Kitabı oku: «Out of a Labyrinth», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXIV.
JIM LONG SHOWS HIS HAND
As I ran through the silent, dusky street, keeping to the road in preference to risking myself, at that pace, over some most uncertain "sidewalks," for pavements were unknown in Trafton, my thoughts were keeping pace with my heels.
First they dwelt upon the fact that Jim Long, in making his brief, hasty exhortation to me, had forgotten, or chosen to ignore, his nasal twang and rustic dialect, and that his earnestness and agitation had betrayed a more than ordinary interest in Carl Bethel, and a much more than ordinary dismay at the calamity which had befallen him.
Carl Bethel had been shot down at his own door!
How came it that Jim Long was near the scene and ready for the rescue, at eleven o'clock at night? Who had committed the deed? And why?
Some thoughts come to us like inspirations. Suddenly there flashed upon my mind a possible man and a probable motive.
Blake Simpson was coming back. Contrary to my expectations, he had probably entered Trafton on foot, having made the journey by means of some sort of conveyance which was now, perhaps, carrying him away from the scene of his crime.
This would explain the singular apathy of Dimber Joe. He had walked out earlier in the evening to ascertain that the way was clear and the game within reach, or, in other words, at home and alone. Then perhaps he had made these facts known to his confederate, and after that, his part in the plot being accomplished, he had returned to the hotel, where he had kept himself conspicuously in sight until after the deed was done. Here was a theory for the murder ready to hand, and a motive was not wanting.
Only a week since, some party or parties had committed a shameful outrage, and the attempt had been made to fasten the crime upon Carl Bethel. Fortunately the counter evidence had been sufficient to clear him in the eyes of impartial judges. The doctor's courage and popularity had carried him safely through the danger. His enemies had done him little hurt, and had not succeeded in driving him from Trafton. Obviously he was in somebody's way, and the first attempt having failed, they had made a second and more desperate one.
Here my mental diagnosis of the case came to an end. I had reached the gate of the doctor's cottage.
All was silent as I opened the door and entered the sitting-room. A shaded lamp burned softly on the center-table, and beside it stood the doctor's easy-chair and footrest. An open book lay upon the table, as if lately laid down by the occupant of the chair, who had put a half-filled pipe between the pages, to mark the place where he had stopped reading when interrupted by – what?
Thus much I observed at a glance, and then turned toward the inner room where, upon the bed, lay Carl Bethel.
Was he living or dead?
Taking the lamp from the table I carried it to the bedside, and bent to look at the still form lying thereon. The loose coat of white linen, and also the vest, had been drawn back from the right shoulder; both were blood-stained, and the entire shirt front was saturated with blood.
I put the lamp upon a stand beside the bed, and examined closer. The hands were not yet cold with the chill of death, the breath came feebly from between the parted lips.
What should I do?
As I glanced about the room while asking myself this helpless question, there came a step upon the gravel outside, quick, light, firm. Then the door opened, and Louise Barnard stood before me.
Shall I ever forget that woful face, white as the face of death, rigid with the calmness of despair? Shall I ever banish from my memory those great dark eyes, too full of anguish for tears? It was another mental picture of Louise Barnard never to be forgotten.
"Carl, Carl!"
She was on her knees at the bedside clasping the limp hand between her own, bowing her white face until it rested upon his.
"Carl, Carl! speak to me!"
But there was no word of tenderness in answer to her pitiful appeal, no returning pressure from the still hand, and she buried her head in the pillows, uttering a low moan of despair.
In the presence of one weaker than myself, my own helplessness forsook me. I approached the girl who knelt there believing her lover dead, and touched her shoulder lightly.
"Miss Barnard, we have no time now for grief. He is not dead."
She was on her feet in an instant.
"Not dead! Then he must not die!"
A red flush mounted to her cheek, a new light leaped to her eye. She waited to ask or give no explanation, but turned once more and laid her hand upon the blood-ensanguined garments.
