CHAPTER XIII of THE BLACK EGLE MYSTERY This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Dedicated to UNI. THE BLACK EGLE MYSTERY by Geraldine Bonner CHAPTER XIII Jack tells the story. To say that the expectant Whitney office got a jolt is putting it mildly. On the threshold of success, to meet such a setback enraged George and made even the chief grouchy. The new developments added new complications that upset their carefully elaborated theories. There had to be a readjustment. Whoever Samus was and whatever his motive could have been, it was undoubtedly he who had attacked Tony Ford. It was inexplicable and mysterious. The chief had an idea that there was a connection between Samus and Barker, that the man no dead might have been planted in Philadelphia to divert the search from the live man who had stolen the safety after a rise to the surface in Toronto. George scouted it and accidental likeness had fooled them and made them waste valuable time. The devil was on the side of Barker, taking care of his own. It did look that way. Investigation of the few clues we had led to nothing. The tailor, whose bill was found in Samus' pocket, remembered selling a suit and overcoat to a man called Samus on January 10th. He was a quiet, polite old party who looked poor and shabby but bought good clothes and paid spot cash for them. The typewritten letter indicated that Samus had been sent to Philadelphia and well paid for some work that had not yet started. It was upon this letter the chief based his contention that Samus' appearance in the case was not a coincidence. He was another of Barker's hence when and it was part of Barker's luck that at the crucial moment he should have died. But it was all speculation. Nothing certain except that we had lost our man again. Philadelphia had dropped out as a point of interest and the case swung back to New York where it was now centered around the bed of Tony Ford. We were in constant communication with the hospital and on Thursday received word that Ford would recover. That lifted us from the smash of Wednesday night. When he was able to speak we would hear something, everything if he could be scared into a full confession. The hospital authorities refused to let anyone see him till he was perfectly fit, a matter of several days yet. That suited us as we wanted no speech with him till he was strong enough to stand the shock of our knowledge. Caught thus with his back against the wall we expected him to make a clean breast of it. The enforced waiting was, to me anyway, distracting. With the hope I'd had of Barker gone I was now looking to Ford. He must, he could exonerate her. There wasn't the slightest out of it, but to have to wait for it to be cool and calm to get through the next few days I felt like a man caught in the rafters of a burning building trying to be patient while they hacked him out. After the news from the hospital the temperature of the office fell to an enforced normal. O'Malley went back to his burrow and babbets to his paper with his big story still in the air. That night in my place I measured off the sitting room from 8 till 12, five strides from the bookcase to the window, seven from the fire to the folding doors. If I could only induce her to speak, if she herself would only clear up the points that were against her there was still a chance of getting her out of it before Ford opened up. That she had something to hide, some mystery in connection with her movements that night, some secret understanding with Barker, even I had to admit. But whatever it was it would be better to reveal it than to go on into the fierce white light that would break over the Harlan case within a week. In that midnight pacing I tried to think of some way I could force her to tell, to tell me, but the clocks trammed on and the fire died in the hearth and I got nowhere. She knew me so slightly, I think I was set on by the office, the very fact that I was what I was might seal her lips closer. Instead of breaking down her reticence I might increase it, strengthen that wall of secretiveness behind which she seemed to be taking refuge like a hunted creature. When I went to the office on Friday morning the chief asked me to go to Buffalo that night, to look up some witnesses in the Lytton area. It would take me all Saturday and I could get back by Sunday night or at the latest Monday morning. A phone message sent to the hospital before I came in had drawn the information that Tony Ford would not be able to see the Philadelphia detectives, O'Malley and Babitz posed in that role, till Monday. That settled it. Better to be at work out of town than hanging around cursing the slowness of the hours. But the questions of the night before haunted me. Why, anyway, couldn't I go see her? Wasn't it up to me, whether I succeeded or not, to make the effort to break through her silence, the silence that was liable to do her deadly damage? I had to see her, I couldn't keep away from her. At lunchtime I called her up and asked her if I could come. She said yes and named four that afternoon. On the stroke I was in the vestibule, pushing the button below her name and with my heart thumping against my ribs like a steel hammer. She opened the door and as I followed her up the little hall told me the servant had been sent away and her mother was out. As on that former visit she seated herself at the desk, motioning me to a chair opposite. The blinds were raised, the room flooded with the last warm light of the afternoon. By its brightness I saw that she was even paler and more worn than she had been that other time, obviously a woman harassed and preyed upon by some inner trouble. On the way up I had gone over ways of approach, but sitting there in the quiet pretty room, so plainly the abode of gentle women, I couldn't work round to the subject. She didn't give me any help, seeming to assume that I had dropped in to pay a call. That made it more difficult. When a woman treats you as if you're a gentleman, actuated by motives of common politeness, it's pretty hard to break through her guard and pry into her secrets. She began to talk quickly and it seemed to me, nervously, telling me how the owner of her old farm in the Azalea Woods Estates had offered them a cottage there to which they would move next week. It was small but comfortable, originally occupied by a laborer's family who had gone away. The people were very kind, would take no rent and she and her mother could live for almost nothing till she found some work. I sympathized with the idea, she could get away from the wear and tear of the city, have time to rest and recuperate. After her recent worry, she dropped her eyes to a paper on the desk and said, Yes, I'm tired. Everything was so sudden and unexpected, I once thought I was strong enough to stand anything. But all this. She stopped and picking up a pencil began making little drawings on the paper, designs of squares and circles. It's one-yout, I said, looking at her weary and colorless face, like the thrust of a sword, a pang shot through me. Love of a man, hidden and disgraced, had blighted that once-blooming beauty. She nodded and looked up. It's not the business only. There have been other, other anxieties. That was more of an opening than anything I'd ever heard her say. I could feel this mothering beat of my heart as I answered, as quietly as I could. Can't you tell him to me? Perhaps I could help you. One of those sudden waves of color I'd seen before passed across her face. As if to hide it, she dropped her head lower over the paper, touching the mark she was making. Her voice came soft and controlled. That's very kind of you, Mr. Reddy. But I know you're kind. I knew it when I first met you a year ago in the country. No, I can't tell you. I leaned nearer to her. If I had a chance to make her speak, it was now or never. Ms. Whitehall? I said, trying to inject a simple, casual friendliness into my voice. You're almost alone in the world.  You don't know how much help I might be able to give you. In what way? She asked, with a rise still on the paper. For a moment I was non-plus. I couldn't tell her what I knew. I couldn't go back on my office. I was tied hand and foot. All I could do with honesty was to try and force the truth from her. Like a fool, I stammered out. In a vice? In larger knowledge of the world than you can have? She gave a slight, bitter smile, and tilting her head backwards looked critically at her drawings. My knowledge of the world is larger than you think. Maybe larger than yours. There's only one thing you can do for me. But there is one. I leaned nearer. My voice scorned a little hoarse. What is it?  Her expression chilled me. Cold, challenging, defiant. Tell me if the Whitney office has found Johnston Parker yet?  And only question, a desperate question, take its place. No, I heard myself say. They have not found him. Thank you, she murmured, and went back to her play with the pencil. I drew myself to the edge of my chair and laid a hand on the corner of the desk. You've asked me a question and I've answered it. Now let me ask one. Why are you so interested in the movements of Johnston Parker? She stiffened. I could see her body grow rigid under its thin silk covering, the hand holding the pencil began to tremble. Wouldn't anyone be interested in such a sensational event? Isn't it natural? Perhaps knowing Mr. Parker personally, as I told you in Mr. Whitney's office, I'm more curious than the rest of the world. That's all. The trembling of her hand made it impossible for her to continue drawing. She threw down the pencil and locked her fingers together, outstretched on the paper, a breath, deep taken and sudden, lifting her breast. It was pitiful, her lonely fight. I was going to say something, anything, to make her think I didn't see, when she spoke again. Do any of you, you men who are hunting him, ever think that he may not be able to come back? Able? I exclaimed excitedly. For now again I thought something was coming. What do you mean by able? I had said, or looked too much. With a smothered sound she jumped to her feet, and before I could rise or stay her with a gesture, brushed past me and moved to the window. There, for a moment, she stood looking out. Her splendid shape, crowned with its massive black hair, in silhouette against the thin white curtains. Look here, Ms. Whitehall. I said with grim resolution. I've got to say something to you, that you may not like, may think is buttoning in, but I can't help it. What? came on a caught breath. If you know anything about Parker, his whereabouts, his inability to come back, why don't you tell it? It will help us and help you. She wheeled round like a flash, all vehement denial. I? I didn't mean that I knew. I was only wondering, guessing. It's just as I told Mr. Whitney that day.  