CHAPTER XXXII
THE FLASHLIGHT PHOTOGRAPH
Twilight was deepening over the hills and already the valleys were in shadow when Edward reached Ilexhurst. He stood for a moment looking back on the city and the hills beyond. He seemed to be laying aside a sweeter life for something less fair, and the old weight descended upon him. After all was it wise to go forth, when the return to the solitude of a clouded life was inevitable? There was no escape from fate.
In the east the hills were darkening, but memory flashed on him a scene – a fair-faced girl, as he had seen her, as he would always see her, floating upon an amethyst stream, smiling upon him, one hand parting the waters and over them the wonders of a southern sunset.
In the wing-room Virdow and Gerald were getting ready for an experiment with flashlight photography. Refusing to be hurried in his scientific investigations, Gerald had insisted that until it had been proven that a living substance could hold a photographic imprint he should not advance to the consideration of Virdow's theory. There must be brain pictures before there could be mind pictures. At least, so he reasoned. None of them knew exactly what his experiment was to be, except that he was going to test the substance that envelopes the body of the bass, the micopterus salmoides of southern waters. That sensitive plate, thinner than art could make it, was not only spoiled by exposure to light, but by light and air combined was absolutely destroyed. And the difficulty of controlling the movements of this fish seemed absolutely insuperable. They could only watch the experimenter.
Into a thin glass jar Gerald poured a quantity of powder, which he had carefully compounded during the day. Virdow saw in it the silvery glimmer of magnesium. What the combined element was could not be determined. This compound reached only a third of the distance up the side of the glass. The jar was then stopped with cork pierced by a copper wire that touched the powder, and hermetically sealed with wax. With this under one arm, and a small galvanic battery under the other, and restless with suppressed excitement, Gerald, pointing to a small hooded lantern, whose powerful reflector was lighting one end of the room, bade them follow him.
Virdow and Edward obeyed. With a rapid stride Gerald set out across fields, through strips of woodlands and down precipitous slopes until they stood all breathless upon the shore of the little lake. There they found the flat-bottom bateau, and although by this time both Edward and Virdow had begun seriously to doubt the wisdom of blindly following such a character, they resigned themselves to fate and entered.
Gerald propelled the little craft carefully to a stump that stood up distinct against the gloom under the searchlight in the bow, and reaching it took out his pocket compass. Turning the boat's head north-east, he followed the course about forty yards until at the left the reflector showed him two stakes in line. Here he brought the little craft to a standstill, and in silence, which he invoked by lifting his hand warningly, turned the lantern downward over the stern of the boat, and with a tube, whose lower end was stubbed with a bit of glass and inserted in the water, examined the bottom of the lake twelve feet below. Long and patient was the search, but at last the others saw him lay aside his glass and let the boat drift a few moments. Then very gently, only a ripple of the surface marking the action, he lowered the weighted jar until the slackening wire indicated that it was upon the bottom. He reached out his hand quickly and drew the battery to him, firmly grasping the cross-handle lever. The next instant there was a rumbling, roaring sound, accompanied by a fierce, white light, and the end of the boat was in the air. In a brief moment Edward saw the slender form of the enthusiast bathed in the flash, his face as white as chalk, his eyes afire with excitement – the incarnation of insanity, it seemed to him. Then there was a deluge of spray, a violent rocking of the boat and the water in it went over their shoe-tops. Instantly all was inky blackness, except where in the hands of the fearless man in the stern the lantern, its slide changed, was now casting a stream of red light upon the surface of the lake. Suddenly Gerald uttered a loud cry.
"Look! Look! There he is!" And floating in that crimson path, with small fishes rising around him, was the dead body of a gigantic bass. Lifting him carefully by the gills, Gerald laid him in a box drawn from under the rear seat.
"What is it?" broke from Virdow. "We have risked our lives and ruined our clothes – for what?"
"For a photograph upon a living substance! On the side of this fish, which was exposed to the flashlight, you will find the outlines of the grasses in this lake, or the whole film destroyed. If the outlines are there then there is no reason why the human brain, infinitely more sensitive and forever excluded from light, cannot contain the pictures of those twin cameras – the human eyes." He turned the boat shoreward and seizing his box disappeared in the darkness, his enlarged pupils giving him the visual powers of a night animal. Virdow and Edward, even aided by the lantern, found their way back with difficulty.
The two men entered the wing-room to find it vacant. Virdow, however, pointed silently to the red light gleaming through the glass of the little door to the cabinet. The sound of trickling water was heard.
