The Breaking Point

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  XXIV

  Bassett was astounded when he saw Dick's signature on the hotelregister. It destroyed, in one line, every theory he held. That JudsonClark should return to Norada after his flight was incredible. Ten yearswas only ten years after all. It was not a lifetime. There were men inthe town who had known Clark well.

  Nevertheless for a time he held to his earlier conviction, even foughtfor it. He went so far as to wonder if Clark had come back for a tardysurrender. Men had done that before this, had carried a burden foryears, had reached the breaking point, had broken. But he dismissedthat. There had been no evidence of breaking in the young man in theoffice chair. He found himself thrown back, finally, on the story of theWasson woman, and wondering if he would have to accept it after all.

  The reaction from his certainty in the cabin to uncertainty again madehim fretful and sleepless. It was almost morning before he relaxed onhis hard hotel bed enough to sleep.

  He wakened late, and telephoned down for breakfast. His confusion hadnot decreased with the night, and while he got painfully out of bed andprepared to shave and dress, his thoughts were busy. There was no doubtin his mind that, in spite of the growth of the town, the newcomer wouldbe under arrest almost as soon as he made his appearance. A resemblancethat could deceive Beverly Carlysle's brother could deceive others, andwould. That he had escaped so long amazed him.

  By the time he had bathed he had developed a sort of philosophicacceptance of the new situation. There would be no exclusive story now,no scoop. The events of the next few hours were for every man to read.He shrugged his shoulders as, partially dressed, he carried his shavingmaterials into the better light of his bedroom.

  With his face partially lathered he heard a knock at the door, and sangout a not uncheerful "Come in." It happened, then, that it was inhis mirror that he learned that his visitor was not the waiter, butLivingstone himself. He had an instant of stunned amazement before heturned.

  "I beg your pardon," Dick said. "I was afraid you'd get out before Isaw you. My name's Livingstone, and I want to talk to you, if you don'tmind. If you like I'll come back later."

  Bassett perceived two things simultaneously; that owing probably to thelather on his face he had not been recognized, and that the face of theman inside the door was haggard and strained.

  "That's all right. Come in and sit down. I'll get this stuff off my faceand be with you in a jiffy."

  But he was very deliberate in the bathroom. His astonishment grew,rather than decreased. Clearly Livingstone had not known him. How, then,had he known that he was in Norada? And when he recognized him, as hewould in a moment, what then? He put on his collar and tied his tieslowly. Gregory might be the key. Gregory might have found out that hehad started for Norada and warned him. Then, if that were true, this manwas Clark after all. But if he were Clark he wouldn't be there. It waslike a kitten after its tail. It whirled in a circle and got nowhere.

  The waiter had laid his breakfast and gone when he emerged from thebathroom, and Dick was standing by the window looking out. He turned.

  "I'm here, Mr. Bassett, on rather a peculiar--" He stopped and looked atBassett. "I see. You were in my office about a month ago, weren't you?"

  "For a headache, yes." Bassett was very wary and watchful, but there wasno particular unfriendliness in his visitor's eyes.

  "It never occurred to me that you might be Bassett," Dick said gravely."Never mind about that. Eat your breakfast. Do you mind if I talk whileyou do it?"

  "Will you have some coffee? I can get a glass from the bathroom. Ittakes a week to get a waiter here."

  "Thanks. Yes."

  The feeling of unreality grew in the reporter's mind. It increased stillfurther when they sat opposite each other, the small table with itsBible on the lower shelf between them, while he made a pretense atbreakfasting.

  "First of all," Dick said, at last, "I was not sure I had found theright man. You are the only Bassett in the place, however, and you'reregistered from my town. So I took a chance. I suppose that headache wasnot genuine."

  Bassett hesitated.

  "No" he said at last.

  "What you really wanted to do was to see me, then?"

  "In a way, yes."

  "I'll ask you one more question. It may clear the air. Does this meananything to you? I'll tell you now that it doesn't, to me."

  From his pocketbook he took the note addressed to David, and passed itover the table. Bassett looked at him quickly and took it.

  "Before you read it, I'll explain something. It was not sent to me. Itwas sent to my--to Doctor David Livingstone. It happened to fall into myhands. I've come a long way to find out what it means."

  He paused, and looked the reporter straight in the eyes. "I am laying mycards on the table, Bassett. This 'G,' whoever he is, is clearly warningmy uncle against you. I want to know what he is warning him about."

  Bassett read the note carefully, and looked up.

  "I suppose you know who 'G' is?"

  "I do not. Do you?"

  "I'll give you another name, and maybe you'll get it. A name that Ithink will mean something to you. Beverly Carlysle."

