XV

Cokesbury's story made a great sensation. Even if it didn't bring us any

nearer to finding the murderer, it explained the mystery of Sylvia's

movements up to the time she appeared in the Wayside Arbor, and it

cleared Jack Reddy. Babbitts told me that the Whitneys were doing some

legal stunts--I won't tell what they were for I'd never get them

straight--to have him liberated, and that they would soon issue a

statement to the press.

When it came out everybody saw why he had said such contradictory things

about those seven hours on the road.

Babbitts and I had guessed right when we thought he was holding

something back and when I heard why I was grateful to him. Yes,

grateful, that's the word. And I'll tell you why I use it. He was my

hero and he stayed a hero, didn't fall down and disappoint me, but made

me know there were people in the world who could stick to their standard

no matter _what_ happened. Don't you think that's a thing to be grateful

for?

The reason he didn't tell was to protect the memory of that poor dead

girl, who couldn't rise up and protect herself. He knew what wicked lies

would be told and believed and he was going to shield her in death as he

would have in life.

That night after he had searched the roads, he suddenly thought that in

some wild freak she had gone to the bungalow in her own car and phoned

him from there. As soon as the idea entered his head he went out to the

lake. One glance showed him someone had been there before him--the room

was warm, the fire still smouldering on the hearth. He lit the light and

saw the two teacups and the cigar butt on the saucer. He examined the

doors and windows and found that they were locked and there was no sign

of anyone having broken in. The only person beside himself who had a key

to the bungalow was Sylvia.

Then he knew she had been there with another man and one of those fierce

rages came on him.

For a spell he was outside himself. He thought of things that never

happened, the way people do in a fury--imagined Sylvia sending him the

phone message with the other man standing by and laughing. He tore her

letters out of the desk and threw them in the fire and smashed the tea

things against the side of the house. He was half crazy, thinking

himself fooled and made a mock of by the woman he had loved.

When his rage quieted down he sat brooding over the fire for a long

time. It was moonlight when he left, bright enough for him to fill the

tank. He had never thought about any inquiries for the missing drum till

at the inquest the question of the gasoline was sprung on him. Then he

lied, feeling certain that no one would ever go out to the lake. It was

his intention to go there himself, hide the drum and clear out the

cottage, but he put it off, hating to go near the place. If Pat Donahue

hadn't gone there to fish through the ice--a thing no one would have

dreamed of--the secret of the bungalow would never have been discovered.

One of the features of the case that he couldn't understand and that he

spent the days in jail speculating about, was how she had reached the

lake. The mud showed the tracks of only one auto, his own. He could find

no solution to this mystery and he could speak to no one about it.

Whatever happened to him, he had made up his mind he would never give

her up to the evil-minded and evil-tongued who would blacken and tear to

pieces all that was left of her.

He was liberated, and, believe me, Longwood rejoiced. It was as if a

king who had been banished had come back to his throne.

I don't think he was home two days when he telephoned in asking me if he

could come to see me and thank me for what I'd done. Wasn't that like

him? Most men would have been so glad to get out of jail they'd have

forgotten the hello girl who'd helped to free them, but not Jack Reddy.

He came in the late afternoon, at the time I got off. I'll never forget

it. Katie Reilly was at the switchboard and I was standing at the

window, watching, when I saw the two lights of the gray racer coming

down the street.

I ran and opened the door--I wasn't bashful a bit--and when I saw him I

gave a little cry, for he looked so changed, pale and haggard and older,

a good many years older. But his smile was the same, and so was the

kind, honest look of his face. Before he said a word he just held out

his hand and mine went into it and I felt the clasp of his fingers warm

and strong. And--strange it is, but true--I wasn't any more like the

girl who used to tremble at the mere sight of him, but was calm and

quiet, looking deep and steady into his eyes as if we'd got to be

friends, the way a man might be friends with a boy.

"Miss Morganthau," he said, "I've heard what you've done, and I want to

thank you."

"You needn't have taken all the trouble to come in from Firehill, Mr.

Reddy," I answered. "You could have said it over the wire."

"Could I have done this over the wire?" he said, giving my hand a shake

and a squeeze. "You know I couldn't. And that's what I wanted to

do--take a grip of the hand that helped me out of prison."

I said some fool words about its being nothing and he went on smiling

down at me, yet with something grave in his face.

