The Girl at Central

by Geraldine Bonner

  X

  After the excitement of the French woman's arrest there was a sort oflull. For a few days people thought we were going to move right on andlay our hands on the murderer. But outside of proving that the Doctorwasn't the guilty one the crime was no nearer a solution than it hadbeen the day it happened. Though there was still a good deal of talkabout it, it began to die down in the public interest and it was thenthat the papers got to calling it "The Hesketh Mystery" in place of "TheHesketh Murder."

  The reporters left the Inn and went back to live in town, coming inevery few days to snoop around for any new items that might have turnedup. Babbitts came oftener than the others and stayed later, and he and Ihad several more walks. We were getting to be like partners in some kindof secret business, meeting after dark, and pacing along the roads roundthe village, with the stars shining overhead and the ground hard andcrumbly under our feet.

  If you'd met us you'd have set us down for a pair of lovers, walkingside by side under the dark of the trees. But if you'd followed alongand listened you'd have got cured of that romantic notion mighty quick.Our flirtation was all about evidence, and leads, and clues--not so muchas a compliment or a baby stare from start to finish. I don't believe ifyou'd asked Babbitts he could have told you whether my eyes were brownor blue, and as for me--outside his being a nice kid he didn't figureout any more important than the weathervane on the Methodist Church.

  It was "the case" that drew us together like a magnet drawing nails.We'd speculate about it, look at it all round as if it was something wehad hold of in our hands. I guess it was the mysteriousness of it thatattracted him, and the reward, too. There was more in it for me as youknow--but he never got a hint of _that_.

  It was one evening, nearly four weeks after the murder that he gave me ashock--not meaning to, of course, for even then I'd found out he was thekind that wouldn't hurt a fly. We were talking of Jack Reddy, who we'dseen that evening in the village, the first time since the inquest.

  "You know," said Babbitts, "it's queer but I keep thinking of that yarnof Jasper's, that evening in the Gilt Edge."

  I drew away like he'd stuck a pin into me.

  "Why do you think about _that_?" I asked loud and sharp.

  "Why," he said, slow as if he was considering, "I suppose because it wasso plausible. And I've been wondering if many other people have thoughtof it."

  "I guess they have," I answered kind of fierce; "there's fools enough inthe world, God knows, to think of anything. I make no doubt there'speople who've tried to work out that _I_ did it, the reward temptingthem to lies and sin."

  Babbitts looked at me surprised.

  "What's there to get mad about?" he asked. "I'm not for a momentsuggesting that Reddy really had any hand in it. Why, he could no morehave killed that girl than _I_ could kill _you_."

  I simmered down--it was awful sweet the way he said it.

  "Then you oughtn't to be casting suspicions on an innocent man," I said,still grouchy.

  "Oh, you're such a little pepper pot. Do you think for a moment I'd saythis to anybody but you. Look at me!" I looked into his eyes, clear as ababy's in the starlight. "If you believe I'm the sort of fellow who'dput a slur on Reddy I wonder you'll come out this way and walk with me."

  I smiled, I couldn't help it, and Babbitts, seeing I was all rightagain, tucked his hand inside my arm and we walked on, very friendly.Being ignorant of the true state of my feelings, he went straight backto the subject.

  "Now understand that I mean nothing against Reddy and that I've neversaid this to a soul but you, but ever since the inquest there's been onething that's puzzled me--the length of time he was out that night."

  "He explained that," I said.

  "I know he did, and everybody's accepted his explanation. But sevenhours in a high-powered racing car! He could have gone to Philadelphia,taken in a show and come back."

  "But he told all about it," I insisted.

  "He did," said Babbitts, "but I'll tell you something, MissMorganthau--between ourselves not to go an inch farther--Reddy's storyimpressed me as the undiluted truth till he got to _that_ part of it."

  "What do you mean?" I said, low, and being afraid I was going to trembleI pulled my arm away from him.

  "This--I was watching him very close, and when he began to talk aboutthat night ride, some sort of change came over him. It was very subtle,I never heard anyone speak of it, but it seemed to me as if he wasmaking an effort to give an impression of frankness. The rest of histestimony had the hesitating, natural tone of a man who is nervous andmaybe uncertain of his facts, but when he came to that he--well, helooked to me as if he was internally bracing himself, as if he was ondangerous ground and knew it."

  If I'd been able to speak as well as that those were exactly the words Iwould have used. I cleared my throat before I answered.

  "Looks like to me, Mr. Babbitts, that you ought to be writing novelsinstead of press stories."