Why should I do that? What motive could I have to keep secret anything I might know that would bring Mr. Parker to justice? As she spoke, she moved toward me, bringing up in front of me, her eyes almost fiercely demanding. Mine fell before them. It was no use. With my memory of those letters, of her mysterious plot with Parker clear in my mind, I could go no farther. I muttered some sentences of apology, was sorry if I had offended her, hadn't meant to imply anything, was carried away by my zeal to find the absconder. She seemed mollified, and moved to her seat by the desk. Then suddenly, as if a spring that had upheld her had snapped, she drove into the chair, limp and pallid. I'm tired, I'm not myself. She faltered. I don't seem to know what I'm saying. All this, all these dreadful things have torn me to pieces. Her voice broke, and she averted her face. But not before I'd seen that her eyes were shining with tears. That sight brought a passionate exclamation out of me. I went toward her. My arms ready to go out and enfold her. But she waived me back with an imploring gesture. Oh, go, I beg of you, go. I want peace, I want to be alone. Please go, please don't torment me anymore. I can't bear it. She dropped her face into her hands, shrinking back from me, and I turned and left her. My steps as I went down the hall were the only sounds in the place. But the silence seemed a thrill with unloosened emotions. To hum and sing with the vibrations that came from my nerves, and my heart and my soul. The big moments in your life ought to come in beautiful places. At least that's what I've always thought. But they don't. Anyway, with me. For as I went down that dingy staircase, full of queer smells, dark and squalid, the greatest moment I'd ever known came to me. I loved her. I'd loved her always. I knew it now. Out in the country those few first times. But then more as a vision, something that woven through my thoughts, aloof and unapproachable. Like an inspiration and a dream. And that day in Whitney's office as a woman. And every day since, deeper and stronger, seeing her beset, realizing her danger, longing with every fiber to help her, it was the cause of that burst of the old fury, of the instinct that kept me close and secretive, of this day's fruitless attempt to make her speak. All the work, the growing dread, the rush of events, had held me from seeing, crowded out recognition of the wonderful thing. I stood in the half-lit, musty little hall in a trance-like ecstasy, outside myself, holding only that one thought. I loved her. I loved her. I loved her. Presently I was in the street, walking without any consciousness of the way. Toward the park. The ecstasy was gone. The present was back again. The present blacker and more terrible after those radiant moments. I don't know how to describe that coming back to the hideous reality. Everything was mixed up in me. Passion, pity, hope, jealousy. There was a space when that was the fiercest, gripped me like a physical pang, and then passed into a hate for Barker, the man she loved, who had left her to face it alone. I think I must have spoken aloud. I saw people looking at me. And if my interstate was in any way indicated by my outer envelope, I wonder I wasn't run in as a lunatic. In a quiet bypass in the park, I got a better hold on myself and tried to do some clear thinking. The first thing I had to do was to rule Barker out. Even if my fight was to give her to him, I must fight. That I couldn't do till we heard from Ford. Until then it was wisdom to say nothing, to keep my pose of a disinterested inherent to the theory of her innocence. If Ford's story exculpated her, then she was out of the case forever. If it didn't, I couldn't decide what I'd do till I'd heard where it placed her. It was a momentary deadlock with nothing for it but to wait. That I was prepared to do.  But I'd come back with my sword loose as it scabbard, to do battle for my lady. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Black Eagle Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Mike Overby Midland Washington Dedicated to UNI The Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner Chapter 14 Molly tells the story You can imagine after that disappointment in Philadelphia, it seems an unfeeling way to speak of the death of an old gentleman, how he all turned her eyes and kept them fixed on Tony Ford. Friday night, Babitz told me the hospital had reported he couldn't be seen till Monday. The others were in a fever, he said.  And Mr. George, that scared Ford would slip off some way, he'd have liked to put a cordon of the National Guard around the hospital. Then came Saturday, and gee, up everything burst different to what everybody had expected. It started with Mr. George. Being so nervous, he couldn't rest till he called up the hospital in the morning, and got word that there had been a mistake in the message of the day before, and that Mr. Ford was well enough to see the Philadelphia detectives that afternoon. Before midday, Babitz and O'Malley were gathered in, and while I was waiting on pins and needles in 95th Street, and Jack Reddy was off unsuspecting in Buffalo, the two of them were planted by Tony Ford's bedside, hearing the story that lifted the Harlan case one peg higher in its surprise and gruesomeness. O'Malley and Babitz had their plans all laid beforehand. They were two plainclothes men from Philadelphia who had just come in on a new lead, the finding of Samus. When they'd opened that up before him, they were going to pass on to the murder, taken by surprise. If Ford made the confession they hoped to shake out of him, the warrant for his arrest would be issued, and the Harlan case would be before the public in its true light. Babitz had never seen Ford, and when he described him to me, it didn't sound like the same man.  Under the covers, his long legs stretched, most to the end of the cot, and his big, powerful hands were lying limp on the counterpane. He was in a private room, in an inside wing of the hospital, very quiet and retired. When the attendant left, and they introduced themselves, he looked sort of scowling, from one to the other. Both noticed the same thing, a kind of uneasiness, as if his apprehensions were aroused, and for all this broken head he was on the job, not weak and indifferent, but wary and alert. This wasn't what they wanted, so they started in telling him the news that they thought would please him and put him at his ease. A clue had been picked up in Philadelphia that looked like the mystery of his attack was solved. In fact, says Amali, a man's been run to earth there that we're pretty sure is the one. Both men were watching him, and both saw a change come over him that caught their eyes and held them. Instead of being relieved, he was scared. Have you got the man, he said? Amali nodded. That's what we have. Who is he? Party called Samus. Answers to the description. Before he could go further, Ford raised himself on his elbow, looking down right terrified. Joseph Samus? He said. His eyes set staring on Amali. That's it. We tracked him up and found him. But I don't want to raise any false hopes. We were too late. When we got there, he was dead. It had an extraordinary effect upon Ford. He gave a gasp, and raised himself up into a sitting posture.  For a moment, not one of them said a word. Ford evidently too paralyzed at what he'd heard, and the others too surprised at the way Ford was acting, which was exactly different to what they'd expected. It was he who spoke first, his voice gone down to a husky murmur. Dead. Amali answered. Heart disease, and gyna pectoris. The doctor down there said some strain or effort had finished him. That, as we see it, was the attack he made on you. Then Ford did the most surprising thing of all. Raising his hands, he clapped both over his face, and with a big, heaving sob from the bottom of his chest, fell back on the pillows and began to cry. Babbitt said you couldn't have believed it if you hadn't seen it. He and Amali looking stumped at each other, and between them that great ox of a man, lying in the bed crying like a baby. Then himself, being fearful that maybe they'd done the man harm, rose up to go after a nurse. But Amali caught him by the coat, whispering, keep still you goat. Then turned and said very pleasant to Ford. Knocked you out old man. That's natural, nerves still weak. Keep it up till you feel better. Don't mind us, we're used to it. So there they sat. Babbitt's still uneasy. But Amali, calm and patient, tilting back in his chair looking dreamy out the window. He said afterward that he knew that hysterical fit for what it was. Relief. And that was why he wouldn't let Babbitt's call a nurse. Presently the sobs began to ease off, and Ford, groping under the pillow for a handkerchief, said all choked up. How did you come to connect him with me? By papers found in his desk. Records of a real estate business you and he had been in some years ago at Syracuse. That's the man. Said Ford between his hiccupy catches of breath. And he's dead. Dead is Julius Caesar. Amali leaned forward, his voice dropping. You knew he was the chap that attacked you.  Yes, I lied when I said he was a stranger to me. Why did you do that? Asked Babbitt's. It was just what you might know he'd asked. One of the cutest things about himself is that he never can understand why anyone, no matter what the provocation, has to lie. Ford didn't answer, and O'Malley, giving his chair a hitch nearer to the bed, said, kind of persuasive. Say, Ford, you better tell us all you know. We got the papers and most of the information. The man's dead. Clean it up and we'll let it drop. Without raising his head, Ford said, low and sort of sullen. All right, if you agreed to that. I was in business with him and I didn't play fair, lit out with some of the money. He turned his lowering look onto Babbitt's. That's the answer to your question. Then back to O'Malley. I didn't run across him or hear of him in all this time, and suppose the whole thing was buried and forgotten till he came into my room Tuesday night. He was blazing mad, said he'd been waiting for a chance to even up, and had at last found me. To keep him quiet, I said I'd give him some money and I had some. Yes, yes, said O'Malley, nodding cheerfully. The legacy your uncle left you. Ford shot a look at him, sharp and quick. Oh, you know about that? Naturally. inquiries have been made in all directions. Go on. I hadn't much cash there. A few dollars, but I thought I'd hand him that and agree to pay him more later. He said he didn't want money. That wouldn't square our accounts. And as I went to the desk, he came up behind me and struck me. That's all I know. Did he say how he'd located you? Yes, he'd been looking for me ever since I'd skipped but couldn't find me. Then he saw my name in the papers after the Harlan suicide.  A short while after, Samus phoned up to the Black Eagle building, heard from Miss Whitehall I'd left, and got from her my house address. Did he say what he was doing in Philadelphia? He had some new job there. He didn't say what, but he said he was well paid. That came out in his blustering about not wanting my money. There was a pause. Babitz and O'Malley scribbling in their notebooks, Ford sitting up in that hunched position, looking surly at his hands lying on the counterpane. So far every word he'd said tallied with what they already knew. Babitz was wondering how O'Malley was going to get round to the real business of the interview, when the detective suddenly raised up from his notes and leaning forward tapped lightly on one of Ford's hands with the point of his pencil. Say, Ford, how about that legacy from your uncle? Ford gave a start, stiffened up and looked quick as a flash into the detective's face. What about it? He stammered. O'Malley, his body bending forward, his pencil tip still on Ford's hand, said with sudden grim meaning. We know where it came from. For a second they eyed each other. Babitz said it looked like an electric current was passing between them, holding them still as if they were mesmerized. Then O'Malley went on, very low, each word falling slow and clear from his lips. We know all about that money, and the game you've been playing. This Samus business isn't what we're here for. It's the other. The Harland matter. The thing that's been occupying your time and thoughts lately. That outside job of yours, that job that was funded on the night of January the 15th, he paused.  We've got you, Ford. The whole thing's in our hands. Your only chance is to tell. Tell everything you know. In describing it to me, Babitz said that moment was one of the tenses of the whole case. Ford was cornered. You could see he knew it, and you could see the consciousness of guilt in his pallid face and trembling hands. O'Malley was like a hunter, the hassest prey at last in sight. Drawn forward to the edge of his chair, his jaw squared, his eyes piercing into Ford like gimlet. Go ahead, he almost whispered. What was that money paid you for? Ford tried to smile. The ghost of that cock-shore grin distorting his face like a grimace. I guess you've got the goods on me, he said. I know when I'm beaten. You needn't try any third degree, I'll tell. Babitz was so excited he could hardly breathe. The big story was his at last. He was going to hear the murderer's confession from his own lips. Ford lifted his head, and holding it high and defiant, looked at O'Malley and said slowly, I got the money from the haulings harland for reporting to him the affair between Johnston Barker and Miss Whitehall. If you'd hit him in the head with a brick, Babitz said he couldn't have been more knocked out. He had sense enough to smother the exclamation that nearly burst from him, but he did square round in his chair and look aghast at O'Malley. That old bird never gave a sign that he'd got a blow in the solar plexus. For all anyone could guess by his face, it was just what he'd expected to hear. You were in Harland's pay. He murmured, nodding his head. I was in Harland's pay from the first of December to the day of his death. In that time, he gave me $800.  