The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  Three minutes later he was scuttling down the alley as fast as his eager legs could carry him.

  Nellie was holding the front door against the thunderous assault of a half dozen men, giving him time to escape. All the while she was thinking of the depositions she could take from the witnesses to his deliberate attempt to kill her. He had made it very easy for her.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE LAWYER

  He was dismally confident that he would be arrested and thrown into jail on Friday. It was always an unlucky day for him. The fact that Nellie had aided and abetted in his undignified flight down the slippery back steps did not in the least minimise the peril that still hung like a cloud over his wretched head. Of course, he understood: she was sorry for him. It was the impulse of the moment. When she had had time to think it all over and to listen to the advice of Fairfax and the others, she would certainly swear out a warrant.

  As a measure of precaution he had slyly tossed the revolver from a car window somewhere north of Spuyten Duyvil, and, later on at home, stealthily disposed of the box of cartridges.

  All evening long he sat huddled up by the fireplace, listening with all ears for the ominous sound of constabulary thumpings at the front door. The fierce wind shrieked around the corners of the house, rattling the shutters and banging the kitchen gate, but he heard nothing, for his own heart made such a din in response to the successive bursts of noise that all else seemed still by comparison.

  His efforts to amuse the perplexed Phoebe were pitiful. The child took him to task for countless lapses of memory in his recital of oft-told and familiar fairy tales.

  But no one came that night. And Friday, too, dragged itself out of existence without a sign from Nellie or the dreaded officers of the law. You may be sure he did not poke his nose outside the door all that day. Somehow he was beginning to relish the thought that she would be gone on Sunday, gone forever, perhaps. He loved her, of course, but distance at this particular time was not likely to affect the enchantment. In fact, he was quite sure he would worship her a great deal more comfortably if she were beyond the border of the State.

  The thought of punishment quite overshadowed a previous dread as to how he was going to provide for Phoebe and himself up to the time of assuming the job in Davis’ drug store. He had long since come to the conclusion that if Nellie persisted in carrying out her plan to divorce him he could not conscientiously accept help from her, nor could he expect to retain custody of the child unless by his own efforts he made suitable provision for her. His one great hope in the face of this particular difficulty had rested on the outcome of the visit to her apartment, the miserable result of which we know. Not only had he upset all of his fondest calculations, but he had heaped unthinkable ruin in the place he had set aside for them.

  There was nothing consoling in the situation, no matter how he looked at it. More than once he regretted the emptiness of that confounded cylinder. If there had been a single bullet in the thing his troubles would now be over. Pleasing retrospect! But not for all the money in the world would he again subject himself to a similar risk.

  It made him shudder to even think of it. It was hard enough for him to realise that he had had the monumental courage to try it on that never to be forgotten occasion. As a matter of fact, he was rather proud of it, which wouldn’t have been at all possible if he had succeeded in the cowardly attempt.

  Suppose, thought he with a qualm—suppose there had been a bullet! It was now Saturday. His funeral would be held on Saturday. By Saturday night he would be in a grave—a lonesome, desolate grave. Nellie would have seen to that, so that she could get away on Sunday. Ugh! It was most unpleasant!

  The day advanced. His spirits were rising. If nothing happened between then and midnight he was reasonably secure from arrest.

  But in the middle of the day the blow fell. Not the expected blow, but one that stunned him and left him more miserable than anything else in the world could have done.

  There came a polite knock at the door. Annie admitted a pleasant-faced, rather ceremonious young man, who said he had business of the utmost importance to transact with Mr.—Mr.—He glanced at a paper which he drew from his pocket, and supplying the name asked if the gentleman was in.

  Harvey was tiptoeing toward the dining-room, with Phoebe at his heels, when the stranger entered the library.

  “Pardon me,” called the young man, with what seemed to Harvey unnecessary haste and emphasis. “Just a moment, please!”

  Harvey stopped, chilled to the marrow.

