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Just And The Unjust, The

<h2>CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h2> <h3>THE GAMBLER'S THEORY</h3> Gilmore, leaving his apartment, paused to light a cigar, then sauntered down the steps and into the street. As he did so he saw Marshall Langham come from the post-office, half a block distant, and hurry across the Square. Gilmore strode after him. "Oh, say, Marsh, I want to see you!" he called when he had sufficiently reduced the distance that separated him from his friend. Instantly Langham paused, turning a not too friendly face toward the gambler. "You want to see me?" he asked. "Didn't I say so?" demanded Gilmore, as he gained a place at his side. "Where are you going, to the office?" "Yes, I have some letters to answer," and Langham quickened his pace. Gilmore kept his place at the lawyer's elbow. For a moment there was silence between them, and then Gilmore said: "You got away from McBride's in a hurry Saturday; why didn't you wait and see the finish?" Langham made no answer to this, and Gilmore, after another brief silence, turned on him with an unexpected question: "How would you like to be in North's shoes, Marsh?" As he spoke, the gambler rested a hand on Langham's shoulder. He felt him shrink from the physical contact. "Gives you a chill just to think of it, doesn't it?" he said. "I suppose Moxlow believes there's the making of a pretty strong case against him; eh, Marsh?" "I don't know; I can't tell what he thinks," said Langham briefly. "But in North's place, back there in the jail in one of those brand-new iron cages over the yard, how would you feel? That's what I want to know!" Langham met his glance for an instant and then his eyes fell. He sensed the insinuation that was back of Gilmore's words. "Can't you put yourself in his place, with the evidence, such as it is, all setting against you?" "I'm due at the office," said the lawyer suddenly. Gilmore took his arm. "If North didn't kill McBride, who did?" he persisted. "Why do you ask me such questions?" demanded Langham resentfully. "My lord—can't we consider the matter?" asked the gambler laughing. "What's the use? Here, I've got to go to the office, Andy—" and he sought to release himself, but Gilmore retained his hold. "I suppose you are going to see North?" he asked. Langham came to a sudden stop. "What's that?" he asked hoarsely. "You have been his intimate for years; surely you are too good a friend to turn your back on him now!" "If he wants me, he'll send for me!" muttered Langham. "Do you mean you aren't going to him, Marsh?" asked the gambler with well simulated astonishment. "He knows where I'm to be found," said Langham, striding forward again, "and, damn it, this is no concern of yours!" "Well, by thunder!" ejaculated Gilmore. "I don't need any points from you, Andy!" said Langham, with a sullen sidelong glance at his companion. They had crossed the Square, and Langham now halted at the curb. "Good-by, Andy!" he said, and shook himself free of the other's detaining hand. "Hold on a minute, Marsh!" objected Gilmore. "Well, what is it, can't you see I am in a hurry?" "Oh, nothing here, Marsh—" and striding forward, Gilmore disappeared in the building before which they had paused. For an instant Langham hesitated, and then he followed the gambler. A step or two in advance of him, Gilmore mounted the stairs, and passing down the hall entered Langham's office. Langham followed him into the room; he closed the door, and without a glance at Gilmore removed his hat and overcoat and hung them up on a nail back of the door; the gambler meanwhile had drawn an easy chair toward the open grate at the far end of the room, before which he now established himself with apparent satisfaction. "I suppose the finding of the coroner's jury doesn't amount to much," he presently said but without looking in Langham's direction. The lawyer did not answer him. He crossed to his desk which filled the space between the two windows overlooking the Square. "You're damn social!" snarled Gilmore over his shoulder. "I told you I was busy," said Langham, and he began to finger the papers on his desk. Gilmore swung around in his chair and faced him. "So you won't see him—North, I mean?" he queried. "Well, you're a hell of a friend, Marsh. You've been as thick as thieves, and now when he's up against it good and hard, you're the first man to turn your back on him!" Seating himself, Langham took up his pen and began to write. Gilmore watched him in silence for a moment, a smile of lazy tolerance on his lips. "Suppose North is acquitted, Marsh; suppose the grand jury doesn't hold him," he said at length; "will the search for the murderer go on?" The pen slipped from Langham's fingers to the desk. "Look here, I don't want to discuss North or his affairs with you. It's nothing to me; can't you get that through your head?" "As his friend—" began Gilmore. "Get rid of that notion, too!" "That's what I wanted to hear you say, Marsh! So you're not his friend?" "No!" exclaimed Langham briefly, and his shaking fingers searched among the papers on his desk for the pen he had just dropped. "So you're not his friend any more?" repeated Gilmore slowly. "Well, I expect when a fellow gets hauled up for murder it's asking a good deal of his friends to stand by him! Do you know, Marsh, I'm getting an increased respect for the law; it puts the delinquents to such a hell of a lot of trouble. It's a good thing to let alone! I'm thinking mighty seriously of cutting out the games up at my rooms; what would you think of my turning respectable, Marsh? Would you be among the first to extend the warm right hand of fellowship?" "Oh, you are respectable enough, Andy!" said Langham. He seemed vastly relieved at the turn the conversation had taken. He leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands in his trousers pockets. "Say, why can't I put myself where I want to