It'll be easier that way. Any way you want it, said Ford. It's all the same to me. I first met Harland in the elevator some time in the end of November. Seeing me every day, he spoke to me casually and civilly, as one man does to another. There was nothing more than that till Johnston Barker began coming to the Azalea Woods Estates. And then, bit by bit, Harland grew more friendly. I'll admit I was flattered. A chap in my position doesn't usually get more than a passing nod from a man in his. As he warmed up to me, feeling his way with questions, I began to get a line on what he was after. He wanted a tab kept on Barker. Jealous, O'Malley suggested. Desperately jealous. As soon as the thing opened up before me, I saw how matters stood. He was secretly crazy about Ms. Whitehall, and was easy until Barker cut in. Then he got alarmed. Barker was a bigger man than he, and there was no doubt about it that she liked Barker. When he realized that, he put it up to me straight. He'd sized me up pretty thoroughly by that time, and knew that I'd, oh, what's the use of missing matters, do his dirty work for him. O'Malley inclined his head, as if he was too polite to contradict. He offered me good money, and all I had to do was to watch her in Barker, and report what I heard or saw. It was a cinch. I was on the spot. The only other person in the office of fool of a stenographer, a girl, who hardly counted. What was the result of your, uh, investigations? That Barker was in love with her, too? He came often on a flimsy excuse that he wanted to build a house in the tract. She was friendly at first, then, for a while, very cold and haughty, as if they might have had a quarrel. Then they seemed to make that up, and get as thick as thieves. Did she seem to care for Harland? Not exactly. Anyway, not the way he did for her. She was always awfully nice to him. The few times he came into the office, gentle and sweet, but not the way she was with Barker. She was two different women to them, with Harland a sort of affable, gracious winner, but with Barker a girl with a man she's fond of. Natural, glad to see him. No society stunts. A little before Christmas, I caught on to the fact that she was recovering letters from Barker, and Harland offered me extra money to if I got their contents. This wasn't so easy. Generally, she took them away with her, but twice she'd left them on her desk. All I had to do then was to stay over time when she was gone. Copy them. That way I got on to something that phased us both. She and Barker were up to some scheme. O'Malley moved slightly in his chair. Scheme, he said. What do you mean by scheme? Something they were planning to do. After Christmas, every time he'd come, they'd go into the private office, and talk there so low you couldn't catch a word. And the letters were all about it, but we couldn't get in line on what it was. I'll show them to you, and you'll see for yourself. It got Harland wild. For though they weren't exactly love letters, they showed that she and Barker were close knit in some secret enterprise. Did you continue this work till the day of the suicide? I did, to the night, to the time it happened. Harland was getting more and more worked up. I don't know whether it was the Barker Whitehall business or his own financial worries, but I could see he was holding the lid on with difficulty. That day, January 15th, as you may remember, he was in her office and had a talk with her. As he went out, I saw that he looked cheered up, brisk and confident. Of course, I have no idea what she said to him, but knowing the state he was in, I'll swear it was something that gave him hope. Yet, a few hours after that, he killed himself. Seeing him so heartened up and being curious myself, I decided to stay that evening and do a little quiet snooping among her papers, but she nearly blocked that game. She was in the habit of going between half past five and six, leaving me to close up. That night she didn't do it, but hung about in the office, and after watching her for a few minutes, I saw that she was on the jump, moving about, going from one desk to the other, glancing at the clock. Her manner made me certain that something was up. It was possible it had to do with the scheme she and Barker were hatching. I got the idea that I'd go and come back after a while, on the chance of stumbling on something that would be useful to my employer. I left her there, and after loafing around for about half an hour, returned. The office was dark and she'd gone. I lit up and looked over her desk in the exhibit room, and a table in my office where she'd kept some papers, but found nothing. Then I thought I'd take a look into the private office, but that door was locked. Ah, locked, said O'Malley, calm as a summer sea. Was that her custom? Not as far as I knew. I'd never found it locked before. It gave me an uneasy feeling, for I thought she might have suspected what I was doing, and turned the key against my invasion of her particular sanctum. She was no fool, and might have caught on. So I fixed up the papers as I found them, and left the office. You know what time that was, or you do if you read of the Harlan suicide. I've always supposed that poor chap was up that side corridor, as I stood there waiting for the car. Babbitt's been over his notebook scribbling. He had to hide his face.  Waiting with their ears stretched to hear a confession of murder, and this was what they got. And the man wasn't lying. Every word he'd said matched with the facts they'd been warming and digging to find. He couldn't possibly have known murder had been discovered. He hadn't any suspicion a murder had been committed. The great revelation that was to have broken on the public with an explosion like a dynamite bomb, was that Tony Ford was Harlan's paid spy. Well, he said, looking at O'Malley, what have you got to say? Go ahead with it. If it'll give you any satisfaction, only you needn't waste your breath. I know without being told that it's a rotten, dirty business. O'Malley, his face as red as the harvest moon, pulled at his mustache looking thoughtful. But, so as he must have been, you'd have to know O'Malley to realize what his disappointment was. He answered, cool and easy. I ain't got anything to say. It's not my job to train the young. You've told me what I wanted to know. That's all I'm here for. Ford turned to Bavitz and asked him to get some letters off the table, and then went to O'Malley. How did you come to find it out? Bavitz, gathering up the letters, cocked his head to listen, wondering how O'Malley was going to get out of it. But you couldn't phase that, veteran. Several ways. You see what we're after is Johnston Barker. It's the copper pool that owns us. And nosing around in our quiet little way, we got on to the Barker Whitehall Affair, and from that followed the scent of that legacy of yours. We didn't altogether believe in that uncle upstage. Thought maybe he was Johnston Barker in private life, and that you might know something. He gave a lazy, good-humored laugh. Got fooled all round. I don't mind telling you now that the way we happened on Samus was pure accident. Thought he was Barker and had him shadowed. He looked like enough to owe him to have been his brother. That's so, said Ford, as Bavitz handed him the letters. Especially with his hat on, I noticed it myself. He selected two papers from the bunch and handed them to O'Malley. There. Those are the letters I spoke of. This one. He flicked it across the counterpane. It is just a note from Harland making a date. I don't know how I happened to keep it. They were the three letters Bavitz had taken after the attack. Copies of which at that moment were lying in O'Malley's pocket. It was not till they were out on the hospital steps that they dared to speak. O'Malley's face was a study.  Well, he said, what do you make of that? Zero. Not a thing to do with it. Hasn't a suspicion of it. No more involved in it than that sparrow there. He pointed to a sparrow that had lived on a step nearby. I've had setbacks in my profession before, but this, he stopped, stuck his hands into his pockets and stared blankly at the sparrow. Well, if it lets him out, said Bavitz, it tightens the cords around the other two. Mmm, agreed O'Malley, still gazing stonely at the sparrow. That's what keeps your spirits up.  It does, my son. O'Malley roused up and came out of his depression. Instead of a brain and a pair of hands, as we've called it, it was a brain in one hand, the smart hand, the right. That was the woman. He turned and began to descend the steps, taking Bavitz by the arm to draw him closer and speaking low. Do you see how it went? They were in the private office when Ford came back, she and Barker and the dead man. When they heard him come, they switched off the light and locked the door. And, great Scott, can you imagine how they felt? Shut in there in the dark with their victim, not knowing who Ford could be or what he was doing, listening to him rummaging around, his steps coming nearer, his hand on the doorknob. I'm too familiar with murder to see any terrors in it, but that situation? I've never known the beat of it in all my existence. Then when Ford goes, on his very heels, over and out with the thing they'd killed, and both of them back there again, or maybe stealing to the front windows and taking a look down at the crowd below, they walked up the street arm in arm, talking in hushed voices. As he looked at the faces of the people that passed, the thought came to Bavitz that in a short time, maybe a few days, there'd be readings in the paper of the awful crime, not one of them now had a suspicion of. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of The Black Eagle Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Overby Midland Washington. Dedicated to UNI. The Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner. Chapter 15. Molly tells the story. I heard all this late that night from Bavitz, but there was more to it than I've told in the last chapter. For after they left the hospital, O'Malley and Bavitz went to the Whitney office and had a seance with the old man and Mr. George. Though Ford had disappointed them, his story had made the way clear for a decisive move. This was decided upon, then and there. On Monday morning, they would ask Miss Whitehall to come to Whitney and Whitney's and subject her to a real examination. If she maintained her pose of ignorance, they would suddenly face her with their complete information. They felt tolerably certain this would be too much for her, secure in her belief that no murder had been suspected. Surprise and terror would seize her. Even a hardened criminal, placed unexpectedly in such a position, was liable to break down. The next day was Sunday. I'll not forget it in a hurry. Many a high-pressure day I've had in my 25 years, but none that had anything over that one. It was gray and overcast, clouds low down over the roofs, which stretched away in a gray huddle, flat tops and slanting mansards and chimneys and clothes lines. Bavitz spent the morning on the Davenport, looking like he wasn't a boat, floating through a sea of newspapers. I couldn't settle down to anything, thinking of what was going to happen the next morning, thinking of that girl, that beautiful girl, with her soul stained with crime, and wondering if she would feel the shadow that was falling across her. After lunch, himself went out, saying he'd take a shot at finding Freddie Jasper, and going with him up to Yonkers, where they'd been some anarchist row. He was restless, too.  