"I want to do more--ask a favor of you. I hope it won't be hard to grant

for I've set my heart on it. Can I be your friend?"

"Oh, Mr. Reddy," I stammered out, "you make me proud," and suddenly

tears came into my eyes. I don't know why unless it was seeing him so

changed and hearing him speak so humble to a common guy like me.

"Oh, come now," he said, "don't do anything like that. You'll make me

think you don't like the idea."

I sniffed, wanting to kick Katie Reilly, who was gaping round in her

chair, and I guess getting mad that way dried up my tears.

"It's your friend I'll be till the end of my life, Mr. Reddy," I

answered. "And the only thing I'm sorry for is that I didn't get the

right man the way I thought I'd done."

"Never mind about that," said he, his face hardening up, "we'll get him

yet. Don't let's think of that now. It's the end of your day, isn't it?

If you're going home will you let me take you there in my car?"

There was a time when if I'd thought I'd ever ride beside Jack Reddy in

that racer I'd have had chills and fever for a week in advance.

But now I sat calm and still beside him as he rode me through Longwood

to Mrs. Galway's door.

As we swung up the street he talked very kind to me, complimenting me

something awful, and saying that if he ever could do anything for me to

let him know and he'd do it if it was within the power of man.

"You see, Miss Morganthau," he said as we drew up in front of the Elite,

"a man in my position feels pretty grateful to the person who's lifted

off him the shadow of disgrace and death."

Up in my room I sat quiet for a long time thinking. The thing that

phased me was why I'd changed so, come round to feel that while he was

still a grand, strong man, I'd always look up to and do anything for,

I'd quit having blind staggers and heart attacks when he came along.

Something had sidetracked me. I didn't know what. All I did know was

that two months ago if he'd asked me to be his friend I'd not have known

there was such a thing as food in the world. And that evening at

half-past seven, being too lazy to go to the Gilt Edge, I was so hungry

I had to go down to Mrs. Galway and beg the loan of three Uneedas and a

hard boiled egg.

It was one evening, not long after, that Anne Hennessey came in to see

me. Babbitts was coming that night and Mrs. Galway had given up the

parlor again and was in bed with a novel and a kerosene lamp. Anne was

quite excited, the reason being that Mrs. Fowler had given her a

present. She took it careful out of a blue velvet case and held it up in

the glow of the drop light. It was a diamond cross and the minute I set

eyes on it I knew where I'd seen it before.

"Sylvia's," I said, low and sort of awed.

Anne nodded.

"Yes, the one she had on that night. Mrs. Fowler said she wanted to give

me something that had been hers. I wouldn't have taken anything so

handsome but I think the poor lady couldn't bear the sight of it,

reminding her of her sorrow as it did."

She moved it about and the stones sparkled like bits of fire in the

lamplight. I stretched out my hand and took it, for diamonds tempt me

like meat the hungry--that's the Jew in me, I suppose.

"You won't call the King your cousin when you wear this," I said, and I

held it against my chest, looking down at the brightness of it.

"That's just where Sylvia had it on," said Anne almost in a whisper,

"where the front of her dress crossed. One of the police officers told

me."

My mother was a Catholic and it's Catholic I was raised, for though my

father was a Jew he loved my mother and let her have her way with me.

"Wouldn't you think," I said, "that when the murderer saw the cross on

her it would have stayed his hand?"

"Wouldn't you," said Anne, "but to men as evil as that the cross means

nothing. And then out in the dark that way, he probably never saw it."

Babbitts' knock sounding, I handed it back to her and let him in,

feeling bashful before Anne, who didn't know how often Mrs. Galway was

retiring at eight-thirty. She left soon after, saying Mrs. Fowler liked

her to be round in the evening, which was news to me, as she'd told me

that the Fowlers always sat in the sitting-room together, the Doctor

reading aloud till Mrs. Fowler got sleepy.

After she'd gone, Babbitts and I drew up to the stove, cozy and

cheerful, with our feet on the edge of it. We'd come to know each other

so well now that we'd other topics beside "the case," but that night we

worked around to it, me picking at the box of candy Babbitts had brought

and rocking lazily as contented as a child.

Babbitts was still keen for that reward. He said to me:

"You had your fingers on it once, and it's my wish that you'll get your

whole hand on it next time."

