AT THE TABLE NEXT
McKnight and Hotchkiss were sauntering slowly down the road as I caught
up with them. As usual, the little man was busy with some abstruse
mental problem.
“The idea is this,” he was saying, his brows knitted in thought, “if a
left-handed man, standing in the position of the man in the picture,
should jump from a car, would he be likely to sprain his right ankle?
When a right-handed man prepares for a leap of that kind, my theory is
that he would hold on with his right hand, and alight at the proper
time, on his right foot. Of course—”
“I imagine, although I don’t know,” interrupted McKnight, “that a man
either ambidextrous or one-armed, jumping from the Washington Flier,
would be more likely to land on his head.”
“Anyhow,” I interposed, “what difference does it make whether Sullivan
used one hand or the other? One pair of handcuffs will put both hands
out of commission.”
As usual when one of his pet theories was attacked, Hotchkiss looked
aggrieved.
“My dear sir,” he expostulated, “don’t you understand what bearing this
has on the case? How was the murdered man lying when he was found?”
“On his back,” I said promptly, “head toward the engine.”
“Very well,” he retorted, “and what then? Your heart lies under your
fifth intercostal space, and to reach it a right-handed blow would have
struck either down or directly in.
“But, gentleman, the point of entrance for the stiletto was below the
heart, striking up! As Harrington lay with his head toward the engine,
a person in the aisle must have used the left hand.”
McKnight’s eyes sought mine and he winked at me solemnly as I
unostentatiously transferred the hat I was carrying to my right hand.
Long training has largely counterbalanced heredity in my case, but I
still pitch ball, play tennis and carve with my left hand. But
Hotchkiss was too busy with his theories to notice me.
We were only just in time for our train back to Baltimore, but McKnight
took advantage of a second’s delay to shake the station agent warmly by
the hand.
“I want to express my admiration for you,” he said beamingly. “Ability
of your order is thrown away here. You should have been a city
policeman, my friend.”
The agent looked a trifle uncertain.
“The young lady was the one who told me to keep still,” he said.
McKnight glanced at me, gave the agent’s hand a final shake, and
climbed on board. But I knew perfectly that he had guessed the reason
for my delay.
He was very silent on the way home. Hotchkiss, too, had little to say.
He was reading over his notes intently, stopping now and then to make a
penciled addition. Just before we left the train Richey turned to me.
“I suppose it was the key to the door that she tied to the gate?”
“Probably. I did not ask her.”
“Curious, her locking that fellow in,” he reflected.
“You may depend on it, there was a good reason for it all. And I wish
you wouldn’t be so suspicious of motives, Rich,” I said warmly.
“Only yesterday you were the suspicious one,” he retorted, and we
lapsed into strained silence.
It was late when we got to Washington. One of Mrs. Klopton’s small
tyrannies was exacting punctuality at meals, and, like several other
things, I respected it. There are always some concessions that should
be made in return for faithful service.
So, as my dinner hour of seven was long past, McKnight and I went to a
little restaurant down town where they have a very decent way of fixing
chicken _a la_ King. Hotchkiss had departed, economically bent, for a
small hotel where he lived on the American plan.
“I want to think some things over,” he said in response to my
invitation to dinner, “and, anyhow, there’s no use dining out when I
pay the same, dinner or no dinner, where I am stopping.”
The day had been hot, and the first floor dining-room was sultry in
spite of the palms and fans which attempted to simulate the verdure and
breezes of the country.
It was crowded, too, with a typical summer night crowd, and, after
sitting for a few minutes in a sweltering corner, we got up and went to
the smaller dining-room up-stairs. Here it was not so warm, and we
settled ourselves comfortably by a window.
Over in a corner half a dozen boys on their way back to school were
ragging a perspiring waiter, a proceeding so exactly to McKnight’s
taste that he insisted on going over to join them. But their table was
full, and somehow that kind of fun had lost its point for me.
Not far from us a very stout, middle-aged man, apoplectic with the
heat, was elephantinely jolly for the benefit of a bored-looking girl
across the table from him, and at the next table a newspaper woman ate
alone, the last edition propped against the water-bottle before her,
her hat, for coolness, on the corner of the table. It was a motley
Bohemian crowd.
I looked over the room casually, while McKnight ordered the meal. Then
my attention was attracted to the table next to ours. Two people were
sitting there, so deep in conversation that they did not notice us. The
woman’s face was hidden under her hat, as she traced the pattern of the
cloth mechanically with her fork. But the man’s features stood out
clear in the light of the candles on the table. It was Bronson!
“He shows the strain, doesn’t he?” McKnight said, holding up the wine
list as if he read from it. “Who’s the woman?”
“Search me,” I replied, in the same way.
When the chicken came, I still found myself gazing now and then at the
abstracted couple near me. Evidently the subject of conversation was
unpleasant. Bronson was eating little, the woman not at all. Finally he
got up, pushed his chair back noisily, thrust a bill at the waiter and
stalked out.
The woman sat still for a moment; then, with an apparent resolution to
make the best of it, she began slowly to eat the meal before her.
But the quarrel had taken away her appetite, for the mixture in our
chafing-dish was hardly ready to serve before she pushed her chair back
a little and looked around the room.
I caught my first glimpse of her face then, and I confess it startled
me. It was the tall, stately woman of the Ontario, the woman I had last
seen cowering beside the road, rolling pebbles in her hand, blood
streaming from a cut over her eye. I could see the scar now, a little
affair, about an inch long, gleaming red through its layers of powder.
And then, quite unexpectedly, she turned and looked directly at me.
After a minute’s uncertainty, she bowed, letting her eyes rest on mine
with a calmly insolent stare. She glanced at McKnight for a moment,
then back to me. When she looked away again I breathed easier.
“Who is it?” asked McKnight under his breath.
“Ontario.” I formed it with my lips rather than said it. McKnight’s
eyebrows went up and he looked with increased interest at the
black-gowned figure.
I ate little after that. The situation was rather bad for me, I began
to see. Here was a woman who could, if she wished, and had any motive
for so doing, put me in jail under a capital charge. A word from her to
the police, and polite surveillance would become active interference.
Then, too, she could say that she had seen me, just after the wreck,
with a young woman from the murdered man’s car, and thus probably bring
Alison West into the case.
It is not surprising, then, that I ate little. The woman across seemed
in no hurry to go. She loitered over a demi-tasse, and that finished,
sat with her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, looking darkly
at the changing groups in the room.
The fun at the table where the college boys sat began to grow a little
noisy; the fat man, now a purplish shade, ambled away behind his slim
companion; the newspaper woman pinned on her business-like hat and
stalked out. Still the woman at the next table waited.
It was a relief when the meal was over. We got our hats and were about
to leave the room, when a waiter touched me on the arm.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but the lady at the table near the
window, the lady in black, sir, would like to speak to you.”
I looked down between the rows of tables to where the woman sat alone,
her chin still resting on her hand, her black eyes still insolently
staring, this time at me.
“I’ll have to go,” I said to McKnight hurriedly. “She knows all about
that affair and she’d be a bad enemy.”
“I don’t like her lamps,” McKnight observed, after a glance at her.
“Better jolly her a little. Good-by.”