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The Big-Town Round-Up, a fiction by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 35. Two And Two Make Four |
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_ CHAPTER XXXV. TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR From Maddock's the Whitfords drove straight to the apartment house of Clarendon Bromfield. For the third time that morning the clubman's valet found himself overborne by the insistence of visitors. "We're coming in, you know," the owner of the Bird Cage told him in answer to his explanation of why his master could not be seen. "This is important business and we've got to see Bromfield." "Yes, sir, but he said--" "He'll change his mind when he knows why we're here." Whitford pushed in and Beatrice followed him. From the adjoining room came the sound of voices. "I thought you told us Mr. Bromfield had gone to sleep and the doctor said he wasn't to be wakened," said Beatrice with a broad, boyish smile at the man's discomfiture. "The person inside wouldn't take no, Miss, for an answer." "He was like us, wasn't he? Did he give his name?" asked the young woman. "No, Miss. Just said he was from the Omnium Club." Whitford and his daughter exchanged glances. "Same business we're on. Announce us and we'll go right in." They were on his heels when he gave their names. Bromfield started up, too late to prevent their entrance. He stood silent for a moment, uncertain what to do, disregarding his fiancee's glance of hostile inquiry lifted toward the other guest. The mining man forced his hand. "Won't you introduce us, Clarendon?" he asked bluntly. Reluctantly their host went through the formula. He was extremely uneasy. There was material for an explosion present in this room that would blow him sky-high if a match should be applied to it. Let Durand get to telling what he knew about Clarendon and the Whitfords would never speak to him again. They might even spread a true story that would bar every house and club in New York to him. "We've heard of Mr. Durand," said Beatrice. Her tone challenged the attention of the gang leader. The brave eyes flashed defiance straight at him. A pulse of anger was throbbing in the soft round throat. Inscrutably he watched her. It was his habit to look hard at attractive women. "Most people have," he admitted. "Mr. Lindsay is our friend," she said. "We've just come from seeing him." The man to whom she was engaged had been put through so many flutters of fear during the last twelve hours that a new one more or less did not matter. But he was still not shock-proof. His fingers clutched a little tighter the arm of the chair. "W-what did he tell you?" Beatrice looked into his eyes and read in them once more stark fear. Again she had a feeling that there was something about the whole affair she had not yet fathomed--some secret that Clay and Clarendon and perhaps this captain of thugs knew. She tried to read what he was hiding, groped in her mind for the key to his terror. What could it be that he was afraid Clay had told her? What was it they all knew except Lindsay's friends? And why, since Clarendon was trembling lest it be discovered, should the Arizonan too join the conspiracy of silence? At any rate she would not uncover her hand. "He told us several things," she said significantly. "You've got to make open confession, Clary." The ex-pugilist chewed his cigar and looked at her. "What would he confess? That the man with him murdered Collins?" "That's not true," said the girl quickly. "So Lindsay's your friend, eh? Different here, Miss." Jerry pieced together what the clubman had told him and what he had since learned about her. He knew that this must be the girl to whom his host was engaged. "How about you, Bromfield?" he sneered. The clubman stiffened. "I've nothing against Mr. Lindsay." "Thought you had." "Of course he hasn't. Why should he?" asked Beatrice, backing up Clarendon. Durand looked at her with a bold insolence that was an insult. His eyes moved up and down the long, slim curves of her figure. "I expect he could find a handsome reason if he looked around for it, Miss." The girl's father clenched his fist. A flush of anger swept his ruddy cheeks. He held himself, however, to the subject. "You forget, Mr. Durand, that Lindsay was his guest last night." Jerry's laugh was a contemptuous jeer. "That's right. I'd forgot that. He was your guest, wasn't he, Bromfield?" "What's the good of discussing it here?" asked the tortured host. "Not a bit," admitted Whitford. "Actions talk, not words. Have you seen the police yet, Bromfield?" "N-not yet." "What's he gonna see the police about?" Jerry wanted to know, his chin jutting out. "To tell them that he saw Collins draw a gun and heard shots fired," retorted the mining man instantly. "Not what he's been tellin' me. He'll not pull any