstantial evidence as surrounded him, if he had been
arrested on suspicion instead of on his own confession. And yet--I
could not get rid of the idea that he was concealing or inventing
something which might put a very different light on things. He might
not have recognized me as the man who sat waiting in Barker's office,
he might even have failed to notice that I was in evening dress, but
how explain away the eaten apple? A man very fond of apples might have
eaten one while waiting and given no special thought to the matter,
but a man who didn't like apples wouldn't pick one up casually and eat
it without taking notice of what he was doing. And those apple parings
were quite fresh. That was a small but obstinate fact. I could not
forget it. Had someone been with Benbow? Then I remembered his
vagueness, his failure to identify me as the strange visitor, and I
was inclined to change my question to--Had Benbow been there at all?
And yet what possible motive could he have for making a false
confession? The only reasonable explanation would be that he was
trying to shield someone. But no one else had as yet been accused. The
psychology of that situation was not complete. I must try to
understand the boy's nature, before theorizing.
And, first of all, I must verify my facts.