  "The actress?"

  Bassett had an extraordinary feeling of unreality, followed by one ofdoubt. Either the fellow was a very good actor, or--

  "Sorry," Dick said slowly. "I don't seem to get it. I don't know that'G' is as important as his warning. That note's a warning."

  "Yes. It's a warning. And I don't think you need me to tell you whatabout."

  "Concerning my uncle, or myself?"

  "Are you trying to put it over on me that you don't know?"

  "That's what I'm trying to do," Dick said, with a sort of gravepatience.

  The reporter liked courage when he saw it, and he was compelled to asort of reluctant admiration.

  "You've got your courage with you," he observed. "How long do yousuppose it will be after you set foot on the streets of this town beforeyou're arrested? How do you know I won't send for the police myself?"

  "I know damned well you won't," Dick said grimly. "Not before I'mthrough with you. You've chosen to interest yourself in me. I supposeyou don't deny the imputation in that letter. You'll grant that I havea right to know who and what you are, and just what you are interestedin."

  "Right-o," the reporter said cheerfully, glad to get to grips; andto stop a fencing that was getting nowhere. "I'm connected with theTimes-Republican, in your own fair city. I was in the theater the nightGregory recognized you. Verbum sap."

  "This Gregory is the 'G'?"

  "Oh, quit it, Clark," Bassett said, suddenly impatient. "That letter'sthe last proof I needed. Gregory wrote it after he'd seen DavidLivingstone. He wouldn't have written it if he and the old man hadn'tcome to an understanding. I've been to the cabin. My God, man, I've evengot the parts of your clothing that wouldn't burn! You can thank MaggieDonaldson for that."

  "Donaldson," Dick repeated. "That was it. I couldn't remember her name.The woman in the cabin. Maggie. And Jack. Jack Donaldson."

  He got up, and was apparently dizzy, for he caught at the table.

  "Look here," Bassett said, "let me give you a drink. You look all in."

  But Dick shook his head.

  "No, thanks just the same. I'll ask you to be plain with me, Bassett. Iam--I have become engaged to a girl, and--well, I want the story. That'sall."

  And, when Bassett only continued to stare at him:

  "I suppose I've begun wrong end first. I forgot about how it must seemto you. I dropped a block out of my life about ten years ago. Can'tremember it. I'm not proud of it, but it's the fact. What I'm trying todo now is to fill in the gap. But I've got to, somehow. I owe it to thegirl."

  When Bassett could apparently find nothing to say he went on:

  "You say I may be arrested if I go out on the street. And you rathermore than intimate that a woman named Beverly Carlysle is mixed up in itsomehow. I take it that I knew her."

  "Yes. You knew her," Bassett said slowly.
At the intimation in his toneDick surveyed him for a moment without speaking. His face, pale before,took on a grayish tinge.

  "I wasn't--married to her?"

  "No. You didn't marry her. See here, Clark, this is straight goods, isit? You're not trying to put something over on me? Because if you are,you needn't. I'd about made up my mind to follow the story through formy own satisfaction, and then quit cold on it. When a man's pulledhimself out of the mud as you have it's not my business to pull himdown. But I don't want you to pull any bunk."

  Dick winced.

  "Out of the mud!" he said. "No. I'm telling you the truth, Bassett. Ihave some fragmentary memories, places and people, but no names, andall of them, I imagine from my childhood. I pick up at a cabin in themountains, with snow around, and David Livingstone feeding me soup witha tin spoon." He tried to smile and failed. His face twitched. "I couldstand it for myself," he said, "but I've tied another life to mine, likea cursed fool, and now you speak of a woman, and of arrest. Arrest! Forwhat?"

  "Suppose," Bassett said after a moment, "suppose you let that go justnow, and tell me more about this--this gap. You're a medical man. You'veprobably gone into your own case pretty thoroughly. I'm accepting yourstatement, you see. As a matter of fact it must be true, or you wouldn'tbe here. But I've got to know what I'm doing before I lay my cardson the table. Make it simple, if you can. I don't know your medicaljargon."

  Dick did his best. The mind closed down now and then, mainly from ashock. No, there was no injury required. He didn't think he had had aninjury. A mental shock would do it, if it were strong enough. And fear.It was generally fear. He had never considered himself braver than theother fellow, but no man liked to think that he had a cowardly mind.Even if things hadn't broken as they had, he'd have come back beforehe went to the length of marriage, to find out what it was he had beenafraid of. He paused then, to give Bassett a chance to tell him, but thereporter only said: "Go on, you put your cards on the table, and thenI'll lay mine out."

