CHAPTER XVII
THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED
The vast machinery used in gathering the news makes it possible for anevent, only an hour or two old, to gain a place in the types andproclaim itself to the public. And only a short time after Frank Burtonmade his confession of guilt in his cell in the county prison, thenewsboys were crying the fact in the street.
Ashton-Kirk and Scanlon had finished with their lunch at Claghorn's; atthe cigar counter in the lobby they paused while they selected theirfavorite brands.
"How are you?" said a familiar voice, and looking up they saw Osborne,big, smiling and serene. "Nasty day," he proceeded, shaking someraindrops from the rim of his hat. "I suppose you've heard the news."
Ashton-Kirk carefully lighted the tip of a blunt cigar.
"What news?" he asked.
The heavy shoulders of the headquarters man twitched with pleasure; hesaw, in this answer, the evasion of a defeated man.
"Why," said he, with an effort to keep the triumph out of his voice,"the confession of Frank Burton."
"Oh, that!" The investigator elevated his brows. "Yes, we heard it. As amatter of fact the confession was made in the first place to Scanlon andme."
The elation died slowly in the broad face of Osborne; however, that hestill felt his sagacity to be of a superior quality was plain. So hesaid, with a carelessness calculated to discount the point gained by theother:
"Oh, that so? Hadn't heard of it. Well," and he laughed good-humoredly,"that makes it all the better. You know it's true!"
"It's so, all right," said Scanlon. "He told it to us, and afterward tothe warden and a half dozen of the prison people."
"I said the other night we had a good case against him," smiled Osborne,as he looked at Ashton-Kirk with nodding head. "Didn't I? Didn't I tellyou I'd seen men sent to the chair on less?"
"Yes, I remember some such expression," replied the investigator.
"But you kind of pooh-poohed it," said the headquarters man, smilingeven more broadly than before. "You spoke of other indications, don'tyou remember? It was your idea a woman was in it." He looked at Scanlon,and laughed. "Recollect that?" he asked. "He said a woman had beenhanging around outside--with a revolver--an old flame of the Bounder's,maybe."
Scanlon also laughed--and in the sound was an indication of vast relief.Women had disappeared out of the orbit in which the crime swung, for Mr.Scanlon. He had gone for days with a fear in his mind, with his spiritsagging under a weight of expectation. But now he was free of that. Nowoman figured in the case--the murderer had said so in his confession.Woman had vanished utterly from all things having to do with the affair.And so Scanlon laughed--a laugh of relief; and as he looked at the big,good-natured face of Osborne, he realized that while he had always likedhim, he had never appreciated him so much as now.
"Yes," said he, "I remember. He rather figured on the lady. But, then,I've heard it said that you never can count on ladies. You don't knowjust when you've got 'em."
There was a flavor to this old saying of men that had a recent tang--andflavors, like scents, are most reminiscent. Yes, he had heard it--only avery short time before, and under unpleasant circumstances. A cloud cameover the big athlete's face; he tried to put the feeling aside, and inthe effort to do so, memory flared up and showed him the facts. It hadbeen in Duke Sheehan's place during his first talk with the burglar,Big Slim. It was the cracksman who had spoken of the undependability ofwomen. Then with a rush came other things which he had said; chief amongthese was the story of how Nora had followed her husband on the night ofthe murder. And then, also, there was the thing he had seen himselfthrough the windows at Bohlmier's hotel. But as these thoughts pressedforward in his mind he crushed them back.
"They happened," said he. "I don't question those I heard about, and Iknow what I've seen. But," and he sighed profoundly, "she ain't hadanything to do with that man's death. There's no doubt about that. Theparty who did it has given it all up. It's as clear as sunshine on thatpoint; and the other thing can wait; explanations for them can come atany time."
During the progress of these things through the mind of Mr. Scanlon, thetalk had proceeded between Ashton-Kirk and the headquarters man.
"All right," said Osborne; "I know you seldom agree with the policeabout things, but this is one in which there is nothing more to be said.Burton himself says he did it--and his word is the last one."
Ashton-Kirk looked at his cigar with a favoring eye; the aroma was rich,and through the smoke he detected that thin spiral, of a densertexture, which spoke of the presence, in a proper proportion, of theleaf he prized.
"The thing which makes me quarrel with the police in most instances,"said he, quietly, "is not want of foresight, but almost a complete lackof that vastly commoner gift--hindsight. Take this present case, for anexample. You have just claimed that there is nothing more to besaid--that young Burton in his confession has spoken the final word. Howoften," and he knocked the spear of ash from the cigar, "haveconfessions proven false, in your own experience? Look back over thelast few years, and you'll find at least six clear cases of confessionswhich were untrue. On the records of the district attorney's office iswritten a case, years ago, of a man who confessed to a murder and washanged. Afterward it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasinnocent."
