Mrs. Balfame: A Novel

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

  CHAPTER XVI

  The young lawyer was to call at eight o'clock. Mrs. Balfame put on herbest black blouse in his honour; it was cut low about the throat andsoftened with a rolling collar of hemstitched white lawn. This was asfar in the art of sex allurement as she was prepared to go; the bareidea of a negligee of white lace and silk, warmed by rose-coloredshades, would have filled her with cold disgust. She was not a religiouswoman, but she had her standards.

  At a quarter of eight she made a careful inspection of the lower rooms;sleuths, professional and amateur, would not hesitate to sneak into herhouse and listen at keyholes. She inferred that the house was undersurveillance, for she had looked from her window several times and seenthe same man sauntering up and down that end of the avenue. No doubtsome one watched the back doors also.

  Convinced that her home was still sacrosanct, she placed two chairs at apoint in the parlour farthest from the doors leading into the hall, andinto a room beyond which Mr. Balfame had used as an office. The doors,of course, would be open throughout the interview. No one should be ableto say that she had shut herself up with a young man; on the other hand,it was the duty of the deceased husband's lawyer to call on the widow.Even if those young devils discovered that she had telephoned for him,what more regular than that she should wish to consult her lawyer aftersuch insinuations?

  Rush arrived as the town clock struck eight. Frieda, who answered thedoor in her own good time, surveyed him suspiciously through a narrowaperture to which she applied one eye.

  "What you want?" she growled. "Mrs. Balfame she have seen all thereporters already yet."

  "Let the gentleman in," called Mrs. Balfame from the parlour. "This is afriend of my late husband."

  Rush was permitted to enter. He was a full minute disposing of his hatand overcoat in the hall, while Frieda dragged her heelless slippersback to the kitchen and slammed the door. His own step was not brisk ashe left the hall for the parlour, and his face, always colourless,looked thin and haggard. Mrs. Balfame, as she rose and gave him herhand, asked solicitously:

  "Are you under the weather? How seedy you look. I wondered why you hadnot called--"

  "A touch of the grippe. Felt all in for a day or two, but am all rightnow. And although I have been very anxious to see you, I had made up mymind not to call unless you sent for me."

  "Well, I sent for you professionally," she retorted coolly. "You don'tsuppose I took your love making seriously."

  He flushed dully, after the manner of men with thick fair skins, and hishard blue eyes lost their fire as he stared at her. It wasincomprehensible that she could misunderstand him.

  "It was serious enough to me. I merely stayed away, because, havingspoken as I did, I--well, I cannot very well explain. You will rememberthat I made you promise to send for me if you were in trouble--"

  "I remembered!" She felt his rebuke obscurely. "It never occurred to meto send for any one else."

  "Thank you for that."

  "Did you mean anything but politeness when you said that you had beenanxious to see me?"

  He hesitated, but he had already made up his mind that the time had cometo put her on her guard. Besides, he inferred that she had begun herselfto appreciate her danger.

  "You have read the newspapers. You saw the reporters this afternoon. Ofcourse you must have guessed that they hope for a sensational trial withyou as the heroine."

  "How can men--_men_--be such heartless brutes?"

  "Ask the public. Even that element that believes itself to be select andwould not touch a yellow paper devours a really interesting crime inhigh life. Never mind that now. Let us get down to brass tacks. Theywant to fix the crime on you. How are they going to manage it? That isthe question for us. Tell me exactly what they said, what they made yousay."

  Mrs. Balfame gave him so circumstantial an account of the interview thathe looked at her in admiration, although his rigid American face, thatlooked so strong, turned paler still.

  "What a splendid witness you would make!" He stared at the carpet for amoment, then flashed his eyes upward much as Broderick had done. "Tellme," he said softly, "is there anything you withheld from them? You knowhow safe you are with me. But I must be in a position to advise you whatto say and to leave unsaid--if the worst comes."

  "You mean if I am arrested?" She had a moment of complete naturalness,and stared at him wildly. He leaned forward and patted her hand.

  "Anything is possible in a case like this. But you have nothing to fear.Now, will you tell me--"

  "Do you think I did it?"

  "I know that you did not. But I think you know something about it."

  "It would cast no light on the mystery. He was shot from that grove on apitch dark night, and that is all there is to it."

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  "Very well. I had put out my light--upstairs--and, as I was nervous, Ilooked out of the window to see if Dave was coming. I so longed to havehim come--and go! Then I happened to glance in the direction of thegrove, and I saw some one sneaking about there--"

  "Yes!" He half rose, his eyes expanding, his nostrils dilating. "Go on.Go on."

  "I told you I was nervous--wrought up from that dreadful scene at theclub. I just felt like an adventure! I slipped down stairs and out ofthe house by the kitchen door--Frieda takes the key of the back halldoor on Saturday nights--thinking I would watch the burglar; of coursethat was what I thought he must be; and I knew that Dave would be alongin a minute--"

  "How long was this after he telephoned? It would take him some time towalk from Cummack's; and he didn't leave at once--"

  "Oh, quite a while after. I was sure then that he would be along in aminute or two. Well--it may seem incredible to you, but I really feltas if excitement of that dangerous sort would be a relief."

