The Tragedy of Z (25 page)

“Listen,” snarled Kenyon, “when a say yesterday——”

“Oh, this is of the utmost importance,” muttered the old gentleman. I had never seen him more thoroughly aroused. His eyes were flashing, and a youthful flush suffused his cheeks. “You mean
Wednesday
morning, of course, not Thursday morning?”

“Hell, yes,” said Kenyon disgustedly.

“Come to think of it,” mumbled Hume, “this note does say Dow is to make the prison break on Wednesday. Instead he did it today. Thursday. It's funny, all right.”

“Look at the reverse of the note,” advised Mr. Lane softly; he had remarkably keen eyes, and he had noticed something the rest of us had overlooked.

Hume turned the scrap over quickly. And there was a
second
message, this one in pencil, block-lettered—the familiar style of that first note we had found in Senator Fawcett's possession so long before. And this note read:

Cant make break Wed. Will Thurs. Have doe ready small bills on Thurs. night same time.

A
ARON
D
OW

“Oh!” said Hume, relieved. “That makes it clear. Dow smuggled this message out of Algonquin, using the same paper of the note Fawcett had sent him, probably to show Fawcett that the message was genuine. Why he wanted the delay doesn't matter—probably something came up in the prison that made him decide to wait a day, or he got cold feet and wanted extra time to get up his courage. That's what you meant, wasn't it, Mr. Lane, when you said that the Wednesday withdrawal of money by Dr. Fawcett was important?”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Lane.

Hume stared a moment and then shrugged. “Well, it's an open-an-shut case this time, beyond doubt. Dow won't escape the chair again.” He smiled agreeably; his first doubts seemed to have vanished. “Do you still believe Dow is an innocent man, Mr. Lane?”

The old gentleman sighed. “I find nothing here to shake my belief in Dow's innocence.” And he added, as if in after thought: “And everything which points to the culpability of—someone else.”

“Who?” cried father and I together.

“I don't know …
exactly.”

17. I PLAY THE HEROINE

In looking back at those hectic hours now, I see how events moved swiftly and inevitably to their astounding climax, although at the time we were in hopeless fog. At least, father and I were. I could see no pattern in what happened: the removal of the sheeted dead body, the crisp commands of District Attorney Hume, his conversation over the telephone with Warden Magnus at Algonquin, their plans for the capture of the still-missing convict, our departure in silence, and Mr. Lane's grave uncommunicativeness on the way home.

And then, the next day … It all happened so quickly. I had seen Jeremy in the early morning, and he had left for the quarries as usual after a rather strained session with his father. The elder Clay had been badly shaken up by the news of Dr. Fawcett's murder. He was inclined, not unnaturally, to blame father for the predicament he found himself in: candidate for Senator on a slate written over by the hands of the two slain men.

Father was abrupt, and advised him to resign from the race. “It didn't work out, that's all,” he said dryly. “Don't blame me. What are you kicking about, Clay? Call the newspaper boys in, and if you don't particularly mind raking a dead man over the coals, tell 'em you accepted the nomination in the first place just to pin something crooked on Dr. Fawcett. Tell 'em the truth, that's all. Or maybe it isn't the truth; maybe you
wanted
the nomination.…”

“Naturally not,” said Clay, frowning.

“All right, then. Have a powwow with Hume, turn over to him all the evidence I've picked up concerning Fawcett's manipulation of contracts, hand your resignation to the papers with the explanation I've just given you. Hume'll walk into the State Senate without opposition and bless you to the bargain, and you'll be the Little Lord Fauntleroy of Tilden County for the rest of your life.”

“Well——”

“And my job here,” continued father pleasantly, “is finished. I didn't do a hell of a lot of good, so I'm not charging you anything except expense money, and your retainer takes care of that.”

“Nonsense, Inspector! I didn't mean to——”

I left them amiably squabbling. For Martha, the housekeeper, called me to the telephone. It was Jeremy, in a state of such excitement that my skin prickled from his very first word.

“Pat!” he said in a low, tense voice; almost a whisper. “Is anyone near you?”

“Listen, Pat. It's the works. I'm 'phoning from the field office at the quarries,” he said rapidly. “This is an emergency. Come down here at once. At once, Pat!”