He'd get a raise for certain, and as he kissed me goodbye, he said he'd give me the two glass lamps and a new set of furs, anything I wanted, short of Sable or Ehrman. In the afternoon, Iola dropped in, all dolled up and decked with a permanent smile. For she'd landed her new job and liked it fine. As she prattled away, she let drop something that caught my ear, and lucky it was, as you'll see presently. On her way back, she'd met Delia, the White Hall's maid, who told her the ladies were going to move back to the Azalea Woods Estates, where someone had given them a cottage. Delia had just been to see them, and found that Mrs. White Hall had already gone, and Miss White Hall was packing up to follow on Monday afternoon. Iola thought it was nice they'd got a cottage, but didn't I think Miss White Hall would be afraid of the dullness of the country after living in the town? I said you never could tell. What I thought was that if there was anything from Miss White Hall to be afraid of, it wasn't dullness. At six, Iola left, having a date for supper. And a little after that, I had a call from Babitz, saying he and Freddie Jasper had found the anarchist business more important than they expected, and he wouldn't be home to all hours. Isabella didn't come on Sunday, so I got my own supper, and then sat down in the parlor and tried to read the papers. But I couldn't put my mind on them. In a few days, perhaps as soon as Tuesday, the dispatch would have the Harland murder on the front page. I could see the headlines, the copy reader couldn't spread himself, and I tried to work out how Babitz would write it, where he'd begin, with the crime itself, or with all the story that came before it. It was near eleven, and me thinking of bed when there was a ring at the bell. That's pretty late for collars, even in a newspaper man's flat. And I jumped up and ran into the hall. After I jammed the push button, I opened the door, spying out for the head coming up the stairs. It came. A derby hat and a pair of broad shoulders, and then Jack Reddy's face, raised to mine, grave and frowning. Hello, Molly. He said, It's late, but I couldn't find any of the others so I came to you. If he hadn't seen anyone, he didn't know what had transpired. The thought made me bubble up with eagerness to tell him the new developments. That was the reason, I guess. I didn't notice how serious he was. Not a smile of greeting, not a handshake. He didn't even take off his coat, but throwing his hat on one of the hall pegs, said, I've only just got in from Buffalo. I phoned through the Whitney house from Grand Central, but they're both out of town, not to be back till tomorrow morning. And a Molly's away too. Do you know how forward he is? You bet I do. He sat up, taken nourishment, and talked. Talked? Have they seen him? They have. I turned away and moved up the hall. Come right in and I'll tell you. I went into the dining room where the drop light hung bright over the table and was going on to the parlor when I heard his voice, loud and commanding behind me. What's he said? I whisked round, and there he was, standing by the table. His eyes fixed hard and almost fierce on me. Won't you come into my parlor? Said the spider to the fly. I said, laughing, just to tease him. He answered without a ghost of a smile. No. Go on quick. What did Ford say? All right. I dropped down into Babbit's chair and motioned him to mine. Sit down there.  He took the chair and putting his elbows on the table, raised his hands, clasped together, and leaned his mouth on them. The light fell full on his face, and over those clasped hands, his eyes stared at me so fixed and steady, they looked the eyes of an image. I don't think while I told him he ever batted a lid, and I know he never said a word. So you see, I said, when I was through, Ford's as much out of it as you are. Without moving his hands, he asked, what did I think? Why, what do you suppose they think? Instead of there being three of them in it, they were two. They think she and Baka did it? Of course. They've worked it out that way. I leaned over the table, my voice low, giving him the details of the new theory. As I told it, there was something terrible in those eyes. All the kindness went out of him, and a fire came in its place, till they looked like crystals with a flame behind them. When I finished, he spoke, and this time his voice sounded different, hoarse and muffled. Have they made any plan? Decided on their next step? They got it all arranged. And it went on about the interview that was planned for the next morning. With her thinking herself safe the way she does, they're sure they can give her such a jolt she'll lose her nerve and tell. He gave an exclamation, not words, just a choked, fierce sound, and dropping his hands on the table, burst out like a volcano. The dogs, the devils, dragging her down there to terrify a lie out of her. He leaped to his feet, sending the chair crashing down on the floor. I fell back where I sat paralyzed, not only by his words, but at the sight of him. I think I've spoken of the fact that he had a violent temper, and he's told me himself that he's conquered it. But now for the first time I saw it, and believe me, it was far from dead. I would hardly have known him. His face was savage, his eyes blaring, and the words came from him as if they were shot out on the breaths that spoke in great heaving gasp from his lungs. Haven't ya, he said? A woman any hot in ya? Ayah? That I've always thought all the kindness and generosity will in the hound of innocent girl to a ruin? He grabbed the back of a chair near him and leaned over it, glaring at me, shaking, gasping, and the color of ashes. I faltered. She's done it. She hasn't, he shouted. Y'all fools, imbeciles, mad. It's a lie, an infamous, brutal lie. He dropped the chair and turned away, beginning to pace up and down. His hands clenched, raging to himself.  And I, there in my seat, fallen limp against the back, saw it all.  He, with his empty heart and that beautiful girl, the girl that any man might have loved, and how much more Jack ready, knowing her poor and lonesome and believing her innocent and persecuted, I felt as if the skies had fallen on me, my hero that I'd never found a woman good enough for, in love with a murderous. He stopped in his pacing and tried to get a grip on himself, tried to speak quietly with his voice gone to a husky murmur. "'Tomorrow,' you say? "'Tomorrow they're gonna do this damnable thing?' "'Tomorrow at ten in Mr. Whitney's office,' I answered, weak and trembling. He stood for a moment, looking on the ground. His brows drawn low over his eyes, the bones of his jaw showing sat under the flesh. A deadly fear seized me, a fear that followed on a flash of understanding. I got up, I guess as white as he was, and went over to him. "'Jack,' I said, "'you can't do anything. Everything's against her. There's not a point that doesn't show she's guilty.' He gave me a look from under his eyebrows, like a thrust of a sword. "'Don't say that to me again, Molly.' He almost whispered, "'Or I'll forget the dead Ioya, and the affection I felt for you since the day we swore to be friends.' "'What can you do?' I cried, fairly distracted. "'They've got the evidence. It's there.' I tried to put my hand on his arm, but he shook it off and walked toward the door. I followed him enduring those few short steps from the dining room to the hall. It came to me as clear as if he'd said it, that he was going to Carol Whitehall to help her run away. "'What are you gonna do?' I said, standing in the doorway as he pulled his hat off the peg and turned toward the hall door. "'That's my affair,' he threw back over his shoulder. He had his hand on the knob when a thought, an inspiration flashed on me. I don't know where it came from, but when you're fond of a person and see them headed for a precipice, I believe you get some sort of wireless communication from heaven or some place of that order. "'Miss Whitehall's not in town now,' I said. He stopped short and looked back at me. "'Where's she?' "'They've gone back to New Jersey. Some people loaned them a cottage in the Azalea Woods Estates.' I knew that, but they're not there yet.' "'Yes. They went yesterday, sooner than expected.' He stood for a moment, looking at the floor, then glancing back at me, said, "'Thank you for telling me that. Good night.' The door opened, banked shut, and I was alone. I wonder if anyone reading the story can imagine what I felt. It was awful. So awful that now, here, writing it down, peaceful and happy, I can feel the sinking in my heart in the sixth sensation, like I could never eat food again. And laugh? It was an art I'd lost. I never in this world would get back.' It was not only that he loved her, that woman, that vampire, who could sin at the word of an old man, but it was the thought, the certainty, that he was ready to betray his trust, go back on his partners, be a traitor to his office, all the work they'd done, all the hopes they'd built up, all their efforts for success, he was going to destroy. It was disgrace for him. He'd never get over it. He'd be an outcast. As long as he lived, he'd be pointed at as the man who gave his honor for the love of a wicked woman. That was the first of my thoughts. And the second was that I wasn't going to let him do it. There was just one way of preventing it, and honest to God, think as badly of me as you'd like, I can't help it. When I got what that way was, I was so relieved, I didn't care whether I was a traitor or not. All that mattered then was if there'd got to be one, and as far as I could see there had to. It was better for it to be Molly Babitz, who didn't amount to much in the world, than Jack Reddy, who was a big man and was going to be a bigger. As I put on my coat and hat, I heard the clock strike half past eleven. There were no trains out to the Azalea Woods Estates before seven the next morning. Even if he took his own auto, which I guessed he'd do, it would take him the best part of an hour and a half to get there, and long before that, she'd have had her warning from me. Yes, that's what I was going to do. Go to her and tell her before he could. Dishonest? Well, I guess yes. I know what's straight from what's crooked as well as most. But it seemed to me the future of a man, that man, was worth more than my pledged word, or the glory of Whitney and Whitney, or Babitz's scoop. That was the cruelest of all. My own dear, beloved soapy, to go back on him too. Gosh. Going over in the taxi through the dark, still streets. How I felt. But it didn't matter. If I died when I was through, I'd got to do it. Maybe you never experienced those sensations. Maybe you can't understand. But take it from me. There are people who'd break all the commandments and all the laws to save their friends. And, bad or good, I'm one of them. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of The Black Eagle Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Overby Midland Washington, dedicated to UNI. The Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner. Chapter 16 Molly tells the story. As the taxi rolled up to her corner, I saw that the windows of her floor were bright. She was still up, which would make things easier, much better than having to wake her from her sleep. In that sort of apartment, they locked the outer doors at half past 10, and to get at the bells you have to wake the janitor, which I didn't want to do, as no one must know I'd been there. So before I rang the outside bell that connects with this lair in the basement, I tried the door, hoping some latecomer had left it on the jar as they sometimes do. It opened, an immense piece of luck, which made me feel that fate was on my side and braced me like a tonic. In the vestibule, I pressed the button under her letterbox, and in a minute came the click-click of the inner latch, and I entered. As I ascended the stairs, I heard the door on the landing above slowly open, and looking up, I saw a bright light illumine the dimness, and then, through the balustrade, her figure standing on the threshold. She must have been surprised. For the person who mounted into her sight, a girl in a dark coat-and-hat, was someone she'd never seen before. She pushed the door wider, as if to let more light on me, looking puzzled at my face. The one electric bulb was just above her on the wall, and its sickly gleam fell over her, tall and straight, and a purple silk kimono. Her black hair curling back from her forehead stood out like a frame, and her neck, between the folds of the kimono, was a smooth and whitest cream. The sight of her, instead of weakening me, gave me strength. For in that sort of careless rig, tired and pale, she was still handsome enough to make a fool of any man. Do you want to see me? She said, Miss Whitehall. I do, I answered. I want to see you on a matter of importance. It can't wait. Without another word, she drew back from the doorway, and let me come in. Go in there, she said, pointing up the hall to the curtained entrance of the dining room, and I went as she pointed. The room was brightly lit, as was the parlor beyond, and on every side were the signs of moving, curtains piled below the windows, furniture and white covers, straw and bits of paper on the floor. Two trunks were standing in the middle of the parlor, and on the chairs about were her clothes, all tumbled and mixed up. Boots in one place, hats in another, lingerie heaped on the table. There was enough packing to keep her busy till morning, and I thought to myself that was what she intended to do. Finish it up tonight and the next day make her move. All this took only a minute to see, and I was standing by the dining table, clutching tight on my muff to hide the trembling of my hands, when she came in. In the brighter light, I could see that she looked worn and weary, all her color gone except for the red of her lips, and her eyes sunken and dark underneath. What do you want of me? She said, as the curtain fell behind her. Her manner was abrupt, and straight from the shoulder, like a person who's got past little pleasantness and politeness. The glance she fixed on me was steady and clear, but there was a sort of waiting expectation in it, like she was ready for anything, and braced to meet it. I came, I said, choosing my words as careful as I could, to tell you of, of, something that's going to happen, to warn you. She gave a start, and her face changed, as if a spring inside her had snapped, and sort of focused her whole being into a still, breathless listening. Warn me, she repeated. Of what? Miss Whitehall? I said, clearing my throat for it was dry. I'm a person you don't know, but I know you. I've been employed by people here in New York who've been watching you for the past few weeks. They've got the evidence they want. I've been helping them, and they're ready to act.   