"You are a jewel, Amelia." Howard patted her shoulder. "I will include that in the affidavit, too." He had another thought. "Do you know if Jon still keeps the instruments his father gave him?"
"Yes. In a locked cabinet."
"No one has the key but him?"
"No one. Not even Dr. Morgan, who would not need them anyway. There is another cabinet, quite complete, in the other examination room, and Dr. Morgan has the key to that. Not surgical instruments, however, but just for examination. Our hospitals are modern, you know."
Howard went into the white and deserted examination room and studied Jonathan's cabinet and saw the expensive instruments on their white and silken beds. He saw where the curette had lain, and he saw the dark pepper of dust in the empty indentation. Who had taken Jonathan's instrument? Who had had access to his keys? The only answer was—his wife. Howard stood, rubbing his chin, staring absently through the glass doors of the cabinet. Mavis. So, Mavis had taken the instrument. The question was, why? Mavis had been a stupid young woman. She would not have known the name, or the use, of the curette—unless it had been described to her.
Miss Forster was still waiting for him, for she must lock up the offices.
"Amelia," he said, "several people, both men and women, were here in this office on the day Mrs. Beamish ran out accusing Jon of 'hurting' her. Some parties have sought them out, and they have—with some reluctance—made affidavits of the affair, as much as they remembered of it. I haven't been able to understand how they found the names of Jon's patients on that day."
Miss Forster stared, then leaned forward. "Why, Howard, I think I can tell you that. At least, I do think so. A gentleman, who said he was a police official—I have no doubt but what he was, for he showed me his credentials—said that some lady claimed to have left her purse, containing a considerable amount of money, in this office. I do not recall the particular lady in the least. There were so many, many, on that day. I was told the exact date, and I did get out a few cards and gave the police officer the names of four or five people. It was the day, I remembered later, when Mrs. Beamish was here. The police official said that perhaps a lady had mistakenly picked up the purse, or a gentleman had taken it, believing it was his wife's, and I remember being puzzled, for with the exception of Mrs. Beamish on that day there were no absolute strangers waiting to see the doctors, and I know that there were no thieves among them! I gave the official a piece of my mind, and I told him—"
"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"
Miss Forster considered, then shook her head. "No, I do not think so. A very nondescript little man. Howard, do you think he was a fraud? Do you think he lied to me?"
"I don't think he was a fraud," said Howard with grimness. "But he lied to you. He wanted those names for affidavits against Jon. Of course, he probably told the patients that Mrs. Beamish was making some claim against Jon, and he was trying to protect Jon, so would they just please say so and so, about the woman shrieking that Jon had hurt her? They were reluctant, I see now very clearly, not because they thought they were hurting Jon, but because they have the ordinary citizen's aversion to dealing with the law in any form." He thought a moment. "Of course, that is what it was! And all the time I've been thinking something else. Everything, Amelia, is not always what exactly meets the eye."
Once out in the street, he climbed into his trap and sat and thought long and hard. He had considered going to "the young ladies" who had made affidavits alleging that Jonathan had performed criminal operations on them but had discarded the idea. They had unseen but powerful friends, and of that he had no doubt. There were large and shadowy figures behind them, and they would report to these figures at once.
There is something worthwhile about living in a small city like Hambledon, he thought as he drove away. Almost everyone knew Miss Forster, whose ancestors had helped found this city. She and her family were held in the highest respect, and though they were in rather poor circumstances now, the word of a Forster would not be challenged. Her brother was minister of his father's church and had a considerable reputation everywhere. Miss Forster's word—and affidavit—would be accepted in any court of law, and even Campion understood that. Howard considered again. The Senator had claimed no acquaintance with the seamstress and milliner, nor had they claimed any knowledge of him but Howard's lawyer's intuition assured him, without the slightest proof, that there must be some connection. Still, he dared not approach them directly or indirectly, for they would run in terror to those who had demanded their perjury.