At that instant a smothered half-human cry came from within, and trembling violently, Gerald staggered into the room. They took hold of him, fearing he would fall. Straining their eyes, they both saw for an instant only the half-developed outlines of a human profile extended along the broad side of the fish. As they watched, the surface grew into one tone and the carcass fell to the floor.
Gazing into their faces as he struggled for freedom, Gerald cast off their hands. The lithe, sinewy form seemed to be imbued at the moment with the strength of a giant. Before they could speak he had seized the lantern and was out into the night. Without a moment's hesitation, Edward, bareheaded, plunged after him. Well trained to college athletics though he was, yet unfamiliar with the grounds, it taxed his best efforts to keep him in sight. He divined that the wild race would end at the lake, and the thought that on a few seconds might hang the life of that strange being was all that held him to the prolonged and dangerous strain. He reached the shore just in time, by plunging waist deep into the water, to throw himself into the boat. His own momentum thrust it far out upon the surface. Gerald had entered.
With unerring skill and incredible swiftness, the young man carried the boat over its former course and turned the glare of the lamp downward. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry, and, dropping the lantern in the boat, stood up and leaped into the water. The light was now out and all was as black as midnight.
Edward slipped off his shoes, seized the paddle and waited for a sound to guide him. It seemed as though nothing human could survive that prolonged submergence; minutes appeared to pass; with a groan of despair he gave up hope.
But at that moment, with a gasp, the white face of Gerald burst from the waters ten feet away, and the efforts he made showed that he was swimming with difficulty. With one mighty stroke Edward sent the boat to the swimmer and caught the floating hair. Then with great difficulty he drew him over the side.
"Home!" The word escaped from Gerald between his gasps, but when he reached the shore, with a return of energy and a total disregard of his companion, he plunged into the darkness toward the house, Edward this time keeping him in view with less difficulty.
They reached the door of the wing-room almost simultaneously and rushed in side by side, Gerald dripping with water and exhausted. He leaned heavily against the table. For the first time Edward was conscious that he carried a burden in his arms. In breathless silence, he with Virdow approached, and then upon the table Gerald placed an object and drew shuddering back. It was a half life-size bust of darkened and discolored marble, and for them, though trembling with excitement, it seemed to have no especial significance until they were startled by a cry so loud, so piercing, so heartrending, that they felt the flesh creep upon their bones.
Looking from the marble to the face of the young man they saw that the whiteness of death was upon every feature. Following the direction of his gaze, they beheld a silhouette upon the wall; the clear-cut profile of a woman, cast by the carved face before them. To Edward it was an outline vaguely familiar; to Virdow a revelation, for it was Edward's own profile. Had the latter recognized it there would have been a tragedy, for, without a word after that strange, sad, despairing cry, Gerald wrenched a dagger from the decorated panel, and struck at his own heart. It was Edward's quickness that saved him; the blade made but a trifling flesh wound. Seizing him as he did from the rear he was enabled to disturb his equilibrium in time.
"Morphine," he said to Virdow. The latter hurried away to secure the drug. He found with the pellets a little pocket case containing morphine powders and a hypodermic injector. Without a struggle, Gerald lay breathing heavily. In a few minutes the drug was administered, and then came peace for the sufferer. Edward released his hold and looked about him. Virdow had moved the bust and was seated lost in thought.
"What does it mean?" he asked, approaching, awed and saddened by his experience. Virdow held up the little bust.
"Have you ever seen that face before?"
"It is the face of the young woman in the picture!"
"And now," said Virdow, again placing the marble so as to cast its outlines upon the wall, "you do not recognize it, but the profile is your own!"
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE TRADE WITH SLIPPERY DICK
Amos Royson, in the solitude of his room, had full time for reflection upon the events of the week and upon his position. His face, always sinister, had not improved under its contact with the heavy dueling pistol driven so savagely against it. The front teeth would be replaced and the defect concealed under the heavy mustache he wore, and the cut and swollen lips were resuming their normal condition. The missing finger, even, would inconvenience him only until he had trained the middle one to discharge its duties – but the nose! He trembled with rage when for the hundredth time he studied his face in the glass and realized that the best skill of the surgeon had not been able to restore its lines.
But this was not the worst. He had carefully scanned the state press during his seclusion and awoke from his personal estimate to find that public opinion was overwhelmingly against him. He had slandered a man for political purposes and forced a fight upon a stranger to whom, by every right of hospitality, the city owed a welcome. The general public could not understand why he had entered upon the duel if his charges were true, and if not true why he had not had the manliness to withdraw them.