Osborne laughed once more; nevertheless a shade of doubt darkened thebrightness of his humor.
"You're right there," admitted he. "Things like that have happened, butthey are so few that we can't figure on them. This case," and his jawset, "is sewed up. Young Burton is the man, and I think, when all isdone and settled, you'll admit it yourself."
Ashton-Kirk nodded, and a glint of humor appeared in the keen eyes.
"You can always be depended upon to run close to form, Osborne," saidhe. "However, when all is done and settled, we shall see what we shallsee." Then as he and Scanlon started through the lobby, he said over hisshoulder: "In the meantime it would be well for you not to lose sight ofthose two clues I gave you last night. They may prove very useful."
Osborne grinned and waved a hand.
"All right," said he. "I'll put them away in camphor. They'll be goodand safe there."
As Ashton-Kirk and Bat emerged from the hotel, the big athlete turned tohis friend with serious eyes.
"How much of what you've just been saying to him is right, and how muchis just bluff to cover a place where you miscued?" asked he.
"What I gave him are the facts," replied Ashton-Kirk. "A confession isnot always conclusive, as I have just shown. There are circumstancesunder which a man may confess, because he fears to have the real truthcome out. And there are indications in this case which rather hold thatguilt lies in another direction than young Burton."
"Do you believe, in spite of his confession, that he is innocent?"
"I believe nothing--as yet I am merely searching for the truth."
They were standing beside the investigator's car as they talked; andnow Ashton-Kirk gestured his friend to get in. But Bat shook his head.
"No," said he. "There is plenty of motion in a motor car, but it's notthe kind of motion I want. I'm for a walk. And I'll like as not see youin the morning."
He strode away down the street, and for a moment the investigator stoodgazing after him; then he opened the door, got in, and the car droveaway.
Bat Scanlon walked for hours, thinking, thinking; and out of it all hegot only what the first few moments told him. If young Burton hadconfessed to a thing of which he was not guilty, it must be asAshton-Kirk said: fear that the real truth might come out. But fear ofwhat? There could only be one thing: the fear of the charge being placedat the door of some one else.
"And who could that some one else be but the one," kept repeating in thebig athlete's brain. "Who could it be but"--here he'd feel a suddensnapping in the nerves of his head, and the blood cells would gorge andthunder--"who but she who went to see him to-day--after the news cameout that a woman was suspected."
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nbsp; Leg-weary and with an exhausted mind, Bat reached his gymnasium. Danny,the red-haired office boy, was there, and looked at his employer almostincredulously.
"Gee, boss, you look all in," he told him. "You ought to get Sebastianto give you a going over."
Sebastian was a huge Bohemian rubber, and Scanlon agreed to accept hisministrations. After a bath and a shower, the Bohemian kneaded andpunched some suppleness into him; an hour's sleep followed this, and hewas pleased to find himself in a mood for dinner.
"Good!" said he. "That's the right spirit. Being down in the mouth neverhelped any one yet. There still seem to be a few things to do in thiscase, and it's up to me to do them. So I'd better be fit if I'm going toget away with them."
It was while at dinner that an idea came to him like an electric shock.He would go see Nora; he would talk to her; if quite necessary he'd tellher all the things he knew and all those he suspected. And what she saidin reply he'd believe; every word would be held to by him, absolutely.No matter what came or went, after that, he'd believe nothing else.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" he asked himself, elated. "It'sjust the thing to settle it all. The great trouble with this affair isthat there hasn't been enough plain talk. A little bit more might havecleared things up completely."
He smoked contentedly for a space after dinner; then he proceeded toNora's house. The trim maid answered his ring.
"Yes; Miss Cavanaugh is at home."
Scanlon waited in the large old-fashioned reception-room while his namewas taken up. Then the maid reappeared and led him to Nora's privatesitting-room. Here he found her in a robe of silk and lace recliningupon a sofa, propped up with gay pillows, a book beside her. She heldout one hand to him; the loose sleeve fell back, showing a beautifularm, white and firm, and rounded magnificently.
"Oh, I'm glad to see you, Bat!" she said, and her tone and eyesconfirmed the truth of her words. "It's been days and days since youwere here, I think. I've called you on the telephone I don't know howmany times, but never could find you in."
"I'm sorry," he said. "But this is kind of a busy time with me."
She pointed to a low chair, very deep and comfortable looking, which wasnear the sofa.
"Get a pillow for your back," she said, "and sit there." He did ascommanded, and she looked at him with something like wistfulness in hergreat eyes. "Oh, it's so nice to have you there, Bat; you can be sostill and wonderful when you want to."
