A RESCUE
I had rather expected that when I reached Saintsbury, Barney would be
on hand to give an explanation of his urgent message, but no Barney
was to be seen. I took a taxi to my office, which was across the
street from Barney's stand. For the first time within my memory,
Barney's stand was shut up and the owner gone. I told the chauffeur to
wait and went up to my office. Perhaps Fellows could throw some light
on things,--unless he too had disappeared.
Someone was there. I heard talking before I entered,--the loud and
unfamiliar tones of a man's voice. I went in without knocking. Fellows
was there, at my desk. His start of surprise turned into unmistakable
confusion as he saw me. His own chair was occupied by a pretty girl,
whom I recognized at once as Minnie Doty, the houseworker at Mr.
Ellison's, and the girl whom I had seen with Fellows in the park. The
third person in the room was a tall man who stood before the window,
hat in hand. Evidently he was the man whose voice I had heard.
"Well, I must be going," he said now after a moment's awkward pause,
and moved toward the door. As he turned from the window the light fell
upon his shaven jaw, blue-black under the skin, and I recognized him.
He was the man Barker had addressed with a taunting question about his
marriage.
"Don't leave the room," I said quietly, keeping my position before the
door. "Fellows, introduce me."
A gleam of amusement crossed Fellows' sardonic countenance. Leaning
against the edge of my desk, he indicated the seated girl with a
slight gesture. "Mr. Hilton, allow me to present you to Mrs. Alfred
Barker!"
"How do you do?" the girl said nervously, trying to rise to the social
requirements of the occasion.
"How long have you known this fact, Fellows?" I asked, watching him
closely.
"For some time," he said easily. "Miss Doty--Mary Doherty her name was
originally, but she changed it to Minnie Doty when she ran away from
her husband and got a position as houseworker at Mr. Ellison's--she
answered our advertisement for Mary Doherty, to learn something to her
advantage. I talked with her,--she didn't want to be known as Barker's
wife or in any way connected with the inquest, so I agreed to keep her
secret for a short time, because--"
"Because she was afraid this man, whose name I don't know,--"
"It's Timothy Royce, and I'm in the fire department. Anything else you
would like to know?" the tall man threw in defiantly.
"Yes. I'd like to know if it was you who telephoned to Miss Doty,
early in the morning after Barker was killed, 'Barker is dead and now
you must marry me.' Was that you?"
"Oh, Tim!" cried Miss Doty,--or whatever she preferred to be called.
"Oh, Tim, I knew they would find it out!"
"What of it?" said Royce doggedly. "Anybody is welcome to know that I
want to marry you."
"I see. And when Barker asked you in the hall that day if you were
married yet, and you drew back to hit him,--"
"It was his devilishness," said Royce concisely. "He had just spotted
Min and me, and he knew well enough I couldn't marry while he was
above ground, and he was rubbing it in. That night that he was killed,
Min and I had gone out to talk things over. I wanted her to run away
with me, but she said she couldn't while he was alive, and the next
morning, when the patrolman on our beat told me Barker was dead, I
tried to telephone Min. I couldn't go to her, because I was on duty. I
knew it would break her up, being a woman, even though he was ugly as
sin to her. Women are that way, I suppose. She even saw about getting
him buried. But she was scairt to death of having to come forward and
tell things and be talked about and have to appear at the inquest and
all that, and letting it be known about her and me,--
"Where were you the night that Barker was killed?" I asked abruptly.
The man looked honest, there was an honest ring in his voice,--but
suppose that after all I had the real murderer here in my office,
covering his trail with palaver? Fellows' eyes were on the floor.
"We went out to Lake Park on the electric, Min and me," he answered
promptly. And then he added unnecessarily, "We went out on the seven
o'clock car and stayed there all evening."
"Now I know you are lying," I said coolly. "Minnie was at home a few
minutes before seven. I saw her let Miss Benbow in."
"There's a lie somewhere, but I'm not fathering it," Royce retorted
hotly. "Miss Benbow was waiting in the back entry to be let in when we
got there, and it was nearer three than two, because the power gave
out and we were tied up for over two hours half way between here and
the Park, waiting every minute to go on."
