Mrs. Balfame: A Novel

  CHAPTER XIV

  Supper was over and Broderick and Miss Crumley sat in the back yardstudio; Mrs. Crumley had company of her own, and as Alys decried thevulgarity of the legendary American daughter's attitude to thepoor-spirited American mother, she invariably retired to the backgroundwhenever it would enhance Mrs. Crumley's self-respect to occupy not onlythe foreground but (if her daughter had an interesting visitor) theentire stage. Alys, since her humiliating failure with Dwight Rush,clung the more passionately to her rules of conduct. They were not redwith the blood of life, but at least they served as an anchored buoy.

  The atelier was hung with olive green burlap and covered with anartistic litter of sketches. Broderick, before settling himself into acomfortable chair by the stove, examined the more recent and encouragedher with a few words of discriminating praise.

  "Keep it up, Alicia. The _News_ for you next month if you are ready fora job. You've improved marvellously in figures, which was where you wereweak. Miss Loys, our fashion artist, is marrying next month. You mightas well begin with that. You'll be on the paper and can jump intosomething better when it offers."

  Alys nodded emphatically. "Give me work, and as soon as possible. Idon't care much what it is. But I want work and plenty of it. It isn'tonly that I want to use my energies, but I've spent all I can afford onlessons and the rest of it."

  "I'll see to it. Your sort doesn't go begging."

  Broderick clipped his cigar and watched her thin profile for a momentwithout speaking.

  He noticed for the first time that she had lost the little flesh thatformerly had covered her small bones, and that the pink stained the paleivory of her cheeks only when conversation excited her. But if anythingshe was prettier--no, more attractive--than ever, for there was moredepth in her face, which in spite of its subtle suggestions, had seemedto his critical masculine taste to be too eager, too prone to pour outher personality without reserve when the brain lighted up. Now there wasa slight droop of the eyelids which might mean fatigue, but gave lengthand mystery to the strange olive eyes. Her pink mouth, with its shortupper lip, was too small for his taste, but the modelling of herfeatures in general seemed to him more cleanly defined, and the sweep ofjaw, almost as keen as a blade, must have delighted her own artist soul.She was rather diminutive (to her sorrow), but the long lines shecultivated in her house gowns made her figure very alluring, and thelimp and awkward grace of fashion singularly became her. She woreto-night a "butterfly" gown of georgette (finding, as ever, admirableeffects in cotton since she could not afford the costly fabrics), thecolour of the American beauty rose, and a narrow band of olive velvetaround her thin ivory-white neck. For the moment of her absorption, asshe stared into the coals, her attitude would have been one of completerepose had it not been for her restless hands. Broderick noticed, too,that there were darkened hollows under her eyes. "Poor kid," he thought."She's been through it, all right, and put up a stiff fight. But what apity."

  As he struck a match she rose, and, opening a drawer in the table, tookout a box of Russian cigarettes. "I keep these here," she announced,"because I don't want to shock mother; and I seldom indulge these daysin expensive habits. But I shall celebrate and smoke all evening. It isjolly to have you like this again, Jimmy. I heard you were engaged. Isit true? You would seem to have deserted every one else."

  Mr. Broderick coloured and looked as sheepish as a highly sophisticatedstar reporter may. "Well, not quite," he admitted. "It's been heavyrunning, and I don't have all the time there is on my hands. But--Ihope--well, I think now it'll be pretty plain sailing--"

  "Good, Jimmy, good!"

  For a moment he, too, gazed into the coals, his eyes softening; thenonce more he banished the dainty image evoked; no nonsense for him inElsinore, with the Balfame tangle to unravel to the glory of the NewYork _News_.

  "Alys," he said, stretching out his long legs and looking innocent andcomfortable, "I want to have a confidential talk with you about Mrs.Balfame." He paused and then looked her straight in the eyes as helaunched his bolt. "I have come to the conclusion that she shot him--"

  "Jim Broderick!" Alys sprang to her feet, her eyes wide and full ofangry light. "Oh, you newspaper men!--How utterly abominable!"

  "Why? Sit down, my dear. Somebody did it--not? as our friends theGermans say. And undoubtedly that some one is the person most interestedin getting him out of the way."

  "But not Mrs. Balfame! Why--I've been brought up on Mrs. Balfame. I'd assoon suspect my own mother."

  "No, my friend, you would not. Mrs. Crumley is adorable in her own way,but she is frankly and comfortably in her fifties. She is not abeautiful woman who looks fully ten years younger than she has any rightto look. See?"

  "Oh--but--"

  "Think it over. You said the other day that you believed Mrs. Balfame tohave unplumbed depths, or something equally popular with your sex. Andyou were horrified at her singular facial transformations no less thantwice within a fortnight. Certainly the picture you drew of her stalkingdown the Country Club room was that of a woman in a mood for anything--"

  "Of a lovely well-bred woman outraged by the conduct of a drunken bruteof a husband. But do you imagine that any woman goes through lifewithout being turned into a fury now and then by her husband?"