  Dick went on. He didn't blame Bassett. If there was something that wasin his line of work, he understood. At the same time he wanted to saveDavid anything unpleasant. (The word "unpleasant" startled Bassett, byits very inadequacy.) He knew now that David had built up for him anidentity that probably did not exist, but he wanted Bassett to know thatthere could never be doubt of David's high purpose and his essentialfineness.

  "Whatever I was before." he finished simply, "and I'll get that from younow, if I am any sort of a man at all it is his work."

  He stood up and braced himself. It had been clear to Bassett for tenminutes that Dick was talking against time, against the period ofrevelation. He would have it, but he was mentally bracing himselfagainst it.

  "I think," he said, "I'll have that whisky now."

  Bassett poured him a small drink, and took a turn about the room whilehe drank it. He was perplexed and apprehensive. Strange as the storywas, he was convinced that he had heard the truth. He had, now and then,run across men who came back after a brief disappearance, with a cockand bull story of forgetting who they were, and because nearly alwaysthese men vanished at the peak of some crisis they had always been opento suspicion. Perhaps, poor devils, they had been telling the truthafter all. So the mind shut down, eh? Closed like a grave over theunbearable!

  His own part in the threatening catastrophe began to obsess him. Withoutthe warning from Gregory there would have been no return to Norada, noarrest. It had all been dead and buried, until he himself had revivedit. And a girl, too! The girl in the blue dress at the theater, ofcourse.

  Dick put down the glass.

  "I'm ready, if you are."

  "Does the name of Clark recall anything to you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Judson Clark? Jud Clark?"

  Dick passed his hand over his forehead wearily.

  "I'm not sure," he said. "It sounds familiar, and then it doesn't. Itdoesn't mean anything to me, if you get that. If it's a key, it doesn'tunlock. That's all. Am I Judson Clark?"

  Oddly enough, Bassett found himself now seeking for hope of escape inthe very situation that had previously irritated him, in the story hehad heard at Wasson's. He considered, and said, almost violently:

  "Look here, I may have made a mistake. I came out here pretty wellconvinced I'd found the solution to an old mystery, and for that matterI think I have. But there's a twist in it that isn't clear, and untilit is clear I'm not going to saddle you with an identity that may notbelong to you. You are one of two men. One of them is Judson Clark, andI'll be honest with you; I'm pretty sure you're Clark. The other I don'tknow, but I have reason to believe that he spent part of his time withHenry Livingstone at Dry River."

  "I went to the Livingstone ranch yesterday. I remember my early home.That wasn't it. Which one of these two men will be arrested if he isrecognized?"

  "Clark."

  "For what?"

  "I'm coming to that. I suppose you'll have to know. Another drink? No?All right. About ten years ago, or a little less, a young chap calledJudson Clark got into trouble here, and headed into the mountains in ablizzard. He was supposed to have frozen to death. But recently a womannamed Donaldson made a confession on her deathbed. She said that she hadhelped to nurse Clark in a mountain cabin, and that with the aid of someone unnamed he had got away."

  "Then I'm Clark. I remember her, and the cabin."

  There was a short silence following that admission. To Dick, it wasfilled with the thought of Elizabeth, and of her relation to what he wasabout to hear. Again he braced himself for what was coming.

  "I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in prettyserious trouble. What was it?"

  "We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don'tknow, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before shedied. I've told you there's a chance you are the other man."

  "All right. What had Clark done?"

  "He had shot a man."

  The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, hewas ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair.

  "Not--murder?" he asked, with stiff lips.

  "No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had about allyou can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I saidwas--"

  "I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?"

  "Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that,I think."

  Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. Fora long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of carsin front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with achild in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dickand extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued tostare at his white face.

  "The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning.

  "Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark ranch.I don't believe a conviction would be possible, although they would tryfor one. It was circumstantial evidence."

  "And I ran away?"

  "Clark ran away," Bassett corrected him. "As I've told you, theauthorities here believe he is dead."

  After an even longer silence Dick turned.

  "I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to keepthe thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can protect her, andDavid--"

  "I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark."

  "All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am--I tell you I'm not goingthrough the rest of my life with a thing like that hanging over me.Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I look back, I know ourleaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not Henry Livingstone's son, becausehe never had a son. I can tell you what the Clark ranch house lookslike." And after a pause: "Can you imagine the reverse of a dream whenyou've dreamed you are guilty of something and wake up to find you areinnocent? Who was the man?"

  Bassett watched him narrowly.

  "His name was Lucas. Howard Luca
s."

  "All right. Now we have that, where does Beverly Carlysle come in?"

  "Clark was infatuated with her. The man he shot was the man she hadmarried."