XI
Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was HarrisonMiller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. Andas he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind theneatly curtained windows of the old brick house.
He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgottensomething, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather highorder; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure tobe drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interestedsurvey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark,if it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairlysmelt of respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socksand small crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in itssquare of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting. Thelast town in the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the lasthouse, this shabby old brick before him.
He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been rightin his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, verypossibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type,that he never let go. He drew himself up a little.
The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station.Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.
"Well?" he said cheerfully. "It was, wasn't it?"
Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then:
"Old dog Tray!" he said sneeringly. "If your brain was as good as yournose, Bassett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man."
"Don't bother about my brain. It's working fine to-day, anyhow. Well,what had he to say for himself?"
Gregory's mind was busy, and he had had a moment to pull himselftogether.
"We both get off together," he said, more amiably. "That fellow isn'tJud Clark and never was. He's a doctor, and the nephew of the old doctorthere. They're in practice together."
"Did you see them both?"
"Yes."
Bassett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole trailended there after all. He himself had felt, after his interview, withDick, that the scent was false. And there was this to be said: Gregoryhad been in the house scarcely ten minutes. Long enough to acknowledge amistake, but hardly long enough for any dramatic identification. He waskeenly disappointed, but he had had long experience of disappointment,and after a moment he only said:
"Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me."
"I'll say he did."
"Rather surprised him, didn't you?"
"Oh, he was all right," Gregory said. "I didn't tell him anything, ofcourse."
Bassett looked at his watch.
"I was after you, all right," he said, cheerfully. "But if I was barkingup the wrong tree, I'm done. I don't have to be hit on the head tomake me stop. Come and have a soda-water on me," he finished amiably."There's no train until seven."
But Gregory refused.
"No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper."
The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for a badnight and a bad day.
"All right," he said affably. "I'll see you at the train. I'll walkabout a bit."
He turned and started back up the street again, walking idly. Hischagrin was very real. He hated to be fooled, and fooled he had been.Gregory was not the only one who had lost a night's sleep. Then,unexpectedly, he was hailed from the curbstone, and he saw withamazement that it was Dick Livingstone.
"Take you anywhere?" Dick asked. "How's the headache?"
"Better, thanks." Bassett stared at him. "No, I'm just walking arounduntil train-time. Are you starting out or going home, at this hour?"
"Going home. Well, glad the head's better."
He drove on, leaving the reporter gazing after him. So Gregory hadbeen lying. He hadn't seen this chap at all. Then why--? He walkedon, turning this new phase of the situation over in his mind. Whythis elaborate fiction, if Gregory had merely gone in, waited for tenminutes, and come out again?
It wasn't reasonable. It wasn't logical. Something had happened insidethe house to convince Gregory that he was right. He had seen somebody,or something. He hadn't needed to lie. He could have said franklythat he had seen no one. But no, he had built up a fabric carefullycalculated to throw Bassett off the scent.
He saw Dick stop in front of the house, get out and enter. And comingto a decision, he followed him and rang the doorbell. For a long time noone answered. Then the maid of the afternoon opened the door, her eyesred with crying, and looked at him with hostility.
"Doctor Richard Livingstone?"
"You can't see him."
"It's important."
"Well, you can't see him. Doctor David has just had a stroke. He's inthe office now, on the floor."
She closed the door on him, and he turned and went away. It was allclear to him; Gregory had seen, not Clark, but the older man; had toldhim and gone away. And under the shock the older man had collapsed. Thatwas sad. It was very sad. But it was also extremely convincing.
He sat up late that night again, running over the entries in hisnotebook. The old story, as he pieced it out, ran like this:
It had been twelve years ago, when, according to the old files,Clark had financed Beverly Carlysle's first starring venture. He had,apparently, started out in the beginning only to give her the publicityshe needed. In devising it, however, he had shown a sort of boyishrecklessness and ingenuity that had caught the interest of the press,and set newspaper men to chuckling wherever they got together.
He had got together a dozen or so of young men like himself, wealthy,idle and reckless with youth, and, headed by him, they had made theexploitation of the young star an occupation. The newspapers referredto the star and her constellation as Beverly Carlysle and her BroadwayBeauties. It had been unvicious, young, and highly entertaining, and ithad cost Judson Clark his membership in his father's conservative oldclubs.
For a time it livened the theatrical world with escapades that wereharmless enough, if sensational. Then, after a time, newspaper row beganto whisper that young Clark was in love with the girl. The BroadwayBeauties broke up, after a wild farewell dinner. The audiences ceasedto expect a row of a dozen youths, all dressed alike with gardenias intheir buttonholes and perhaps red neckties with their evening suits, torise in their boxes on the star's appearance and solemnly bow. And thestar herself lost a little of the anxious look she frequently wore.
The story went, after a while, that Judson Clark had been refused, andwas taking his refusal badly. Reporters saw him, carelessly dressed,outside the stage door waiting, and the story went that the girl hadthrown him over, money and all, for her leading man. One thing wasclear; Clark, not a drinker before, had taken to drinking hard, andafter a time, and some unpleasant scenes probably, she refused to seehim any more.