  "No doubt. But, you see, the death of the brute occurred so soon afterthe transformation scene enacted behind the expressive face of the ladyyou have immortalised on paper--and no new-made devil is so complete asthat which rises out of the debris of an angel. When your placidsternly-controlled women do explode, they may patch themselves togetheras swiftly as a cyclone passes, but one of the sinister faces of theirhidden collection has been flashed momentarily before the public eye--"

  "Oh! Oh!"

  "I have tracked down every suspect, several upon whom no suspicion hasalighted--as yet. To my mind there are only two people to whom the crimecould be brought home."

  "Who is the other?"

  "Dwight Rush."

  This time Alys did not sit up with flaming eyes. To the astute gaze ofthe reporter she took herself visibly in hand. But she bit through thelong tube between her lips. "What makes you think that?" she asked, asshe tossed the bits into the fire and lighted another cigarette. "Youroam too far afield for me."

  "He is in love with her."

  "With whom?"

  "The lady who was so opportunely, if somewhat sensationally, made awidow last Saturday night."

  "He is not! Why--how absurd you are to-night, Jim. She is a thousandyears older than he."

  "How old is she--"

  "Forty-two. Mother sent her a birthday cake last month."

  "Rush is thirty-four. Who cares for eight years on the wrong side thesedays? She looks younger than he does, to say nothing of her owninconsiderable age; and when a woman is as lovely as Mrs. Balfame, asinteresting as she must be with that astute mind, that subtle suggestionof mystery--"

  "You are mad, simply mad. In the first place, he has had no chance tofind out whether she is interesting or not--if he had, all Elsinorewould have rung with it. And--ah--"

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "Come out with it. It's up to you to prove him innocent if you can."

  "He was in Brooklyn that evening. I met him at the Cummacks' the nextday, and heard him say so."

  "Yes, that is what he is at pains to tell every one. Perhaps he canprove it, perhaps not. But that's not what was in your mind."

  "I was afraid of being misunderstood. But it is all right, for of coursehe can prove that he was in Brooklyn. I happen to know that he went tothe Balfame house on his way back from the club Saturday evening, andonly stayed a few minutes. I left the club just after Mrs. Balfame did,as I had been out there all afternoon and had promised mother to helpher during the evening. I came in on the trolley and got off at thecorner of Balfame and Dawbarn Streets, to finish an argument I washaving with Harriet Bell over the possibility of Mrs. Balfame losing hersocial power through the scene out at the club--few of the
members wouldcare to go through such a scene a second time. Moreover, some of thesenewer rich women resent her supremacy and would like to force her totake a back seat.

  "I only talked for a few minutes after I got off the car and then walkedquickly over to the avenue. Just as I turned the corner I saw DwightRush slam the Balfame gate and almost run up the walk. He seemed in atearing hurry about something. I was standing on our porch only a fewminutes later when he strode past--no doubt hoping to catch theseven-ten for Brooklyn. Now!"

  "Nobody would be happier than I to prove a first-class alibi for Rush--"

  "Who else suspects him?"

  "No one; and so far as I am concerned no one shall. If you want thewhole truth, what I'm as intent on just now as big news itself iscomplete exoneration for my friend. But if he didn't do it, she did. Andif he butted in upon her at a time like that it was because he wasbeside himself--no doubt he asked her to elope with him--get adivorce--"

  "What utter nonsense!"

  "Perhaps. But if she saw her chance, I'm thinking she wouldn't havehesitated a minute to put a bullet in Balfame. People don't turn as sickat the mere thought of committing murder, when there's a good chance ofputting it over, as you may imagine. Most of us experience the impulsesome time or other. Cowardice or circumstances safeguard us. She did it,take my word for it. She deliberately poisoned a glass of lemonadefirst, for Balfame to drink when he came home on his way to take thetrain for Albany. Then, something or other interfering--what, I can onlyguess at as yet--she found her chance to shoot, and shot."

  "Why, if all that were true, she would be a fiend."

  "Not necessarily. Merely a highly exasperated woman. One, moreover, whohad locked herself up too long. Marital squabbles are safety valves, andI understand she let him do the rowing. But I don't care about herimpulses. The act is enough for me. Psychology later, when I write apage of Sunday stuff. But you can see for yourself that if she isn'tindicted, and pretty quick, Dwight Rush will be?"

  "But no one else suspects him."

  "Not yet. But the whole town thinks of nothing else. And as they'veabout given up all hope of the political crowd, as well as gunmen andtango girls, they'll veer presently toward the truth. But before theysettle down on their idol's lofty head, they'll root about for some manwho might easily be in love with her--although hopelessly, as a matterof course. Then they'll recall a thousand trifles that no doubt you toorecall without effort."

