If George Knew
After a hasty and solitary lunch Storm returned to his office, and
forcing all other thoughts aside he devoted himself throughout the
long afternoon to getting his books and files in order to hand over to
Sherwood the next day. He had always been as methodical as a machine
in the affairs of the trust company, and his task itself was not
difficult, although he found it no easy matter to concentrate, and his
head ached dully.
The first real heat of the summer had come in a blaze of tropic
intensity which seemed to rise in blasting waves from the baking
streets, and as Storm worked he felt a strange lassitude creeping over
him. What if he were to be ill? That was one consideration which had
not occurred to him, and, stifling as he was, a chill seemed to strike
at the core of his being. Illness might mean delirium, and in delirium
men babbled of the most secret, hidden things! He imagined himself
lying inert and helpless, the guard of consciousness loosed from his
tongue, his disordered brain stealing back over the forbidden hours of
the past; and in fancy he could hear the words which should spell his
doom issuing from his fevered lips.
It must not come to pass! By sheer force of will alone he must not
permit himself to fall ill, at least until he had left the city and
all who knew him forever behind; until he was in a strange land, where
his very language would not be understood!
Bright spots were dancing before his eyes, and the pain in his head
had increased; but by a supreme effort he flung off the lethargy which
had settled upon him and completed his task. The building was almost
deserted when he made his way out at last; the rush hour had started,
and he turned disgustedly from the swarms of wilted, wearied toilers
who blocked the entrance to elevated staircases and subways. Thank God
that to-morrow would be his last day of all this!
Sunset had brought no relief, and the reeking asphalt seemed to melt
and sink beneath his feet as he dragged himself over to the Square for
a taxi. Was it only the heat that was affecting him so strangely or
could it be really illness after all? Would Homachi find him in the
morning muttering and raving at the two shadowy figures which delirium
would bring to stand at his bedside? Would strange doctors come to
listen and wonder and finally summon the police?
Shuddering with horror at the vision, Storm climbed into the first
open taxi that he saw and giving his Riverside Drive address, sank
back against the cushions with closed eyes. He felt that never in his
life had he so wanted human companionship, not even on that night when
he had encountered Jack Horton in the rain; yet he dared not summon
anyone. George would drop his affairs with Abbott and come, of course,
but George was the last person in the world whom he would want near if
he were not to be in full possession of his faculties. There was no
one he could trust; he stood alone! In health and strength, with the
guard of reticence about him, he could walk among men, but at the
first weakening, the first inkling of the truth all mankind would be
upon him like a pack of wolves, tearing him down!
As the taxi turned into the Drive at length a breath of cooler air
blew up from the river, and when they reached the door of his
apartment house Storm felt more at ease, although his head still
throbbed and a weight seemed dragging at his limbs.
His rooms, as he let himself in with his latchkey, were dim and cool
and inviting, and with a shiver of distaste at the thought of food he
threw himself across the bed and almost at once fell into a heavy,
troubled sleep.
When he awoke the moonlight was flooding the room, casting vague,
fantastic shadows in the corners and grouping them about the head of
his bed. Storm sat up, bewildered. His throat felt drawn and parched,
his head ached splittingly and a vague but insistent craving assailed
him.
Then he remembered and got weakly to his feet. He had had no dinner,
nothing since that hasty, unappetizing noonday meal. He groped his way
to the light switch in the living-room and turning it on, blinked
dazedly at the clock. It was after midnight! He must have lain for
many hours in that exhausted sleep as if drugged.
But he felt better, at any rate; the lassitude was gone and his head
was clearer, even though it ached. He would be all right in the
morning. . . .
Foraging about, he found bread and cheese in the pantry and milk and
fruit in the ice chest and upon these he made a simple but satisfying
meal.
It was cooler; there was no doubt about it. A freshening breeze was
sweeping up from the river and blowing in the curtains at the
living-room windows.
Storm decided impulsively upon a stroll before turning in again. He
had not indulged in one of his nocturnal walks since that momentous
one with Jack Horton the week before; but he need not bring that back
too vividly by venturing in the same direction, and his throbbing head
demanded the fresh night air. Why should he think of Horton now? Last
week was past and dead, as dead as last month, as this whole,
wretched, nerve-racking time would be a year from now when he would be
far away, and all of this forgotten!