When the play closed, in June, 1911, she married Howard Lucas,her leading man; his third wife. Lucas had been not a bad chap, agood-looking, rather negligible man, given to all-day Sunday poker,carefully valeted, not very keen mentally, but amiable. They had boughta house on East Fifty-sixth Street, and were looking for a new playwith Lucas as co-star, when he unaccountably went to pieces nervously,stopped sleeping, and developed a slight twitching of his handsome,rather vacuous face.
Judson Clark had taken his yacht and gone to Europe, and was reportedfrom here and there not too favorably. But when he came back, in earlySeptember, he had apparently recovered from his infatuation, was hisold, carefully dressed self again, and when interviewed declared hisintention of spending the winter on his Wyoming ranch.
Of course he must have heard of Lucas's breakdown, and equally, ofcourse, he must have seen them both. What happened at that interview, bywhat casual attitude he allayed Lucas's probable jealousy and the girl'sown nervousness, Bassett had no way of discovering. It was clear thathe convinced them both of his good faith, for the next note in thereporter's book was simply a date, September 12, 1911.
The big smash did not come until the middle of October.
Bassett sat back and considered. He had a fairly clear idea of theconditions at the ranch; daily riding, some little reading, and a greatdeal too much of each other. A sick man, too, unhappy in his exile,chafing against his restrictions, lonely and irritable. The girl, earlyseeing her mistake, and Clark's jealousy of her husband. The door intotheir apartment closing, the thousand and one unconscious intimaciesbetween man and wife, the breakfast for two going up the stairs, andbelow that hot-eyed boy, agonized and passionately jealous, yet meetingthem and looking after them, their host and a gentleman.
Lucas took to drinking, after a time, to allay his sheer boredom. AndJud Clark drank with him. At the end of three weeks they were bothdrinking heavily, and were politely quarrelsome. Bassett could fillthat in also. He could see the girl protesting, watching, increasinglyanxious as she saw that Clark's jealousy was matched by her husband's.
A queer picture, he reflected, the three of them shut away on the greatranch, and every day some new tension, some new strain.
Then, one night at dinner, they quarreled, and Beverly left the table.She was going to pack her things and go back to New York. She had felt,probably, that something was bound to snap. And while she was upstairsClark had shot and killed Howard Lucas, and himself disappeared.
He had run, testimony at the inquest revealed, to the corral, andsaddled a horse. Although it was only October, it was snowing hard,but in spite of that he had turned his horse toward the mountains. Bymidnight a posse from Norada had started out, and another up the DryRiver Canyon, but the storm turned into a blizzard in the mountains, andthey were obliged to turn back. A few inches more snow, and they couldnot have got their horses out. A week or so later, with a crust of iceover it, a few of them began again, with no expectation, however, offinding Clark alive. They came across his horse on the second day, butthey did not find him, and there were some among them who felt that,after all, old Elihu Clark's boy had chosen the better way.
Bassett closed his notebook and lighted a cigar.
There was a big story to be had for the seeking, a whale of a story. Hecould go to the office, give them a hint, draw expense money and startfor Norada the next night. He knew well enough that he would have tobegin there, and that it would not be easy. Witnesses of the affairat the ranch would be missing now, or when found the first accuracy oftheir statements would either be dulled by time or have been added towith the passing years. The ranch itself might have passed into otherhands. To reconstruct the events of ten years ago might be impossible,or nearly so. But that was not his problem. He would have to connectNorada with Haverly, Clark with Livingstone. One thing only was simple.If he found Livingstone's story was correct, that he had lived on aranch near Norada before the crime and as Livingstone, then he wouldacknowledge that two men could look precisely alike and come from thesame place, and yet not be the same. If not--
But, after he had turned out his light and got into bed, he began tofeel a certain distaste for his self-appointed task. If Livingstonewere Clark, if after years of effort he had pulled himself up by his ownboot-straps, had made himself a man out of the reckless boy he had been,a decent and useful citizen, why pull him down? After all, the worldhadn't lost much in Lucas; a sleek, not over-intelligent big animal,that had been Howard Lucas.
He decided to sleep over it, and by morning he found himself not onlydisinclined to the business, but firmly resolved to let it drop. Thingswere well enough as they were. The woman in the case was making good.Jud was making good. And nothing would restore Howard Lucas to thatsmall theatrical world of his which had waved him good-bye at thestation so long ago.
He shaved and dressed, his resolution still holding. He had indeedalmost a conscious glow of virtue, for he was making one of thoseinglorious and unsung sacrifices which ought to bring a man credit inthe next world, because they certainly got him nowhere in this. He wasquite affable to the colored waiter who served his breakfasts in thebachelor apartment house, and increased his weekly tip to a dollar and ahalf. Then he sat down and opened the Times-Republican, skimming overit after his habit for his own space, and frowning over a row ofexclamation and interrogation points unwittingly set behind the name ofthe mayor.
On the second page, however, he stopped, coffee cup in air. "Is JudsonClark alive? Wife of former ranch manager makes confession."