  "Oh, no," he said careless, "but, you see, I've been on a number ofcases like this and a fellow gets observant. It's queer--the wholething. If that French woman's evidence is to be trusted Miss Hesketh_did_ leave the house early to keep that date with the Voice Man."

  I didn't say a word, looking straight before me at the lights ofLongwood through the trees. Babbitts, with his hands in his pocketsswinging along beside me, went on:

  "That's what's made me think of Jasper's hypothetical case. Do youremember? He said Reddy'd come down to the meeting place, found MissHesketh with the other man and got into a Berserker rage. Say what youlike, it does work out."

  When he bid me good night at Mrs. Galway's side door he wanted to knowwhy I was so silent? Even if I'd wanted to give a reason I hadn't one togive. Don't you believe for a minute I was really worried--it was justthat I hated anyone even to yarn that way about Jack Reddy. Poor--me--ifI'd known then what was coming!

  It began to come two days later, the first shadow that was going todarken and spread till--but I'm going on too quick.

  I'd just had my lunch, put away my box and swept off the crumbs, when Igot a call for the depot from the Rifle Run Camp. That's a summerresort, way up in the hills beyond Hochalaga Lake. The voice, with abrogue on it as rich as butter, was Pat Donahue's, Jim's eldest son, asort of idle scamp, who'd gone up to the camp to work last summer andhad stayed on because there was nothing to do--at least that's what Jimsaid.

  I made the connection and listened in, not because I was expectinganything worth hearing, but because I wasn't taking any chances. I guessPat Donahue was the last person anyone would expect to come jumping intothe middle of the Hesketh mystery--but that's what he did, with bothfeet, hard.

  I didn't pay much attention at first and then a sentence caught my earand I grew still as a statue, my eyes staring straight in front, evenbreathing carefully as if they could hear.

  It was Pat's voice, the voice answering Jim's at the Depot:

  "Me and Bridger was in to Hochalaga Lake yesterday forenoon, fishin'through the ice. Can you hear me, Paw?"

  "Fine. Are you payin' for a call to tell me you're that idle you have toplay at fishin'?"

  "Jest you listen close and hear me before you come back. I seen in thepapers that Miss Hesketh that was murdered had one glove lost. Do youmind what the one that wasn't lost looked like?"

  "Sure I do--why shouldn't I? Didn't I see it at the inquest?"

  "Will you be answering me instead of tellin' me what you saw?"

  "Ain't I doin' it? It was a left-hand glove, light gray with three pearlbuttons and a furrener's name stamped in the inside."

  "Well, then, I got the feller to it--right hand. I found it on the wharfat the lake, in front of the bungalow. Seeing that there's ten thousanddollars reward offered, I thought I'd be a blowin' in the price of acall to tell you, though it's so ungrateful ye are for the news I'msorry I done it. But I'll not bother you no more, for it's in to theDistrict Attorney I'll be goin' with the evidence."

  That was what he did, that very after
noon. By the next day everybody inLongwood knew how Pat Donahue had found Sylvia Hesketh's missing gloveon the wharf just in front of the Reddy bungalow. There was a person whodidn't close an eye that night, and I guess you know what her name was.

  Gee, those were awful days that followed! When I think of them now I canfeel a sort of sinking come back on me and my face gets stiff like itwas made of leather and couldn't limber up for a smile. Each morning I'dget up scared sick of what I was going to hear that day, and eachevening I'd go to bed filled with a darkness as black as the nightoutside.

  I couldn't believe it and yet--well, I'll tell you and you can judge foryourself.

  The police went out to Hochalaga and made a thorough examination of thehouse and its surroundings.

  The bungalow stood at one end of the lake right on the shore, with alittle wharf jutting out in front of it into the water. The door openedinto a big living-room, furnished very pretty and comfortable with greenmadras curtains at the windows, a green art rug on the floor, and wickerchairs with green denim cushions. At one side was a big brick fireplacewith a copper kettle hanging on a crane and over in a corner was a deskwith a telephone on it. Along the walls were bookcases full of books andin the center was a table with chairs drawn up at either side of it.

  The police noticed right off that it didn't have the damp, musty feel ofa place shut up through a long spell of rain. The air was cold and dryand they could scent the odor of wood fires and a slight faint smell ofcigar smoke. Then they saw that the fireplace was piled high with ashesand that several cigarette ends were scattered on the hearth. On thecenter table was a shaded lamp and near it a match box with burntmatches strewn round on the floor. The desk drawer was open and thepapers inside all tossed and littered about as if someone had gonethrough them in a hurry. Two armchairs stood on either side of the tableand another was in front of the fireplace. All over the floor were earthstains as if muddy feet had been walking about. There were no signs thatthe place had been broken into--windows and doors were locked and thelocks in good condition.

