by Anthology
“The gentleman is looking at you.”
Instantly her beauty shrivelled and vanished. Her hands went up to her face; and she crouched like a lost thing against the floor.
“No, no!” she wailed, and would have fled, but Mother Merry forced her back.
“The gentleman wants something. He wants a drop of what you gave the other one that night. You remember, the night the boys slid away and left us to the police.”
Instinctively her right hand went to her bosom and her eyes looked wildly into mine. Suddenly she saw the moisture on my cheeks.
“Oh! he’s been crying, Mother Merry, been crying. Perhaps now I can cry, too. I should like to; it’s better than singing.” And she broke into sobs so violent that I stood aghast in mingled pity and amazement.
Just then the policeman looked in.
“How-now?” he cried. “What’s up?”
My impulse was to shield her from this fellow’s curiosity. Motioning him away, I whispered in her ear:
“You haven’t said whether you would give me what I have come for.”
“What is that?”
“A drop of what kills trouble; kills it at once, instantly, and forever. I am wretched, heart broken.” (God knows I spoke the truth.)
She stared, and what remained of light in her face went out.
“I have none—now,” she hoarsely assured me.
“Then get it where you got that.”
“I cannot. I got that when it was easier to smile, and dancing was not followed by dreadful pain. Now—” She tried to laugh as she had a few moments before, but her jocund mood had passed.
One would never imagine from her present aspect that she had just floated through the room an embodiment of joyousness and grace.
“You gave it all to him, all?” I questioned.
The emphasis did not strike her, or rather it assumed a different place in her mind than on my lips. “To him?” she repeated, shrinking back with evident distrust.
“Yes,” I pursued, following her and speaking in her ear; “the sailor lad who took it away from here that night. Poison—prussic acid—a phial you could hide in your hand.”
She broke into laughter, not the expression of joy, but that of defiance if not derision. She was but a common woman now.
“Sailor lad!” she repeated, and laughed again.
I felt that the moment had come for speaking the significant word. Looking around and seeing that Mother Merry was not too near, I whispered:
“A sailor lad with a gentleman’s name. You know the name; so do I—Leighton Gillespie.”
She had not expected me to go so far. Smothering a frightened cry, she struck her hands together over her head and dashed towards the door by which she had come in. Mother Merry stood before it laughing. Then she turned to escape by the street; but there she was confronted by the heavy form of the policeman, who had thrust himself across the thresh old. Crouching, she folded her arms over her breast and made a plunge for the door communicating with the den beyond. It opened under her pressure and she fell gasping and bruised upon the threshold.
I hastened to her aid, but she was up before I could reach her.
“I don’t know the man you talk of; I don’t know you. I am a free woman!—a—free—woman!” she shrieked, bounding to the trap and opening it. As she uttered the last words she swung herself down. I tried to stop her, but she was as agile as a cat. As I leaned over the hole I saw her disappearing among a confusion of oozy piles; and shuddering with the chill of the mephitic air that came pouring up, I drew back.
“That’s the end of her for to-day,” muttered the harsh voice of Mother Merry behind me. “When she’s like that you might as well make for other quarters. But you’ve had your money’s worth. You’ve heard her sing; you’ve seen her dance. It’s not every man can boast of that. She’s shy of men; at least she’ll never sing for them.”
Perhaps I looked surprised; perhaps I only looked dejected. Misinterpreting the expression, whichever it was, old Mother Merry sidled up closer, and, as I made for the door, whispered with a leer:
“If you really want what you say, come back in a week; and if I can get it you shall have it.”
I gave her another coin.
“What do you call that girl?” I asked, with my hand on the latch.
The money made her loquacious.
“Millie,” she answered. “That is not how she speaks it, but it’s how we all call her.”
It was, then, as I had thought. I had seen and listened to Mille-fleurs, the woman to whom Leighton Gillespie had addressed those appealing lines.
XXII. A Disagreeable Hour with a Disagreeable Man
THIS interview made an astonishing impression upon me. Never had I supposed myself capable of being stirred to such sympathy by a being so degraded as this wonderful Mille-fleurs.
Was it the contrast between her genius and the conditions under which that genius had shown itself? Possibly. Or was it that a recognition of the latent sweetness underlying her wild nature had caused a feeling of rebellion against the degradation into which a creature of such amazing possibilities had fallen?
Whatever it was, I was conscious of a haunting sense of regret such as had followed few experiences in my life, and began to look upon the man who could make use of such a ruin of womanhood for the obtaining of a deadly drug, with something deeper and more active than mere distrust.