  “It was all a joke,” he said, quickly. “Just a little joke of mine. Ha! Ha!” It was a sepulchral laugh.

  “I am John Buckley, from the offices of Barnes & Canby, representing Miss Duluth, your wife, I believe? It isn’t a pleasant duty I have to perform Mr.—Mr—er—but, of course, you understand we are acting in the interests of our client and if we can get together on this—”

  “Can’t you come some other day?” stammered Harvey, holding Phoebe’s hand very tightly in his. “I’m—I’m not well today. We—we are waiting now for the health officer to—to see whether it’s smallpox or just a rash of—”

  The pleasant young gentleman laughed.

  “All the more necessary why we should settle the question at once. If it is smallpox the child would be quarantined with you—that would be unfortunate. You don’t appear to have a rash, however.”

  “It hasn’t got up to my face yet,” explained Harvey, feebly. “You ought to see my body. It’s—”

  “I’ve had it,” announced the young man, glibly; “so I’m immune.” He winked.

  “What do you want?” demanded Harvey, bracing himself for the worst. “Out with it. Let’s see your star.”

  “Oh, I’m not a cop. I’m a lawyer.”

  The other swallowed noisily.

  “A lawyer?”

  “We represent Miss Duluth. I’ll get down to tacks right away, if you’ll permit me to sit down.” He took a chair.

  “Tacks?” queried Harvey, a retrospective grin appearing on his lips. “Gee! I wish I’d thought to put a couple—But, excuse me, I can’t talk without my lawyer being present.”

  The visitor stared. “You—do you mean to say you have retained counsel?”

  “The best in New York,” lied Harvey.

  Buckley gave a sigh of relief. He knew a lie when he heard one.

  “I’d suggest that you send the little girl out of the room. We can talk better if we are alone.”

  After Phoebe’s reluctant departure, the visitor bluntly asked Harvey which he preferred, State’s prison or an amicable adjustment without dishonour.

  “Neither,” said Harvey, moistening his lips.

  Thereupon Mr. Buckley calmly announced that his client, Miss Duluth, was willing to forego the pleasure of putting him behind the bars on condition that he surrendered at once the person of their child—their joint child, he put it, so that Harvey might not be unnecessarily confused—to be reared, educated, and sustained by her, without let or hindrance, from that time forward, so on and so forth; a bewildering rigmarole that meant nothing to the stupefied father, who only knew that they wanted to take his child away from him.

  “Moreover,” said Mr. Buckley, “our client has succeeded in cancelling the lease on this cottage and has authorised the owner to take possession on the first of the month—next Wednesday, that is. Monday morning, bright and early, the packers and movers will be here to take all of her effects away. Tuesday night, we hope, the house will be quite empty and ready to be boarded up. Of course, Mr.—Mr.—er—,you will see to it that whatever trifling effects you may have about the place are removed by that time. After that, naturally, little Miss Phoebe will be homeless unless provision is made for her by—er—by the court. We hope to convince you that it will be better for her if the question is not referred to a court of justice. Your own good sense will point the alternative. Do I make myself quite clear to you?”

  “No,” said Harvey, helple
ssly.

  “Well, I’ll be a little more explicit,” said the lawyer, grimly. “A warrant will be issued for your arrest before two o’clock today if you do not grasp my meaning before that hour. It is twelve-ten now. Do you think you can catch the idea in an hour and fifty minutes?”

  Harvey was thoughtful. “What is the smallest sentence they can give me if I—if I stand trial?”

  “That depends,” said Mr. Buckley, slightly taken aback, but without submitting an explanation.“You don’t want to bring disgrace on the child by being branded as a jailbird, do you?”