“But why, Jeremy, why?” I cried.

“Don't ask questions. Take my roadster. And don't say a word to anybody. Get me? Now roll, Pat, roll, for God's sake!”

I rolled. I dropped the receiver, smoothed my dress, ran upstairs for my hat and gloves, and sauntered out on the porch after a flying leap downstairs again. Father and Elihu Clay were still arguing.

“I think I'll take a little spin in Jeremy's car,” I said casually. “Mind?”

They did not even hear me. So I went quickly to the garage, leaped into Jeremy's roadster, shot out into the driveway like a wobbly arrow, and straightened out on the road downhill as if all the devils in hell were after me. My mind was blank; I concentrated on the task of getting to the Clay Marble Quarries as rapidly as possible.

I am sure no more than seven minutes elapsed on that wild six-mile ride. And then I was sliding into the cleared space about the field office, raising monsoons of dust, and Jeremy was on the running-board smiling fatuously, as any young man might at the unexpected visit of a young lady.

But his words were not fatuous, although I saw out of the corner of my eye a broad grin on the face of an Italian workman. “Good girl, Pat,” he said, his expression unchanging. But his voice was near the breaking point. “Don't look surprised. Smile at me.” I smiled at him, rather feebly, I am sure. “Pat,
I know where Aaron Dow is hiding!”

“Oh, Jeremy,” I gasped.

“Shh! Smile, I tell you.… One of my drillers, a good reliable man—absolutely trustworthy; he'll keep his mouth shut—came to me on the q.t. a few minutes ago. The blaster was out exploring a bit on his lunch-time; went into the woods for a cool spot. Back yonder about a half-mile. And he caught a glimpse of Dow sulking in an old deserted shack!”

“He's sure?” I whispered.

“Dead certain. Recognized him from his picture in the papers. What'll we do, Pat? I know you think he's innocent——”

“Jeremy Clay,” I said fiercely, “he
is.
And you're a darling to have called me.” He looked very boyish and helpless in his dirty, dust-covered working clothes. “We'll go there, smuggle him out of the woods, get him away …”

We stared at each other for a long moment, two very frightened conspirators.

Then Jeremy's jaw tightened and he said curtly: “Come on. Act natural. We're going for a stroll in the woods.”

He helped me, smiling, out of the roadster, took my arm and squeezed it reassuringly, and then began to walk me up the road, head bent and murmuring what must have seemed like young man's blarney to the slyly watching workmen. I giggled and looked soulfully into his eyes, and all the while my brain was in turmoil. It was a dreadful thing we were about to do. And yet I felt sure that, were Aaron Dow caught this time, nothing on earth could save him from that horrible Chair.…

After what seemed an interminable period we entered the woods; and with the closing of the cool branches over our heads and the smell of fir-needles in our nostrils the world seemed horribly far away. Even the occasional blasts at the quarries were muffled and distant. We discarded our foolish attitudes and broke into a frantic run. Jeremy led the way, loping like an Indian, and I panted at his heels. Suddenly—so suddenly that I crashed into him—he halted, an expression of alarm on his honest young face. Alarm, horror, and then despair.

And I heard it, too. It was the belling and baying of dogs.

“Good God!” he whispered. “That's only a little way off. Patty, they've picked up his scent!”

“Too late,” I whispered, sick at heart, and clung to his arm. He grasped my shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled.

“Don't pull the weak-woman act now, damn you!” he said angrily. “Come on; it may not be hopeless yet!”

And he turned and sped along the dim path deeper into the woods. I followed in stride, confused, bewildered, and furious with him. Shake me, would he? Swear at me, would he?

He came to an abrupt halt again, clamped his hand on my mouth, and then stooped and crawled on hands and knees through a little clump of dusty bushes. He dragged me with him. I bit my lips to keep from crying out; my gown was tearing on brambles, and something sharp stuck into my fingers. Then I forgot the pain. We were staring into a little clearing.

Too late! There was a tiny shack, tumbledown, its roof sagging crazily. And from the opposite side of the clearing, the growing sound of howling dogs.