"Good heavens! Was Miss Benbow waiting outside till three in the
morning?"
"Not outside,--in the back entry. It seems that she came home
unexpected, and finding the house shut up, she waited, thinking of
course Min would come home some time. And so she did. You see,
everybody was away from home that evening, so Minnie was free. But
Miss Benbow is a good sort all right. When Min said she'd lose her
place if Mrs. Crosswell found out about her going off, Miss Benbow
said right off that she wouldn't tell."
I held down any adequate expression of my feelings. I merely asked,
"What sort of a place is the back entry?"
"Oh, it was quite clean and nice," Minnie spoke up from the depths of
her handkerchief. "There's an old rocking chair that I sit in to peel
potatoes and things like that. She went to sleep in the old chair and
didn't come to no harm. We leave the entry unlocked so that the iceman
can get at the refrigerator in the morning."
The thought of Jean cooped up in that dark back entry until three in
the morning, even admitting the comfort of the old rocking chair, was
sufficiently disturbing, but aside from that there was something
perplexing about the story. Somehow it did not fit in with my previous
idea of the events of that night. I struggled to fix the discrepancy.
"How about Mr. Benbow?" I asked Minnie suddenly. "You told me you saw
him leave the house."
"I did!"
"When? If you were away from the house before seven,--"
"It was just as I was taking Min back home,--a little before three,"
Royce interrupted. "Just as we were going along the side of the house,
past the room Min said was the library, the door opened, and Mr.
Benbow came out and ran down the steps. Min didn't want him to see
her, so we stood still in the shadow till he was in the street. Then
we went on to the back of the house."
"You gave me to understand that it was earlier in the evening," I said
reproachfully.
"I didn't say when," she murmured miserably. "And I couldn't tell you
it was at three o'clock, or it would all have come out! And it is
nobody's business, anyhow. I wish I had never answered that
advertisement of yours!"
Fellows stirred slightly and his eye met mine. I caught his hint not
to frighten the timid Minnie if I wanted to get any information from
her.
"Did you tell Miss Benbow that you had seen her brother leave the
house at three?" I asked, to fill time.
"Not then," she said meekly. "I didn't think about it. I told her the
other day."
"Well, now you know the whole story, and I guess Min and I will go,"
said Royce,--and this time I did not try to prevent his departure.
"Min wanted me to come, because that young man was hanging around to
make her tell about things, and she didn't know what she had ought to
tell and what not. But there ain't nothing we need to be afraid of
coming out, only Min hates to be in the papers."
"Good day," I said. "And thank you for coming." As the door closed
behind them, I turned to Fellows.
"Follow them. Don't lose sight of him. I don't feel sure yet that he
has told the truth. We may need him."
"All right," said Fellows. "I've been having her watched for weeks to
find out who her young man was. I just worked it out yesterday, and
got them here five minutes before you came in."
"Well, make sure that we can locate him if necessary," I said. This
was not the time to discuss his method of handling things.
The door had hardly swung shut behind him when it opened again and
Barney stumped in,--an anxious-looking Barney.
"You're here! I missed you," he said.
"Barney, what is it?" I cried. To wait for him to put what he had to
say into words seemed suddenly next to impossible.
"I don't know wot it is, sir, but it's trouble," he said doggedly.
"She guv me a letter for ye, and here it is."
I tore it open, and behind the incoherent words I seemed to hear
Jean's serious, appealing voice:
"DEAR MR. HILTON:--I just must write to you, because I couldn't bear
it if you should ever think back and feel hurt because I hadn't. I
can't tell you all about it, but I want you to remember that I have a
reason, a very important reason, for what I am going to do. I can't
explain, but it is on account of Gene. You will know afterwards what I
mean.
"But there is one other thing I want to tell you. I have just found
out that Minnie told you she saw Gene leave the house that night, as
she was coming in. That is a mistake,--I didn't tell her so, because I
didn't know what difference it might make. But Gene was fast asleep on
the couch in the library when Minnie and I came into the house (and
that was three o'clock) so if she saw someone going off by the side
door just before, it wasn't Gene. You see, it was this way. When I ran
back to speak to the girl I thought was Minnie, I found it wasn't
Minnie but a friend of hers who works in the next house, and she said
Minnie had gone out but would be right back, so I went into the back
entry and waited for her, because I wouldn't go to Mrs. Whyte's when
she was having a party. And Minnie didn't come till three. When we got
in I saw a light in the library, and I went in, and there was Gene
asleep. I kissed him very softly but I didn't wake him up, because you
know how boys are, wanting their sisters to be so awfully dignified.
