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Tangled Trails

<h2 id="id00730" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XV</h2> <h5 id="id00731">A GLOVE AND THE HAND IN IT</h5> As Rose saw the hand of the law closing in on Kirby, she felt as though an ironic fate were laughing in impish glee at this horrible climax of her woe. He had sacrificed a pot of gold and his ambition to be the champion rough rider of the world in order to keep her out of trouble. Instead of that he had himself plunged into it head first. She found herself entangled in a net from which there was no easy escape. Part, at least, of the evidence against Kirby, or at least the implication to be drawn from it, did not fit in with what she knew to be the truth. He had not been in the apartment of James Cunningham from 9.30 until 10.15. He might have been there at both times, but not for the whole interval between. Rose had the best reason in the world for knowing that. But what was she to do? What ought she to do? If she went with her story to the district attorney, her sister's shame must inevitably be dragged forth to be flaunted before the whole world. She could not do that. She could not make little Esther the scapegoat of her conscience. Nor could she remain silent and let Kirby stay in prison. That was unthinkable. If her story would free him she must tell it. But to whom? She read in the "Post" that James Cunningham was endeavoring to persuade the authorities to accept bond for his cousin's appearance. Swiftly Rose made up her mind what she would do. She looked up in the telephone book the name she wanted and made connections on the line. "Is this Mr. Cunningham?" she asked. "Mr. Cunningham talking," came the answer. "I want to see you on very important business. Can I come this morning?" "I think I didn't catch your name, madam." "My name doesn't matter. I have information about—your uncle's death." There was just an instant's pause. Then, "Ten o'clock, at the office here," Rose heard. A dark, good-looking young man rose from a desk in the inner office when Rose entered exactly at ten. In his eyes there sparked a little flicker of surprised appreciation. Jack Cunningham was always susceptible to the beauty of women. This girl was lovely both of feature and of form. The fluent grace of the slender young body was charming, but the weariness of grief was shadowed under the long-lashed eyes. She looked around, hesitating. "I have an appointment with Mr. Cunningham," she explained. "My name," answered the young man. "Mr. James Cunningham?" "Afraid you've made a mistake. I'm Jack Cunningham. This is my uncle's office. I'm taking charge of his affairs. You called his number instead of my brother's. People are always confusing the two." "I'm sorry." "If I can be of any service to you," he suggested. "I read that your brother was trying to arrange bond for Mr. Lane. I want to see him about that. I am Rose McLean. My sister worked for your uncle in his office." "Oh!" A film of wary caution settled over his eyes. It seemed to Rose that what she had said transformed him into a potential adversary. "Glad to meet you, Miss McLean. If you'd rather talk with my brother I'll make an appointment with him for you." "Perhaps that would be best," she said. "Of course he's very busy. If it's anything I could do for you—" "I'd like you both to hear what I have to say." For the beating of a pulse his eyes thrust at her as though they would read her soul. Then he was all smiling urbanity. "That seems to settle the matter. I'll call my brother up and make an appointment." Over the wire Jack put the case to his brother. Presently he hung up the receiver. "We'll go right over, Miss McLean." They went down the elevator and passed through the lower hall of the building to Sixteenth Street. As they walked along Stout to the Equitable Building, Rose made an explanation. "I saw you and Mr. James Cunningham at the inquest." His memory stirred. "Think I saw you, too. 'Member your bandaged arm. Is it broken?" "Yes." He felt the need of talking against an inner perturbation he did not want to show. What was this girl, the sister of Esther McLean, going to tell him and his brother? What did she know about the murder of his uncle? Excitement grew in him and he talked at random to cover it. "Fall down?" "A horse threw me and trod on my arm." "Girls are too venturesome nowadays." In point of fact he did not think so. He liked girls who were good sportsmen and played the game hard. But he was talking merely to bridge a mental stress. "Think they can do anything a man can. 