XXII
A DISAGREEABLE HOUR WITH A DISAGREEABLE MAN
This interview made an astonishing impression upon me. Never had Isupposed myself capable of being stirred to such sympathy by a beingso degraded as this wonderful Mille-fleurs.
Was it the contrast between her genius and the conditions under whichthat genius had shown itself? Possibly. Or was it that a recognitionof the latent sweetness underlying her wild nature had caused afeeling of rebellion against the degradation into which a creature ofsuch amazing possibilities had fallen?
Whatever it was, I was conscious of a haunting sense of regret such ashad followed few experiences in my life, and began to look upon theman who could make use of such a ruin of womanhood for the obtainingof a deadly drug, with something deeper and more active than meredistrust.
Leighton Gillespie was a man of the world. He knew this wretchedcreature's weak points and what would procure him the poison he darednot buy from any druggist or chemist. Anyone who saw this woman couldread her story. Gay as she was, buoyant as her spirit rose in certainmoments of ecstatic passion, she had corresponding moods of morbiddepression, possibly of actual suffering, which only morphine couldrelieve. He knew this and used his knowledge without let or scruple.Was he a monster of selfishness, or only another instance of a goodman gone to the bad for the love of a worthless woman? The lattertheory seemed the more probable, since all good instincts could not belacking in a man who had been confessedly helpful in many ways towardsrescuing the needy and aiding the unhappy.
Undone by a woman! Was that the situation? It is a common one, Godknows. Yet I found it hard to allot her the place suggested by thistheory. She did not look like one capable of inclining a man tomurder. Yet might I not be playing the fool in cherishing so generousan estimate of her? Might I not be as yet too much under the spell ofher peculiar grace to rightly judge the nature underlying it? What didI know of him or of her, that I should burden him with all the blame;and in what did my own wild, uncalculating passion for a woman who notonly did not love me, but of whose real character I knew little saveas it shone for me through her captivating face, differ from thefeeling which might easily be awakened in a still more ardent breastby a creature of so much grace and fire?
Certainly the words I had overheard Leighton Gillespie use in hiscolloquy with the Salvation Army Captain showed the existence offeelings far beyond those usually associated with a commonplacepassion; so did the lines he had left behind him for this waif. Butif it was love which moved him, it was a love which did not shrinkfrom involving its object in crime. This she had herself recognised,else why had she shown such terror at the mention of his name and madesuch a hazardous attempt at escape when threatened by the prospect offurther association with him?
The progress which I had made in the case I had undertaken againstthis man may seem to have reached a point justifying me incommunicating the result to Hope. But though I had succeeded insupplying one of the missing links heretofore mentioned as necessaryto that end, I nevertheless hesitated to approach her till the wholechain was complete. Her very desire to believe her youngest cousininnocent would make her slow in accepting conclusions too much in theline of her own wishes. She might even now be moved by secret hopes inthis direction, might cherish convictions and calm herself withsoothing anticipations of restored confidence in Alfred, but she wouldrequire the most positive evidence that the potion, however and bywhomever obtained, had been actually and knowingly administered byLeighton. To the establishment of this last link in the chain, I musttherefore address myself; an almost hopeless task, from which I shrankwith very natural misgivings.
Two paths of inquiry, and two only, offered any promise of success.One of these struck me as practicable; the other not. But thepracticable one was not within my reach, while the other was littlemore than a dream. I allude in the first instance to the knowledgesupposed to lie hidden within the breast of the old butler; while thedream--well, the dream was this: For some time I had suspected theexistence of a secret and as yet unknown witness of this crime, awitness for whose appearance on the scene I had daily looked, and fromwhom I did not yet despair of gleaning valuable testimony. What basishad I for this dream? I will endeavour to explain.
In presenting to your notice a diagram of the parlour floor of theGillespie house, I was careful to show the window to be found at theleft of Mr. Gillespie's desk. But I drew no attention to this window,nor did I think it worth my while to say that I found the shade ofthis window rolled up when I first followed Claire into the room.Later, I drew this shade down, but not before noticing that a windowstood open in the extension running back of the Gillespie yard fromthe adjoining house on Fifty- ---- Street, and that in the room thusdisclosed a man was to be seen moving uneasily about.
Now, if this man had been in that room for any length of time, thechances were that his glances had fallen more than once on thebrilliantly lighted interior of Mr. Gillespie's den, lying as it diddirectly under his eye. If so, how much or how little had he seen ofwhat went on there? That is what I now proposed to find out.
