BROMFIELD MAKES AN OFFER
A youth with a face like a fox sidled up to Durand in the hotel lobby
and whispered in his ear. Jerry nodded curtly, and the man slipped
away as furtively as he had come.
Presently the ex-prize-fighter got up, sauntered to the street, and
hailed a taxi. Twenty minutes later he paid the driver, turned a
corner, and passed into an apartment house for bachelors. He took the
elevator to the third floor and rang an electric bell at a door which
carried the name "Mr. Clarendon Bromfield."
From the man who came to the door Mr. Bromfield's visitor learned that
he was not well and could receive no callers.
"Just mention the Omnium Club, and say I'm here on very important
business," said Jerry with a sour grin.
The reference served as a password. Jerry was admitted to meet a host
quite unable to control his alarm. At sight of his visitor Bromfield
jumped up angrily. As soon as his man had gone he broke out in a
subdued scream.
"You rotten traitor! Get out of my room, or I'll call the police."
Durand found a comfortable chair, drew a case from his pocket, and
selected a cigar. He grinned with evil mirth.
"You will, eh? Like hell you will. You're hidin' from the cops this
blessed minute. I've just found out myself where you live."
"You took my money and threw me down. You hired a gunman to kill me."
"Now, what would I do that for? I hadn't a thing in the world against
you, an' I haven't now."
"That damned ruffian shot at me. He was still shooting when I struck
him with the chair," cried Bromfield, his voice shaking.
"He didn't know it was you--mistook you for Lindsay in the darkness."
"My God, I didn't mean to kill him. I had to do something."
"You did it all right."
"I told you there wasn't to be any violence. It was explicitly stated.
You promised. And all the time you were planning murder. I'll tell
all I know. By God, I will."
"Go easy, Mr. Bromfield," snarled Jerry. "If you do, where do ye think
you'll get off at?"
"I'll go to the police and tell them your hired gunman was shooting at
us."
"Will you now? An' I'll have plenty of good witnesses to swear he
wasn't." Durand bared his teeth in a threat. "That's not all either.
I'll tie you up with the rube from the West and send you up to Sing
Sing as accessory. How'd you like that?"
"If I tell the truth--"
"You'll be convicted of murder in place of him and he'll go up as
accessory. I don't care two straws how it is. But you'd be a damned
fool. I'll say that for you."
"I'm not going to let an innocent man suffer in my place. It wouldn't
be playing the game."
Durand leaned forward and tapped the table with his finger-tips. His
voice rasped like a file. "You can't save him. He's goin' to get it
right. But you can hurt yourself a hell of a lot. Get out of the
country and stay out till it's over with. That's the best thing you
can do. Go to the Hawaiian Islands, man. That's a good healthy
climate an' the hotel cooking's a lot better than it is at Sing Sing."
"I can't do it," moaned the clubman. "My God, man, if it ever came
out--that I'd paid you money to--to--ruin his reputation, and that I'd
run away when I could have saved an innocent man--I'd be done for. I'd
be kicked out of every club I'm in."
"It won't ever come out if you're not here. But if you force my
hand--well, that's different." Again Jerry's grin slit his colorless
face. He had this poor devil where he wanted him, and he was enjoying
himself.
"What do you want me to do, then?" cried Bromfield, tiny beads of
perspiration on his forehead.
"You'll do as I say--beat it outa the country till the thing's over
with."
"But Lindsay will talk."
"The boob's padlocked his mouth. For some fool reason he's protectin'
you. Get out, an' you're safe."
Bromfield sweated blood as he walked up and down the room looking for a
way out of his dilemma. He had come to the parting of the road again.
If he did this thing he would be a yellow cur. It was one thing to
destroy Lindsay's influence with Beatrice by giving her a false
impression. From his point of view their friendship was pernicious
anyhow and ought to be wiped out. At most the cattleman would have
gone back unhurt to the Arizona desert he was always talking about.
Nobody there would care about what had happened to him in New York.
But to leave him, an innocent man, to go to his death because he was
too chivalrous to betray his partner in an adventure--this was
something that even Bromfield's atrophied conscience revolted at. Clay
was standing by him, according to Durand's story. The news of it
lifted a weight from his soul. But it left him too under a stronger
moral obligation to step out and face the music.
The clubman made the only decision he could, and that was to
procrastinate, to put off making any choice for the present.
"I'll think it over. Give me a day to make up my mind," he begged.
Jerry shrugged his heavy shoulders. He knew that every hour counted in
his favor, would make it more difficult for the tortured man to come
forward and tell the truth. "Sure. Look it over upside and down.
Don't hurry. But, man, what's there to think about? I thought you
hated this guy--wanted to get rid of him."
"Not that way. God, no! Durand, I'll give you any sum in reason to
let him go without bringing me into it. You can arrange it."
Jerry slammed down a fist heavily on the table. "I can, but I won't.
Not if you was to go fifty-fifty with me to your last cent. I'm goin'
to get this fellow. See? I'm goin' to get him good. He'll be
crawlin' on his hands and knees to me before I'm through with him."
"What good will that do you? I'm offering you cold cash just to let
the truth get out--that Collins was trying to kill him when he got hit."
"Nothin' doin'. I've been layin' for this boob. I've got him now.
I'm goin' to turn the screws on and listen to him holler."
Bromfield's valet stepped into the room. "Mr. and Miss Whitford to see
you, sir."