'Fess up, Miss McLean. You'd try to ride any horse I could, no matter how mettlesome it was. Now wouldn't you?" "I wouldn't go that far," she said dryly. For an instant the thought flickered through her mind that she would like to get this spick-and-span riding-school model on the back of Wild Fire and see how long he would stick to the saddle. James Cunningham met Rose with a suave courtesy, but with reserve. Like his brother he knew of only one subject about which the sister of Esther McLean could want to talk with him. Did she intend to be reasonable? Would she accept a monetary settlement and avoid the publicity that could only hurt her sister as well as the reputation of the name of Cunningham? Or did she mean to try to impose impossible conditions? How much did she know and how much guess? Until he discovered that he meant to play his cards close. Characteristically, Rose came directly to the point after the first few words of introduction. "You know my sister, Esther McLean, a stenographer of your uncle?" she asked. The girl was standing. She had declined a chair. She stood straight-backed as an Indian, carrying her head with fine spirit. Her eyes attacked the oil broker, would not yield a thousandth part of an inch to his impassivity. "I—have met her," he answered. "You know . . . about her trouble?" "Yes. My cousin mentioned it. We—my brother and I—greatly regret it. Anything in reason that we can do we shall, of course, hold ourselves bound for." He flashed a glance at Jack who murmured a hurried agreement. The younger man's eyes were busy examining a calendar on the wall. "I didn't come to see you about that now," the young woman went on, cheeks flushed, but chin held high. "Nor would I care to express my opinion of the . . . the creature who could take advantage of such a girl's love. I intend to see justice is done my sister, as far as it can now be done. But not to-day. First, I'm here to ask you if you're friends of Kirby Lane. Do you believe he killed his uncle?" "No," replied James promptly. "I am quite sure he didn't kill him. I am trying to get him out on bond. Any sum that is asked I'll sign for." "Then I want to tell you something you don't know. The testimony showed that Kirby went to his uncle's apartment about 9.20 and left nearly an hour later. That isn't true." "How do you know it isn't?" "Because I was there myself part of the time." Jack stared at her in blank dismay. Astonishment looked at her, too, from the older brother's eyes. "You were in my uncle's apartment—on the night of the murder?" James said at last. "I was. I came to Denver to see him—to get justice for my sister. I didn't intend to let the villain escape scot free for what he had done." "Pardon me," interrupted Jack, and the girl noticed his voice had a queer note of anxiety in it. "Did your sister ever tell you that my uncle was responsible for—?" He left the sentence in air. "No, she won't talk yet. I don't know why. But I found a note signed with his initials. He's the man. I know that." James looked at his brother. "I think we may take that for granted, Jack. We'll accept such responsibilities on us as it involves. Perhaps you'd better not interrupt Miss McLean till she has finished her story." "I made an appointment with him after I had tried all day to get him on the 'phone or to see him. That was Thursday, the day I reached town." "He was in Colorado Springs all that day," explained James. "Yes, he told me so when I reached him finally at the City Club. He didn't want to see me, but I wouldn't let him off till he agreed. So he told me to come to the Paradox and he would give me ten minutes. He told me not to come till nearly ten, as he would be busy. I think he hoped that by putting it so late and at his rooms he would deter me from coming. But I intended to see him. He couldn't get away from me so easily as that. I went." Jack moistened dry lips. His debonair ease had quite vanished. "When did you go?" "It was quite a little past a quarter to ten when I reached his rooms." "Did you meet any one going up or coming down?" asked James. "A man and a woman passed me on the stairs." "A man and a woman," repeated Jack, almost in a whisper. His attitude was tense. His eyes burned with excitement. "Was it light enough to tell who they were?" James asked. His cold eyes did not lift from hers until she answered. "No. It was entirely dark. The woman was on the other side of the man. I wouldn't have been sure she was a woman except for the rustle of her skirts and the perfume." "Sure it wasn't the perfume you use yourself that you smelled?" "I don't use any." "You stick to it that you met a man