Yet when he reached the path he found his feet insensibly turning
toward the incline beyond the viaduct, around that turn where the
ground sloped so sharply down from the wall. With returning strength
the impulse came to test himself, to see if he had sufficient nerve to
stroll past that spot where in the darkness he had struck that single,
sure blow. Why not? Surely no suspicion could attach to him for that!
It was public property, the path was free to all and there would be
nothing strange about a midnight stroll after the terrific heat of the
day should anyone chance to cross his path.
Could he do it? Could he bring himself to walk slowly, steadily up
that incline, to pass without faltering that place against the wall
where Horton’s body had crumpled; to go on without a backward glance
into the shadows that would lurk behind? Surely no other man in the
world would dare such a supreme test of his fortitude, his strength!
Could he see it through?
Storm threw back his shoulders and with measured, determined tread
started upon the path. The moon was sinking behind a cloud, the breeze
blew in sharper, angrier gusts and the stir in the treetops had become
a sibilant, whispering chorus. It might be that a storm was brewing,
but it would not come until long after he was safe at home again, and
he was rather glad that the moon’s eerie light was fading; it had a
tricky way of bringing unfamiliar angles into sharp relief, casting
weird shadows to creep after one, filling one with a senseless desire
to walk faster, to glance behind. . . .
Here was where they had walked when Horton boasted so about his girl!
What a complacent, self-satisfied creature he had been! Common, too;
how a few years of roughing it brought out the bourgeois streak in a
man! Everything about him had grated, repelled; his swagger, his
laugh, the animal-like gusto with which he ate and drank and smoked.
What a boor!
Yonder was the street lamp and here the place where Storm himself had
halted ostensibly to light a cigarette, but in reality to wait until
the approaching figure of the policeman should have advanced into the
surrounding shadows. There was no policeman to-night; no living thing
seemed to be abroad save himself, and the path ahead looked all at
once lonely and foreboding.
It rose sharply now; he had reached the foot of the incline. This was
where Horton had first suggested going back, and he had argued for the
sight of the river steamer when she came around the turn. Horton had
been descanting on his future with the Mid-Eastern people; his future,
which had come to an end there ahead where the wall sloped! He had
been so sure of himself!
But surely the wind was rising! These summer showers came up with
amazing suddenness; perhaps it would be as well——?
No! Storm shook himself angrily and plodded doggedly on. He would make
no weak excuses to himself, pander to no womanish impulse to evade.
This was a moral test and he would see it through!
It was just here that the automobile had appeared, roaring and
careening down the road. What fools the authorities were to make such
a point of its wild progress! Even old George, dense as he was, had
seen the improbability of its connection with that night’s event.
There was the turn in the path just ahead, where the shadows lay
thickest. Storm could feel the moisture gathering beneath the band of
his hat, and it seemed to him that an ever-increasing weight was
attached to his feet, dragging them back. The whisper in the trees had
changed to a rising moan, and the swaying branches threw clutching
shadows out across the path.
Here was the spot, at last! Here was where he had suggested that
Horton look to see if the steamer were coming, where he himself had
stepped back, rasping a dead match against his cigarette case that the
other might hear and not wonder why his companion loitered; where he
had gripped that heavy cane part way down its length, where he had
raised it—— A-ah!
A sharp, hissing gasp escaped from Storm’s lips, to be caught up and
carried away on a gust of wind, and he halted, staring at the figure
which had seemed to rise from nowhere to confront him.
Then for a fleeting instant a rift in the cloud wrack sent a streak of
pale moonlight shimmering down, and by its glow Storm saw the familiar
blue uniform of a policeman.
“Good-evening, Officer.” Was that his own voice, that casually cordial
drawl?
“’Evening, sir.” The other’s tone was civil enough, but was not his
glance a trifle too keen, too questioning?
“Looks as though we were going to have a storm.”
“It does that, sir.”
What was the fellow waiting for? Why didn’t he go on about his
business? Storm felt that he himself could not move. He seemed held to
the spot as by invisible chains. Why was the policeman eying him so
strangely?