At the proper moment, however, they would be confronted. Howard had a plan of his own in mind, and it was broadening moment by moment.
Howard Best was well known to the police in Scranton, and the chief of police was one of his best friends, for they had known each other from childhood.
So Howard went to see William Simpson confidentially. "It's just a little matter," he said. "A small claim against a Mrs. Edna Beamish, who used to five in Scranton. I am doing it as a favor." Friends though they were, Howard was enough of a lawyer not to be too forthright and honest.
William Simpson laughed. "Oh, Edna. A girl from across the tracks, as we say. Pretty little trollop. Prettiest little thing who ever picked up her skirts to show off her wares to the highest bidder—on the right side of town."
Howard laughed, too, genially. "That sort, eh? And all the time I've heard that she was married to a rich man in Scranton, one Ernest Beamish."
"Well, that's true, too. Old fool, Ernest. Never married in his life, and when he saw Edna, he decided he'd found the girl of his dreams. She wasn't cheap, Edna. No common whore. She had style, too, and nice sweet little manners. Almost a lady. She married him when she was eighteen and had been in business for at least three years before that."
"Very enterprising," said Howard, trying to keep the intense interest off his face. "Have a cigar. Twenty-five cents apiece. What this country needs—"
"Yes. I know. A good five-cent cigar. What's this about a small claim against Edna? Old Ernest left her quite a lot of money when he died two years ago and—"
Howard sat up. "Two years ago?"
"That's right." The chief of police chuckled. "Perhaps Edna kept him too busy." Now his sharp eye studied Howard thoughtfully. "Come on. Tell me the truth. Why do you want to know about Edna Beamish?"
Howard was annoyed at himself. But he smiled and waved his hand. "It is a small matter, Bill. She lived in Hambledon, and there's a matter of a confection, some millinery, she forgot to pay for."
The chief of police pursued up his mouth and gave Howard a skeptical look. "Now, that's quite a story. Edna never lived in Hambledon in her life, so far as I know, and I keep up with the gossip in this town."
"Why, that's impossible, Bill. I have the bill of sale right in my office. Thirty-five dollars."
William Simpson shook his head, and for some reason he began to laugh deeply to himself, and Howard watched eagerly. "Howard, someone's pulling your leg. I repeat: Edna never lived in Hambledon. Old Ernest Beamish was well known to me. We played poker together. He never lived in Hambledon, either. They had a nice house in town, very stylish, and they gave fine parties, and I was there. After Ernest died—"
"Yes?"
But the chief continued to smoke and shake with silent laughter. Then he said. "That Edna," in an admiring tone.
"What about her?"
"I thought," said the chief, "that your sole concern for our local Jersey Lily was purely in behalf of a millinery claim, and Howard, I'm ashamed of you, a prominent lawyer like you making up a ridiculous little story like that. I thought better of you. Can't you trust an old friend?"
Howard considered him long and steadily. "I want to know her connection with Senator Campion, one of our unfortunate Commonwealth's two Senators."
A closed look came over William Simpson's face. He carefully deposited cigar ash in a tray. He said, "Why didn't you say that in the first place, instead of trying to make me believe th
at you believed Edna had lived in Hambledon?"
"She did. She lived in a place called Kensington Terraces. Not for as long as she claimed, however, but for a few weeks. Recently. Very recently."
The chief said, "One of the things a political appointee learns very early—if he wants to survive—is not to talk about powerful politicians, that is, repeat gossip about them. But hell, a few people know, and I'll tell you if it goes no further, Howard."
Howard hesitated. "It might have to, Bill. I'll try to keep it as quiet as possible and look for information which will be a result of your information without revealing the source."
"I know you lawyers," said the chief, and looked at Howard with large cold eyes. "When it comes to a client, you'd betray your best friends—for a good fee, of course. You haven't been exactly candid with me, and why should I be candid with you?"
"For no reason except that if I don't hurry and get some information—and not just about our little Edna—a good fine man will find himself unjustly in prison, not to mention the loss of his reputation and profession."