What do you mean, act in what way?  She was as still as a statue. You'd have thought she was turned a stone, but for the moving up and down of her chest. What am I to confess? What have I done? My hands gripped together on my muff, and my voice went down to my boots for I couldn't say it aloud. Been a party to the murder of Hollings Harland. When I said it, I had an expectation that she'd say something. Deny it in some violent way that would make me think she was innocent. Maybe Jack Ready had influenced me, but I wanted it. I looked for it. I hoped for it. And I was disappointed. If it had been a shock to her, if she hadn't known there'd been a murder, she would never have behaved as she did.  Murder of Hollings Harland, she whispered, and it was more as if she was speaking to herself than me. Yes, I went on. They've discovered it. A group of us have been working in secret, following the clues and gathering the evidence. Now we've got it all ready, and tomorrow they expect to arrest you. She suddenly sank down into a chair by the table, her hands braced against its edge, her eyes riveted in that strange mesmerized stare on the fern plant in front of her. When did they discover it? She said, in a low voice. Not long after it happened, but that doesn't matter. They've got everything in their hands.  You've been under surveillance all along. They've been shadowing you. They followed you that time you tried to go to Toronto. I knew that, she said in the same low voice as if she was talking to herself. They know how you came out of the building that night, not by the elevator as you said, but by the stairs, and how you didn't get home till nearly eight. They know about you and Barker. She lifted her head and said quickly, what do they know about me and Barker? That he was in love with you, and you with him. Oh that, her tone was indifferent, as if the point was a matter of no consequence. They know how the murder was done, how you and Barker did it. Barker and I, she sank back in her chair, then suddenly, leaning across the table, looked into my face and said, tell me how we did it, let me see what they know. I took the chair opposite and told her the whole plot, and how we'd worked it out. While I was doing it, she never said a word, but sat with her profile towards me, and her eyes in that blank, motionless stare on the fern plant. When I had finished, there was a pause. Then suddenly she drew a deep breath, turned toward me and said, what brought you here to me tonight? It came so unexpectedly, I had no answer ready. What I'd looked for was a scene, terror, maybe hysterics, and her breaking away as fast as she could put on her hat. Seeing me stupidly dumb, she rose out of her chair, and moved away for a few steps, then stopped and seemed again to fall into that trance of thinking. It was like everything else in this nightmare. Different to what I'd looked for, and a sickening thought came to me that maybe she was ready to throw up the sponge and go down and confess. And then, for all I knew, Jack Rady might bestow her to marry him, and go to prison with her. How can you be so sure what a man crazy with love will do? If she got a life sentence, he'd probably live at the gates of Singsang for the rest of his days. I was desperate and went round the table after her. Say, I implored. What are you going to do? I'm thinking, she muttered. For God's sake, don't think. I wailed. Get up and act! If I go back on the people that employ me and come here in the middle of the night to warn you, isn't it the least you can do to take advantage of it and go? She wheeled round on me, her face all alight with a wonderful beaming look. That's the reason, she said. That's what made you come, humanity, pity. You've risked everything to help me.  Before I knew it, she had seized hold of one of my hands and held it against her heart, with her head bowed over it as if she was praying. Do you guess how I felt? Ashamed, perishing with it, ready to sink down on the floor and pass away. A murderous no doubt, but even if a murderous thinks you did her a good turn when you didn't, it makes you feel like a snake's a high-class animal beside you. Oh, come on, I begged. Let go of me and get out! She dropped my hand and looked at me. Oh, so soft and sweet, and I saw tears in her eyes. That pretty near finished me, and I wailed out. Don't stop to cry. You don't know but what they might get uneasy and come tonight. Put on your things and go. Hadn't I got to hurry her? If Jack made a quick trip, he'd be back in town between two and three, and he'd come as straight as wheels could take him to her door. Yes, I'll go, she said. Now, I urged. As soon as you can get into your coat and hat, don't bother about this. I pointed to the disorder around us. They'll think you had another message from Parker and gone to him. A curious, slight smile came over her face. Yes, she said. That's what they will think, I suppose. Of course it is, and the wills tend looking for him which will give you a good start.  I'll be gone in half an hour, she said, and moved between the trunks, and piled up close to the bedroom beyond. I followed her and saw into the room all confusion like the others, every gas and the chandelier blazing. Can I help you? I said. Can I pack a suitcase or anything? No. She halted in front of the mirror, letting the kimonos slide off of her to the floor, her arms and neck like shining marble under that blaze of light. I'll only want a few things. There's a bag there I can throw them into. You better go now. I was afraid she'd not be as quick as I wanted, but I couldn't hang around urging anymore after she told me to go. Besides, I could see she was hurrying, grabbing a dress from the bed, and getting into it so swiftly even I was satisfied. Well then, I'm off, I said. She looked up from the hook she was snapping together and said, Before you go, tell me who you are. There's no need for that, I answered, thinking she'd probably never see me again. I'm just someone who blew in tonight for a minute and who's going like she came. Someone I'll never forget, she said, and that someday, if all goes well, I'll be able to pay back. I was afraid she was going to get grateful again, and I couldn't stand any more of that. So with a quick goodbye, a way I went, up the hall, opening the door without a sound, and stealing down the stairs as soft as a robber. Out in the street, I stopped and reconnertered. There was no one in sight except a policeman lounging dreary on the next corner, across from the apartment was the entrance of a little shop, tobacco and light literature, and into that I crept, squeezing back against the glass door. I couldn't be at peace till I saw her leave, and for 15 or 20 minutes, I stood there watching the lights in her windows.  A few minutes later, she came down the steps carrying a bag. She stopped close to where I was and held a car, and not till I saw it start with her sitting by the door, that I steal out of my hiding place, and sprint up the street to Madison Avenue. When I reached home, I was shivering and wild-eyed, for if Babitz was there, what could I say to him? He wasn't, thank heaven, and cold as ice, feeling as if I'd been through in mangle, I crawled into bed. There wasn't much sleep for me that night. About all I could say to myself was that I'd saved Jack, but the others, oh, the others, I couldn't get them out of my mind. They'd come in a procession across the dark, and look at me, sad and reproachful. Mr. Whitney, who'd done everything in the world for me, and Mr. George, who could put on such side, but had always been so kind and cordial, and O'Malley, who'd told Babitz the case was going to make him. And Babitz, oh, Babitz. I rolled over on the pillow and cried, scalding, bitter tears. It wasn't only the scoop. It was that I'd have a secret from him forever. Him that up to now had known every thought in my mind, had been like the other half of me. They say virtue is its own reward, and I've always believed it. But that night I had the awful thought that maybe I'd done wrong. For all the reward I'd got was to feel like an outcast with a stone for a heart. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of The Black Eagle Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Dedicated to UNI. The Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner. Chapter 17. Jack tells the story. That night when I left Molly, there was only one thought in my mind, to reach Carol and help her get away. If the figure of Barker had not stood between us, I would have then and there implored her to marry me and give me the right to fight for her. But I knew that was hopeless. As things stood, all I could do was to tell her the situation and give her a chance to escape. I suppose it's a pretty damaging confession, but the office, my duty to my work and my associates, cut noice at all. Hereafter, I'd rather padded myself on the back as a man who stood by his obligations. That night, only one obligation existed for me. To protect from disgrace the woman I loved. I knew the trains to Azalea. It was on the road to Fire Hill. And though one left at midnight, the last train on the branched line to the Azalea Woods Estates had long gone. The shortest and quickest way for me to get there was to take my own car. This would also ensure the necessary secrecy. I could bring her back with me and let her slip away in the crowds at one of the big stations. It was a wild windy night, the waning moon showing between long streamers of clouds. By the time I struck the New Jersey shore after maddening delays in the garage and at the ferry, it was getting on for one and the clouds had spread back over the sky. It was a fiendish ride for a man on fire as I was. For miles the road looped through a country as dark as a pocket, broken with ice skimmed pools and deep driven ruts. In the daylight I could have made the whole distance inside an hour. But it was after two when I came to the branched line junction and turned up the long winding road that led over the hills to the Azalea Woods Estates. As I sited the little revved roofed station and the houses dotted over the tract, the moon came out and I slowed up, having no idea where the cottage was or what it looked like. The place was quiet as the grave, the light sleeping on the pale walls of the stucco villas backed by the wooded darkness of the hills. I was preparing to get out and rouse one of the slumbering inhabitants when I heard the voices of women. They were coming down a side road and looking up it I saw three figures moving toward me, their shadows slanting black in front of them. At the gate of a large white-walled house, two of them turned in, their good nights clear on the frosty air and the third advanced in my direction. I could see her skirts, light-colored below her long dark coat and her head held up in some sort of scarf. By their clothes and voices I judged them to be servant girls coming back from a party. As she approached I hailed her with a careful question. I beg your pardon, but I think I'm lost. Can you tell me where I am? I can, she said, drying up by the car. You're in the Azalea Woods Estates. Oh, I am a bit out of my way. The Azalea Woods Estates. I surveyed the scattered houses and wide-cut avenues. I heard of them, but I never seen them before. Doesn't the Mrs. Whitehall live here? The girl smiled. She had a pleasant, good-natured face. She surely does, in the Reagan Cottage over beyond the crest there. I'm living with her, doing the big work, until she gets settled. I belong on the big farm, but as she was lonesome and had no girl, I said I'd come over and stay till her daughter joined her. I smothered a start. Could Molly have made a mistake? A daughter, eh? Is in a daughter with a now? No, sir. She's coming tomorrow afternoon. Then I'm going home. We'll have the cottage all ready for her. She's not expecting his little two-fortage from town. Do you know the ladies? I bent over the wheel, afraid even by that pale light my face might show too much. Molly had made a mistake. Send me out here on a fruitless quest, wasted three or four precious hours. I could have wrung her neck. I heard my voice veiled and husky as I answered. Only by hearsay. I knew Mrs. Whitehall was the head of the enterprise. That's all, uh, uh. It's a zealot I'm aiming for. How do I get there? She laughed. Well, you are out of your way. You'll have to go back to the junction on the main line. Then follow the road straight ahead and you'll strike Azalea, about twenty miles farther on. Thank you, I said, and began to back the car for the turn. No thanks, she answered, and as I swung around, called out a cheery, good night. That ride back. Shall I ever forget it? It was as if an evil genius was halting me by every means malevolence could devise. Before I reached the highway, the moon disappeared, and the darkness settled down like a blanket. The wind was in my face this way, and it stung till the water ran out of my eyes.  