"Ah, we must waste no more time. Can you cut away this clothing?"
I nodded and she sprang from the room. I heard a clicking of steel and the sound of opening drawers, then she was back with a pair of sharp scissors in her hand.
"Use these," she said, taking command as a matter of course, and flitting out again, leaving me to do my work, and as I worked, I marveled at and admired her wonderful presence of mind – her splendid self-control.
In a moment I knew, by the crack of a parlor match and a responsive flash of steady light, that she had found a lamp and lighted it.
There were the sounds of another search, and then she was back again with restoratives and some pieces of linen.
Glancing down at the bed she uttered a sharp exclamation, and all the blood fled out of her face. I had just laid bare a ghastly wound in the right shoulder, and dangerously near the lung.
It was with a mighty effort that she regained her self-control. Then she put down the things she held, and said, quite gently:
"Please chafe his hands and temples, and afterward try the restoratives. There is a fluid heater out there. I must have warm water before – "
"Long has gone for a doctor," I interrupted, thinking her possibly ignorant of this fact.
"I know; we must have everything ready for him."
She went out and I began my work of restoration.
After some time passed in the outer room, she came back to the bedside and assisted me in my task.
After a little, a faint sigh and a feeble fluttering of the eyelids assured us that we were not thus active in vain. The girl caught her breath, and while she renewed her efforts at restoration I saw that she was fast losing her self-control.
And now we heard low voices and hurrying footsteps.
It was the doctor at last.
Excepting Bethel, Dr. Hess was the youngest practitioner in Trafton. He was a bachelor, and slept at his office, a fact which Jim took into account in calling for him, instead of waking up old Dr. Baumbach, who lived at the extreme north of the village.
Dr. Hess looked very grave, and Jim exceedingly anxious, as the two bent together over the patient.
After a brief examination, Dr. Hess said:
"I must get at Bethel's instruments. I know he keeps them here, so did not stop to fetch mine."
"They are all ready."
He turned in surprise. Miss Barnard had drawn back at his entrance, and he was now, for the first time, aware of her presence.
"I knew what was required," she said, in answer to his look of surprise. "They are ready for you."
The doctor moved toward the outer room.
"I must have some tepid water," he said.
"That, too, is ready. I shall assist you, Dr. Hess."
"You!"
"Yes, I. I know something about the instruments. I have helped my father more than once."
"But – "
"There need be no objection. I am better qualified than either of these gentlemen."
He looked at me, still hesitating.
"I think you can trust the lady," I said; "she has proved her capability."
"Very well, Miss Barnard," said the doctor, more graciously; "it may try your nerves;" and, taking up some instruments, he turned toward the inner room.
"I shall be equal to it," she replied, as, gathering up some lint, and going across the room for a part of the water, fast heating over the fluid lamp, she followed him.
"Doctor, can't we do something?" asked Jim Long.
"Nothing at present."
How still it was! Jim Long stood near the center of the room, panting heavily, and looking down at a dark stain in the carpet, – a splash of human blood that marked the place where Bethel had fallen under the fire of the assassin. His face was flushed, and its expression fiercely gloomy. His hands were clenched nervously, his eye riveted to that spot upon the carpet, his lips moved from time to time, as if framing anathemas against the would-be destroyer.
After a time, I ventured, in a low tone:
"Long, you are breathing like a spent racer. Sit down. You may need your breath before long."
He turned, silently opened the outer door, making scarcely a sound, and went out into the night.
That was a long half hour which I passed, sitting beside the little table with that splash of blood directly before my eyes, hearing no sound save an occasional rustle from the inner room, and now and then a low word spoken by Dr. Hess.
To think to the purpose seemed impossible, in that stillness where life and death stood face to face. I could only wait; anxiously, impatiently, fearing the worst.
At last it was over; and Jim, who evidently, though out of sight, had not been out of hearing, came in to listen to the verdict of Dr. Hess.