  "It's true she turned to him out there, ignoring men she had known foryears--she saw him at the house that night, if only for a fewmoments--Oh, it's too horrible! Mrs. Balfame. An Elsinore lady! And shehas been so good to us all these hard years, helped us over and overagain. Oh, I don't mind telling you, Jim, that I was a little bitjealous of her--I rather liked Rush--he was interesting and a nice malecreature, and I was so lonely--and he stopped coming so suddenly--andthen seeing him so delighted to meet her that night--and both of themdragging up the avenue as if each moment were a jewel--I've alwaysthought it hateful for married women to try to cut girls out--it's sounnatural--but I can't hear her accused of murder--to go--Oh, it's tooawful to talk about!"

  "She'd get off. Don't let that worry you. Innocent or guilty. There's noother way of saving Rush. Be more jealous, if that will help matters.He'll marry her the moment he decently can."

  "I don't believe he cares a bit for her. And I don't believe she willmarry him or any one."

  "Oh, yes, she will. He's the sort to get what he wants--and, take itfrom me, he is mad about her. And she's at the age to be carried off herfeet by an ardent determined lover. Make no mistake about that. Besides,her's is a name that she'll want to drop as soon as possible."

  "Jim Broderick, you know that you are deliberately playing on my femalenature, on all the baseness you feel sure is in it. I'd always thoughtyou rather subtle, diplomatic. I don't thank you for the compliment offrankness."

  "My dear girl, it is a compliment--my utter lack of diplomacy with you.I want to pull this big thing off for my paper, for your paper. And Iwant to save the friend of both of us. I have merely tried to prove toyou that Mrs. Balfame is a mere human being, not a goddess, and deservesto pay some of the penalty of her crime, at least. Certainly, she isn'tworth the sacrifice of Dwight Rush--"

  "But if he can prove his alibi--"

  "Suppose he couldn't. It was Saturday night. What more likely than thathe failed to find the man he wanted? I have a dark suspicion that henever went near Brooklyn that night, was in no mood to think ofbusiness; although I don't for a moment believe he was near the Balfameplace, or knows who did it--unless Mrs. Balfame has confessed to him.She is a very clever woman, not likely to linger on smugly in any fool'sparadise. She must know that suspicion will work round to her, andknowing his infatuation, no doubt has consulted him."

  Broderick really thought nothing of the sort, but calculated his words;and they produced their effect. The blood rose to the girl's hair, thenebbed, leaving her ghastly. "He would hate her then," she whispered.

  "Not Rush. Another man, perhaps; but not only do things go too deep witha man like that for anything but time to cure, but he's chock full ofromantic chivalry. And he's madly in love, remember; by that I mean inthe first flush. He'd look upon her as a martyr, and immediately set towork to ward suspicion from her; if an alibi could not be proved for himhe'd take the crime on his own shoulders, if the worst came to worst."

  "Oh! Are men really so Quixotic in these days?"

  "Haven't changed fundamentally since they evolved from protoplasm."

  "But why should all that chivalry--that magnificent passion--the firstlove of a man like that--be called out by a woman of Mrs. Balfame's age?Why, it's some girl's right! I don't say mine. Don't think I'm a dog inthe manger. I'm trying not to be. But the world is full of girls--notfoolish young things only good enough for boys, but girls in theirtwenties, bright, companionable, helpful, real mates for men--Why, it isunnatural, damnable!"

  "Yes, it is," said Broderick sympathetically. "But if human natureweren't a tangled wire fence electrified full of contradictions, lifewouldn't be interesting at all. Perhaps it's a mere case of affinity,destiny--don't ever betray me. But there it is. As well try to explainthe abrupt taking off of useful men in their prime, of lovely children,of needed mothers, of aged women who have lived exemplary lives, mainlyfor others, spending their last years with the horrors of cancer. Don'ttry to explain human passion. And she _is_ beautiful, and fresher tolook at than girls of eighteen that tango day and night. But he must besaved from her as well as from arrest. Will you help me?"

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Get further evidence about Mrs. Balfame."

  "I cannot, and would not if I could. Do you think I would be the meansof fastening the crime of murder on any woman?"

  "You would if you were a hardened--and good--newspaper woman."

  "Well, I'm not. And I won't. Do your own sleuthing."

  "More than I are on the job, but I want your help. I don't say you canpick up fragments of her dress in the grove, or that you can--orwould--worm yourself into her confidence and extract a confession. Butyou can set your wits to work and think up ways to put me on the trackof more evidence than I've got now. Can you think of anything off-hand?"

  "No."

  "Ah? What does that intonation mean?"

  "Your ears are off the key."

  "Not mine. Tell me at once--No,"--He rose and took up his hat--"nevermind now. Think it over. You will tell me in a day or two. Just rememberwhile watching all my little seeds sprout that you can help me save afine fellow and put my heel on a snake--a murderess! Paugh! There'snothing so obscene. Good night."

  She did not rise as he let himself out, but sat beside her cold stovethinking and crying until her mother called her to come in and go tobed.