And though I was perfectly safe and comfortable waiting beside the
refrigerator, it wasn't exactly dignified, and Minnie was scared to
death about being found out. So I didn't wake Gene. And it has been a
great comfort ever since to me to remember how peaceful he looked,
because that shows he felt innocent in his mind and not with a guilty
conscience to keep him awake like Lady Macbeth.
"I can't say anything more, because I have promised over and over
again not to say a thing about the plan to save Gene, but I will just
say this,--If you should happen to hear that I was married, will you
please, _please_ understand and believe that it was to help Gene, and
that of course I must do anything for him.
"Yours faithfully" (a blot made it look like "tearfully"),
"JEAN BENBOW."
It was incoherent enough (except for the part about Gene, which
I put aside in my mind to think out later,) but one thing seemed
clear,--that she was married or about to be married, and that she had
been lured into this madness by some delusion that in this way she was
going to be able to help her brother. I glanced at the envelope. It
had not been through the mails.
"When and where did you get this, Barney?"
"Yisterday, yer honor. She brought it to me herself. An' she wanted to
bind me by great oaths out of a book that I wouldn't give it to you
till afther to-day had gone by. Sez I, How can I give it to him till
he comes here, an' his office man sez he won't be here for a week
yet,--for I had been to find out on my own account,--God forgive me
for deceivin' the innocent."
"It wasn't her letter, then, that made you telegraph, if you only got
it yesterday. Was there anything else?"
His eyes fell, and he shifted his weight on his crutch uneasily.
"I saw her cryin' and I knew she was carryin' sorrow," he said at
last, defiantly.
"When? Where? Tell me everything, can't you? Did you know anything of
her plan to be married? Do you know where she is?"
"I know only what I see,--an' that was that she was unhappy. It was
this way. She came by my stand many a time, asking this about you and
that about you, an' when would you be back, an' I cud see that there
was more on her heart than a gurrul like her should be carryin'. Then
one night I saw her cryin',--"
"Where?"
"'Twas in her own home, sure. Her head was down on the windy-sill, an'
it was dark, and she never mistrusted there was anybody about the
place watchin',--an' no more there was, seein' I wouldn't count an old
codger like meself anybody. She was sobbin' and talkin' aloud to
herself,--" He broke off and looked at me with fierce reproach. "I
telegraphed for ye then, sor."
"And I came at once. Then this letter,--she brought you this
yesterday?"
"That was it. An' if you hadn't come by this train, sor, I would have
opened it meself." He looked at me defiantly.
"She says here--at least, I think she means to say, that she is going
to be married,--and in mad foolishness. Wait till I see what I can
learn by telephone."
I got Mr. Ellison's house first. Mrs. Crosswell, who answered, was
sure that Miss Benbow was not at home, but did not have any idea where
she was. Did not know whether she had taken anything with her when she
left the house or not. I then called up Mrs. Whyte, explained that a
letter from Jean suggested a possible elopement, and begged her to go
over and see if she could find out where Jean went, when she left the
house, and whether she had taken any things that would indicate a
contemplated permanent departure. I then took my head in my hands and
thought, holding down the terror that surged up every other moment and
almost made thinking impossible. "If you hear that I am married," she
had said. Was it Garney? Never mind. Garney or anyone else, people
could not be married without certain preliminaries, without leaving
certain records. There must have been a license. I took Barney with me
in the cab, and we whirled up to the court house.
"Have you any record of issuing a marriage license for Jean Benbow
within the last few days?" I demanded of the clerk.
Why has the Lord made so many stupid people? My question had to be
handed on from one clerk to another and record after record after
record examined,--and here every wasted minute was wearing away this
"day," this critical day, over which Jean had wished her secret to be
kept. I held my watch in my hand while they searched. At last they
found it.