such story--not unless he wants to put himself in a cell for life." "Talk sense. You can't frighten Bromfield. He knows that's foolishness." "Does he?" The crook turned derisive eyes on the victim he was torturing. Certainly the society man did not look a picture of confidence. The shadow of a heavy fear hung over him. The telephone rang. Bromfield's trembling fingers picked up the transmitter. He listened a moment, then turned it over to Beatrice. "For you." Her part of the conversation was limited. It consisted of the word "Yes" repeated at intervals and a concluding, "Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you." Her eyes were sparkling when she hung up. "Good news, Dad," she said. "I'll tell you later." Durand laughed brutally as he rose. "Good news, eh? Get all you can. You'll need it. Take that from me. It's straight. Your friend's in trouble up to the neck." He swaggered to the door and turned. "Don't forget, Bromfield. Keep outa this or you'll be sorry." His voice was like the crack of a trainer's whip to animals in a circus. For once Bromfield did not jump through the hoop. "Oh, go to the devil," he said in irritation, flushing angrily. "Better not get gay with me," advised Durand sourly. After the door had closed on him there was a momentary pause. The younger man spoke awkwardly. "You can tell me now what it was Mr. Lindsay told you." "We'd like to know for sure whether you're with us or with Durand," said Whitford mildly. "Of course we know the answer to that. You're with us. But we want to hear you say it, flat-foot." "Of course I'm with you. That is, I'd like to be. But I don't want to get into trouble, Mr. Whitford. Can you blame me for that?" "You wouldn't get into trouble," argued the mine owner impatiently. "I keep telling you that." Beatrice, watching the younger man closely, saw as in a flash the solution of this mystery--the explanation of the tangle to which various scattered threads had been leading her. "Are you sure of that, Dad?" "How could he be hurt, Bee?" The girl let Bromfield have it straight from the shoulder. "Because Clay didn't kill that man Collins. Clarendon did it." "My God, you know!" he cried, ashen-faced. "He told you." "No, he didn't tell us. For some reason he's protecting you. But I know it just the same. You did it." "It was in self-defense," he pleaded. "Then why didn't you say so? Why did you let Clay be accused instead of coming forward at once?" "I was waiting to see if he couldn't show he was innocent without--" "Without getting you into it. You wanted to be shielded at any cost." The scorn that intolerant youth has for moral turpitude rang in her clear voice. "I thought maybe we could both get out of it that way," he explained weakly. "Oh, you thought! As soon as you saw this morning's paper you ought to have hurried to the police station and given yourself up." "I was ill, I keep telling you." "Your man could telephone, couldn't he? He wasn't ill, too, was he?" Whitford interfered. "Hold on, honey. Don't rub it in. Clarendon was a bit rattled. That's natural. The question is, what's he going to do now?" Their host groaned. "Durand'll see I go to the chair--and I only struck the man to save my own life. I wasn't trying to kill the fellow. He was shooting at me, and I had to do it." "Of course," agreed Whitford. "We've got proof of that. Lindsay is one witness. He must have seen it all. I've got in my pocket one of the bullets Collins shot. That's more evidence. Then--" Beatrice broke in excitedly. "Dad, Mr. Muldoon just told me over the 'phone that they've got the express wagon. The plank with the bullet holes was in it. And the driver has confessed that he and a carpenter, whose name he had given, changed the partition for Durand." Whitford gave a subdued whoop. "We win. That lets you out, Clarendon. The question now isn't whether you or Clay will go to the penitentiary, but whether Durand will. We can show he's been trying to stand in the way of justice, that he's been cooking up false evidence." "Let's hurry! Let's get to the police right away!" the girl cried, her eyes shining with excitement. "We ought not to lose a minute. We can get Clay out in time to go home to dinner with us." Bromfield smiled wanly. He came to time as gallantly as he could. "All right. I'm elected to take his place, I see." "Only for a day or two, Clarendon," said the older man. "As soon as we can get together a coroner's jury we'll straighten everything out." "Yes," agreed the clubman lifelessly. It was running through his mind already that if he should be freed of the murder charge, he would only have escaped Scylla to go to wreck on Charybdis. For it was a twenty to one bet that Jerry would go to Whitford with the story of his attempt to hire the gang leader to smirch Lindsay's reputation. _ |
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