"What a noble character," said I, "calculating for little Molly to get

it all! Where do _you_ come in?"

"Oh, don't bother about me," says he. "You've a bad habit of thinking

too much where other people come in. You got to quit it--it isn't good

business. Now what I want to arrange is for you and me to make an

excursion out to the Wayside Arbor some afternoon."

"The Wayside Arbor--what'll we do there?"

"Take a look over the ground. You see, with the process of elimination

that's been going on things have narrowed down to the vicinity of the

crime. It's my opinion that the murder was not only committed but was

planned round there. The police are losing heart and not doing much. As

far as I can find out Fowler's detectives--Mills and his crowd--are

getting their pay envelopes regular but not getting anything else.

Now--just for devilment--let _us_ combine our two giant intellects and

see what we can see."

"Haven't they gone over every inch of it?"

"They have--with a fine-tooth comb. But that doesn't prevent us going

over it and taking our fine-tooth combs along."

"Isn't Hines under surveillance?"

"Good Lord," says he laughing, "_everybody's_ under surveillance.

There's not one of the suspects but knows he's expected to stay put and

is doing it. But who's getting anywhere? There's no reason why we

shouldn't go out that way, call on Mrs. Cresset, and take a look in at

the Wayside Arbor ourselves."

"I'm game," I said, "though I can't see what good it's going to do."

"It'll give us a half-day together," said he. "I don't know how you feel

about it but that looks worth while to me."

We made a date for the following Monday, my holiday, just eight weeks

from the murder.

The next morning I had a surprise--a kind that hasn't often come my way.

It was a letter directed in typewriting with a half-sheet of paper

inside it inclosing a fifty-dollar bill. On the paper, also typed, was

written:

For Miss Morganthau--A small return for her recent good work in

the Hesketh Murder Case.

That was all--no name, no date, no handwriting. I don't know what made

me think right off of Mr. Whitney, unless it was because there was no

one else who knew of what I'd done and could have afforded to send that

much. The only other person it could have been was Jack Reddy, and

somehow or other, after he'd asked me to be his friend, I felt certain

he wouldn't send me money, no matter what I'd done for him. Friends

don't pay each other.

I guess there wasn't a more elated person in Longwood that morning than

yours truly. I'd had that much before--saved it--but I'd never had it

fall out of the sky that way in one beautiful, crisp, new bill.

The Jew and the Irish in me had some tussle, one wanting to salt it down

in the bank and the other to blow it in. But that time the Irish had a

walk-over, probably because I was limp and weary with all the excitement

of the last two months and felt the need of doing something foolish to

tone me up. When I thought of the clothes I could buy with it, the Jew

just lay down without a murmur and you'd have supposed I was all County

Galway if you'd seen me writing a list of things on the back of the

envelope. If it'll make you think better of me I'll confess that I

wanted to look nice on that trip with Babbitts, the first real jaunt

we'd ever taken, for I didn't count those times in New York when we were

sleuthing after Cokesbury. Just once in my life I was going to have a

real blowout, and I wanted the chap who was taking me to feel he'd some

lady with him.

With three of us in the office I fixed things so I got Saturday

afternoon and I hiked over to town with that bill burning in my purse

like a live coal. And, my it was great spending it! I was cool on the

outside, looking haughty at the goods and casting them aside

contemptuous on chairs, but inside I was drunk with the feeling of

riches.

I bought a one-piece silk dress that fitted me like every measure was

mine and a long black plush coat, rich fine plush like satin, that was

draped something elegant and fastened in front with a novelty ornament.

For a hat I selected a small dark felt, nothing flashy, no trimming,

just a rosette at one side. And with the last three dollars a purse,

black striped silk, oval shaped with a ribbon to hang it to your wrist.

It was six when I got home, carrying the boxes myself--all but the coat;

that I _had_ to wear--pretty nearly dead with the weight of them, but

not regretting--neither the Jew nor the Irish--one nickel of it.

Midday Monday, when I came down to the parlor where Babbitts was

waiting, he put his hand over his eyes like the Indians in front of

cigar stores and pretended to stagger.

[Illustration: _I came down to the parlor where Babbitts was waiting_]

"What good deed have I ever done," says he, "that I'm allowed to walk

the world with such a queen!"

Then I felt certain that to break loose now and again is a healthy

change.