I went as fast as I dared. Nothing must happen to me that night, for if I failed her, Carol was lost. With the desire to let the car out as if I was competing in the Vanderbilt Cup race, I had to slow down for corners and creep through the long winding ways that threaded the woods. And finally, in a barren stretch without a light or a house in sight, a tire blew out. I won't write about it, it's what's the use. It's enough to say it was nearly six, and the east pale with the new day, when I rushed into Jersey City. I was desperate then, and police or no police, flashed like a gray streak through the town to the ferry. On the boat, I had time to think. I decided to phone her, tell her I was coming and to be dressed and ready. I could still get her off three or four hours ahead of them. I stopped at the first drug store and called her up. The wait seemed endless. Then a drawing, nasal voice said, I can't raise the number. Lennox 1360 doesn't answer. I got back in the car with my teeth set. Sleeping so sound on this morning, of all mornings, poor, unsuspecting Carol. The day was bright, the slanting sun rays touching roofs and chimneys when I ran up along the curb at her door.  The outer door was shut, and as I turned, I almost ran into him.  There was no answer and click of the latch, and I tried the inner door. Fast, and all my shaking failed the budget. Is it Miss Whitehall here? I said, turning on the man who was watching me interestedly. Sure, he answered. Anyway, she was last night. She talked to me down the dumbwaiter at seven and told me she wasn't going till this afternoon. Open the door, I ordered, speaking as quietly as I could. She's probably asleep. I've an important message for her, and I want to give it to her now before I go downtown. He did as I told him, and I ran up the stairs, and pressed the electric button at her door. As I waited, I heard the janitor slow steps, pounding up behind me. But from the closed apartment, there was not a sound. She ain't there, I guess. He said, as he gained the landing.  I turned on him. Have you got a key for this apartment? I have a key for every apartment, he answered, holding out a bunch in his hand. Then open the door. If she's not in there, I've gotta know it. He inserted a key in the lock, and in a minute we were inside. The morning light filtered in through the drawn blinds, showing a deserted place, left in the chaos of a hasty move. Everything was in disorder. Trunks opened, furniture stacked and covered. The curtains to the front bedroom that I'd always seen closed were pulled back, revealing the evidences of a hurried packing. Clothes on the bed. Bureau drawers half out. A purple silk thing lying in a heap on the floor. She was gone. Gone in wild haste. Gone like one who leaves on a summons as imperative as the call of death. Or love. She's evidently gone to a mutta, or some friend for the night. I said carelessly, she'll be back again to finish it up. The janitor agreed and asked if I'd leave a message. No, I'd phone up later. I cautioned him to keep my visit quiet, and he nodded understandably. Took me for a desperate lover, which heaven knows I was. But in order to run no risks of his speaking to those who would follow me, I sealed his lips with a bill that left him speechless and bowing to the ground. I was in my own apartment before Joanna and David were up, ready to be called to breakfast from what they, in their fond old hearts, thought was a good night's rest. Sitting on the side of my bed, with my head in my hands, I struggled for the coolness that day would need. Of course she'd gone to bark her, nothing else explained it. The state of the apartment proved she had intended leaving for the cottage. Her mother hadn't questionably expected her. Not a soul in the world but myself could have warned her. Only another command from the man who ruled her life could account for her disappearance. Sometime that night she had heard from him, and once again had gone to join him. I tried to dull my pain with the thought that she was safe, kept whispering it over and over, and threw it under it, like the unspoken anguish of a nightmare went the other. She'd let him, flown to him, in his arms. There was Fiori and me against every man in the way in the office, but I could no more have kept away from it than I could have from her if she'd been near me. At nine o'clock I was there, and I found the chief, George and O'Malley, already assembled. The air was charged with excitement. The long, slow work had reached its climax. The bloodhounds were inside of the quarry. I could see the assurance of victory in their faces, hear it from the triumphant note of their voices. I don't think any man has ever stood higher in my esteem than Wilbur Whitney. But that morning, with the machinery of his devising ready to close on his victim, I hated him. Immediately after I arrived, they sent a phone message to her. I sat back near the window, to all intents and purposes, a quiet, unobtrusive member of the quartet. When the reply came that the number didn't answer, they concluded she was out, arranging for her departure that afternoon. The second message went at 9.30, and on the receipt of the same answer, a slight, premontery uneasiness was visible. A third call was sent a few minutes before 10, and this time Central volunteered the information that Lennox 1360 was answering at all that morning. The chief and O'Malley kept their pose of an unruffled confidence, but George couldn't fake it. He was wild-eyed with alarm. After a few minutes' consultation, O'Malley was sent off to find out what was up, leaving the chief musing in his big chair, and George swinging like a pendulum from room to room. I had to listen to him. He only got grunts from his father, and it took pretty nearly all the control I had to answer the stream of questions and surmises he deluged me with. When O'Malley came back with the news that the bird had flown, the fall of the triumph with Whitney and Whitney was dire and dreadful. The announcement was met with dead silence. Then George burst out sentences of sputtering fury. Heads would drop in the basket for this. Even the chief was shaken out of his solidity. Rising from his chair, a terrible, old figure, fierce and bristling like an angry lion, I don't think in the history of the firm they'd ever had a worse jar, a more complete collapse in the moment of victory. But O'Malley and the man were too tired in seasoned timber to let their rage stand in the way. The detective had hardly finished before they were up at the table, getting at their next move. All were agreed that she had had another communication from Barker, and had gone to him. They saw it as I had. As anyone who knew the circumstances would. The first message had been by phone, the second might have been, and there was the shade of a possibility that she might have phoned back. If she had, there would be a record, easily traced. The power of the Whitney office stretched far through devious channels. In 15 minutes, the machinery was started to have the records of all out-of-town messages sent from Lennox 1360 within the last week turned into Whitney and Whitney. It was what I had feared, but I was powerless. So I thought the chances were in her favor. Barker, no matter how he loved her, might not dare to trust her with his telephone number. Judging by the way he had frustrated all her efforts to find him, he was taking no risks. He would have been in keeping with his unremitting caution, to hold all communications with her by litter. That kept me quiet, kept me from bursting out on them as they schemed and plotted, close drawn around the table. The next move was suggested by the chief, to find Mrs. Whitehall and bring her to the office. In default of the daughter, they would try the mother. All were of the opinion that the older woman was ignorant of the murder, but it was possible that she might know something of her daughter's movements. And even if she didn't, that attack by surprise, which was to have broken down Carol Whitehall, might, tried in a lesser degree, draw forth some illuminating facts from her mother. It was nearly midday when Georgian O'Malley set out on a high-powered motor for the Azealia Woods estates. I spent the next hour in my own office, sitting at the desk. Every nerve was as tight as a violin string, hope and dread changing places in my mind. Awful hours, now when I look back on them. The whole thing hung on a chance. If her recent communications with Barker had been by litter, if her mother knew nothing, there was a fighting hope for her. But if she knew his number and had phoned, if her flight had been planned and Mrs. Whitehall did know, I remembered her as I'd seen her in the country. A fragile, melancholy woman. What chanted she with the men pitted against her? I don't know what time it was, but the sun had swung round to the window when I heard steps in the passage and a woman's voice high and quavering. I'd leapt up and entered the chief's office by one door as Mrs. Whitehall, Georgian O'Malley came in by the other. She looked pale and shriveled. I didn't then know what they'd said to her, whether they'd already tried their damnable third degree. But they hadn't. All they had done was to tell her her daughter had been wanted at the Whitney office and couldn't be found. That scared her. She'd come with them at once, only insisting that they'd stop at the flat and let her see that Carol was not there. This they did, admitting afterwards that her surprise and alarm struck them as absolutely genuine.  Any fool could see she was wracked with fear and anxiety. It was stamped on her features. It was in her wildly questioning eyes. Mr. Whitney. She said, with that preamble her greeting. What does this mean? Where is my daughter? The old man was as courteous as ever, but under the studious urbanity of his manner, I could feel the knife-edged sharpness that only cut through when his blood was up. That is what we want to know from you, Mrs. Whitehall. We needed some information from your daughter this morning, and we find that she has, I think I may say, fled. Where to, surely you, her mother, must know. No, she cried. Her hollow eyes riveted on his. No. She was coming to me this afternoon. Everything was arranged, ready and waiting. And now she's gone, and you, you men here, want to find her. What is it? There's something strange, something I don't know. Her glance moved over the watching faces. They were ominously unresponsive. Where she looked for hope or help. She saw nothing but availed menace. Every moment growing clear. What is it? She cried. Her voice rising to a higher note, shrill and shaking. What is the matter? Tell me.  You're hiding from me. We think that of you, Mrs. Whitehall. Said the chief, ponderous and lowering. And we want to hear it. The time has come for frankness. Hold nothing back. For, as you say, we know. The woman gave a gasp and took a step nearer to him. Then for God's sake, tell me. Where is she gone? His answer came like the spring of an animal on its prey. To join her lover, Johnston Barker. If he expected to have it strike with an impact, he was not disappointed. She fell back as if threatened by a blow. And for a second stood transfixed, aghast. Her lower jaw dropped, staring at him.  