CHAPTER XII. THE GOLD BAG
I have always smiled at those cases of spontaneous combustion which,like fusing the component parts of a seidlitz powder, unite two peoplein a bubbling and ephemeral ecstasy. But surely there is possible, withbut a single meeting, an attraction so great, a community of mind andinterest so strong, that between that first meeting and the next thebond may grow into something stronger. This is especially true, I fancy,of people with temperament, the modern substitute for imagination. It isa nice question whether lovers begin to love when they are together, orwhen they are apart.
Not that I followed any such line of reasoning at the time. I would noteven admit my folly to myself. But during the restless hours of thatfirst night after the accident, when my back ached with lying on it,and any other position was torture, I found my thoughts constantly goingback to Alison West. I dropped into a doze, to dream of touchingher fingers again to comfort her, and awoke to find I had patted ateaspoonful of medicine out of Mrs. Klopton's indignant hand. What wasit McKnight had said about making an egregious ass of myself?
And that brought me back to Richey, and I fancy I groaned. There is nouse expatiating on the friendship between two men who have gone togetherthrough college, have quarreled and made it up, fussed together overpolitics and debated creeds for years: men don't need to be told, andwomen can not understand. Nevertheless, I groaned. If it had been anyone but Rich!
Some things were mine, however, and I would hold them: the halcyonbreakfast, the queer hat, the pebble in her small shoe, the gold bagwith the broken chain--the bag! Why, it was in my pocket at that moment.
I got up painfully and found my coat. Yes, there was the purse, bulgingwith an opulent suggestion of wealth inside. I went back to bed again,somewhat dizzy, between effort and the touch of the trinket, so latelyhers. I held it up by its broken chain and gloated over it. By carefulattention to orders, I ought to be out in a day or so. Then--I couldreturn it to her. I really ought to do that: it was valuable, and Iwouldn't care to trust it to the mail. I could run down to Richmond, andsee her once--there was no disloyalty to Rich in that.
I had no intention of opening the little bag. I put it under mypillow--which was my reason for refusing to have the linen slipschanged, to Mrs. Klopton's dismay. And sometimes during the morning,while I lay under a virgin field of white, ornamented with strangeflowers, my cigarettes hidden beyond discovery, and Science and Healthon a table by my elbow, as if by the merest accident, I slid my handunder my pillow and touched it reverently.
McKnight came in about eleven. I heard his car at the curb, followedalmost immediately by his slam at the front door, and his usual clamoron the stairs. He had a bottle under his arm, rightly surmising thatI had been forbidden stimulant, and a large box of cigarettes in hispocket, suspecting my deprivation.
"Well," he said cheerfully. "How did you sleep after keeping me up halfthe night?"
I slid my hand around: the purse was well covered. "Have it now, or waittill I get the cork out?" he rattled on.
"I don't want anything," I protested. "I wish you wouldn't be so darnedcheerful, Richey." He stopped whistling to stare at me.
"'I am saddest when I sing!'" he quoted unctuously. "It's pure reaction,Lollie. Yesterday the sky was low: I was digging for my best friend.To-day--he lies before me, his peevish self. Yesterday I thought thenotes were burned: to-day--I look forward to a good cross-country chase,and with luck we will draw." His voice changed suddenly. "Yesterday--shewas in Seal Harbor. To-day--she is here."
"Here in Washington?" I asked, as naturally as I could.
"Yes. Going to stay a week or two."
"Oh, I had a little hen and she had a wooden leg And nearly every morning she used to lay an egg--"
"Will you stop that racket, Rich! It's the real thing this time, Isuppose?"
"She's the best little chicken that we have on the farm And another little drink won't do us any harm--"
he finished, twisting out the corkscrew. Then he came over and sat downon the bed.
"Well," he said judicially, "since you drag it from me, I think perhapsit is. You--you're such a confirmed woman-hater that I hardly knew howyou would take it."
"Nothing of the sort," I denied testily. "Because a man reaches the ageof thirty without making maudlin love to every--"
"I've taken to long country rides," he went on reflectively, withoutlistening to me, "and yesterday I ran over a sheep; nearly went into theditch. But there's a Providence that watches over fools and lovers, andjust now I know darned well that I'm one, and I have a sneaking idea I'mboth."
"You are both," I said with disgust. "If you can be rational for onemoment, I wish you would tell me why that man Sullivan called me overthe telephone yesterday morning."