"Oh. Why didn't you tell me? Has Edna gotten him into some mess?"
"Yes. She had an abortion, a criminal abortion, only a short time ago."
"Ha," said the chief, and began to laugh again. "The Senator won't like that! Little Edna playing house when the master is away. Sneaking away from Washington to kick up her heels in a dead-dog town like Hambledon, at that! Papa won't like it, not at all."
"I don't suppose he will," said Howard, pretending to laugh deeply himself, though he felt intense exultation.
"And little Edna found herself with a cake in the oven which didn't belong to the Senator, eh?"
"Maybe it did."
"I thought," said the chief, sober again, "that you were implying that Edna went into the bakery business with that friend of yours in Hambledon?"
"Let me put it this way, Bill. Edna has let drop a few remarks that my friend is—responsible."
"I can hardly believe that of Edna! She knew how to keep her mouth shut!" The chief's eyes were hard and suspicious again.
"Oh, not that. I mean that she is accusing my friend of performing an abortion on her."
"Edna? Doing that openly? The Senator will kill her! He's a Hambledon boy. Keeps his reputation all glowing and sweet-smelling. Come on! What is this all about?"
"Just what I've told you. Now, would you advise me," said Howard, with a great air of earnest artlessness, "to tell the Senator?"
"My God, no! He'd murder Edna if it ever even got out that he was playing Papa and Mama with her in Washington! She's the latest of his little friends and has lasted the longest, and only a few in Scranton know about it and they know that if the Senator ever caught them scandalizing about him, they'd land in a pitch pit. Powerful boy, the Senator, and never forgets his friends or his enemies. Look here, Howard, I don't want any of it!"
"People must know, in Washington."
"People know a lot of things in Washington. But they don't talk about them."
Howard stood up, affecting to be disappointed and downcast. He sighed. "Very well, Bill, I should have thought about your position before coming here. You have told me nothing and I am not going to ask you anything. I can appreciate your need to be discreet."
They shook hands, the chief very relieved. It was only when Howard had left that William Simpson began to wonder sourly if Howard had been entirely candid in his disavowals, and if he himself had not been led up the garden path. In the meantime Howard was considering how best to prove Edna Beamish's liaison with Senator Campion, the fact of her manifest pregnancy by him, and her resorting to an unknown abortionist either in Hambledon or Scranton. He also needed to know why she had appeared in Hambledon and in the of- flees of Jonathan Ferrier, though he now had a rather clear idea of the circumstances—to his incredulous horror—and the use to which Edna Beamish had been put, and the reason. As a pragmatic lawyer and paradoxically an honest man, he had always discounted the conspiratorial theory of both history and human conduct, but now he admitted freely that both were not only possible but probable. In Jonathan Ferrier's case they were actual.
Howard thought of Senator Campion very thoroughly. He knew that the Senator regarded Hambledon privately as bucolic and simpleminded. We'll show him how really crude he is, thought Howard, on the train home. What a striking, amateurish plot he had thought up! However, it had been Howard's experience, amateurs could often display a boldness experienced plotters could well envy, and by their very clumsiness convince.
During the next few hurried days Howard made several other discreet investigations, and was well satisfied as well as infuriated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Flora Eaton said, "Howard, it is very sweet and kind
of you to call to see poor Martin, but he is very sick, you know, and needs his rest and peace and quiet."
"Yes, I understand, Flora. But, you see, this is a matter of extreme importance to someone very important to Martin."
They sat in the huge dim drawing room of the ugly house near the river, and Flora eyed Howard Best dubiously, plucking at her gray linen skirt and biting her lips. "Howard, Martin hasn't been at all well since Senator Campion called on him. Visitors seem to disturb him very greatly."
Howard sat up quickly. "The Senator was here?"
