Hindmann. He has large interests in vaudeville theaters through the
Middle West.
As we chatted, my share in this strange drama of Crocker's life and
death seemed to be clearing itself up in my mind and taking form as
a narrative. Hindmann had advised me to tell everything to the
Consul-General. I was wondering how I could ever do it. For one moment
I even thought of handing him my journal and asking him to read it.
The next moment, of course, I realized how impossible it would be to do
that--for this most intimately personal of my belongings is no longer
mine; it is more than a part Heloise's. And the story I tell the
Consul-General must be only my story.
Not an easy thing to do--disentangle my share in the tragic business
from Heloise's and my joint share, and tell only that much while still
telling the truth! It is a little out of my line, this lawyer-like sort
of thinking.
I must have appeared rather distrait to Hindmann. But if I did, he
ignored it. He just sat and smoked--a comfortably fat, round-faced man
with shrewd, steady eyes--and talked along in an easy manner. He told me
a good deal about his vaudeville business, I remember, and the curious
problems that are constantly arising out of the invasion of the
entertainment field by the moving pictures. I think I expressed some
interest, now and then, even asked an intelligent question or two; but
all the time that story was arranging and rearranging itself in the back
of my head.
Finally I found myself beginning to tell bits of it to him. After all,
why not? He would hear most of it anyway, before night. Then, after
a little, it all came rushing out; and I realized that I was making a
confidant of this fat man. It had to be, I think. Surely every human
being, at certain intense moments of his life, needs a confidant. And
I suppose there is never any telling, in a given case, what sort of
individual will be chosen for the trust. Crocker chose me--and Sir
Robert! I chose Mr. Hindmann, of Cincinnati... sitting there in a corner
of the lounge of the _Hôtel Wagon-lits_, talking in a low voice in order
that the little groups of American and British folk and Germans might
not hear the details of the love that has so very nearly' torn my life
to pieces. The usual row of Chinese merchants were over against the
wall, I remember, with their glorious display of embroidered silk coats
and skirts and scarves and squares hung higher than their heads. Once
a great Mandarin walked by and bowed impersonally to us, attended by a
dozen or more of lesser Mandarins who bowed in their turn; and they all
wore stiff-fitting frock coats, and American shoes, and silk hats that
came down almost to the tops of their ears!
Hindmann said very little--just listened, and smoked. Then, when I had
finished, he turned away, looked rather steadily out the window, and
muttered something about its being a queer world.
Later on, when it was about time for the Consul-General to arrive, he
advised me to tell only of my earlier acquaintance with Crocker, of his
drinking and his declared intent to do murder, of my happening to be
on the stairway in the _Hôtel de Chine_ when he came running up with a
knife in his hand--and the rest in full.
“But,” I protested, “the Consul-General will suspect. There are too many
coincidences in that story.”
“Of course there are,” said Hindmann. “And of course he'll see through
them. He was n't born yesterday. But he won't say anything about that.
Neither will you. And there you are.”
The Consul-General, with his secretary, arrived at four o'clock. He took
possession at once of Crocker's effects, locked them in his room and put
a seal on the door. Then he called all of us before him in the manager's
private office--the two hotel men, Hindmann and myself--and in the
course of an hour's steady questioning drew out the story.
After which I and the hotel men withdrew, leaving him with Hindmann for
another hour. I don't know what was said; Hindmann has not referred to
it since. But a messenger was sent to the Legation and I know that the
Consul-General himself did some telephoning.
One curious fact came out during the examination in the manager's
office. Before the automobile had got out of the little Chinese street
on the way from the _Hôtel de Chine_, Crocker borrowed a pencil
and wrote a few hasty sentences on the back of an envelope. The
Consul-General asked for the paper; but no one had thought to look for
it. It proved not to be in Crocker's pockets. The automobile was called;
and there, sure enough, it was, on the floor of the tonneau, just where
he had dropped it.
He had written--“Don't send me home. Bury me in China.” It was dated,
and signed. The Consul-General thought this over and finally suggested
a temporary interment at Tientsin, unless Mrs. Crocker should have other
plans. He said that the matter of a lot could easily be arranged.
Hindmann told me at dinner that the Consul-General is perplexed over
Heloise's standing in the matter. While outwardly he is considerate to a
fault, he explained privately to Hindmann that he can not recognize her
in any official way. He is going to send Crocker's effects home under
seal, for the courts to dispose of as they may decide. He suggests that
Heloise employ counsel to look after her interest in his property. There
is, of course, no hurry about this; it will be a year, or two, or three,
before the estate can be wound up.
Hindmann was right about the newspaper correspondents. It seems that
several of the largest American papers have their own men here. The
great news agencies are represented, of course. And all these men got at
us to-day.
I find this experience perhaps the most disturbing of all. They are
very insistent, these reporters. They make me curiously uncomfortable.
Underlying all their questions is a morbid eagerness to uncover a
sensation, to make their “stories” as thrilling as possible. Several
of them, I think, firmly believe that Crocker was murdered. They
have picked up something of his recent history. They know that he was
pursuing Heloise, and that he was drinking. Fortunately, none of them
appears to connect me with the story in any intimate way. They are all
on the trail of that other man, the man with whom she came to China. I
realized to-day the curious fact that I do not so much as know the name
of that man I am glad I don't.
But they will have to accept our version, I believe--the simple fact
that Crocker took his own life in a fit of despondency. There are only
seven persons alive who know further details, and only four who know the
whole story.
Two of the reporters forced their way to Heloise this evening. It was
just after eight. I was in the lounge, waiting for Hindmann. I could n't
bear to think of dinner, but was trying to drink some coffee and eat
a little toast. The usual evening crowd was swarming about me, talking
every language under the sun. A China boy brought a chit. It was just a
line asking me if I could come upstairs, signed “H.”