  “Nellie won’t have the heart to put me in jail,” groaned the unhappy little man. “She—she just can’t do it. She knows I’d die for her. She—”

  “But she isn’t the State of New York,” explained her counsel, briskly. “The State hasn’t anything in the shape of a heart. Now, I’m here to settle the matter without a contest, if that’s possible. If you want to fight, all right. You know just what you’ll get. Besides, isn’t it perfectly clear to you that Miss Duluth doesn’t want to put you in jail? That’s her idea, pure and simple. I don’t mind confessing that our firm insisted for a long time on giving you up to the authorities, but she wouldn’t have it that way. She wants her little girl, that’s all. Isn’t that perfectly fair?”

  “She’s—she’s going to give up the house?”murmured Harvey, passing his hand over his eyes.

  “Certainly.”

  “It’s a mighty inconvenient time for us to—to look for another place—”

  “That’s just what I’ve been saying to you,”urged Buckley. “The Weather Bureau says we’ll have zero weather for a month or two. I shudder to think of that poor child out in—”

  “Oh, Lord!” came almost in a wail from the lips of Phoebe’s father. He covered his face with his hands. Mr. Buckley, unseen, smiled triumphantly.

  At four o’clock Phoebe, with all her childish penates, was driven to the station by Mr. Buckley, who, it would appear, had come prepared for the emergency. Before leaving he gave the two servants a month’s wages and a two weeks’ notice dating from the 18th of December and left with Harvey sufficient money to pay up all the outstanding bills of the last month—with a little left over.

  We draw a curtain on the parting that took place in the little library just before the cab drove away.

  Phoebe was going to Reno.

  Long, long after the departure her father lifted his half-closed blue eyes from the coals in the grate and discovered that the room was ice-cold.

  * * * *

  He understood the habits of astute theatrical managers so well by this time that he did not have to be told that the company would journey to Chicago by one of the slow trains. The comfort and convenience of the player is seldom considered by the manager, who, as a rule, when there is time to spare, transports his production by the least expensive way. Harvey knew that Nellie and the “Up in the Air” company would pass through Tarrytown on the pokiest day train leaving New York over the Central. There was, of course, the possibility that the affluent Nellie might take the eighteen-hour train, but it was somewhat remote.

  Sunday morning found him at the Tarrytown station, awaiting the arrival or the passing of the train bearing the loved ones who were casting him off. He was there early, bundled in his ulster, an old Blakeville cap pulled down over his ears, a limp cigarette between his lips. A few of the station employés knew him and passed the time of day.

  “Going in rather early, ain’t you, Mr.—Mr.—”remarked the station master, clapping his hands to generate warmth.

  “No,” said Harvey, leaving the inquirer in the dark as to whether he referred to a condition or a purpose.

  A couple of hours and a dozen trains went by. Harvey, having exhausted his supply of cigarettes, effected the loan of one from the ticket agent.

  “Waiting for some one, sir?” asked that worthy. “Or are you just down to see the cars go by?”

  “What time does the Chicago train go through?” asked Harvey.

  “Any particular one?”

  “No; I’m not particular.”

  “There’s one at eleven-forty.”

  “I’m much obliged.”

  He was panic-stricken when the train at last appeared and gave unmistakable signs of stopping at Tarrytown. Moved by an inexplicable impulse, he darted behind a pile of trunks. His dearest hope had been that Phoebe might be on the lookout for him as the cars whizzed through, and that she would waft a final kiss to him. But it was going to stop! He hadn’t counted on that. It was most embarrassing.

  From his hiding place he watched the long line of sleepers roll by, slower and slower, until with a wheeze they came to a full stop. His eager eyes took in every window that passed. There was no sign of Phoebe. Somewhat emboldened, he ventured forth from shelter and strolled along the platform for a more deliberate scrutiny of the windows.

  The feeling of disappointment was intense. He had never known loneliness so great as this which came to him now. The droop to his shoulders became a little more pronounced as he turned dejectedly to re-enter the waiting-room. The train began to move out as he neared the corner of the building. The last coach crept by. He watched it dully.

  A shrill cry caught his ear. His eyes, suddenly alert, focussed themselves on the observation platform of the private car as it picked up speed and began the diminishing process. Braced against the garish brass bars that enclosed the little platform was Phoebe, in her white fur coat and hood, her mittened fingers clutching the rail, above which her rosy face appeared as the result of eager tiptoeing. The excellent Rachel stood behind the child, cold and unsmiling.