"It was a dangerous wound," he said, "and the patient was in a critical condition. He might recover, with good nursing, but the chances were much against him."
A spasm of pain crossed Louise Barnard's face, and I saw her clench her small hand in a fierce effort to maintain her self-control. Then she said, quite calmly:
"In his present condition, will he not require the constant attention of a surgeon?"
Dr. Hess bowed his head.
"Hemorrhage is likely to occur," he said. "He might need surgical aid at a moment's notice."
"Then, Dr. Hess, would you object to our calling for counsel – for an assistant?"
He elevated his eyebrows, more in surprise at the pronoun, I thought, than at the suggestion, or request.
"I think it might be well to have Dr. Baumbach in to-morrow," he replied.
"I was not thinking of Dr. Baumbach," she said. "I wish to send to New York for a doctor who is a relative of Mr. Bethel's. I know – it is what he would wish."
Dr. Hess glanced from her face to mine and remained silent.
"When my father was sick," she went on, now looking appealingly from the doctor's face to mine, and then over my shoulder at Jim, who had remained near the door, "Dr. Bethel said that if he had any doubts as to his case, he should telegraph at once for Dr. Denham, and he added that he knew of no surgeon more skillful."
Still no answer from Dr. Hess.
Jim Long came forward with a touch of his old impatience and accustomed quaintness in his words and manner.
"I'm in favor of the city doctor," he said, looking, not at Dr. Hess, but straight into my face. "And I'm entitled to a voice in the matter. The patient's mine by right of discovery."
Miss Barnard gave him a quick glance of gratitude, and I rallied from the surprise occasioned by the mention of "our old woman," to say:
"I think you said that this gentleman is a relative of Dr. Bethel's; if so, he should be sent for by all means."
"He is Dr. Bethel's uncle," said Miss Barnard.
"Then," I repeated, with decision, "as a relative he should be sent for at once."
"Most certainly," acquiesced Dr. Hess, who now saw the matter in, to him, a more favorable light. "Send for him; the sooner the better."
"Oh," breathed the anxious girl, "I wish it could be done at once."
"It can," I said, taking my hat from the table as I spoke. "Fortunately there is a new night operator at the station; he came to-night, or was expected. If he is there, we shall save time, if not, we must get Harris up."
"Oh, thank you."
Dr. Hess went to take a look at his patient, and came back, saying:
"I will remain here until morning, I think."
"And I will come back as soon as possible," I responded, turning to go.
Jim Long caught up his hat from the floor, where he had flung it on entering.
"I reckon I had better go along with you," he said, suddenly assuming his habitual drawl; "you may have to rout Harris up, and I know right where to find him."
I was anxious to go, for a reason of my own, and I was not sorry to have Jim's company. "Now, if ever," I thought, "is the time to fathom 'the true inwardness' of this strange man."
We waited for no more words, but set out at once, walking briskly through the night that seemed doubly dark, doubly silent and mysterious, at the witch's hour of one o'clock.
We had walked half the distance to the station; in perfect silence, and I was studying the best way to approach Jim and overcome his reticence, when suddenly he opened his lips, to give me a glimpse of his "true inwardness," that nearly took me, figuratively, off my feet.
"Men are only men, after all," he began, sententiously, "and detectives are only common men sharpened up a bit. I wonder, now, how you are going to get the address of this Dr. Denham?"
I started so violently, that he must have perceived it, dark though it was.
What a blunder! I had walked away from the cottage forgetting to ask for Dr. Denham's address.
Uttering an exclamation of impatience, I turned sharply about.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm going back after the address, of course."
"I wouldn't do that; time's precious. Do you go ahead and send the message. I'll run back and ask after the address."
"Long," I said, sharply, "what do you mean?"
"I mean this," he replied, his tone changing suddenly. "I mean that it's time for you and I to understand each other!"
CHAPTER XXV.