“I’ve walked further than I meant, myself, but I guess I’ll get home
before it starts.” He forced a laugh. “Couldn’t sleep and came out for
a stroll and then remembered about that murder last week; thought I’d
have a look at the spot, but I can’t seem to find it from the
newspaper description. It happened somewhere about here, didn’t it,
Officer?”
“_Just_ here, sir. You’re standing on the very spot now,” the
policeman responded with emphasis. “See that place on the wall there
by the bush? That’s where they figure the body was thrown over. As for
the murder itself: well, it’s not come out yet where that was done,
but ’twas just down from here that the body was found.”
“Indeed! Are you sure?” Storm assumed an unconsciously clever
imitation of Millard’s eager curiosity.
“I ought to be, sir! I’ve pointed it out enough of times since.” There
was a touch of weariness in the official’s tones. “What with them
operatives from the private agency, and the coal company’s men, to say
nothing of the nuts and cranks——”
He paused significantly and Storm took up the cue.
“I’m coming back here in the daytime; I’ve a theory of my own about
this case!” he announced confidentially. “Let me see; I’ll know the
spot by that clump of trees and the bench. You know, Officer——”
“Excuse _me_, sir!” the policeman interrupted in utter boredom. “I’ve
got to be getting on down my beat.”
“I’ll walk on with you,” proposed Storm equably. “I live down the
Drive a bit and it is too dark for me to poke around up here now.”
The other accepted his companionship with resignation, and they
started down the path while Storm inwardly congratulated himself upon
the skill with which he had handled the situation. It was unique,
unheard-of! That he, the murderer, should encounter an officer of the
law on the very scene of his crime, successfully foster the belief
that he was a harmless crank and presently slip through that
official’s fingers——! Oh, it was colossal!
“I’ve read every word the papers have printed about this affair,” he
went on, still in that guileless, confidential tone. “I can’t conceive
why the body wasn’t found before.”
“Reason enough!” the officer asserted with warmth. “There’s no path
down there, nothing but a steep slope of shale and bushes between the
wall and the railroad tracks, and no one’s ever along there but a
track walker now and then. There’s a dump and two docks near, but the
road leads down from under the Drive at the viaduct. If it hadn’t been
for them boys playing around, the body mightn’t have been found till
Christmas, and no blame to the Department!”
Every nerve in Storm’s body shook with the tension, and he could feel
the sweat starting from his pores; but they had left that spot behind
and every slow, swinging step took them further from it. He had no
intention of permitting the policeman to note the street near which he
lived; a few blocks further on and he would take leave of him and cut
across the Drive. A few blocks—but he must play up, he must not drop
his rôle for an instant.
“I don’t think that automobile that the papers make so much of had
anything to do with it, do you, Officer?” he asked in a loquacious
tone, adding: “A friend of mine has a friend at Headquarters who told
him that two men were seen walking together on the Drive here only a
little before the time when the murder was supposed to have been
committed, and one of them——”
“Say!” the other interrupted disgustedly. “Some guy at Headquarters
must have a mighty big mouth! You’re the second that’s been after me
about that!”
“After you!” Storm repeated.
“Sure. I’m the one seen them,” the policeman retorted. “And what of
it? I’ve had no orders since I’ve been on the Force to interfere with
two respectable-appearing gentlemen walking along cold sober and
peaceable, and minding their own business, just as you come to be out
here to-night yourself, sir! They’d no more to do with the murder than
you had! Of course, when the body was found I had to report them, but
that would have been the end of it if some guy down there hadn’t been
shooting his mouth off!”
“But if you are the officer who passed them,” Storm insisted, “my
friend says he was told that your description of one of them fitted
the dead man——”
“As it would fit any big, well-built fellow you met in the dark!” the
policeman snorted contemptuously. “Besides, as far as I made out from
a passing look at him he was wearing a cap of some kind. There was
none found anywhere near the dead man, and his own hat was hid away in
that bag down at the Grand Central Station. If that boob at
Headquarters——”
“But the other man who was with him——?” Storm steadied his voice
carefully. “Did you get a good look at him, Officer? What was he
like?”