  “Hello, daddy!” screamed Phoebe, managing to toss him a kiss, just as he had hoped and expected.

  The response cracked in his throat. It was a miserable croak that he sent back, but he blew her a dozen kisses.

  “Good-bye, daddy!” came the shrill adieu, barely audible above the clatter of the receding train.

  He stood quite still until the last coach vanished up the track. The tears on his cheeks were frozen.

  Some one was speaking to him.

  “Ain’t you going West with ’em, Mr.—, Mr.—?” queried the baggage master.

  Harvey gazed at him dumbly for a moment or two. Then he lifted his chin.

  “I—I’ve got to wait over a few days to see to the packing and storing of my household effects,”he said, briskly. Then he trudged up the hill.

  Sure enough, the packers appeared “bright and early” Monday morning, just as Buckley had said they would. By nine o’clock the house was upside down and by noon it was full of excelsior, tar paper, and crating materials. The rasp of the saw and the bang of the hammer resounded throughout the little cottage. Burly men dragged helpless and unresisting articles of furniture about as if they had a personal grudge against each separate piece, and pounded them, and drove nails into them, and mutilated them, and scratched them, and splintered them, and after they were completely conquered marked their pine board coffins with the name “Nellie Duluth,” after which they were ready for the fireproof graveyard in Harlem.

  Dazed and unsteady, Harvey watched the proceedings with the air of one who superintends. He gave a few instructions, offered one or two suggestions—principally as to the state of the weather—and was on the jump all day long to keep out of the way of the energetic workmen. He had seen Marceline at the Hippodrome on one memorable occasion. Somehow he reminded himself of the futile but nimble clown, who was always in the way and whose good intentions invariably were attended by disaster.

  The foreman of the gang, doubtless with a shrewd purpose in mind, opened half the windows in the house, thus forcing his men to work fast and furiously or freeze. Harvey almost perished in the icy draughts. He shut the front door fifty times or more, and was beginning to sniffle and sneeze when Bridget took pity on him and invited him into the kitchen. He hugged the cook stove for several hours, mutely watching the two servants through the open door of their joint bed
room off the kitchen while they stuffed their meagre belongings into a couple of trunks.

  At last it occurred to him that it would be well to go upstairs and pack his own trunk before the workmen got to asking questions. He carried his set of Dickens upstairs, not without interrogation, and stored the volumes away at the bottom of his trunk. So few were his individual belongings that he was hard put to fill the trays compactly enough to prevent the shifting of the contents. When the job was done he locked the trunk, tied a rope around it and then sat down upon it to think. Had he left anything out? He remembered something. He untied the knots, unlocked the trunk, shifted half of the contents and put in his fishing tackle and an onyx clock Nellie had given him for Christmas two years before.

  Later on he repeated the operation and made room for a hand saw, an auger, a plane, and a hatchet; also a smoking-jacket she had given him, and a lot of paper dolls Phoebe had left behind. (Late that night, after the lights were out, he remembered the framed motto, “God Bless Our Home,” which his dear old mother had worked for him in yarns of variegated hues while they were honeymooning in Blakeville. The home was very cold and still, and the floor was strewn with nails, but he got out of bed and put the treasure in the top tray of the trunk.)

  Along about four in the afternoon he experienced a sensation of uneasiness—even alarm. It began to look as if the workmen would have the entire job completed by nightfall. In considerable trepidation he accosted the foreman.

  “If it’s just the same to you I’d rather you wouldn’t pack the beds until tomorrow—that is, of course, if you are coming back tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we’ll get around to ’em and maybe we won’t,” said the foreman, carelessly.“We’ve got to pack the kitchen things tomorrow and the china.”

  “You see, it’s this way,” said Harvey.“I’ve got to sleep somewhere!”