Leighton Gillespie was a man of the world. He knew this wretched creature’s weak points and what would procure him the poison he dared not buy from any druggist or chemist. Anyone who saw this woman could read her story. Gay as she was, buoyant as her spirit rose in certain moments of ecstatic passion, she had corresponding moods of morbid depression, possibly of actual suffering, which only morphine could relieve. He knew this and used his knowledge without let or scruple. Was he a monster of selfishness, or only another instance of a good man gone to the bad for the love of a worthless woman? The latter theory seemed the more probable, since all good instincts could not be lacking in a man who had been confessedly helpful in many ways towards rescuing the needy and aiding the unhappy.
Undone by a woman! Was that the situation? It is a common one, God knows. Yet I found it hard to allot her the place suggested by this theory. She did not look like one capable of inclining a man to murder. Yet might I not be playing the fool in cherishing so generous an estimate of her? Might I not be as yet too much under the spell of her peculiar grace to rightly judge the nature underlying it? What did I know of him or of her, that I should burden him with all the blame; and in what did my own wild, uncalculating passion for a woman who not only did not love me, but of whose real character I knew little save as it shone for me through her captivating face, differ from the feeling which might easily be awakened in a still more ardent breast by a creature of so much grace and fire?
Certainly the words I had overheard Leighton Gillespie use in his colloquy with the Salvation Army Captain showed the existence of feelings far beyond those usually associated with a commonplace passion; so did the lines he had left behind him for this waif. But if it was love which moved him, it was a love which did not shrink from involving its object in crime. This she had herself recognised, else why had she shown such terror at the mention of his name and made such a hazardous attempt at escape when threatened by the prospect of further association with him?
The progress which I had made in the case I had undertaken against this man may seem to have reached a point justifying me in communicating the result to Hope. But though I had succeeded in supplying one of the missing links heretofore mentioned as necessary to that end, I nevertheless hesitated to approach her till the whole chain was complete. Her very desire to believe her youngest cousin innocent would make her slow in accepting conclusions too much in the line of her own wishes. She might even now be moved by secret hopes in this direction, might cherish convictions and calm herself with soothing anticipations of restored confidence in Alfred, but she would r
equire the most positive evidence that the potion, however and by whomever obtained, had been actually and knowingly administered by Leighton. To the establishment of this last link in the chain, I must therefore address myself; an almost hopeless task, from which I shrank with very natural misgivings.
Two paths of inquiry, and two only, offered any promise of success. One of these struck me as practicable; the other not. But the practicable one was not within my reach, while the other was little more than a dream. I allude in the first instance to the knowledge supposed to lie hidden within the breast of the old butler; while the dream—well, the dream was this: For some time I had suspected the existence of a secret and as yet unknown witness of this crime, a witness for whose appearance on the scene I had daily looked, and from whom I did not yet despair of gleaning valuable testimony. What basis had I for this dream? I will endeavour to explain.
In presenting to your notice a diagram of the parlour floor of the Gillespie house, I was careful to show the window to be found at the left of Mr. Gillespie’s desk. But I drew no attention to this window, nor did I think it worth my while to say that I found the shade of this window rolled up when I first followed Claire into the room. Later, I drew this shade down, but not before noticing that a window stood open in the extension running back of the Gillespie yard from the adjoining house on Fifty —— Street, and that in the room thus disclosed a man was to be seen moving uneasily about.
Now, if this man had been in that room for any length of time, the chances were that his glances had fallen more than once on the brilliantly lighted interior of Mr. Gillespie’s den, lying as it did directly under his eye. If so, how much or how little had he seen of what went on there? That is what I now proposed to find out.
That this person, who was a total stranger to me, had given no sign of being in the possession of facts withheld from the police, did not deter me from hoping that I should yet learn something from him.
Many men, among them myself, have an invincible dislike to the publicity inseparable from the position of witness, and if this unknown man imagined, as he naturally might, that the police were ignorant of the opportunity which had been given him of looking into Mr. Gillespie’s house at a moment so critical, the chances were that he would keep silent in regard to it. That his appearance at the window had been simultaneous with my sight of him, and thus too late for him to have seen more than I did of what went on in Mr. Gillespie’s den, was a possibility which would occur to any man. Also, that he might have been there and in full sight of the window from the first, yet had distractions of his own which kept him from making use of his opportunities.
Nevertheless, the probabilities were favourable to the hope I had conceived; and, deciding that in my present uncertainty any action was better than none, I made up my mind to ascertain who this young man was, and whether any means offered for my making his acquaintance.
Sam Underhill was the only man I knew capable of bringing this about. I therefore went below in search of him, and was fortunate enough to come upon him just as he was returning to his room for some theatre tickets he had forgotten to put into his pocket. I attacked him before he could back out.
“What is the name of those people who live in the first house west from Fifth Avenue on Fifty —— Street?” I asked. “Don’t you remember the house I mean? That very narrow brown-stone front, with a vase of artificial flowers in one of the parlour windows.”