"Looks like Jack put this memorandum where it wouldn't be found too
easy," the successful searcher said significantly to his fuming
superior.
It was quite possible,--for the memorandum showed the issue of a
license for the marriage of Allen King Garney and Jean Benbow, and it
was dated the day before. She had stipulated with Barney that I should
not receive her letter till after to-day, which meant that this was
_the_ day. And here it was drawing toward five o'clock.
Then, out of the intense anxiety which fused all thought and feeling
into one passionate will to save her, came the inspiration. She had
said, on that drive when I took her and old William Jordan out into
the country, that if ever she were married it would be _there_, in the
vine-covered church of the old suburb where her mother had stood a
bride. The recollection was almost like a voice,--"Don't you
remember?" I did,--oh, I did! Every word, every look. My hand was
shaking as I turned the pages of the city directory, trying to
identify the church which I knew only by its location, and to discover
the name of its minister. Then I turned again to the telephone. There
was no connection with the church, but I succeeded at last in getting
the minister's house.
"No, Mr. Arnold is not at home," a gentle feminine voice answered. "He
has gone to the church to perform a marriage ceremony."
"Can you catch him?--stop him? Is it too late?" I cried desperately
over the wire.
"Oh, the wedding was at four o'clock," the shocked voice answered.
"Oh, is there anything wrong? I am sure Henry didn't know,--we thought
it so romantic, a secret wedding,--" I hung up the receiver regardless
of her emotions and went back to my cab on the run, while the
listening office force enjoyed the sensation.
"Go to the little church at the corner of Olympia and Hazel Streets,"
I said to the chauffeur, "and get there as soon as you can without
being arrested. _Get_ there."
Then I told Barney what I had discovered. There was no reasonable
ground for supposing that I would be in time to prevent disaster, yet
I must go on, even against reason. And surely Providence would
interfere to save her! I could so easily understand how she had been
misled. Garney had made her believe that he could help Gene. Perhaps
he had suggested that I was not giving the case proper attention. He
had offered some impossible assistance if she would marry him, and
she, with her romantic, schoolgirlish, unreal ideas of the way things
were done in the world, had consented all the more readily because it
involved a sacrifice on her part.
The cab swung up to the curb, I jumped up the church steps, and pushed
my way through the swinging baize doors. The room was dim, but I could
see a group of three before the altar,--Garney, yes; and the minister;
and Jean. They turned to look as I stormed down the aisle, and moved
slightly apart. I caught Jean's hands in mine and looked into her
eyes.
"Jean! Are you married?"
A mist of tears dimmed the brightness of her eyes. "Oh, I'm _glad_
you've come," she said, quiveringly.
Still holding her hands I turned to the minister. "Have you married
these two, sir?"
"Not yet. The young lady appears to have been detained,--"
"I took the wrong car! I was just explaining,--"
For a moment the room swam before my eyes. I was in time!
"It was just an accident," Jean was saying. "Then when I found I was
wrong, I came back as soon as possible and--now I am ready!"
"Ready!" I crushed her hands until she drew them away with a
little gasp. I turned impatiently to Garney, who stood motionless,
white-faced, watching her. Of course he knew the game was up, but he
did not move.
"Go!" I said. "I'll settle with you later."
I don't know whether he heard me. His eyes were fixed upon Jean with
mingled anger, longing, and despair.
"You waited till he should come! You left word for him to follow you!"
he said pantingly. "In spite of your promises, you never meant to keep
your word. You do not care about your brother. You thought you could
trick me--"
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, breaking from me and going to him with hands
extended. "I am here! I am ready. I will marry you now,--"
"Jean!" I cried.
"You don't understand," she said, turning breathlessly to me. "He is
going to help us save Gene. He knows something,--he said he would tell
me if we were married,--"
"Nonsense. It was a trick. If Mr. Garney has any information that will
benefit your brother,--"
"He might hand it over to you, I suppose!" Garney said with a sneer.