  "I understand perfectly." Rush spoke with the fatuousness of man whobelieves that love and complete comprehension of the object beloved arenatural corollaries. "But--but that is not the sort of story that goesdown with a jury of small farmers and trades-people. They don't knowmuch about your sort of nerves. But go on."

  "Well, I managed to get into the grove without being either seen orheard by that man. I am sure of that. He moved round a good deal, and Ithought he was feeling about for some point from which he could make adart for the house. Then I heard Dave in Dawbarn Street, singing. Then Isaw him under the lamp-post. After that it all happened so quickly I canhardly recall it clearly enough to describe. The man near me crouched. Ican't tell you what I thought then--if I knew he was going to shoot--orwhy I didn't cry out. Almost before I had time to think at all, hefired, and Dave went down."

  "But what about that other bullet? Are you sure there was no one else inthe grove?"

  "There may have been a dozen. I heard some one running afterwards; theremay have been more than one."

  "Did you have a pistol?" He spoke very softly. "Don't be afraid to tellme. It might easily have gone off accidentally--or something deeper thanyour consciousness may have telegraphed an imperious message to yourhand."

  But Mrs. Balfame, like all artificial people, was intensely secretive,and only delivered herself of the unvarnished truth when it served herpurpose best. She gave a little feminine shudder. "I never kept a pistolin the house. If I had, it would have been empty--just something toflourish at a burglar."

  "Ah--yes. I was going to say that I was glad of that, but I don't knowthat it matters. If you had taken a revolver out that night, loaded orotherwise, and confessed to it, you hardly could have escaped arrest bythis time, even if it were a .38. And if you confessed to going out intothe dark to stalk a man without one--that would make your adventure lookfoolhardy and purposeless--"

  It was evident that he was thinking aloud. She interrupted him sharply:

  "But you believe me?"

  "I believe every word you say. The more differently you act from otherwomen, the more natural you seem to me. But I think you were dead rightin suppressing the episode. It leads nowhere and would inc
riminate you."

  "It may come out yet. That is why I sent for you, not because I wasafraid of those reporters. Frieda was on the backstairs that night whenI came in. I thought I heard a sound and called out. I told Anna thatnight and she questioned Frieda indirectly and was satisfied that shehad heard nothing, for although she had come home early with atoothache, she was suffering so intensely that she wouldn't have heardif the shot had been fired under her window. So I dismissed suchmisgivings as I had from my mind. But just after those reporters leftshe came up to my room and told me that she saw me come in, and tried toblackmail me for five hundred dollars. I soon made her admit that shehad not seen me; but she heard me, no doubt of that. I explainedlogically why I was there--after a drink of water, and that I called outto her because I thought I heard some one try the door--but if thosereporters get hold of her--"

  His face looked very grim. "That is bad, bad. By the way, why didn't yourun to Balfame? That would seem the natural thing--"

  "I was suddenly horribly afraid. I think I knew he was dead and I didn'twant to go near _that_. I ran like a dog back to its kennel."

  "It was a feminine enough thing to do." For the first time he smiled,and his voice, which had insensibly grown inquisitorial, softened oncemore. "It was a dreadful position to find oneself in and no mistake.Your instinct was right. If you had been found bending over him--still,as you had no weapon--"

  "I think on the whole it would have been better to have gone to him. Ofcourse that is what I should have done if I had loved him. As it was, Iran as far from him as I could get--"

  "Well, don't let us waste time discussing the ought to have beens.Unless some one can prove that you were out that night, the wholeincident must be suppressed. If you are arrested on any trumped upcharge--and the district attorney is keener than the reporters--you muststick to your story. By the way, why didn't you tell the reporters thatFrieda was in the house about the time the shot was fired?"

  "I had forgotten. The house has been full of people; the neighbourhoodhas lived here; I have noticed her no more than if she were as wooden asshe looks."

  "Do you think she did it?"

  "I wish I could. But she would not have had time to get into the housebefore I did. And the footsteps were running toward the lane at the backof the grounds."

  "She is one of the swiftest dancers down in that hall where she goeswith her crowd every Saturday night. I have been doing a littlesleuthing on my own account, but I can't connect her up with Balfame."

  "He wouldn't have looked at her."

  "You never can tell. A man will often look quite hard at whateverhappens to be handy. But she doesn't appear to have any sweetheart,although she's been in the country for four years. She is intimate inthe home of Old Dutch and goes about with young Conrad, but he isengaged to some one else. All the boys like to dance with her. She leftthe hall suddenly and ran home--ostensibly wild with a toothache. If shehid in the grove to kill Balfame she could have got into the housebefore you did. What was she doing on the stair, anyway?"

  "I didn't ask her."

  "She may have been too out of breath to answer you. Or too wary. Thoseother footsteps--they may have been those of an accomplice; the man whofired the other pistol."

