Canal Town

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

  The clergyman spoke the solemn final words, crumbling a clod between his fingers. He bent his head silently, then took Genter Latham by the arm. The father released himself and directed the others to leave. Two spademen shoveled the loose earth in upon the casket. The last sight that Dinty had of Genter Latham, he was towering above the grave, his clenched fists raised to the sky. It was not a gesture of sorrow, but an imprecation of vengeance.

  On the decorously slow walk back, Tip said to his companion, “Dinty, what’s wrong with the Doctor?”

  “You’ve noticed it, too.”

  “Anybody would notice it. You haven’t been doing anything to worry him, have you?”

  “Don’t be dumb!” said Dinty indignantly. “Why should it be me?”

  “Well, it’s somebody or something. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

  “Do you think I haven’t worried about it?” cried Dinty passionately and broke down.

  He slipped a brotherly arm about her. She pressed to him. He could feel her trembling.

  “Dinty, you’re scared.”

  “Of course I’m scared.”

  “What at?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what scares me so.”

  “Won’t he tell you?”

  “No. I’ve got a feeling that something awful is going to happen.”

  “I’m here if you want me.”

  “I know, Tip.”

  As Dinty entered the side gate, she paused beneath the lighted window of the private consultation room. Dr. Vought’s harsh voice emerged.

  “Do you hanker after Auburn Prison, you young fool?” it demanded angrily.

  Dinty was not conscious of having cried out or made any other noise. But she heard footsteps crossing the floor and Horace’s challenge:

  “Who’s there?”

  Before he could reach the window, she had scuttled around the angle of the house.

  “Who’s there?” repeated Horace.

  “It’s me, Dinty.” The effort to keep her voice natural took every resource of her will. “May I come in?”

  “No. We’re busy.”

  It was so unlike him, that curtness. “Aren’t you coming to bed soon?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Before long. You go up.”

  “I shan’t be able to sleep. I’d rather wait for you.”

  “No. Go up.”

  Not since she was an unruly and interfering child had she heard that tone from him. In a moment he would call her “Araminta” and she would burst into tears.

  “Good night, darling,” she said, trying to keep the fear and desolation out of her throat.

  “Good night,” he answered more gently.

  “Good night, Dr. Vought.”

  “ ’Night,” he growled. He was in a very bad temper.

  Dinty ran upstairs, entered their room, and, pausing only to kick off her shoes, crawled cautiously through the south window to the roof of the porch. Lying flat and projecting her head over dark space, she could make out Dr. Vought’s tart speech without difficulty. Horace’s calmer tones were less plainly audible. The colloquy had apparently been resumed where she interrupted it.

  “Ten years,” shrilled the old man. “Think of that.”

  What Horace thought about it was too quietly expressed for the eavesdropper’s ears.

  “What can you gain by it?” persisted the old gentleman.

  Another subdued answer.

  “Your own satisfaction, eh?” The reply crackled. “You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy that in your cell.”

  Dinty cringed. Why must he keep harping on that? What had Horace done to hazard ten years in jail?

  The gate hinges creaked. Dinty flattened herself against the roof as a figure threaded the light mist. Horace came to the window. There was a whispered colloquy. The man saluted and left. By that gesture Dinty knew him for Dad Hinch. Happily for Dinty’s overstrained ears, Horace did not return to his desk, but remained looking out of the window.

  “What do you expect to find?” insisted Dr. Vought.

  Horace’s reply astonished her by being, as she thought, in a foreign language. Latin perhaps? Or Greek? Whichever it was, it stirred his mentor to contempt.

  “Medical fairy-tales, my boy.”

  “It does happen.”

  “Once in a million times.”

  “Are you familiar with the report of Dr. Little* to the Albany County Medical?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Was that a medical fairy-tale, sir?”

  With less assurance the old gentleman said, “David Little is a reputable and skilled physician.”

  “What happens once can happen twice. This is either a” (again the unfamiliar term) “or a case of abortion.”

  Dr. Vought repeated the word with such a stress of fury that Dinty now got it clearly. “Lithopedion! Lithopedion! And you persist in staking your whole career on this mad assumption.”

  “I see no other way.”

  “You were always the stubbornest young fool alive.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  That response was deadly quiet. It was also, as the listener above well knew, deadly resolute. Nothing that anybody could do would move Horace Amlie an inch. The old physician probably realized this, for he sighed, though still persisting.

  “You won’t reconsider?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you won’t take a little more time to think it over?”

  “No.”

  “Then, damme! I’ll go with you.”

  “That I won’t have,” cried Horace.

  “How are you going to stop me?”

  “Be sensible, sir. You couldn’t do any good. You’d only involve yourself with Genter Latham.”

  “I’m not afraid of Genter Latham or twenty Genter Lathams.”

  “I know that, sir. But this is my risk. You can’t lessen it by sharing it.”

  “If I insisted, I suppose you’d simply put it off until I left for home.”

  “I would.”

  “Go ahead and ruin your life, then,” he snapped. His tone softened. “Whatever comes of it, you know I’ll stand by you, my boy.”

  “I know that, sir,” answered Horace gratefully.