A woman named Margaret Donaldson, it appeared, fatally injured by anautomobile near the town of Norada, Wyoming, had made a confession onher deathbed. In it she stated that, afraid to die without shriving hersoul, she had sent for the sheriff of Dallas County and had made thefollowing confession:
That following the tragedy at the Clark ranch her husband, JohnDonaldson, since dead, had immediately following the inquest, where hetestified, started out into the mountains in the hope of finding Clarkalive, as he knew of a deserted ranger's cabin where Clark sometimescamped when hunting. It was his intention to search for Clark at thiscabin and effect his escape. He carried with him food and brandy.
That, owing to the blizzard, he was very nearly frozen; that he wasobliged to abandon his horse, shooting it before he did so, and that,close to death himself, he finally reached the cabin and there foundJudson Clark, the fugitive, who was very ill.
She further testified that her husband cared for Clark for four days,Clark being delirious at the time, and that on the fifth day he startedback on foot for the Clark ranch, having left Clark locked in the cabin,and that on the following night he took three horses, two saddled, andone packed with food and supplies. That accompanied by herself they wentback to the cabin in the mountains and that she remained there tocare for Clark, while her husband returned to the ranch, to preventsuspicion.
That, a day or so later, looking out of her window, she had perceiveda man outside in the snow coming toward the cabin, and that she hadthought it one of the searching party. That her first instinct had beento lock him outside, but that she had finally admitted him, and thatthereafter he had remained and had helped her to care for the sick man.
Unfortunately for the rest of the narrative it appeared that the injuredwoman had here lapsed into a coma, and had subsequently died, carryingher further knowledge with her.
But, the article went on, the story opened a field of infinite surmise.In all probability Judson Clark was still alive, living under someassumed identity, free of punishment, outwardly respectable. Three yearsbefore he had been adjudged legally dead, and the estate divided, underbond of the legatees.
Close to a hundred million dollars had gone to charities, and JudsonClark, wherever he was, would be dependent on his own efforts forexistence. He could have summoned all the legal talent in the country tohis defense, but instead he had chosen to disappear.
The whole situation turned on the deposition of Mrs. Donaldson, nowdead. The local authorities at Norada maintained that the woman had notbeen sane for several years. On the other hand, the cabin to which shereferred was well known, and no search of it had been made at the time.Clark's horse had been found not ten miles from the town, and the cabinwas buried in snow twenty miles further away. If Clark had made thatjourney on foot he had accomplished the impossible.
Certain facts, according to the local correspondent, bore out MargaretDonaldson's confession. Inquiry showed that she was supposed to havespent the winter following Judson Clark's crime with relatives in Omaha.She had returned to the ranch the following spring.
A detailed description of Judson Clark, and a photograph of himaccompanied the story. Bassett re-read the article carefully, andswore a little, under his breath. If he had needed confirmation ofhis suspicions, it lay to his hand. But the situation had changed overnight. There would be a search for Clark now, as wide as the knowledgeof his disappearance. Local police authorities would turn him up inevery city from
Maine to the Pacific coast. Even Europe would be on thelookout and South America.
But it was not the police he feared so much as the press. Not all of thepapers, but some of them, would go after that story, and send their bestmen on it. It offered not so much a chance of solution as an opportunityto revive the old dramatic story. He could see, when he closed his eyes,the local photographers climbing to that cabin and later sending itspictures broadcast, and divers gentlemen of the press, eager topit their wits against ten years of time and the ability of a onceconspicuous man to hide from the law, packing their suitcases forNorada.
No, he couldn't stop now. He would go on, like the others, and with thisadvantage, that he was morally certain he could lay his hands on Clarkat any time. But he would have to prove his case, connect it. Who, forinstance, was the other man in the cabin? He must have known who the boywas who lay in that rough bunk, delirious. Must have suspected anyhow.That made him, like the Donaldsons, accessory after the fact, andcriminally liable. Small chance of him coming out with any confession.Yet he was the connecting link. Must be.
On his third reading the reporter began to visualize the human elementsof the fight to save the boy; he saw moving before him the whole pitifulstruggle; the indomitable ranch manager, his heart-breaking strugglewith the blizzard, the shooting of his horse, the careful disarming ofsuspicion, and later the intrepid woman, daring that night ride throughsnow that had sent the posse back to its firesides to the boy, locked inthe cabin and raving.
His mind was busy as he packed his suitcase. Already he had forgottenhis compunctions of the early morning; he moved about methodically,calculating roughly what expense money he would need, and the line ofattack, if any, required at the office. Between Norada and that oldbrick house at Haverly lay his story. Ten years of it. He was closinghis bag when he remembered the little girl in the blue dress, at thetheater. He straightened and scowled. After a moment he snapped the bagshut. Damn it all, if Clark had chosen to tie up with a girl, that was onClark's conscience, not his.
But he was vaguely uncomfortable.
"It's a queer world, Joe," he observed to the waiter, who had come infor the breakfast dishes.
"Yes, sir. It is that," said Joe.
The Breaking Point Page 11