CHAPTER XXI
Alys Crumley entertained four of the newspaper women at a picnic lunchin her studio. She was grateful for the distraction from her ownthoughts and diverted by their theories. None had seen Mrs. Balfame savethrough the medium of the staff artist, and they were inclined to acceptthe prima facie evidence of her guilt. When Alys fetched a photographfrom the house, however, they immediately reversed their opinion, forthe pictured face was that of a lovely cold and well-bred woman withouta trace of hardness or predisposition to crime. They fell in love withit and vowed to defend her to the best of their ability, Miss Crumleypromising to exert her influence with the accused to obtain an interviewfor the new devotees.
Before wrapping the photograph for its inevitable journey to New York,Alys gave it a moment of study herself, wondering if she may not havemisinterpreted what she saw that morning. No one had worshipped at thatshrine more devoutly than she, even during these later years ofmetropolitan concordance.
"What is your theory?" asked Miss Austin of _The Evening News_. "Theysay that a lot of those men at the Elks know, but never will comethrough. Do you think it was any of those girls? It might have been somewoman he knew in New York who followed him here for the first time--whowould not have been recognised if seen, and got away in a waitingautomobile."
"As likely as not," said Miss Crumley indifferently. "I have heard somany theories advanced and rejected that I am almost as confused as thepolice. Jim Broderick says that the simplest explanation is generallythe correct one, but while he believes Mrs. Balfame to be the naturalsolution, I happen to know her better than he does, and a good deal moreof this community. Three or four men and one or two women would be stillsimpler explanations. Possibly--" She turned cold and almost lost herbreath, but the impulse to put a maddening possibility into verbal formwas irresistible. "Perhaps some man that is in love with Mrs. Balfamedid it." And then she hated herself, for she felt as if she had thrownDwight Rush to the lions.
"But who? Who?" the girls were demanding, more excited over thispicturesque solution than they had been since "the story broke." EvenMiss Austin, who disdained to write "sob stuff" and was a graduate ofthe Columbia School of Journalism, was almost on her feet, while MissLauretta Lea, who wept vicariously for fifty thousand women three timesa week, shrieked without shame.
"Oh, fine!" "How truly enchanting!" "Dear Miss Crumley--Alys--who, whois the man?"
"Oh, as to that, I've not an idea. Mrs. Balfame always has ratherdisdained men, and even if she were susceptible is far toostraight-laced to permit any man to pay her compromising attentions, orto meet him secretly. But of course she is very pretty, still young tolook at, so there is the possibility--"
"But just run over all the marriageable men in the community--"
"Oh, he might be married, you know." Alys struggled to keep the alarmout of her voice.
"But in that case there would still be the wife to dispose of, and now,at least, he'd never dare kill her, or even divorce her. No, I don'thold to that theory. It's more like the reckless act of the unchastenedbachelor still young enough for illusions. You must have a theory, Alys.Stand and deliver." Miss Austin spoke with quick insistence. She haddetected her hostess' suppressed excitement and was convinced that thehint had not been thrown out at random. She also had been conscious ofan indefinable change in her old associate, and now she noticed it indetail. She might be too self-respecting to dip her pen in bathos, butshe was nevertheless young, and her imagination began playing aboutpossibilities like lightning over a wire fence.
The heat which confused Alys Crumley's brain was expressed by a dullglow in her strange olive-colored eyes, but she made a desperate effortto look impersonal and rather bored.
"No, I have no theory: certainly it could not be any of the menhereabouts. Mrs. Balfame has known all of them from infancy up. Perhapsshe met some one in New York; I don't know that she ever went to any ofthe tea-tango places--she doesn't dance; but she might have gone withMrs. Gifning or Mrs. Frew, and just met some one that fell in love withher--Oh, you mustn't take a mere idea of mine too seriously."
"Hm!" said Miss Austin. "It doesn't sound plausible. A man she met nowand then at a tea-room! She's not the sort to drive men to distractionin the casual meeting--not the type. And I can't see the men thatfrequent afternoon tea-rooms working themselves up to the point ofmurder. No, if there is a man in the case, he is here; if not inElsinore, then in the county; and it is some man who has known her longenough and seen her often enough to descend from mere admiration for herrather chilling type of beauty into the most desperate desire forpossession--"
Alys burst into a ringing peal of laughter. "Really, Sarah, I wonder youare not already famous as a fiction-story writer. How much longer do youpropose to stick to prosaic journalism?"
"I've had two stories accepted by leading magazines this month, I'd haveyou know; but your memory is short if you think journalism prosaic. Itgerminates pretty nearly all the fiction microbes that later ravage thepopular magazines. That was what was the matter with the oldmagazines--no modern symptoms, let alone fevers--only antidotes thatsomehow didn't work. But if you won't tell, Alys, I'll find out formyself. If I don't find out, Jim Broderick will, and I'd give my eyes toget ahead of him. But we've got to catch our train, girls."