  Outside against the wall of the house they found a pile of broken china,what seemed to be the remains of a tea set. It was not till the searchwas nearly ended that one of the men, studying the grass along theroadside for traces of footprints, came on a gasoline drum hidden amongthe bushes.

  But that wasn't the worst--leading up the road to within a few yards ofthe wharf were the tracks of auto wheels. At the time when these trackswere made the road was deep in mud which, about the wharf, had evidentlybeen a regular pool. The driver of the motor had stopped his car at theedge of this, got out and walked through it to the bungalow. Clear as ifthey had been cast in plaster his footprints went from where the rutsended to the edge of the wharf. There, just at the corner of the planks,three small, pointed footprints met them--a woman's. Either the man hadcarried the woman or she had picked her way along the grass by theroadside, and joining him on the planks had made a step or two into thesoft earth. On the wharf the prints were lost in a broken caking of mud.The man's went back to the car, close to where they had come from it,and they returned as they had come--alone.

  Jack Reddy's shoes fitted the large prints and Sylvia Hesketh's thesmall ones!

  It came on Longwood with an awful shock. The faces of the people wereall dull and dazed looking, as if they were knocked half silly by ablow. They couldn't believe it--and yet there it was! The papers printedterrible headlines--"The Earth gives up a Murderer's Secret"--and "JackFrost versus Jack Reddy." There were imaginary accounts of how Mr. Reddycould have done it, and Jasper, in his paper, had a long article workedout like the story he'd told us that night in the Gilt Edge, but withall the holes filled up. Everything was against Mr. Reddy, even thetelephone message that Sylvia had sent him from the Wayside Arborcouldn't be traced. The Corona operator could remember nothing about itand there was no record--only Jack Reddy's word and nobody believed it.

  They had him up before the District Attorney and his examination waspublished in the papers. I can't put it all down--it's notnecessary--but it was bad. After I read it I sat still in my room,feeling seasick and my face in the glass frightened me.

  When they asked him if he had been at the bungalow that night he said hehad, he had gone there after he had given up his hunt for Sylvia.

  "Why didn't you say this at the inquest?" was asked.

  He answered "that he hadn't thought it was necessary--that----" then hestopped as if he wasn't sure and after a moment or two said: "I didn'tsee that it threw any light on the murder, as I was alone."

  "You wished to conceal the fact that you were there, then?"

  To that he answered sharp:

  "I did not--but I saw no reason to give my movements in detail, as theywere of no importance."

  "Why did you go there?"

  "I was angry and excited and it was a place where I could be quiet."

  Asked how long he had been in the bungalow he said he wasn't sure--itmight have been an hour or two. He had lit the fire and sat in front ofit thinking and smoking cigarettes.

  "Didn't you hunt in the desk for something?"

  He answered with a sort of shrug as if he'd forgotten.

  "Oh, yes--I was hunting for a bill I thought I left there."

  To the questions about Sylvia--whether she had been there with him--heanswered almost violently that she had not, that he had not seen herthere or anywhere else that night.

  "Did you notice any footprints in the mud when you came?"

  "I did not."

  "There were no evidences on the wharf or in the house of anyone havingbeen there before you?"

  "None. The bungalow was locked and undisturbed."

  Then they switched off on to the gasoline drum and asked him if he hadfilled the tank there and he said he might have but he didn't remember.

  "Was it dark when you left the place?"

  "No--very bright moonlight."

  "You remember that?"

  "Yes. I recollect thinking the ride back would be easier than the rideup in the dark."

  "Why did you say at the inquest that you filled the tank somewhere onthe turnpike?"

  "I suppose I thought I had. In the angry and excited state I was insmall things made no impression on me. I had no clear memory of whereI'd done it."

  All the papers agreed that his testimony was unsatisfactory and mademuch of his manner, which, under an effort to be calm, showed aspasmodic, nervous violence.

  A day later he was arrested at Firehill and taken to Bloomington jail toawait indictment by the Grand Jury.

  _A day later he was arrested at Firehill and taken toBloomington jail_]

  That night--shall I ever forget it! I heard the sounds in the streetdying away and then the silence, the deep, lovely silence that comesover the village at midnight. And in it I could hear my heart beating,and as I lay with my eyes wide open, I could see on the darkness like apicture drawn in fire, Jack Reddy in the electric chair.