  “Then I’ll be off to bed.”

  Dinty eased herself back through the window and undressed, thinking hard. The net product of her analysis was that her Doc had planned a visit to Genter Latham, so fraught with grave probabilities that Dr. Vought, unable to dissuade him from it, had offered to accompany him. But for what purpose? To confess some crime, a crime punishable by State Prison? And the mysterious lithopedion; what connection had that with the danger? And how explain Unk Zeb’s ashen terror?

  At least, there was no immediate action to fear. Horace would not seek out the bereaved father at this hour of the night. She resolved to stay awake until her husband came up, and, if she judged it expedient, question him tactfully. She propped herself on her pillows, where she could see the office light pallidly reflected from the top of a lilac bush.

  Anxiety could not keep so healthy a young animal as Dinty awake indefinitely. She had been through an emotionally exhausting day. She dozed—roused herself—dozed again—slept more heavily—came awake with a shock to see the dull splotch of leaves above the window unillumined. There was no sound from below. Where was Horace?

  She leapt from bed and pattered out into the hall. Beneath the guest chamber door a thready gleam showed. He must be in there, talking further with the guest. She rapped.

  “Ugh! Hullo!” grunted Dr. Vought’s voice.

  “Is my husband there?”

  “Wassat? Must ha’ fallen asleep at my reading.”

  “Is Horace there?”

  “Eh? No. No. Of course he isn’t here. Why should he be here?” returned the testy voice.

  “Where is he?”

  “What? Where is who?”

  She stamped her bare foot. “Where is my husband?”

  “Oh—er—he went out
on a call, I believe.”

  “Where?”

  “How should I know?”

  You old liar! thought Dinty savagely. She ran back and dressed in frantic haste. Noiselessly she made her way to the floor below and out into the night. Tip Crego materialized from a shadow. She had forgotten, in her turmoil of mind, that he was on watch. She clutched him.

  “Oh, Tip! He’s gone.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about in that, Dinty. He’s often called out at night.”

  “Then what makes you look so white and queer?”

  The boy gulped.

  “I’m going after him,” said Dinty.

  “Where?”

  “To Mr. Latham’s.”

  “The Doctor hasn’t gone to Mr. Latham’s.” (But what was the matter with Tip that his voice should be so unnatural, his eyes so strained and evasive?)

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do know. I’m going to Genter Latham’s.”

  “You couldn’t do anything worse.”

  “What are you holding back from me? Tell me. You’ve got to tell me, Tip. It’s something to do with the Lathams,” she cried wildly. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll go straight and ask him.”

  At that his will broke before hers. “They’ve gone to the churchyard,” he said very low.

  “They? Who?”

  “Unk Zeb and Dad Hinch are with him.”

  “What for? What are they going to do?”

  “They—they took pick and shovel.”

  At that, the truth blazed into her mind. “Oh, Tip! How hideous!”

  She turned to run, but he caught and held her. “Dinty, you mustn’t go.”

  “I’m going to go.”

  He gave up. “Not by the road, then. Dad Hinch will be on watch. Around through the beech wood.”

  They set out at the fast, steady Indian lope, gained the knob beyond the churchyard, and paused at the summit for breath. The mist had dissipated before a wind which was now subsiding in fitful gusts. Directly overhead a lopsided moon shouldered its way through the opposition of pale cloud masses. All the world of branch and leaf was stirring about them. The night was alive and uneasy.

  Dinty panted, “How long have they been gone?”

  “Not long. Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “What time is it?”

  He gave a quick upward glance. “Close on midnight. Let’s crawl into that brush.”

  From that shelter they could overlook the Latham lot. The raw earth was undisturbed.

  “They haven’t begun yet,” whispered Dinty.

  “Something must have stopped them,” he replied in the same tone.

  Dinty clutched him. “Look!”

  From the shadow of a shrub a lone figure moved into the fitful light. It stood before the grave, motionless as a headstone. Then an arm slowly lifted and the glint of moonglow on white metal turned it whiter. There welled into the darkness Silverhorn Ramsey’s lament for his dead love, rising and sinking in unquenchable beauty, heart-searching, heart-breaking, the song of grief and farewell.

  Dinty’s breast swelled to bursting. She pressed her hands to her throat. She leaned out, her eyes fixed on the dull earth-heap, stark amidst the greenery. There came to her the despairing passion of Wealthia’s avowal.

  “I’d rise from my grave to answer his call.”

  Was not the raw earth stirring above the dead?

  The final diapason fulfilled itself in unearthly beauty. The mourn’ er’s head sank. His lips moved. Now he was threading the tombstones, skirting the foot of the hill where the watchers lay. Gone was the old gallant strut. He shambled forward on leaden feet and vanished around the shoulder of the hill. Dinty covered her face and wept unashamedly.

  Waiting for the paroxysm to exhaust itself, Tip said, “That might rouse the village. They’ll wait now to see if anyone comes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Dad Hinch is under the oak by the gate. The others must be in the angle of the church.”

  Dinty stood up. He seized her and dragged her back beside him: She struggled.

  “Tip, there’s time yet. I’ve got to stop them.”

  “You can’t,” he said.