“—— me if I know,” he protested, in a high state of impatience, as he snatched up the tickets he was looking for. Then, seeing that I was in no condition to be fooled with, he admitted that the name was Rosenthal, and carelessly added, “What do you want to know for? Oh, I see, you are still on the scent; still harping on that Gillespie poisoning case. Well, the Rosenthals may live near the people just mentioned, but there’s nothing in that for you or any one else interested in this crime.”
“Why?”
“Because they move in a totally different set from the Gillespies. They have absolutely no connection with them.”
“Is there a young man in the family?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to know him. Find a way of presenting me to him, will you?”
Sam’s amazement was amusing.
“You want an introduction to Israel Rosenthal?”
“I have said so.”
“Well, everyone to his taste. I’ll procure you one this evening at the theatre. He’s a great patron of the Lyceum.”
“And are you going there?”
“As soon as you release me.”
“Very good; expect to find me in the lobby after the first act.”
“I’m obliged to you.” This because I had moved out of his way. I have seen Sam when he was personally more agreeable to me.
It would be impossible for me to say what play I saw that night. It was one of the well-known successes of the season, but it meant nothing to me. All my mind and attention were on the young man I had come there to see.
He was in one of the boxes; this I found out before the first act was over; and though I caught flitting glimpses of his face, I did not see him closely enough to form any judgment of his temper or disposition. When the first act was over I went into the lobby, but Sam did not join me there till it was nearly time for the curtain to rise again. Then he came alone.
“He’ll be out at the end of the third act,” he remarked. “The wait is a long one and he will be sure to improve it in the usual way.”
I nodded and Sam went back. Strange to say, he was interested in the play, if I was not.
I had no intention of forcing an immediate disclosure from Mr. Rosenthal. Neither the time nor place was propitious for that. When, therefore, the anticipated moment arrived and Sam sauntered out from one aisle and Rosenthal from another, I merely pulled myself together to the point of making myself agreeable to the rather unpromising subject of my present interest. We were introduced off-hand by Sam, who, if he did not like the job (and it was very evident he did not), at least went through his part in a way not to disturb the raw pride of my new acquaintance. Then we began to talk, and I thought I saw more than ordinary satisfaction in the manner with which young Rosenthal received my advances, a satisfaction which led me to mentally inquire whether his pleasure rose from gratification at Underhill’s attention or from any erroneous idea he may have had of my being a stepping-stone to certain desirable acquaintances. Or, more important still, was he, for reasons I was not as yet ready to dwell upon, glad to know a man whom all recognised as an important witness in the great affair whose unsolved mystery was still the theme of half the town? I curbed my impatience and was eagerly pursuing the conversation towards a point which might settle this disturbing question, when, presto! the curtain rose on the fourth act and he flew to regain his box.
But not before Sam, with a self-denial I shall not soon forget, had asked him round to our apartments after the play; which invitation young Rosenthal seemed glad to accept, for he nodded with great eagerness as he disappeared around the curtains of the doorway.
“So much to humour a friend!” growled Sam, as he, too, started for his seat.
I smiled and went home.
At about midnight Sam came in with my expected guest, and we had a rarebit and ale. In the midst of the good feeling thus established, Rosenthal broke forth in the very explanation I had been expecting from the first.
“I say! you were with old Gillespie when he died.”
“The fact is well known,” I returned, refraining from glancing at Sam, though much inclined to do so.
“Well, I’ve a mighty curiosity about that case; seems somehow as if I had had a hand in it.”
There was champagne on the table; I pushed the bottle towards Sam, who proceeded to open it. While this was going on I answered Mr. Rosenthal, with all the appearance of surprise he doubtless expected:
“How’s that? Oh, I think I understand. You are a neighbour. All who live near them must feel somewhat as you do.�
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“It isn’t that,” he protested, draining his glass, which Sam immediately refilled. “I have never told anyone,—I don’t know why I tell you fellows,—but I was almost in at that death. You see, the windows of my room look directly down on the little den in which he died, and I chanced to be looking in its direction just as—”
Here he stopped to enjoy his second glass. As the rim slowly rose, obscuring his eyes, I caught an admiring Hm! from Sam, which filled, without relieving, this moment of suspense. As the glass rang down again on the table, Rosenthal finished his sentence:
“—just as Mr. Gillespie lifted his window to empty out a glass of something. Now, what was that some thing? I have asked myself a dozen times since his death.”
“But this is evidence! This is a fact you ought to have communicated to the police,” broke in Underhill, with momentary fire. Perhaps it was a real one, perhaps it was the means he used to draw Rosenthal out.
“And be dragged up before a thousand people, all whispering and joggling to see me? No, I have too much self-respect. I only speak of it now,” said he with great dignity, “because I’m so deuced curious to know whether it was poison he threw out, a dose of chloral, or just plain wine. It might have been any of these three, but I have always thought it was the first, because he seemed so afraid of being seen.”
“Afraid of being seen drinking it or of throwing it out?”