That this person, who was a total stranger to me, had given no sign ofbeing in the possession of facts withheld from the police, did notdeter me from hoping that I should yet learn something from him. Manymen, among them myself, have an invincible dislike to the publicityinseparable from the position of witness, and if this unknown manimagined, as he naturally might, that the police were ignorant of theopportunity which had been given him of looking into Mr. Gillespie'shouse at a moment so critical, the chances were that he would keepsilent in regard to it. That his appearance at the window had beensimultaneous with my sight of him, and thus too late for him to haveseen more than I did of what went on in Mr. Gillespie's den, was apossibility which would occur to any man. Also, that he might havebeen there and in full sight of the window from the first, yet haddistractions of his own which kept him from making use of hisopportunities.
Nevertheless, the probabilities were favourable to the hope I hadconceived; and, deciding that in my present uncertainty any action wasbetter than none, I made up my mind to ascertain who this young manwas, and whether any means offered for my making his acquaintance.
Sam Underhill was the only man I knew capable of bringing this about.I therefore went below in search of him, and was fortunate enough tocome upon him just as he was returning to his room for some theatretickets he had forgotten to put into his pocket. I attacked him beforehe could back out.
"What is the name of those people who live in the first house westfrom Fifth Avenue on Fifty- ----Street?" I asked. "Don't you rememberthe house I mean? That very narrow brown-stone front, with a vase ofartificial flowers in one of the parlour windows."
"---- me if I know," he protested, in a high state of impatience, ashe snatched up the tickets he was looking for. Then, seeing that I wasin no condition to be fooled with, he admitted that the name wasRosenthal, and carelessly added, "What do you want to know for? Oh, Isee, you are still on the scent; still harping on that Gillespiepoisoning case. Well, the Rosenthals may live near the people justmentioned, but there's nothing in that for you or anyone elseinterested in this crime."
"Why?"
"Because they move in a totally different set from the Gillespies.They have absolutely no connection with them."
"Is there a young man in the family?"
"Yes."
"Well, I want to know him. Find a way of presenting me to him, willyou?"
Sam's amazement was amusing.
"You want an introduction to Israel Rosenthal?"
"I have said so."
"Well, everyone to his taste. I'll procure you one this evening at thetheatre. He's a great patron of the Lyceum."
"And are you going there?"
"As soon as you release me."
"Very good; expect to find me in the lobby after the first act."
"I'm obliged to you." This because I had moved out of his way. I haveseen Sam when he was personally more agreeable to me.
r /> It would be impossible for me to say what play I saw that night. Itwas one of the well-known successes of the season, but it meantnothing to me. All my mind and attention were on the young man I hadcome there to see.
He was in one of the boxes; this I found out before the first act wasover; and though I caught flitting glimpses of his face, I did not seehim closely enough to form any judgment of his temper or disposition.When the first act was over I went into the lobby, but Sam did notjoin me there till it was nearly time for the curtain to rise again.Then he came alone.
"He'll be out at the end of the third act," he remarked. "The wait isa long one and he will be sure to improve it in the usual way."
I nodded and Sam went back. Strange to say, he was interested in theplay, if I was not.
I had no intention of forcing an immediate disclosure from Mr.Rosenthal. Neither the time nor place was propitious for that. When,therefore, the anticipated moment arrived and Sam sauntered out fromone aisle and Rosenthal from another, I merely pulled myself togetherto the point of making myself agreeable to the rather unpromisingsubject of my present interest. We were introduced offhand by Sam,who, if he did not like the job (and it was very evident he did not),at least went through his part in a way not to disturb the raw prideof my new acquaintance. Then we began to talk, and I thought I sawmore than ordinary satisfaction in the manner with which youngRosenthal received my advances, a satisfaction which led me tomentally inquire whether his pleasure rose from gratification atUnderhill's attention or from any erroneous idea he may have had of mybeing a stepping-stone to certain desirable acquaintances. Or, moreimportant still, was he, for reasons I was not as yet ready to dwellupon, glad to know a man whom all recognised as an important witnessin the great affair whose unsolved mystery was still the theme of halfthe town? I curbed my impatience and was eagerly pursuing theconversation towards a point which might settle this disturbingquestion, when, presto! the curtain rose on the fourth act and he flewto regain his box.
But not before Sam, with a self-denial I shall not soon forget, hadasked him round to our apartments after the play; which invitationyoung Rosenthal seemed glad to accept, for he nodded with greateagerness as he disappeared around the curtains of the doorway.
"So much to humour a friend!" growled Sam, as he, too, started for hisseat.
I smiled and went home.
At about midnight Sam came in with my expected guest, and we had ararebit and ale. In the midst of the good feeling thus established,Rosenthal broke forth in the very explanation I had been expectingfrom the first.
"I say! you were with old Gillespie when he died."