They took the short cut through the hall of the dwelling, and as theypassed the open door of the living-room, Miss Lauretta Lea exclaimedwith pleasure at its conceit of a cool green wood. Alys could do no lessthan invite them in. While the three other reporters were walking aboutobserving the charming room in detail and envying its owner, Miss SarahAustin walked directly over to a framed photograph of Dwight Rush thatstood on a side-table. He had given it to Mrs. Crumley; and Alys, whospared her mother all unnecessary anxiety, had not yet conceived alogical excuse for its removal.
"Whom have we here?" demanded the searching young realist. "Don't tellme, Alys, that here is the secret of your desertion of the New Yorkpress. I'd forgive you, though, for he is precisely the type I mostadmire. The modern Samson before Delilah cuts off what little hair hisbarber leaves. But the same old Samson looking round for the same oldDelilah--"
"Really, Sarah, are you insinuating that I am a Delilah? That is toomuch!" Alys put her arm round Miss Austin's waist and smiled teasingly."No wonder your newspaper stories are so bitingly realistic; therestraints you force upon your imagination must put it quite out ofcommission for the time being. That is Mr. Dwight Rush, quite a wellknown lawyer in Brabant already, although he has only been here abouttwo years."
"I thought you said all your young men had grown up in the community."
"I had quite forgotten him."
"Ha! Is he married?"
"Oh, no. And he was born and brought up over in Rennselaerville, by theway, but went West to some college or university and practised out therefor several years."
"How old is he?"
"Oh, about thirty-three or thirty-four."
"Must have been away a good many years. Would return quite fresh--musthave had a lot made over him here--looks clever and built forsuccess--that concentrated driving type that always gets there--"
"He goes very little into society and no one possibly could lionisehim."
"Is he interesting to talk to or just another specialist?"
"That's about it. But he was more a friend of mother's than mine. Thatis her picture."
"Oh! He likes older women, then? Looks as if he might. Never would takethe trouble, that type, to adapt himself to girls, try to understandthem. Could it be--Alys, you must know if he knows Mrs. Balfame!"
Alys was cold again but laid violent hands on her nerves. "No betterthan he knew any one else, if as well, for Mrs. Balfame never talked tothe younger men. She doesn't attract them, anyhow. Do you realise, dear,that you are asking if Mr. Rush committed murder?"
"With that jaw and those nostrils, he could--oh, rather! And it is oneof those cast-iron, passionate faces; when those men do let go--"
"Oh, really!" Al
ys dropped her arm, and her subtle face expresseddisdain. "Mr. Rush is quite too steel clad to be carried away even if hewere capable of committing a low and cowardly murder. He happens to be agentleman and about as astute and poised as they are made. Do pleasesend your romantic imagination off on another flight."
"Not I. I'm going to account for every moment he spent that night."
"Would you like to see Mr. Rush go to the chair?" asked Miss Crumleysternly.
"Oh, good Lord no." Miss Austin turned pale. "I don't believe in capitalpunishment, anyhow. No, I'll not tell a thing if I find him out. Buthow interesting to know! I'd write a corking story--fiction--about it.Those deep glimpses into life--into those terrible abysses of the humanheart--no writer can become great without them."
"Well, don't waste your time trying to find the criminal in thisexcellent citizen. You might set some of the newspaper men on his trailand blacken his name while you discovered nothing. Better get on thetrack of the potential woman in New York."
"Not half so interesting. Just one of those apartment-housemisalliances. No, I'm out for Mr. Rush, and when I have the proof, I'llextract a confession; but I'll dig a little grave in my brain and buryhis secret--then when it has ripened, exhume and toss it into thatcrucible through which facts pass and come out--fiction. Get me, dear?"
"You talk like a literary ghoul. But I know you don't mean a word of it.Good-bye, girls. Do drop in whenever you are over on the case." Shekissed them all, and Miss Lauretta Lea exclaimed innocently:
"You've lost that lovely dusky colour you had awhile ago, dear. You lookmore like old ivory than ever--old ivory and olive. I wonder all theartists don't paint you. I suppose every young man in Elsinore is inlove with you. Marry, my dear, marry. I've been in this game twelveyears. Show me a willing would-be husband and I'd take him so quick he'dnever know what struck him. Give my hopes of being a man in the nextincarnation for ten babies to weep over when they had croup or got lostin the woods of New York City. Hate sob stuff. Cut it out, kid, beforeyou begin it."
She talked all the way to the gate and for several yards down theavenue, waving a final farewell with a somewhat tragic smile.
"Why doesn't that girl marry?" she asked as they walked rapidly to thestation. "Still fresh, if she is twenty-six. I'm only thirty-four and Ilook like a hag beside her."
"Maybe she can't get the man she wants," replied the potential novelist,who was thinking deeply.