"Very well, I will. Investigate that ex-convict that you keep in your
office. You may find something that will be of interest. But if you
hadn't come--" He moistened his dry lips, then turned abruptly and
walked up the aisle. I saw that he tried to hurry, but he walked
unsteadily and steadied himself by the pews. I once saw a gambler who
had staked everything on a desperate game, and lost, stagger like that
from the room.
"What did he mean about an ex-convict?" Jean asked in a shocked voice.
"Not Mr. Fellows? And what would he have to do with it?"
"Nothing," I said promptly, putting certain uncomfortable
recollections out of my mind. "Don't you see that Mr. Garney was
merely deceiving you? He had nothing to tell, no help to give you. He
merely wanted to marry you. Jean, Jean! How could you do so mad a
thing?"
"For Gene!" she said reproachfully. "Why, I'd do anything. And Mr.
Garney said he surely would tell me when we were married, and if I
cared for Gene I would do it. He wouldn't tell me beforehand, because
he--he doesn't like you!" She dropped her eyes in delicious confusion.
"You see, he is--_jealous_ of you! He didn't want me to wear this!"
She touched the locket she wore on a chain about her neck,--the locket
I had given her just before leaving Saintsbury.
"How did he know I had given you the locket?" I asked.
"I don't know. He just guessed." She looked shy and conscious--and
charming. But something puzzled me.
"You didn't tell him? You are sure of that?"
"Why, yes," she said, looking surprised. "I never told anybody. Not
anybody at all. It was a kind of a--secret."
How do ideas come to us? I thought I was wholly absorbed in Jean, and
was conscious merely of a desire to soothe and calm her by taking
things naturally, but now something seemed to nudge my attention and
to urge, "Don't you see what that means? Don't you see? Don't you
see?"
I did see--in a flash. That locket! It had not been out of my locked
desk until I gave it to Jean, except once,--the night of Barker's
murder. I had taken it to Mrs. Whyte's that evening, and had shown the
portrait to Miss Thurston for a minute. I was sure she had not even
seen the outside of the case, which was out of my hand but a moment.
But later that evening, while I sat in Barker's office waiting, I had
taken the locket from my pocket and had sat under the gaslight
examining it--in full view of the concealed murderer who had watched
me from the dark inner room, and who, a few minutes later, shot Barker
from that same concealment. The whole thing flashed before my mind.
"Wait here," I said, and dashed for the door by which Garney had left.
He was a block away, evidently waiting for a street car which I could
see approaching.
"Take me down to that car," I said to the chauffeur, and we were off
at the word. Barney was still in the cab. "You go back with the cab,
Barney, and take Miss Benbow home. I must see Garney before he gets
away."
We reached the street just as the car, which had halted to take on
Garney, started up again. I sprang from the step of the cab to the
rear platform of the car. Garney turned and looked at me with surprise
that changed quickly to anger.
"Are you following me?" he demanded under his breath.
"I told you we should have to have a settlement."
"Settle what? You've won," he said, with a shrug. He went inside,
while I remained on the platform, thinking out a plan of action. When
the conductor came for my fare I said a few words to him. He looked
amazed.
"When we pass a policeman, slow up a bit," I continued. "If the man
tries to get off before we pick up an officer, help me stop him.
That's all."
We swung around a corner, saw a policeman standing outside the
curb,--and the car stopped without signal. I jumped off and explained
the situation to him in a word. He at once boarded the waiting car
with me and approached the unconscious Garney.
"You're wanted," he said quietly.
Garney rose, furious but also frightened. He looked at me.
"What damn foolishness is this?" he said, trying to bluster. "I
haven't time for any nonsense. I have to catch a train. I'm going
away."
"Come on, and don't make a disturbance," the officer said.
"But I tell you it is a mistake. You'll suffer for it. It is not a
criminal offense to try to get married."
"Perhaps not," I said, taking the word from the police officer without
warrant. "You are under arrest because I charge you with the murder of
Alfred Barker."
I never saw a man faint before. He crumpled up like a collapsed
balloon. We lifted him to the sidewalk so that the car could go on,
and the patrolman called up the wagon. But before Garney came back to
consciousness, I had lifted the moustached lip that masked his narrow
jaw. The crowded teeth were pushed out on each side to form a V,
exactly like the model made from the apple bitten in Barker's office.