"The fact is well known," I returned, refraining from glancing at Sam,though much inclined to do so.
"Well, I've a mighty curiosity about that case; seems somehow as if Ihad had a hand in it."
There was champagne on the table; I pushed the bottle towards Sam, whoproceeded to open it. While this was going on I answered Mr.Rosenthal, with all the appearance of surprise he doubtless expected:
"How's that? Oh, I think I understand. You are a neighbour. All wholive near them must feel somewhat as you do."
"It isn't that," he protested, draining his glass, which Samimmediately refilled. "I have never told anyone,--I don't know why Itell you fellows,--but I was almost in at that death. You see, thewindows of my room look directly down on the little den in which hedied, and I chanced to be looking in its direction just as----"
Here he stopped to enjoy his second glass. As the rim slowly rose,obscuring his eyes, I caught an admiring Hm! from Sam, which filled,without relieving, this moment of suspense. As the glass rang downagain on the table, Rosenthal finished his sentence:
"--just as Mr. Gillespie lifted his window to empty out a glass ofsomething. Now, what was that something? I have asked myself a dozentimes since his death."
"But this is evidence! This is a fact you ought to have communicatedto the police," broke in Underhill, with momentary fire. Perhaps itwas a real one, perhaps it was the means he used to draw Rosenthalout.
"And be dragged up before a thousand people, all whispering andjoggling to see me? No, I have too much self-respect. I only speak ofit now," said he with great dignity, "because I'm so deuced curiousto know whether it was poison he threw out, a dose of chloral, or justplain wine. It might have been any of these three, but I have alwaysthought it was the first, because he seemed so afraid of being seen."
"Afraid of being seen drinking it or of throwing it out?"
"Throwing it out."
"Oh!"
Sam and I stopped helping ourselves to wine and left the bottle tohim.
"Do you know what time this was?" I asked.
"No; how should I? It was before ten, for at ten he was dead."
"It could not have been poison he threw out or even the remains ofit," I remarked, "for that would imply suicide; and the verdict wasone of murder."
Mr. Rosenthal was just far enough gone to accept this assertion.
"That's so. I wonder I never thought of that before. Then it must havebeen wine. Now, I wouldn't have thought so badly of Mr. Gillespie asthat. I always considered him a sensible man, and no sensible manpours wine out of a window," he sapiently remarked, raising his glass.
It was empty, and he set it down again; then he took up the bottle.That was empty, too. Grumbling some unintelligible words, he glancedat the cabinet.
We failed to understand him.
"There are but two excuses for a man who deliberately wastes wine," heproceeded, in tipsy argument with himself. "Either he has had enough--hardto think that of Mr. Gillespie at so early an hour in the evening--or elsethe liquor's bad. Now, only a fool would accuse a man like Mr. Gillespieof having bad liquor in his house, unless--unless--something got intoit--Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, with the complacency of one who hasunexpectedly made a remarkable discovery, "there _was_ something in it,something which gave it a bad taste. Prussic acid has a bad taste, hasn'tit?--and not liking the taste he flung the wine away. No man would go ondrinking wine with prussic acid in it," he mumbled on. "Now, which ofthose fellows was it who poured him out that wine?"
We sat silent; both bound that he should supply his own answer.
"I ought to know; I've read about it enough. It was the slick one; thefellow who goes by me as if I were dirt--Oh, I know; it's Leighton!Leighton!" And he stumbled to his feet with a sickening leer.
"I'm going down to the police station," he cried. "I'm going to informthe authorities----"
"Not to-night," I protested, rising and speaking somewhat forcibly inhis ear. "If you go there to-night they will shut you up tillmorning--jail you!"
He laughed boisterously. "That would be a joke. None of that for me.I'll see them dashed first." And he looked at us with a sickly smile,the remembrance of which will make me hate him forever. Suddenly hebegan to search for his hat. "I think I'll go home," he observed, withan air of extreme condescension. "Leighton Gillespie, eh? Well, I'mglad the question is settled. Here's to his health! and yours--andyours----"
He was gone.
We were both on our feet ready to assist him in his departure. But hegot away in good shape, and when the lower door slammed wecongratulated each other with a look. Then Sam seized the bottle and Ithe glass from which this fellow had drunk, and both fell crashinginto the fireplace. Then Sam spoke:
"I fear Leighton Gillespie will sleep his last sound sleep to-night."
"You must consider the drivel we have just listened to as of someimportance, then," I declared.
"Taken with what Yox told us, I certainly do," was Sam's emphaticreply.
The sigh which escaped me was involuntary. If this was Sam's opinion,I must prepare myself for an interview with Hope. Alas! it was likelyto bring me sorrow in proportion to the joy it brought her.