Moreover, he had incurred the deadly enmity of the people who had been deceived in the lost county. One paper alluded to the unpleasant fact that Edward Morgan was defending and aiding Mr. Royson's connections at the time of the insult.
He had heard no word from Swearingen, who evidently felt that the matter was too hot at both ends for him to handle safely. That gentleman had, on the contrary, in a brief card to one of the papers, disclaimed any knowledge of the unfortunate letter and declined all responsibility for it. This was sufficient, it would seem, to render almost any man unhappy, but the climax was reached when he received a letter from Annie, scoring him unmercifully for his clumsiness and informing him that Edward Morgan, so far from being destroyed in a certain quarter, was being received in the house as a friend to whom all were indebted, and was petted and made much of.
"So far as I can judge," she added, maliciously, "it seems settled that Mary is to marry him. He is much with Col. Montjoy and is now upon a confidential footing with everyone here. Practically he is already a member of the family." It contained a request for him to inform her when he would be in his office.
He had not replied to this; he felt that the letter was aimed at his peace of mind and the only satisfaction he could get out of this affair was the recollection that he had informed her father-in-law of her perfidy.
"I would be glad to see the old gentleman's mind at work with Annie purring around him," he said to himself, and the idea brought the first smile his face had known for many a day. But a glimpse of that face in the glass, with the smile upon it, startled him again.
What next? Surrender? There was no surrender in the make-up of the man. His legal success had hinged less upon ability than upon dogged pertinacity. In this way he had saved the life of more than one criminal and won a reputation that brought him practice. He had made a charge, had been challenged and had fought. With almost any other man the issue would have been at an end as honorably settled, but his habit of mind was opposed to accepting anything as settled which was clearly unsettled. The duel did not give Morgan the rights of a gentleman if the main charge were true, and Royson had convinced himself that it was true. He wrote to Annie, assured that her visit would develop his next move.
So it was that one morning Royson found himself face to face with his cousin, in the office. There was no word of sympathy for him. He had not expected one, but he was hardly prepared for the half-smile which came over her face when he greeted her, and which, during their interview, returned from time to time. This enraged him beyond endurance, and nothing but the remembrance that she alone held the key to the situation prevented his coming to an open breach with her. She saw and read his struggle aright, and the display put her in the best of humor.
"When shall we see you at The Hall again?" she asked, coolly.
"Never," he said, passionately, "until this man Morgan is exposed and driven out." She arched her brows.
"Never, then, would have been sufficient."
"Annie, this man must be exposed; you have the proofs – you have information; give it to me." She shook her head, smiling.
"I have changed my mind, Amos; I do not want to be on bad terms with my brother-in-law of the future; the fact is, I am getting fond of him. He is very kind to everybody. Mother is to go to Paris to have her eyes attended to, and Mary is to accompany her. Mr. Morgan has been accepted as their escort."
The face of the man grew crimson with suppressed rage. By a supreme effort he recovered and returned the blow.
"What a pity, Annie, it could not have been you! Paris has been your hobby for years. When Mary returns she can tell you how to dress in the best form and correct your French." It was a successful counter. She was afraid to trust herself to reply. Royson drew his chair nearer.
"Annie," he said, "I would give ten years of life to establish the truth of what you have told me. So far as Mary is concerned, we will leave that out, but I am determined to crush this fellow Morgan at any cost. Something tells me we have a common cause in this matter. Give me a starting point – you owe me something. I could have involved you; I fought it out alone." She reflected a moment.
"I cannot help you now as much as you may think. I am convinced of what I told you, but the direct proof is wanting. You can imagine how difficult such proof is. The man is thirty years old, probably, and witnesses of his mother's times are old or dead."
"And what witnesses could there have been?"
"Few. John Morgan is gone. The next witness would be Rita. Rita is the woman who kept Morgan's house for the last thirty years. She owned a little house in the neighborhood of The Hall and was until she went to Morgan's a professional nurse. There may be old negroes who can give you points."
"And Rita – where is she?"
"Dead!"
A shade of disappointment swept over his face. He caught her eyes fixed upon him with the most peculiar expression. "She is the witness on whom I relied," she said, slowly. "She was, I believe, the only human being in the world who could have furnished conclusive testimony as to the origin of Edward Morgan. She died suddenly the day your letter was published!" She did not look away as she concluded, "your letter was published!" She did not look away as she paused, but continued with her eyes fixed upon his; and gradually, as he watched her, the brows contracted slightly and the lids tightened under them. A gleam of intelligence passed to him. His face grew white and his hands closed convulsively upon the arms of his chair.