“Look here, what are you after, anyway?” the policeman demanded in
exasperation. “What’s it to you? I’m not here on my beat to be
answering questions and I had enough last night with that little fat
guy pestering me for an hour! I’ve nothing to say, sir! Go to the
friend of your friend at Headquarters and get what you can out of
him!”
‘Last night—little fat guy’! The words struck Storm with the force of
a blow, and he recalled that the officer had complained only a few
minutes before: ‘You’re the second that has been after me’! Who could
that other have been? Not Millard, surely! He voiced the doubt aloud:
“It couldn’t have been my friend who bothered you about it last night,
Officer. He’s getting stout, but he is not short.”
“Well, this guy was, and with a big bald spot on top, too, as I saw
when he took off his hat to wipe his forehead under the lamp there! He
kept squinting at me with his near-sighted eyes and jotting down what
I said in a little book till I felt as if I was up before the Board!”
The officer’s tone had grown slightly mollified. “You’ll excuse me for
being short with you, sir, but this thing happening on my beat and all
has made me fair sick. I’ve not eyes on the back of my head nor yet
the kind that can see in the dark, and I can’t be in two places at
once! You’d think to hear some of the knocks I’ve had right in my own
platoon that I’d been asleep on the job!”
‘Bald—nearsighted——!’ George! The questioner had been George
Holworthy!
“I don’t know how you could be expected to see a dead man being
brought to that spot on the hill up there and dumped over the wall if
you were down—well, here, say,” Storm remarked consolingly, but his
tone was absent. He must get away from his companion at once; he must
be alone to think.
“Great Scott, I’ve passed my street and I believe—yes, it’s beginning
to rain! Good night, Officer! I’m glad of this little talk——”
“Don’t mention it, sir!” The other’s words had been balm to his sore
spirit, and the policeman beamed. “Good night, sir!”
Storm crossed the Drive, and despite the rain which came pattering
down in a quickening shower he turned north again to make good his
statement. At the end of the block he halted beneath a jutting cornice
and waited until he calculated that the policeman must be a safe
distance away, then retraced his steps and hurried on down the Drive
to his own rooms, heedless of the torrent which drenched him.
So Millard was right! George had become a ‘bug’ about the Horton case!
Storm recalled that at the dinner on Tuesday, when Millard told of the
encounter on the Drive with the two men which the policeman had
reported, George had announced that he would like to talk with the
officer. Millard said he could be found on his beat at about the same
time on any night, and George had evidently taken him at his word. He
must have hunted up the policeman immediately after leaving Storm’s
rooms on the previous night. What could have put the impulse into his
head? For a wonder, the murder had not even been mentioned between the
two during the entire evening.
Why had he not announced his intention? Storm could not conceive of
deliberate reticence on the part of old George! No, he couldn’t have
planned it; he probably ran into the policeman by accident after he
left the house, and remembering the incident which Millard had
described he must have plied him with questions until the good-natured
official writhed.
Yet he had jotted down the replies in a little book, and in the
morning he had called up Millard for further information as to the
name of newspapers found in Horton’s bag. He could not have an inkling
of the truth, of course. It must be as Storm had concluded that
morning; that George, still adhering to his theory of the murder
having been a one-man job, was seeking to confirm it in his own mind
before trying to locate some recent associate or crony of Horton’s who
might have been with him on that night.
He would never reach the true solution, of course, but it was just as
well, all things considered, that he was to be dragged away on that
fishing trip and compelled to drop his self-imposed rôle of
investigator until the police themselves relegated the case to the
shelf.
Storm had removed his dripping garments, and arrayed himself in his
pajamas, and as he turned off the light and went to bed a thought came
which made him smile grimly in the darkness.
He had done it twice, and gotten away with it. He could do it a third
time! If George knew, if George betrayed the least sign of being on
the right track, then he, too, must be eliminated!
Up there in the woods alone Storm could sound him, could analyze every
word and inflection and look; there would be no habitation near, no
one within sight or hearing for days. If murder could be so simply,
successfully accomplished here in the heart of the city, what mere
child’s play it would be up in there in the wilderness!
He chuckled aloud, unconscious that he was giving audible voice to his
reflections:
“One thing is sure; nothing must interfere with that trip! _I’ve got
to go fishing with George!_”