IN WHICH I TAKE JIM ON TRUST
"It is time for you and I to understand each other. Don't stop there looking moon-struck! Go ahead, and don't waste time. I'll run back and ask for the address. Miss Barnard, if she scented a secret, might be trusted with it. But, Dr. Hess – his brain has not kept pace with the steps of the universe."
With these remarkable words, Jim Long lowered his head, compressed his elbows after the fashion of a professional prize-runner, and was off like a flying shadow, while I stood staring after him through the darkness, divided betwixt wonder at his strange words and manner, and disgust at my own stupidity.
What did he mean? Had he actually discovered my identity? And, if so, how?
While waiting for a solution to these riddles, it would be well to profit by Jim's advice. So I turned my face toward the village, and hurried forward.
As I approached the station, a bright light from the operator's window assured me that I should not find the office empty, and coming stealthily toward it, I peered in, to see, seated in the most commodious office chair, Gerald Brown, of our agency, the expected "night operator."
On a lounge opposite the window, lay Charlie Harris asleep.
I tapped softly on the open casement, and keeping myself in the shadow whispered:
"Come outside, Gerry, and don't wake Harris."
The night-operator, who knew the nature of the services required of him in Trafton, and who doubtless had been expecting a visit, arose quietly and came out on the platform with the stealthy tread of a bushman.
After a cordial hand-clasp, and a very few words of mutual inquiry, I told Brown what had happened at the doctor's cottage, and of my suspicions regarding Blake Simpson; and, then, using a leaf from my note-book, and writing by the light from the window, I wrote two messages, to be sent before Harris should awake.
The first was as follows:
Doctor Charles Denham,
No. 300 – street, N. Y
Carl Bethel is in extreme danger; requires your professional services. Come at once.
Bathurst.
The second was addressed to our office, and was much longer. It ran thus:
Capt. B., A – , N. Y.
Murder was attempted last night; Bethel the victim. See that Denham comes by the first train to attend to him. Give him some hints before starting. Look out for B. S. If he returns to the city in the morning, keep him shadowed. Will write particulars.
Bathurst.
"There," I said, as I passed them to Brown, "send them as soon as you can, Gerry. The doctor will hardly receive his before morning, but the other will be delivered at once, and then they can hurry up the "old woman." As for Blake, he will probably take the morning train, if he returns to the city, so they have ample time to prepare for him. Did you see Carnes on the express?"
"Yes; but only had a moment's speech with him. He told me to tell you that Blake left the train at Ireton, and that he went straight to a sort of feed stable, kept by a man named Briggs – "
"Briggs!" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
"Yes, that was the name. At this stable he was furnished with a good team and light buggy, and he drove straight south."
"Ah! he did. But my time is not at my disposal just now, Gerry; I have a companion somewhere on the road. I suppose you got the bearings of this Trafton business at the Agency?"
"Yes; I think I am pretty well posted. I have read all your reports."
"So much the better. Gerry, you had better take up your quarters at the Trafton House. I am stopping there. It will be convenient, for more than one reason."
Gerry agreed with me in this, and, as at that moment we heard footsteps approaching, which I rightly guessed to be those of Jim Long, we separated at once, and I went forward to meet Jim.
Before, I had deemed it necessary to press the siege, and lead Jim to talk by beginning the attack in a voluble manner. Now, I was equally intent upon holding my own forces in reserve, and letting him open the engagement, which, after a few moments' silence, he did.
A few rods away from the depot stood a church, with broad, high steps leading up from the street, and a deep, old-fashioned portico.
Here Jim came to an abrupt halt, for we had turned our steps southward, and said, with more of courtesy in his voice than might have been expected, considering his recent abruptness:
"Let us go up there, and sit under the porch. It's safer than to talk while walking, and I fancy you would like me to explain myself."
I followed him in silence up the steps, and sat down beside him on the portico.
"I wonder," began Jim, lowering his voice to insure himself against possible eavesdroppers, "I wonder why you have not asked me, before this time, how it happened that I was the first to discover Bethel's condition, or, at any rate, the first to give the alarm."