  "But I would have seen her running ahead of me."

  "Not necessarily. It was very dark. Your mind was stunned. You may havehesitated longer than you know before making for the house. One isliable to powerful inhibitions in great crises. Where is the girl? Ithink I'll have her in."

  He walked the floor nervously while Mrs. Balfame went out to thekitchen. Frieda was sitting by the stove knitting. Commanded to come tothe parlour, her little eyes almost closed, but she followed Mrs.Balfame and confronted Rush, who stood in the middle of the room lookingtall and formidable.

  "I am Mrs. Balfame's lawyer," he said without preamble. "She sent for mebecause you tried to blackmail her. What were you doing on the stairswhen you heard Mrs. Balfame in the kitchen? You left the dance hallsometime before eight, and that could not have been more than fiveminutes past."

  Frieda pressed her big lips together in a hard line.

  "Oh, you won't speak. Well, if you don't explain to me, you will to theGrand Jury to-morrow. Or I shall get out a warrant to-night for yourarrest as the murderer of David Balfame."

  "Gott!" The girl's face was almost purple. She raised her knittingneedles with a threatening gesture that was almost dramatic. "I did notdo it. She has done it."

  "What were you doing on the stairs?"

  "I would heat water for my tooth."

  "Cold water is the thing for an ulcerated tooth."

  "I never have the toothache like that already. I am in my room manyminutes before I think I go down. Then, when I am on the stairs I hearMrs. Balfame come in."

  "She has explained what you heard."

  "No, she have not. I think so when we have talked this evening, but notnow. She is--was, I mean, all out of her breath."

  "I was terrified." Mrs. Balfame retorted so promptly that Rush flashedher a glance of admiration. Here was a woman who could take care ofherself on the witness stand. "First I thought I heard some one tryingto get into the door, and then some one sneaking up the stairs."

  "Oh--yes." Frieda's tones expressed no conviction. "The educated ladycan think very quick. But I say that she have come in by the door, thekitchen door. Always I take the key to the hall door. She know that, andas she not know that I am in, she go out by the kitchen door. Always inthe daytime when she goes to the yard she go by the hall door."

  "What a pity you did not slam the door when you came in. It would havebeen quite natural as you were in such agony." Rush spoke sarcastically,but he was deeply perturbed. It was impossible to tell whether the girlwas telling the truth or a carefully rehearsed story.

  "Of course you know that if you tell that story to the police you willget yourself into serious trouble."

  "I get her into trouble."

  "Mrs. Balfame is above suspicion. It is not my business to warn you, orto defeat the ends of the law, of which apparently you know nothing--"

  "I know someting. Last night I have tell Herr Kraus; and he say thatsince I have told the coroner I know notings, much better I touch thelady for five hundert and go home."

  "O-h-h! That is the advice Old Dutch gave you! Splendid! I think thebest thing I can do is to have you arrested bright and early to-morrowmorning. Mrs. Balfame is cleared already. You may go."

  She stared at him for a moment out of eyes that spat fire like twolittle guns in the top of a fort; then she swung herself about andretreated to the kitchen.

  "That ought to make her disappear to-night. Her friends will hide her.The mere fact of her disappearance will convince the police, as well asthe reporters, that she is guilty. You are all right." He spokeboyishly, and his face, no longer rigid, was full of light.

  "But if she is innocent?"

  "No harm done. She'll be smuggled out of the country and suspicionpermanently diverted from you. That is all I care about." He caught herhands impulsively in his. "I am glad, so glad! Oh!--It is too soon now,but wait--" He was out of the house before she grasped the fact that hehad arrested himself on the brim of another declaration.

  Mrs. Balfame went up to bed, serene once more in the belief that herfuture was her own, unclouded, full of attractive possibilities for awoman of her position and intellectual attainments.

  She made up her mind to take a really deep course of reading, so thatthe most spiteful should not call her superficial; moreover, she hadbeen conscious more than once of certain mental dissatisfactions, ofuneasy vacancies in a mind sufficiently awake to begin to realise thecheapness of its furnishings. Perhaps she would take a course in historyat Columbia, another in psychology.

  As she put herself into a sturdy cotton night-gown and then brushed backher hair from a rather large forehead before braiding it severely forthe night, she realised dimly that that way happiness might lie, thatthe pleasures of the intellectual life might be ve
ry great indeed. Shewished regretfully that she could have been brilliantly educated in heryouth. In that case she would not have married a man who would inciteany spirited woman to seek the summary release, but would be to-day thewife of a judge, perhaps--some fine fellow who had showed the earlypromise that Dwight Rush must have done. If she could attract one manlike that, at the age of forty-two, she could have had a dozen in hertrain when young if she had had the sense to appreciate them.

  But she was philosophical, and it was not her way to quarrel very deeplywith herself or with life. Her long braids were as evenly plaited asever.

  She sank into sleep, thinking of the disagreeable necessity of makingthe kitchen fire in the morning and cooking her own breakfast. Frieda ofcourse would be gone.