"Probably hadn't yet discovered the Bronson notes--providing you hold toyour theory that the theft was incidental to the murder. May have wantedhis own clothes again, or to thank you for yours. Search me: I can'tthink of anything else." The doctor came in just then.
As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor--when I am ill. He is ayoung man, with an air of breezy self-confidence and good humor.He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuableaccomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put thecigarettes under the bedclothes. He had interdicted tobacco. Then he satdown beside the bed and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle asa baby's.
"Pretty good shape," he said. "How did you sleep?"
"Oh, occasionally," I replied. "I would like to sit up, doctor."
"Nonsense. Take a rest while you have an excuse for it. I wish tothunder I could stay in bed for a day or so. I was up all night."
"Have a drink," McKnight said, pushing over the bottle.
"Twins!" The doctor grinned.
"Have two drinks."
But the medical man refused.
"I wouldn't even wear a champagne-colored necktie during businesshours," he explained. "By the way, I had another case from youraccident, Mr. Blakeley, late yesterday afternoon. Under the tongue,please." He stuck a thermometer in my mouth.
I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light,note-book, cheerful impertinence and incriminating data. "A small man?"I demanded, "gray hair--"
"Keep your mouth closed," the doctor said peremptorily. "No. A woman,with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes andsent for me. Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils--allthe trimmings. Worked for two hours."
"Did she recover?" McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with anew awe.
"She lifted her right arm before I left," the doctor finished cheerily,"so the operation was a success, even if she should die."
"Good Heavens," McKnight broke in, "and I thought you were just anordinary mortal, like the rest of us! Let me touch you for luck. Was shepretty?"
"Yes, and young. Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair. Upon my soul, Ihated to cut it."
McKnight and I exchanged glances.
"Do you know her name, doctor?" I asked.
"No. The nurses said her clothes came from a Pittsburg tailor."
"She is not conscious, I suppose?"
"No; she may be, to-morrow--or in a week."
He looked at the thermometer, murmured something about liquid diet,avoiding my eye--Mrs. Klopton was broiling a chop at the time--andtook his departure, humming cheerfully as he went down-stairs. McKnightlooked after him wistfully.
"Jove, I wish I had his constitution," he exclaimed. "Neither nerves norheart! What a chauffeur he would make!"
But I was serious.
"I have an idea," I said grimly, "that this small matter of the murderis going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in the deuce ofa fix if it does. If that woman is going to die, somebody ought to bearound to take her deposition. She knows a lot, if she didn't do itherself. I wish you would go down to the telephone and get the hospital.Find out her name, and if she is conscious."
McKnight w
ent under protest. "I haven't much time," he said, looking athis watch. "I'm to meet Mrs. West and Alison at one. I want you to knowthem, Lollie. You would like the mother."
"Why not the daughter?" I inquired. I touched the little gold bag underthe pillow.
"Well," he said judicially, "you've always declared against theimmaturity and romantic nonsense of very young women--"
"I never said anything of the sort," I retorted furiously.
"'There is more satisfaction to be had out of a good saddle horse!'" hequoted me. "'More excitement out of a polo pony, and as for the eternalmatrimonial chase, give me instead a good stubble, a fox, some decenthounds and a hunter, and I'll show you the real joys of the chase!'"
"For Heaven's sake, go down to the telephone, you make my head ache," Isaid savagely.
I hardly know what prompted me to take out the gold purse and look atit. It was an imbecile thing to do--call it impulse, sentimentality,what you wish. I brought it out, one eye on the door, for Mrs.Klopton has a ready eye and a noiseless shoe. But the house was quiet.Down-stairs McKnight was flirting with the telephone central andthere was an odor of boneset tea in the air. I think Mrs. Klopton wasfascinated out of her theories by the "boneset" in connection with thefractured arm.
Anyhow, I held up the bag and looked at it. It must have beenunfastened, for the next instant there was an avalanche on the snowfieldof the counterpane--some money, a wisp of a handkerchief, a tiny bookletwith thin leaves, covered with a powdery substance--and a necklace. Idrew myself up slowly and stared at the necklace.
It was one of the semi-barbaric affairs that women are wearing now, aheavy pendant of gold chains and carved cameos, swung from a thin neckchain of the same metal. The necklace was broken: in three places thelinks were pulled apart and the cameos swung loose and partly detached.But it was the supporting chain that held my eye and fascinated withits sinister suggestion. Three inches of it had been snapped off, and aswell as I knew anything on earth, I knew that the bit of chain that theamateur detective had found, blood-stain and all, belonged just there.