"There has scarcely been time," I replied, guardedly. "Besides I, being so nearly a stranger, thought that a question to be more properly asked by Miss Barnard or the doctor."
"You are modest," said Jim, with a short laugh. "Probably it will not occur to Miss Barnard to ask that question, until her mind is more at ease concerning Bethel's condition. As for Dr. Hess, he had asked it before he took off his nightcap."
"And did you answer it," asked I, maliciously, "in the same good English you are addressing to me?"
"I hope not," he replied, laughing again. "I told him the truth, however, in a very few words, and now I will tell it to you. Last night – I suppose it is morning now by the clock – I spent the evening in the village, principally about the Trafton House. I presume you are wondering how it came that you did not see me there, for I happen to know that you spent the entire evening in the office or on the porch. Well, the fact is, I was there on a little private business, and did not make myself very conspicuous for that reason. It was late when I came home, and, on looking about the cabin, I discovered that my gun was missing. My door, for various reasons, I always leave unlocked when absent, so I did not waste any time in wondering how the thief got in. I missed nothing else, and, after a little, I went outside to smoke, and think the matter over. I had not been out many minutes before I heard the report of a gun, —my gun, I could have sworn. It sounded in the direction of Bethel's cottage, and I was not many minutes in getting there. I found the door open, and Bethel lying across the threshold, wounded, as you have seen. He was almost unconscious then, but as I bent above him he whispered one word, 'Louise.' I could not leave him lying there in the doorway, so I lifted him and carried him to the bed, and then, seeing that it was a shoulder wound, and that he still breathed, I rushed off, stopping to tell Louise Barnard that her lover was wounded and, maybe, dying, and then on again until I saw you, the very man whose help I wanted."
"And why my help rather than that of another?"
"Because, next to that of a physician, the presence of a detective seemed most necessary."
"Long," I said, turning upon him sharply, "this is the second time you have referred to me as 'a detective.' Will you be good enough to explain?"
"I have spoken of you as a detective," he replied, gravely, "because I believe you to be one, and have so believed since the day you came to Trafton. To explain in full would be to occupy more time than you or I can well spare to story telling. I have watched you since you first came to this place, curiously at first, then earnestly, then anxiously. I believe you are here to ferret out the authors of the many robberies that have happened in and about Trafton. If this is so, then there is no one more anxious to help you, or who could have a stronger motive for so doing, than Jim Long."
He paused for a moment, but I remained silent, and he began anew.
"I think you are interested in Bethel and his misfortunes. I think you know him for the victim of those who believe him to be what you really are."
"You think there are those who fear Bethel because they believe him to be a detective? Is that your meaning?"
"That is my meaning."
"Long," I said, seriously, "you tell me that your gun was stolen last night; that you recognized the sound of the report coming from the direction of Bethel's house."
He moved closer to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
"It was my gun that shot Bethel," he said, solemnly. "To-morrow that gun will be found and I shall be accused of the crime. If the devils had possessed my knowledge, it would have been you, instead of Carl Bethel, lying somewhere now, dying or dead. I say these things to you to-night because, if my gun is found, as I anticipate, and I am accused of the shooting, I may not be able to serve Carl Bethel, and he is not yet out of danger. If he lives he will still be a target for his enemies."
He spoke with suppressed emotion, and my own feelings were stirred as I replied:
"Long, you have been a mystery to me from the first, and I do not read your riddle even now, but I believe you are a man to be trusted. Give me your hand, and depend upon it you shall not rest long under a false accusation. Carl Bethel, living, shall not want a friend; Carl Bethel, dead, shall have an avenger. As for you, and myself – "
"We shall understand each other better," he broke in, "when the time comes for me to tell you my own story in my own way."
"Then," I said, "let us go back to Bethel. I want to take a look about the premises by the first streak of daylight."
"Ah!" ejaculated Jim, "that is what I wanted to hear you say."