One moment the clearing was peacefully empty; the next it was alive with blue-clad men, rifle-muzzles menacingly trained on the shack. And the dogs—great ugly brutes who flashed across the ground to the closed door of the shack and pawed and tore and leaped, making the most dreadful noises.… Three men bounded forward and, snatching up the leashes, dragged the dogs back.

We watched with the silence of desperation.

A red flash, accompanied by a cracking report, streaked from one of the two small windows of the shack. I saw the barrel of a revolver slither back into the hut. And one of the hounds, a drooling vicious brute, bounded toward the sky fantastically and then crashed to earth, dead.

“Keep away!” came a shrill, hysterical voice—the voice of Aaron Dow. “Keep away, keep away! Or the pack o' you'll git what de mutt got. Ya'll never take me alive. Keep away, I tell ya!” His voice rose to a thin scream.

I scrambled to my knees, a wild notion boiling in my head. I was desperate; I felt that Dow had meant what he said. There would be real murder on his hands; but this way there was a chance, the merest, most insane chance.…

Jeremy's hand dragged me down again. “What in the name of God do you think you're doing, Pat?” he whispered. I began to struggle, and his jaw dropped.…

In the midst of my squirmings and wrigglings the scene in the clearing changed. I saw the squat quiet figure of Warden Magnus among his men; they had all retired to the cover of bushes and trees. Some had begun to edge over our way; whichever way I looked I saw armed keepers with the lust of the hunt in their eyes.…

The warden stepped into the clearing. “Dow,” he called calmly, “don't be a fool. The shack is surrounded. We're bound to get you. We don't want to kill you——”

Crack!
As in a dream I saw a red welt magically raise itself on the warden's bare right hand; blood began to drip to the parched earth. Dow's gun had spoken again. A keeper scampered out of the woods and dragged the dazed warden back.

With a strength born of desperation I tore out of Jeremy's grip and, my heart pounding painfully against my throat, ran into the clearing. Out of the corner of my eye, in that cosmic instant when time stood still, I noticed how quiet everything had become; as if the warden, the keepers, the dogs, even Dow himself had been petrified by my foolhardy leap into the line of fire. But I was half-mad with excitement, and the fright of frantic purpose; I was beyond controlling my muscles. I prayed soundlessly that Jeremy would not jump after me. And in the same flashing instant I saw him struggling in the grasp of three keepers, who had crept up behind him.

I raised my head and heard my voice, loud and clear, saying: “Aaron Dow, let me in. You know who I am. I am Patience Thumm. Let me in. I must talk to you,” and walked steadily, on a bank of air, toward the shack.

My brain was absolutely numb. I felt no sensation. If Dow in his terror had shot me, I should never have known what struck me.

Shrill sound-waves tortured my ears. “Keep back, the rest o' you! I got 'er covered. One move outa you, an' I plug 'er! Keep back!”

Somehow I reached the door; it opened before me, and I half-fell into a dark-shadowed, damp-smelling interior. I heard the slam of the door behind me, and I fell back against it, dizzy with fear, shaking like an old woman with ague.…

The poor wretch was in a pitiable state—dirty, slobbering, unshaven, as ugly and repellent and cringing as Quasimodo. Only his eye was steady, and this held the calmness and determination of a brave man facing inevitable death. In his left hand there was a smoking revolver.

“Quick,” he said in a low harsh voice. “If it's a trick, I bump you.” He threw a lightning look out the window. “Talk.”

“Aaron Dow,” I whispered, “you'll gain nothing this way. You know how I believe in your innocence, and Mr. Lane—that kind, wise old gentleman who tested you in your cell—and my father, who was an Inspector of detectives,
they
believe …”

“They'll never take Aaron Dow alive,” he muttered.

“Aaron Dow, you're courting sure death this way!” I cried. “Give yourself up; it's your only salvation.…” I talked on and on and on, only half-conscious of what I was saying. I think I mumbled something about our working in his behalf, of how surely we would save him.…

Dimly, as from a great distance, I heard Dow whisper brokenly: “I'm innocent, ma'am. I never bumped him, I never did. Save me, save me!” and he dropped to his knees and began to kiss my hands. I felt my knees tremble. The smoking revolver slipped to the floor. I raised the old man, put my arm around his withered shoulders, pushed open the door, and we walked out. I believe he gave himself up very quietly.