  “They’re going to do a crime. My husband can be put in jail for this.”

  “Listen to me, Dinty,” he said. “Do you want to ruin everything? This is the Doctor’s one chance against Genter Latham.”

  “How? Why?” she demanded wildly.

  “Quiet! It there was an abortion done on Wealthy, this will show it. If you try to stop it now, you’ll be sorry the last day of your life.”

  Impressed by his vehemence she faltered, “Are they trying to steal the body?”

  “No. They’ll do it here. The Doctor brought his instruments.”

  She shuddered so violently that he could hardly make out her words: “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!”

  “The only chance,” he repeated.

  Two figures, bearing shovels, rounded the corner of the building. Horace’s voice cautiously raised, said, “All clear, Dad?”

  “All clear, Capting.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Excavation in the loose earth was easy and swift. Dinty quivered throughout her body at the thud of iron on wood. Ropes were adjusted. The oblong box came slowly up. She heard the shriek of protesting nails as the cover was pried loose. A light flickered, casting a patterned glow. Dinty’s vision clouded.

  “Are they taking it out?” she breathed.

  “Yes. Don’t look.”

  She did not mean to look. Imagination drew the grisly picture for her; the pitiful body of the friend she had loved; the pitiless knife, the dreadful process which had sickened her when she read about it in Horace’s book.

  But for what occurred next she was wholly unprepared. A stertorous gasp came to her ears. Involuntarily she opened her eyes. Horace was bending above the inert body. He straightened up, as Unk Zeb, with a howl of pure animal terror leapt in the air like one shot through the heart, plunged forward, kicking the lantern into darkness, and dashed wildly through the underbrush until the sound of his panic flight died away.

  From a vast distance, Tip’s voice came to Dinty’s ears. “My God! What did he see? What did he see?”

  “I want to go home,” moaned Dinty.

  He had to lift her to her feet.

  “Stand still!” he said sharply.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Dad Hinch is looking this way. I think he saw us.”

  He eased her back into the shrubbery. Safely screened, she started to run with the instinctive desire to leave that horror behind her, but her knees were loose. She could make but slow progress. It did not matter. The accomplices could not return, as Tip pointed out, until they had reinterred the corpse and obliterated their traces. At the gate he anxiously studied her face.

  “Dinty, are you going to tell the Doctor?”

  She shook all over. “No. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Maybe some day, when we’re both very old,” she qualified. “If I told him now, I don’t know what he’d do to me. He’d hate me. He’d send me away from him and I’d die. I’d die, Tip.”

  “I don’t believe he’d do that,” said the boy. “But I guess it’s better for him not to know. Better for both of you.”

  Dinty said dolorously, “How’m I going to live with this between us?”

  “You look terrible,” said he. “I’ll get you a sleeping draught from the cabinet.”

  “I’ll never sleep again,” said Dinty.

  She lay, tense and rigid, for a long hour, listening to the broken grief of Unk Zeb below, moaning, weeping, calling upon the name of his Jesus.

  The gate swung. Dinty crept to the window. Horace was walking up the path, his head erect, his shoulders squared. Behind him plodded Dad Hinch with a bulging bag of coarse cloth slung across his shoulder. They entered t
he office.

  The guest room door opened and closed. So, she was not the only sleepless one in that house of fear. Dr. Vought pattered nimbly down the stair. She could hear but dimly the exchange of a word between him and her husband. The three men went into the private consultation room. Eavesdropping there was too risky. Dinty crawled back into her bed.

  In the closed room Horace pointed to the bag.

  “There it is,” he said to his guest. “Look at it.”

  The old gentleman peered within. “By God Almighty!” he swore excitedly. Then, professional admiration supervening, “What a lovely specimen!”

  “I doubt if Mr. Genter Latham will agree.”

  “You’re not going to take it to him!”

  “Why else do you think I risked jail?”

  A shade of anxiety darkened the sagacious, old countenance. “Lad, I ought to have warned you, but I thought of it too late.”

  “What about?”

  “Are you sure that Upcraft’s weasel wasn’t snooping after you?”

  Horace struck his forehead. “What a damned fool! I forgot all about him.” He brightened. “Dad would have seen him, though. Dad sees everything. You didn’t notice anyone following us, did you, Dad?”

  “No, Capting.” The next instant he struck consternation to their souls. “Somebody was on the hillside whilst we was at work,” said he.

  “Somebody? Who? Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” cried Horace.

  “Dunno who,” answered the Human Teapot stolidly. “Wouldn’t have done no good to tell you. I didn’t see ’em till they was leavin’. I think there was two on ’em. Mighta been three.”

  “Get out,” said Horace. “And if you ever breathe a word of tonight I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”

  “Orders is orders, Capting,” said the Teapot, unmoved, saluted, and left.

  The two physicians stared at one another. “Now what?” asked the senior.

  “I’m going to Murchison’s.”

  He was back in ten minutes. He had not been to his rival’s, for, on the way, he had spied a light in Ephraim Upcraft’s front room, and, gaining a viewpoint, had seen within the Honest Lawyer and the bearded physician in absorbed consultation. Dr. Vought heard his report with a sickened visage.