"But that would be beyond belief," he said, at last, in a whisper. "If what you think is true, he was her son!" She raised her brow as she replied:
"There was no tie of association! With him everything was at stake. You can probably understand that when a man is in love he will risk a great deal."
Royson arose and walked the room. No man knew better than he the worst side of the human heart. There is nothing so true in the history of crime as that reputation is held higher than conscience. And in this case there was the terrible passion of love. He did not reply to her insinuation.
"You think, then," he said, stopping in front of the woman, "that, reading my letter, he hurried home – and in this you are correct since I saw him across the street reading the paper, and a few minutes later throw himself into a hack and take that direction – that he rushed into the presence of this woman, demanded the truth, and, receiving it, in a fit of desperation, killed her!"
"What I may think, Amos, is my right to keep to myself. The only witness died that day! There was no inquest! You asked me for a starting point." She drew her gloves a little tighter, shook out her parasol and rose. "But I am giving you too much of my time. I have some commissions from Mary, who is getting ready for Paris, and I must leave you."
He neither heard her last remark nor saw her go. Standing in the middle of the room, with his chin upon his chest, he was lost to all consciousness of the moment. When he looked to the chair she had occupied it was vacant. He passed his hand over his brow. The scene seemed to have been in a dream.
But Amos Royson knew it was real. He had asked for a starting point, and the woman had given it.
As he considered it, he unconsciously betrayed how closely akin he was to the woman, for every fact that came to him was in that legal mind, trained to building theories, adjusted in support of the hypothesis of crime. He was again the prosecuting attorney. How natural at least was such a crime, supposing Morgan capable of it.
And no man knew his history!
With one blow he had swept away the witness. That had done a thousand times in the annals of crime. Poison, the ambush, the street encounter, the midnight shot through the open window, the fusillade at the form outlined in its own front door; the press had recorded it since the beginning of newspapers. Morgan had added one more instance. And if he had not, the suspicion, the investigation, the doubt would remain!
At this point by a perfectly natural process the mind of the man reached its conclusion. Why need there be any suspicion, any doubt? Why might not an inquest develop evidences of a crime? This idea involved action and decision upon his part, and some risk.
At last he arose from the desk, where, with his head upon his hand, he had studied so long, and prepared for action. At the lavatory he caught sight of his own countenance in the glass. It told him that his mind was made up. It was war to the knife, and that livid scar upon the pallor of his face was but the record of the first failure. The next battle would not be in the open, with the skies blue above him and no shelter at hand. His victim would never see the knife descend, but it would descend nevertheless, and this time there would be no trembling hand or failure of nerve.
From his office he went direct to the coroner's and examined the records. The last inquest was of the day previous; the next in line more than a month before. There was no woman's name upon the list. So far Annie was right.
Outside of cities in the south no burial permits are required. Who was the undertaker? Inquiry would easily develop the fact, but this time he himself was to remain in the dark. If this crime was fastened upon Morgan, the motive would be self-evident and a reaction of public opinion would re-establish Royson high in favor. His experience would rank as martyrdom.
But a new failure would destroy him forever, and there was not a great deal left to destroy, he felt.
In the community, somewhere, was a negro whose only title was "Slippery Dick," won in many a hotly contested criminal trial. It had been said of this man that the entire penal code was exhausted in efforts to convict him, and always without success. He had been prosecuted for nearly every offense proscribed by state laws. Royson's first experience with the man was as prosecuting attorney. Afterward and within the preceding year he had defended him in a trial for body-snatching and had secured a verdict by getting upon the jury one man who was closely kin to the person who purchased the awful merchandise. This negro, plausible and cunning, hesitated at nothing short of open murder – or such was his reputation. It was to find him that Royson went abroad. Nor was it long before he succeeded.
That night, in a lonely cabin on the outskirts of the city, a trade was made. Ten dollars in hand was paid. If upon an inquest by the coroner it was found that there was a small wound on the back of the head of the woman and the skull fractured, Slippery Dick was to receive $100 more.
This was the only risk Royson would permit himself to take, and there were no witnesses to the trade. Dick's word was worth nothing. Discovery could not affect the plot seriously, and Dick never confessed. The next day he met Annie upon the road, having seen her in the city, and posted himself to intercept her.
"I have investigated the death of Rita," he said, "and am satisfied that there are no grounds for suspecting murder. We shall wait!" The woman looked him in the face.
"Amos," she said, "if you were not my cousin, I would say that you are an accomplished liar!" Before he replied there was heard the sound of a horse's feet. Edward Morgan drove by, gravely lifting his hat.