It was a stupefication, a paralysis of astonishment. The shock was so violent it swept away all anxiety for her daughter. But it also snapped the last frail remnant of her nerve. From her pale lips, her voice broke in a wild hysterical cry. Her lover, he was her father. Red by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Dedicated to UNI. The Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner, Chapter 18. Jack tells the story. In the moment of silence that followed that sentence, you could hear the fire snap and the tick of the clock on the mantle. I saw the men's faces held in expressions of amazement so intense they looked like caricatures. I saw Mrs. Whitehall try to say something. Then, with a rustle and a broken cry, crumple up in a chair. Her face hidden, stuttering, choked sounds coming from behind her hands. That broke the tension. Like a piece of machinery momentarily out of gear, the group adjusted itself and snapped back into action. All but me. I stood as I had been standing when Mrs. Whitehall spoke those words. My outward visions saw their moving figures, their backs as they crowded round her. A hand that held a glass to her lips. Her face bent towards the glass, ashen and haggard. I saw but realized nothing. For a moment I was on another plane of existence, seemed to be shot up into it. I don't tell it right. A fellow who doesn't know how to write can't explain a feeling like that. You've got to fill it in out of your imagination.  That's the best way I can describe it. I didn't get back to my moorings, come down from the clouds to the solid ground, till the scene by the table was over. Mrs. Whitehall was sitting up, a little color in her cheeks, mistress of herself again. They'd evidently said something to lull her fears about Carol, for the distraction of her mood was gone. It wasn't till I saw the narrowed interest of George's eyes, the hungry expectation of O'Malley's watching face, that I remembered they were still on the scent of a murder in which Barker's daughter was as much involved as Barker's fiance. That had brought me back to the moment, and its meaning like an electric shock. I made a stride forward to get closer, to hear them, for they were at the table again, waiting on the words of Mrs. Whitehall. The first sentence that struck my ear aptly matched her pitiful appearance. Gentlemen, I'm broken. I've been through too much. The chief answered very gently. Having said what you have, would it not be wisdom to tell us everything? We pledge ourselves to secrecy. She nodded, a gesture of weary acquiescence. Oh, yes. I don't mind telling. It was to be told, but...  In that position, her likeness to Carol, as she had sat there a few weeks before, was singularly striking. I'll have to go back a good many years before my child was born, before the world had heard of Johnston Barker. Whatever you want, Mrs. Whitehall, the chief murmured, we're entirely at your service. She drew a deep breath, and without raising her eyes, said, I was married to Johnston Barker, 28 years ago, in Idaho. He was a minor then, and I was a school teacher, 19 years old, an orphan with no near relations. I was not strong, and had gone to the far west for my health. Under the unaccustomed work I broke down, developing a weakness of the lungs, and casual friends, the parents of a pupil, took me with them to a distant mining camp for the drier air. There I met Johnston, and we became engaged. In those days, in such remote places, there were no churches or clergymen, and contract marriages were recognized. I did not believe in them, would not at first consent to such a ceremony. But a great strike taking place in a distant camp, he prevailed upon me to marry him by contract, the friends with whom I was living acting as witnesses. The place to which he took me was wild and inaccessible, connecting by trails with other camps, and by a long-stage journey with a distant railway station. We lived there for a month, happy as I have never been since. Then a woman, a snake in the garden, finding out how I had married, hinted to me that such contracts were illegal. I don't know why she did it, I've often wondered. But there are people in the world who take a pleasure in spoiling the joy of others. I didn't tell Johnston, but resolved when an opportunity came to stand up with him before an ordained minister. It came sooner than I hoped. Not six weeks after we were man and wife, a missioner made a tour through the mining camps of that part of the state. He would not come to ours, we were too small and distant, so I begged my husband to go to him, tell him our case and bring him back. It would have been better for us both to have gone, but I was sick, too young and ignorant to know the cause of my illness. And Johnston, who seemed willing to do anything I wanted, agreed. We calculated that the trip on horseback over half-cut mountain trails would take three or four days there and back. At the end of the fifth day, he had not returned, and I was in a fever of anxiety. Then again that woman came to me with her poisoned words. I was not a legal wife. Could he, knowing this, have taken the opportunity to desert me? God pity her for the deadly harm she did. Sick, alone, inexperienced, eaten into my horrible doubts. I waited till two weeks had passed, then I was sure he had done as she'd said, left me. I won't go over that. The past is the past. I took what money I had and made my way to the railway, from there by slow stages, for by this time I was ill and mind and body. I got as far as St. Louis, where my money gone, unable to work. I wrote to an uncle of my mothers, a doctor whom I had never seen, but of whom she had often spoken to me. Men like him made us realize there is a God to inspire, a heaven to reward. He came at once, took me to his home in Indiana, and nursed me back to health. He was a father to me, more than a father to the child I had. No one knew me there, no one but he ever heard my story. I took a new name from a distant branch of his family, and passed as a widow. When my little girl was old enough to understand, I told her her father had died before she was born. We lived there for twenty four years. Before the end of that time, the name of Johnston Barker rose into prominence. My uncle hated it, would not allow it mentioned in his presence. When he died three years ago, he left us all he had, fifty thousand dollars, a great fortune to us. Then Carol, who had chafed at the narrow life of a small town, persuaded me to come to New York. I had no fear of meeting Barker, our paths would never cross, and to please her was my life.  When the farm we bought in New Jersey suddenly increased in value, and the land scheme was suggested, she wanted to try it. At first it wasn't possible, as we hadn't enough money. It was not until she met Mr. Harland at a friend's house in Azalea that the plan became feasible, for he was taken with the idea once. After visiting the farm a few times, and talking it over with her, he offered to come in as a silent partner, putting up the capital. The move to town alarmed me. There, in business, she might run across the man who is her father, and this is exactly what happened.  Looking at me now, you may not realize that she is extraordinarily like what I was, when Johnston Barker married me. He saw her first in the elevator at the Black Eagle Building, men always noticed her, she was used to it. But that night, she told me laughing of the old man who had stared at her in the elevator. Stared and stared and couldn't take his eyes off. My heart warned me, and when I heard her description, I knew who he was and why he stared. After that, there was no peace for me. I had a haunting terror that he would find out who she was and might try to claim her. This increased when she told me of his visit to her office to buy the lot, an excuse I understood, and his questions about her former home. Then I tried to quiet myself with the assurances that he could not possibly guess, he had never heard of the name of Whitehall in connection with me, and he had never known a child was expected. But a night came when I was put with my back against the wall. She returned from work, gay and excited, saying Mr. Barker had been in the office that afternoon and asked her if he might call and meet her mother. The terrible agitation that threw me into betrayed me. I couldn't debate her eyes, or her questions, and I told her. She was horrified, stunned. I can't tell you what she said, I can only make you understand her feelings by saying she loved me as few daughters love their mothers. After that, it was horrible. She tried to cancel the sale, but he, of course, he was angry and puzzled by the change in her, could make nothing out of it, and finally insisted on knowing what had happened. There was no escape for her, and taking him into the private office, they had an interview in which he forced the truth from her. Johnston Barker's life has been full of great things, triumphs and conquests, but I think that hour in the Azalea Woods Estates office must have been the crowning one of his career. To hear that Carol, my wonderful Carol, was his child, he had had no suspicion of it until then. He told her he had been interested by her strange likeness to me, had thought she might be some distant connection who could give him news of his lost wife. For here's the bitter part of it. He had come back. In that long mountain journey, an accident, a fall from his horse had injured him. He had been found unconscious by a party of miners who had taken him to their camp and cared for him. For two weeks he lay at death's door, no one knowing who he was or understanding the wanderings of his delirium. When he returned, I was gone, lost like a raindrop in the ocean. He was too poor to hire the aid that might have found me then. He went back to his work, moved to other camps, struggled and thrived. In time the story of his marriage was forgotten. Those who remembered it set it down as an illegal connection, a familiar incident in the miners' roving life. Years later, when he grew rich, he hunted for me, but it was too late. Then he turned his whole attention to business, flung himself into it. The making of money filled his life, became his life, till he saw the girl in the elevator, who so strikingly resembled the woman he had loved in his youth. This was what he told Carol, and this she believed. She was convinced of the truth of every word and tried to convince me, but I was full of suspicions. Having found himself the father of such a girl, might he not go to any lengths to gain her love and confidence? His life was empty, he was lonely. Carol would have been the consolation and pride of his old age. Gentlemen, she looked at the listening faces. Can you blame me? A youth blasted? Years of brooding bitterness? Might not that make a woman incredulous and slow to trust again? When she saw the way I took it, she went about the business of proving it. Through a lawyer, she learned that contract marriages, at that time, in that state, were valid. I had been Johnston Barker's wife, and she was legitimate. But I hung back. Many things moved me. He wanted to acknowledge us, take us to live with him, and I shrank from all that publicity and clamour. Also, I am telling everything, I think I was jealous of him, fearful that he might take from me some of the love which had made my life possible. I knew she saw him often, and that she heard from him by letter. All through the end of December, and the early part of January, she urged and pleaded with me. And, finally, I gave in. I had to. I couldn't stand between her and what he could give her. And the day came when I consented to see him. That day was the 15th of January. George cleared his throat, and O'Malley stirred uneasily in his chair. The old man rumbled in encouraging, 15th of January. And she went on. She left in the morning, greatly excited, telling me she would phone him that she had good news and would bring him home with her that evening. She was radiant with joy and hope when I kissed her goodbye. When she returned that night, long after her usual time, all that hope and joy were dashed to the ground. As you know, she did see him that afternoon and told him of my consent. He appeared overjoyed and said he would come, but first must go to Mr. Harland's office on the floor above to talk over a matter of great importance. This, he said, would probably occupy half to three quarters of an hour, after which he would return to her. As they wished to avoid all possibility of gossip through her clerks or the people in the building, they decided not to meet in her offices, but in the church which is next door. From there, they would take a cab and come to me. The appointment was for a quarter past six. Carol was ahead of time and waited for him over an hour. Then came home, shattered, broken, almost unable to speak for, as you know, he never came. She paused, her face tragic with the memory of that last, unexpected blow. No one spoke and looking round at them. She threw out her hands with a gesture of pleading appeal. What could I think? Was it unnatural for me to disbelieve him again? Has it all that's come out shown he was what I'd already found him? False to his word and his trust? Does your daughter think that, too? Ask the chief. No.  