"Yes, indeed. So concerned over Martin, they are such good friends, you see. But it was too much for Martin, too much stimulation. He quite collapsed after Kenton had left and I had to call the doctor for him, and the doctor said he was not to be disturbed or upset, or even stimulated again. After all, it has not yet been a year—"
"I know, I know! But I think it will do Martin a lot of good to see me, Flora, I really do."
"Legal business, Howard?"
"In a way. I know Martin has something on his mind, and if he tells me about it, it will be a relief to him. Please ask him to see me for five minutes, Flora."
Still doubtful, she lifted her thin flat figure from the chair and left the room and Howard felt a sense of excitement and elation. So Campion had been here, had he, and had "disturbed" Martin Eaton? What had he threatened or said, to make Martin give up that damning instrument to Louis Hedler? This was very interesting, indeed. In spite of the closed shutters and draperies, the room was very hot and Howard, restless and more and more excited, wiped his face and his hands and looked impatiently at the door. He could hear the voice of the river, rustling softly in the morning silence, and the whirring of lawn mowers, and the bark of a dog, and he thought how peaceful the world was, or could be, without mankind.
Flora Eaton returned, uncertain and hesitant. "I've talked with Martin, Howard. He's been writing and writing and is so exhausted. But when I told him you were here, he consented to see you for a few minutes. Howard, please don't stay long, will you? He needs to rest."
Howard stood up. "Writing? Is he writing a book?"
Flora simpered and made a foolish little gesture with her hands, crossing them at the wrists and then fluttering them out. "I am not at liberty to say, Howard." The idea had not occurred to her before this, but the suggestion intrigued her. "But I do know it is quite voluminous, and not a letter. Such a secret!"
Howard Best had not seen Martin Eaton for months and even in his preoccupied state he was shocked at the change in a once powerful and robust man with presence. He could smell the acrid closeness in this room, and the higher odor of illness and mortality. Martin was a dying man, shattered, ruined, cavernous of face and appalling of color. He looked dully at Howard as he advanced across the room toward the desk, and sat there unspeaking like a crumbling Buddha sifting into dust in some lost temple.
Howard was so full of pity that he forgot to smile and did not wait to be asked to sit down. He sat down across from the desk and Martin, and he said, "Forgive me, Martin. I know you are ill. I should not have imposed on you if the matter were not so important and so immediate, and concerned—"
"I know," said the faint and em
pty voice. "You were always Jon Ferrier's closest friend. You moved for a change of venue and succeeded. You procured the best lawyers in Philadelphia for him."
Howard studied him and listened to the voice to catch any echo of animosity or hatred or hostility or contempt. But there was none. The tone was lightless and unaccented and indifferent.
"So," said Martin, "I know why you've come. It is about Jon Ferrier." ,
"Yes," said Howard. "He is in terrible danger, and he is innocent. I know you don't believe that, but it is true."
Martin Eaton looked down at the desk again, and now Howard saw that there was a sheaf of papers there, closely written upon, neatly stacked. Martin's hand still held a pen.
"I do not know what is truth," said Martin, "or what is lies any longer. I do not know even what is guilt."
"Martin, surely you know in your heart that Jon did not kill Mavis."
"You are wrong." The voice was louder but still indifferent. "He killed her. I knew his guilt. I've always known it."
A little chilliness ran over Howard's warm cheeks and hands. He looked at Martin intently. Then he said, "Guilty of killing her—how?"
For the first time Martin smiled, a dreary, painful smile. "You lawyers. I made a simple statement which would be accepted by anyone but you. I said Jon Ferrier was guilty of Mavis' death; that should have satisfied you. I don't he. But you say 'how?'"
Howard's hopes rose. Martin lifted his living hand, which held the pen. "Kenton Campion has been here and has told me everything, so it is not necessary for you to tell me the detestable tale of the plot against Jon. I assume Louis Hedler told you. Poor Louis. I know there are other ramifications of this plot not concerned with me and Mavis. So, spare yourself, Howard." He looked again at the papers on his desk and sighed a long and gusty sigh.
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