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Tangled Trails: A Western Detective Story, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 29. "Come Clean, Jack" |
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_ CHAPTER XXIX. "COME CLEAN, JACK" Jack Cunningham, co-heir with James of his uncle's estate, was busy in the office he had inherited settling up one of the hundred details that had been left at loose ends by the promoter's sudden death. He looked up at the entrance of Lane. "What do you want?" he asked sharply. "Want a talk with you." "Well, I don't care to talk with you. What are you doing here anyhow. I told the boy to tell you I was too busy to see you." "That's what he said." Kirby opened his slow, whimsical smile on Jack. "But I'm right busy, too. So I brushed him aside an' walked in." In dealing with this forceful cousin of his, Jack had long since lost his indolent insolence of manner. "You can walk out again, then. I'll not talk," he snapped. Kirby drew up a chair and seated himself. "When Uncle James sent a messenger for you to come to his rooms at once on the evening of the twenty-first, what did he want to tell you?" The steady eyes of the cattleman bored straight into those of Cunningham. "Who said he sent a messenger for me?" "It doesn't matter who just now. There are two witnesses. What did he want?" "That's my business." "So you say. I'm beginnin' to wonder if it isn't the business of the State of Colorado, too." "What do you mean?" "I mean that Uncle sent for you because he had just found out your brother and Miss Harriman were married." Jack flashed a startled look at him. It seemed to him his cousin showed an uncanny knowledge at times. "You think so." "He wanted to tell you that he was goin' to cut your brother out of his will an' leave you sole heir. An' he wanted you to let James know it right away." Kirby was guessing, but he judged he had scored. Jack got up and began to pace the room. He was plainly agitated. "Look here. Why don't you go back to Wyoming and mind your own business? You're not in this. It's none of your affair. What are you staying here for hounding the life out of James and me?" "None of my business! That's good, Jack. An' me out on bond charged with the murder of Uncle James. I'd say it was quite some of my business. I'm gonna stick to the job. Make up your mind to that." "Then leave us alone," retorted Jack irritably. "You act as though you thought we were a pair of murderers." "If you have nothin' to conceal, why do you block anyway? Why aren't you frank an' open? Why did you steal that record at Golden? Why did James lose the Jap's confession--if it was a confession? Why did he get Miss McLean to disappear? Answer those questions to my satisfaction before you talk about me buttin' in with suspicions against you." Jack slammed a fist down on the corner of the desk. "I'm not going to answer any questions! I'll say you've got a nerve! You're the man charged with this crime--the man that's liable to be tried for it. You've got a rope round your neck right this minute--and you go around high and mighty trying to throw suspicion on men that there's no evidence against." "You said you had a quarrel with your uncle that night--no, I believe you called it a difference of opinion, at the inquest. What was that disagreement about?" "Find out! I'll never tell you." "Was it because you tried to defend James to him--tried to get him to forgive the treachery of his fiancee and his nephew?" Again Jack shot at him a look of perplexed and baffled wonder. That brown, indomitable face, back of which was so much strength of purpose and so much keenness of apprehension, began to fill him with alarm. This man let no obstacles stop him. He would go on till he had uncovered the whole tangle they were trying to keep hidden. "For God's sake, man, stop this snooping around! You'll get off. We'll back you. There's nowhere nearly enough evidence to convict you. Let it go at that," implored Jack. "I can't do that. I've got to clear my name. Do you think I'm willin' to go back to my friends with a Scotch verdict hangin' over me? 'He did it, but we haven't evidence enough to prove it.' Come clean, Jack! Are you and James in this thing? Is that why you want me to drop my investigations?" "No, of course we're not! But--damn it, do you think we want the name of my brother's wife dragged through the mud?" "Why should it be dragged through the mud--if you're all innocent?" "Because gossips cackle--and people never forget. If there was some evidence against her and against James--no matter how little--twenty years from now people would still whisper that they had killed his uncle for the fortune, though it couldn't be proved. You know that." "Just as they're goin' to whisper about Rose McLean if I don't clear things up. No, Jack. You've got the wrong idea. What we want to do is for us all to jump in an' find the man who did it. Then all gossip against us stops." "That's easy to say. How're you going to find the guilty man?" asked Jack sulkily. "If you'd tell what you know we'd find him fast enough. How can I get to the bottom of the thing when you an' James won't give me the facts?" Jack looked across at him doggedly. "I've told all I'm going to tell." The long, lithe body of the man from the Wyoming hills leaned forward ever so slightly. "Don't you think it! Don't you think it for a minute! You'll come clean whether you want to or not--or I'll put that rope you mentioned round your brother's throat." Jack looked at this man with the nerves of chilled steel and shivered. What could he do against a single-track mind with such driving force back of it? Had Kirby got anything of importance on James? Or was he bluffing? "Talk 's cheap," he sneered uneasily. "You'll find how cheap it is. James had been speculatin'. He was down an' out. Another week, an' he'd have been a bankrupt. Uncle discovers how he's been tricked by him an' Miss Harriman. He serves notice that he's cuttin' James out of his will an' he sends for a lawyer to draw up a new one. James an' his wife go to the old man's rooms to beg off. There's a quarrel, maybe. Anyhow, this point sticks up like a sore thumb: if uncle hadn't died that night your brother would 'a' been a beggar. Now he's a millionaire. And James was in his room the very hour in which he was killed." "You can't prove that!" Jack cried, his voice low and hoarse. "How do you know he was there? What evidence have you?" Kirby smiled, easily and confidently. "The evidence will be produced at the right time." He rose and turned to go. Jack also got up, white to the lips. "Hold on! Don't--don't do anything in a hurry! I'll--talk with you to-morrow--here--in the forenoon. Or say in a day or two. I'll let you know then." His cousin nodded grimly. The hard look passed from his eyes as he reached the corridor. "Had to throw a scare into him to make him come through," he murmured in apology to himself. _ |
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