"Still, yes," agreed Scanlon, "but I'm not so sure about the wonderful."
She smiled at him.
"If you were quite sure of that," she said, "you wouldn't be nearly sonice." Her great mass of bronze hair was loosely arranged about herhead, and against the delicate blue of a pillow it shone like red goldin the light of the reading lamp. "I'm so glad it is Sunday," she wenton, "and that I am not to play to-night. For I'm tired, Bat, more tiredthan you'd believe."
"I'd believe it, no matter how strong you made it," said he. "Whatyou've gone through has been enough to tire any one."
She reached out and patted his hand gently as it rested upon the arm ofhis chair.
"Bat, you are so big and strong that you seem to give out sympathynaturally. And that is a quality which all women like." She paused amoment; her white, strong, beautifully-modeled fingers trifled with thebracelet of raw gold; her eyes were bright as though with tears, andthere was a sad little smile about the corners of her mouth. "And it isso easy for a woman to be mistaken in men," she proceeded. "In the endshe always selects and holds to one, and she is apt to judge all theothers by him.--If he is weak, she feels that all men are weak; if he isstrong, they are all strong. And if he is cruel and mean and selfish,she feels a desire to hate them all--and sometimes she does!"
Bat nodded his head slowly and wisely.
"Sure," he said. "That's to be expected. But in the end," hopefully,"her mind often clears up on that point. She finds, if she gives herselfthe chance, that there is really a big difference between them."
"You have some idea what my experience has been in the last five yearsor so," she said. "It has not been beautiful, Bat; it has, at times,been hideously ugly; and the tears I have wept and the things I haveborne and the vows I have made have been very many. There have beentimes when I could think only of death, so completely humbled have Ifelt, so without spirit, so utterly in Tom Burton's power. I have toldyou something of his slimy plots, of his detestable innuendoes. He knewof my loathing of the divorce courts, and my fear of scandal, no matterhow unfounded, and played upon them constantly, feeling sure that in theend I would meet his demands."
"But that's all over, Nora," said Bat. "It all belongs to the past. Tryto forget it."
"I am going to forget it," she said. "Never doubt that I'm going to putit away from me and never think of it again. I speak of it only becauseI have something in my mind which recalls it strongly--as altogetherdissimilar things sometimes do. All men are not evil, Bat; I suppose Ihave really known that always; but now the fact comes forward in mymind and takes the place of the fear I have had for so long. Some menare really very good, very kind and gentle. Some of them--perhaps only afew--would sacrifice themselves to assure the security of one who wasunhappy and in trouble."
Bat Scanlon coughed and stirred in his chair.
"When did that idea come to you?" he asked.
"To-day," she replied; "just to-day, and----" But here she suddenlystopped, and the man saw a startled look flash over her face. "But ofcourse," she resumed, hastily, "these things never come to us at thetime we first realize their presence. They are a growth, it is said, andit takes time for them to make themselves known."
In spirit, Bat Scanlon felt himself sinking to the level of theafternoon. "Sacrifice ... to assure the security of one who was unhappyand in trouble." What did that mean? Nora had been in that position;young Burton, according to the theory of Ashton-Kirk, had made just sucha sacrifice. Nora had been in a state of great agitation; she hadvisited the prisoner just before his confession of guilt; and now shewas quieted, she was smiling and grateful!
The big man got up and walked the floor. She followed him with hergreat, brown eyes.
"Bat," she said, "you are nervous. And, now that I look at you, you arepinched and not of a good color." She lifted herself up upon one elbow,and continued, accusingly: "You have been worrying! Confess!"
"I have," said he. "This matter of Burton's death has fastened itselfupon me tight; I can't shake it off."
"But," she said, "why should that be, unless"--and she paused while shelooked at him searchingly--"it is because of me?"
"It _is_ because of you," replied Scanlon, "for Burton was no kind of afellow for me to worry about; things will go much better without him."
"But," and she looked at him, steadfastly, "if that is the case, then Ishould be much happier as it is. So why should you worry and grow paleand not be able to sit quietly and talk to me?"
He was about to begin some sort of an answer to this; at the moment hewas standing in a position which gave him a view of the street throughone of the windows. His glance wandered in that direction, his mindoccupied in forming a set of phrases which would be sufficientlyevasive. But suddenly the gaze became fixed. A man stood upon theopposite side of the street looking toward Nora's house; the streetlights were in his face and gleamed upon a pair of large metal-rimmedspectacles; one hand was furtively gesturing as though in signals tosome one down below. The man was the Swiss, Bohlmier.
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