and a woman, but couldn't possibly recognize either of them," James Cunningham said, still looking straight at her. She hesitated an instant. Somehow she did not quite like the way he put this. "Yes," she said steadily. "You didn't take the elevator up, then?" "No. I'm not used to automatic elevators. I rang when I got to the door. Nobody answered, but the door was wide open. I rang again, then went in and switched on the light. There didn't seem to be anybody in. I didn't feel right about it. I wanted to go. But I wouldn't because I thought maybe he—your uncle—was trying to dodge me. I looked into the bedroom. He wasn't there. So after a little I went to a door into another room that was shut and knocked on it. I don't know why I opened it when no answer came. Something seemed to move my hand to the knob. I switched the light on there." "Yes?" James asked, gently. The girl gulped. She made a weak, small gesture with her hand, as though to push from her mind the horrible sight her eyes had looked upon. "He was dead, in the chair, tied to it. I think I screamed. I'm not sure. But I switched off the light and shut the door. My knees were weak, and I felt awf'lly queer in the head. I was crazy to get away from the place, but I couldn't seem to have the power to move. I leaned against the door, weak and limp as a small puppy. Then I heard some one comin' up the stairs, and I knew I mustn't be caught there. I switched off the lights just as some one came to the landing outside." "Who was it? Did he come in?" asked Jack. "He rang and knocked two or three times. Then he came in. I was standing by the table with my hand on some kind of heavy metal paperweight. His hand was groping for the light switch. I could tell that. He must have heard me, for he called out, 'Who's there?' In the darkness there I was horribly frightened. He might be the murderer come back. If not, of course he'd think I had done it. So I tried to slip by him. He jumped at me and caught me by the hand. I pulled away from him and hit hard at his face. The paper-weight was still in my hand and he went down just as though a hammer had hit him. I ran out of the room, downstairs, and out into the street." "Without meeting anybody?" "Yes." "You don't know who it was you struck?" "Unless it was Kirby." "Jove! That explains the bruise on his chin," Jack cried out. "Why didn't he tell us that?" The color flushed the young woman's cheeks. "We're friends, he and I. If he guessed I was the one that struck him he wouldn't tell." "How would he guess it?" asked James. "He knew I meant to see your uncle—meant to make him do justice to Esther. I suppose I'd made wild threats. Besides, I left my glove there—on the table, I think. I'd taken it off with some notion of writing a note telling your uncle I had been there and that he had to see me next day." "The police didn't find a woman's glove in the room, did they?" James asked his brother. "Didn't hear of it if they did," Jack replied. "That's it, you see," explained Rose. "Kirby would know my glove. It was a small riding-gauntlet with a rose embroidered on it. He probably took it with him when he left. He kept still about the whole thing because I was the woman and he was afraid of gettin' me into trouble." "Sounds reasonable," agreed James. "That's how it was. Kirby's a good friend. He'd never tell on me if they hanged him for it." "They won't do that, Miss McLean," the older brother assured her. "We're going to find who did this thing. Kirby and I have shaken hands on that. But about your story. I don't quite see how we're going to use it. We must protect your sister, too, as well as my cousin. If we go to the police with your evidence and ask them to release Kirby, they'll want to arrest you." "I know," she nodded wisely, "and of course they'd find out about Esther then and the papers would get it and scatter the story everywhere." "Exactly. We must protect her first. Kirby wouldn't want anything done that would hurt her. Suppose we put it up to him and see what he wants to do." "But we can't have him kept in jail," she protested. "I'll get him out on bond; if not to-day, tomorrow." "Well," she agreed reluctantly. "If that's the best we can do." Rose would have liked to have paid back Kirby's generosity in kind. If her sister had not been a factor of the equation she would have gone straight to the police with her story and suffered arrest gladly to help her friend. But the circumstances did not permit a heroic gesture. She had to take and not give. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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