But that's Carol, always ready to trust where her heart is. She says it's all right that he'll come back and clear himself, but I can see how she's suffering, how she's struggling to keep her hopes alive. I burst out. Wild horses couldn't have kept me quiet any longer. Reaching a long arm across the table, without any consciousness that I was doing it, I laid my hand on Mrs. Whitehall's. How did she get out of the building that night? She looked surprised and, strangely enough, embarrassed. What? She stammered, and then suddenly, you seem to know so much here. Do you know anything about Mr. Harland and Carol? Something, said the chief, guardedly. Everything, I shot out, not caring for her, or him, or the case, or anything but the answer to my question. Then I don't mind telling you, though Carol wouldn't like it. She glanced tentatively at me. Do you know he was in love with her? All about it. Yes, go on. She went down by the stairs, all those flights to avoid him. I guessed the way he felt about her. I knew it soon after the business was started and told her, but she only laughed at me. That afternoon, when he came to her office, she saw I was right. Not that he said anything definite, but by his manner, the questions he asked her, he was wrought up and desperate, I suppose, and let her see he was jealous of Mr. Barker, demanding the truth, whether she loved him, whether she intended marrying him. She was angry, but seeing he had lost control of himself, told him that her feeling for Mr. Barker was that of a daughter to a father, and would never be anything else. That seemed to quiet him, and he went away. When she was leaving her offices, she heard footsteps on the floor above, and, looking up, saw him through the balustrade, walking to the stair-head. She at once thought he was coming to see her, and not wanting any more conversation with him, stole out and down the hall to the side corridor, where the service stairs are. Her intention was to pick up the elevator on the floor below, but on second thoughts, she gave this up and walked the whole way. Finding her gone, he would probably take the elevator himself, and they might meet in the car, or the entrance hall. Of course, we know now she was all wrong. It was not to see her he was coming down. It was to make up his mind to die. My actions must have surprised them, for without a word to Mrs. Whitehall, I jumped up and left the room. I couldn't trust myself to speak. I had to be alone. In my own office, I shut the door, and stood looking with eyes that saw nothing out of the window, over the roofs to where the waters of the bay glittered in the sun. Have you ever felt a relief so great it made you shaky? Probably not, but wait till you're in the position I was. The room rocked. The distance was a golden blue as I whispered with lips that were stiff and dry. Thank God, oh, thank God, oh, thank God! I don't know how long a time passed. Maybe an hour, maybe five minutes, when the door opened and George's head was thrust in. What are you doing, shut in here, get a move on, we want you. The telephone returns have come. I followed him back. Mrs. Whitehall was not there. The chief and O'Malley had their heads together over a slip of paper. Here you go, Jack, said the old man, turning sharply on me. You've got to go out, tonight, with O'Malley. They're in Quebec. He handed me the slip of paper. On it was one memorandum. The night before, at 1205, New York Lennox, 1360, had called up Quebec, St. Foy, 584. End of Chapter 18, Chapter 19 of the Black Eagle Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. Dedicated to UNI. Chapter 19 of the Black Eagle Mystery by Geraldine Bonner. Jack tells the story. That night, Babitz, O'Malley and I left for Quebec. Before we went, the wires that connected us with the Canadian city had been busy. St. Foy, 584, had been located. A house on a suburban road occupied for the last two weeks by an American named Henry Santley. Instructions were carried over the hundreds of intervening miles to surround the house, to apprehend Santley if he tried to get away, and to watch for the old lady who would join him that night. Unless something unforeseen and unimaginable should occur, we had Barker at last. As we rushed through the darkness, we speculated on the reasons for his last daring move, the sending for his daughter. O'Malley figured it out as the result of a growing confidence. He was feeling secure and wanted to help her. He had ample proof of her discretion and had probably some plan for her enrichment that he wanted to communicate to her in person. I was of the opinion that he expected to leave the country and intended to take her with him, sending back later for the mother. He was assured of her trust and affection, knew she believed in him, and was certain the murder hadn't been and now never would be discovered. He could count on safety in Europe and with his vast gains could settle down with his wife and his daughter to a life of splendid ease. Well, we'd see to that. The best laid schemes of mice and men. The sun was bright, the sky sapphire clear as the great rock of Quebec crowned with its fortress roofs came into view. The two rivers clasped its base, ice banded at the shore and in the middle their dark currents flowing free. Snow and snow and snow heaved and billowed on the surrounding hills, paved the narrow streets, hooded the roofs of the ancient houses. Through the air, razor edged with cold and crystal clear, came the thin broken music of sleigh bells ringing up from every lane in Alley, jubilant and inspiring. And the sleighs, low running, flew by with the wave of their streaming furs and the flash of scarlet standards. Glorious, splendid, a fit day, all sun and color and music, for me to come to carol. A man met us at the depot, a silent, wooden-faced policeman of some kind who said yes, he thought the lady was there, and then piloted us glumly into a sleigh and mounted beside the driver. A continuous, vague current of sound came from Babitz and O'Malley as we climbed the steep hill with the frontenac's pinnacled towers looming above us, and then shot off down narrow streets where the jingle of the bells was flung back and across, echoing and reverberating between the old stone houses. It made me think of a phrase the boys in the office used, coming with bells. We went some distance through the town and out along the road where the buildings drew apart from one another, villas in suburban houses behind walls and gardens. At the smaller one, set back in a muffling of white and shrubberies, the sleigh drew in toward the sidewalk. Before the others could disentangle themselves from the furs and robes, I was out and racing up the path. My eyes, ranging hungrily over the house, thinking perhaps to see her at one of the windows, saw in it something ominous and secretive. There was not a sign of life. Every pain darkened with a lowered blind. All about it the snow was heaped and curled in wave-like forms, as if endeavoring to creep over it, to aid in the work of hiding its dark mystery. Barker's lair, his last stand, it looked like it, white-wrapped, silent, inscrutable. As I leapt up the piazza steps, the door was opened by a man in uniform. He touched his hat and started to speak, but I pushed him aside, and came in peering past him down a hall that stretched away to the rear. At the sound of his voice, a door had opened there, and a woman came out. For a moment she was only a shadow, moving toward me up the dimness of the half-lit passage. Then I recognized her, gave a cry, and ran to her. My hands found hers and closed on them, my eyes looking down into the dark ones raised to them. Neither of us spoke. It didn't occur to me to explain why I was there, and she showed no surprise at seeing me. It seemed as if we'd known all along we were going to meet, in that dark passage, in that strange house, and standing there, silent, hand clasped in hand. I saw something so wonderful, so unexpected, that the surroundings faded away, and for me there was nothing in the world but what I read in her beautiful, lifted face. I never had dared to hope, never had thought of her as caring for me. All I had asked was the right to help and defend her. Perhaps under different circumstances, when things were happy and easy, I'd have aspired, gone in to try and win. But in the last dark month, when we'd come so close, we'd only been a woman set upon and menaced, and a man braced and steeled to do battle for her. Now, with her stone-cold hands in mine, I saw, in the shining depths of her eyes... Oh no, it's too sacred. That part of the story is between Carol and me. There had been sounds and voices in the vestibule behind us. They came vaguely upon my consciousness, low and then breaking suddenly into a louder key. Phrases, exclamations, questions. I don't think if the house had been rocked by an earthquake, I'd have noticed it. And it wasn't till O'Malley came down the passage calling me, that I dropped her hands and turned. His face was creased into an expression of excited consternation, and he wrapped out, not seeing Carol.  Haven't you heard? Then his eye, catching her. Oh, it's Miss Whitehall. Well, young lady, you must have had a pretty tough time here last night. She simply drooped her eyes in faint agreement. What do you mean? I cried, and looked. From O'Malley's boisterously concerned countenance, took Carol's worn white one. What is it? Something more? She gave a slight nod and then said, The last. The end this time. O'Malley wheeled on me. She hasn't told you. He shot himself here, last night, shortly after she arrived. Before I had time to answer, Babitz and the man in uniform, a police inspector, were beside us. Babitz was speechless, as I was myself. But the inspector, pompous and stolid, answered my look of shocked amazement. A few minutes after one, fortunately I got your instructions and the house was surrounded. My men heard the report and the screams and broke in at once. I looked blankly from one to the other. There was confused horror in my mind, but from the confusion one thought rose clear. Barker had done the best. The only thing. The inspector, ostentatiously cool in the midst of our aghast concern, volunteered further. He didn't die till near morning, and we got a full stiteman out of him. For an hour afterward, he was clear as a bell. They are that way sometimes, and gave us all the particulars. Seemed to want to. We've caught up stars and from what I can make out, he was one of the sharpest, most daring criminals I ever ran up against. I've had the body kept up here for your identification. Will you come up and see it now? He moved off toward the stairs, O'Malley and Babitz muttering together, filing after him. I didn't go, but turned to Carol, who had thrust one hand through the balustrade that ran up besides where we were standing. As the tramp of ascending feet sounded on the first steps, she leaned toward me, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Do you know who it is? Who what is? I said, startled by her words and expression. The man upstairs? I was terror-stricken. The experiences of the night had unhinged her mind. I tried to take her hand, but she drew it back, her lips forming words just loud enough for me to hear. You don't. It's Hollings Harland. Carol! I cried, certain now she was unbalanced. She drew further away from me, and slipping her hand from the balustrade pointed up the stairs.  It's he. There's nothing the matter with me, but I want you to see for yourself. Go and see, and then come back here, and I'll tell you, I know everything now. I went, a wild rush up the stairs. In a room off the upper hall, the light tempered by drawn blinds were O'Malley, Babitz, and the Inspector, looking at the dead body of Hollings Harland. End of Chapter 19