And there was no one I could talk to about it, no one to tell me howhideously absurd it was, no one to give me a slap and tell me there aretons of fine gold chains made every year, or to point out the long armof coincidence!
With my one useful hand I fumbled the things back into the bag andthrust it deep out of sight among the pillows. Then I lay back in a coldperspiration. What connection had Alison West with this crime? Why hadshe stared so at the gun-metal cigarette case that morning on the train?What had alarmed her so at the farm-house? What had she taken back tothe gate? Why did she wish she had not escaped from the wreck? And last,in Heaven's name, how did a part of her necklace become torn off andcovered with blood?
Down-stairs McKnight was still at the telephone, and amusing himselfwith Mrs. Klopton in the interval of waiting.
"Why did he come home in a gray suit, when he went away in a blue?" herepeated. "Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Klopton. The suit mayhave turned gray with fright. Or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts aslightning. Friend of mine once was struck by lightning; he and the caddyhad taken refuge under a tree. After the flash, when they recoveredconsciousness, there was my friend in the caddy's clothes, and the caddyin his. And as my friend was a large man and the caddy a very smallboy--"
McKnight's story was interrupted by the indignant slam of thedining-room door. He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternalcheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital.
"Is Doctor Van Kirk there?" he asked. "Not there? Well, can you tell mehow the patient is whom Doctor Williams, from Washington, operated onlast night? Well, I'm glad of that. Is she conscious? Do you happen toknow her name? Yes, I'll hold the line." There was a long pause, thenMcKnight's voice:
"Hello--yes. Thank you very much. Good-by."
He came up-stairs, two steps at a time.
"Look here," he said, bursting into the room, "there may be something inyour theory, after all. The woman's name--it may be a coincidence, butit's curious--her name is Sullivan."
"What did I tell you?" I said, sitting up suddenly in bed. "She'sprobably a sister of that scoundrel in lower seven, and she was afraidof what he might do."
"Well, I'll go there some day soon. She's not conscious yet. Inthe meantime, the only thing I can do is to keep an eye, through adetective, on the people who try to approach Bronson. We'll have thecase continued, anyhow, in the hope that the stolen notes will sooner orlater turn up."
"Confound this arm," I said, paying for my energy with some excruciatingthrobs. "There's so much to be looked after, and here I am, bandaged,splinted, and generally useless. It's a beastly shame."
"Don't forget that I am here," said McKnight pompously. "And anotherthing, when you feel this way just remember there are two less desirableplaces where you might be. One is jail, and the other is--" He strummedon an imaginary harp, with devotional eyes.
But McKnight's light-heartedness jarred on me that morning. I lay andfrowned under my helplessness. When by chance I touched the little goldbag, it seemed to scorch my fingers. Richey, finding me unresponsive,left to keep his luncheon engagement with Alison West. As he clattereddown the stairs, I turned my back to the morning sunshine and abandonedmyself to misery. By what strain on her frayed nerves was Alison Westkeeping up, I wondered? Under the circumstances, would I dare to returnthe bag? Knowing that I had it, would she hate me for my knowledge? Orhad I exaggerated the importance of the necklace, and in that case hadshe forgotten me already?
But McKnight had not gone, after all. I heard him coming back, his voicepreceding him, and I groaned with irritation.
"Wake up!" he called. "Somebody's sent you a lot of flowers. Please holdthe box, Mrs. Klopton; I'm going out to be run down by an automobile."
I roused to feeble interest. My brother's wife is punctilious about suchthings; all the new babies in the family have silver rattles, and allthe sick people flowers.
McKnight pulled up an armful of roses, and held them out to me.
"Wonder who they're from?" he said, fumbling in the box for a card."There's no name--yes, here's one."
He held it up and read it with exasperating slowness.
"'Best wishes for an early recovery. A COMPANION IN MISFORTUNE.'
"Well, what do you know about that!" he exclaimed. "That's something youdidn't tell me, Lollie."
"It was hardly worth mentioning," I said mendaciously, with my heartbeating until I could hear it. She had not forgotten, after all.
McKnight took a bud and fastened it in his button-hole. I'm afraid I wasnot especially pleasant about it. They were her roses, and anyhow, theywere meant for me. Richey left very soon, with an irritating final grinat the box.
"Good-by, sir woman-hater," he jeered at me from the door.
So he wore one of the roses she had sent me, to luncheon with her, andI lay back among my pillows and tried to remember that it was his game,anyhow, and that I wasn't even drawing cards. To remember that, and toforget the broken necklace under my head!
The Man in Lower Ten Page 12