be? What's the matter with my style, anyhow? It's as good as yours any day, Marsh; and no one ever saw me drunk—that is a whole lot more than can be said of you; and yet you stand in with the best people, you go to houses where I'd be thrown out if I as much as stuck my nose inside the door!" "Your style's all right, Andy!" Langham hastened to assure him. "Well, it's as good as yours any day!" "Better!" said Langham, laughing. "Well, what's the matter with it, then?" persisted Gilmore. "There's a good deal of it sometimes, it's rather oppressive—" said the lawyer. "I'll fix that," said Gilmore shortly. "I would if I wanted what you seem to think you want," replied Langham chuckling. "Marsh, I'm dead serious; I'm sick of being outside all the good things. I know plenty of respectable fellows, fellows like you; but I want to know respectable women; why can't I?" "If you hanker for it, you can; it's up to you, Andy," said Langham. The gambler appeared very ingenuous in this new rôle of his. "Look here, Marsh, I've never asked anything of you, and you must admit that I've done you one or two good turns; now I'm going to ask a favor of you and I don't expect to be refused; fact is, I ain't going to take a refusal—" "What is it, Andy?" asked Langham cautiously, "I want you to introduce me to your wife." "The hell you do!" ejaculated Langham. The gambler's brow darkened. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded angrily. "Nothing, I was only thinking of Mrs. Langham's probable attitude in the matter, that was all." "You mean you think she won't want to meet me?" and in spite of himself Gilmore's voice sounded strained and unnatural. "I'm sure she won't," said Langham with cruel candor. "Well," observed Gilmore coolly, "I'm going to put my case in your hands, Marsh; you come to my rooms, you drink my whisky, and smoke my cigars and borrow my money; now I'm going to make a new deal with you. I'm going to know your wife. I like her style—she and I'll get on fine together, once we know each other. You make it plain to her that I'm your friend, your best friend, about your only friend!" "You fool—" began Langham. Gilmore quitted his chair at a bound and strode to Langham's side. "None of that, Marsh!" he protested sternly, placing a heavy hand on Langham's shoulder. "I see we got to understand each other, you and me! You don't take hints; I have to bang it into you with a club or you don't see what I'm driving at—" "I've paid you all I owe you, Gilmore!" said Langham conclusively. "You can't hold that over me any longer." "I don't want to!" retorted Gilmore quietly. "You kept your thumb on me good and hard while you could!" "Not half so hard as I am going to if you try to get away from me now—" "What do you mean by these threats?" cried Langham. The gambler laughed in his face. "You've paid me all you owe me, but I want to ask you just one question. Where did you get the money?" "That," said Langham, steadying himself by a mighty effort, "is none of your business!" "Think not?" and again Gilmore laughed, but before his eyes, fierce, compelling, Langham's glance wavered and fell. "I got the money from my father," he muttered huskily. "You're a liar!" said the gambler. "I know where you got that money, and you know I know." There was a long pause, and then Gilmore jerked out: "But don't you worry about that. In your own fashion you have been my friend, and it's dead against my creed to go back on a friend unless he tries to throw me down; so don't you make the mistake of doing that, or I'll spoil your luck! You think you got North where you want him; don't you be too sure of that! There's one person, just one, who can clear him, at least there's only one who is likely to try, and I'll tell you who it is—it's your wife—" For an instant Langham thought Gilmore had taken leave of his senses, but the gambler's next question filled him with vague terror. "Where was she late that afternoon, do you know?" "What afternoon?" asked Langham. Gilmore gave him a contemptuous glance. "Thanksgiving afternoon, the afternoon of the murder," he snapped. "She was at my father's, she dined there," said Langham slowly. "That may be true enough, but she didn't get there until after six o'clock—I'll bet you what you like on that, and I'll bet you, too, that I know where she was from five to six. Do you take me up? No? Of course you don't! Well, I'll tell you all the same. She was in North's rooms—" "You lie, damn you!" cried Langham, springing to his feet. He made an ineffectual effort to seize Gilmore by the throat, but the gambler thrust him aside with apparent ease. "Don't try that or you'll get the worst of it, Marsh; you've been soaking up too much whisky to be any good at that game with me!" said Gilmore. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/204.jpg" width-obs="45%" alt= "" title="" /> "She was in North's rooms—" </div> His manner was cool and determined. He took Langham roughly by the shoulders and threw him back in his chair. The lawyer's face was ghastly in the gray light that streamed in through the windows, but he had lost his sense of personal fear in another and deeper and less selfish emotion. Yet he realized the gambler's power over him, the power of a perfect and absolute knowledge of his most secret and hidden concerns. Gilmore surveyed him with a glance of quiet scorn. "It was about half past five when she turned up at North's rooms. He had just come up the stairs ahead of her; I imagine he knew she was coming. I guess I could tell you a few things you don't know! All during the summer and fall they've been meeting on the quiet—" he laughed insolently. "Oh, you have been all kinds of a fool, Marsh; I guess you've got on to the fact at last. And I don't wonder you are anxious to see North hang, and that you won't go near him; I'd kill him if I stood in your place. But maybe we can fix it so the law will do that job for you. It seems to have the whip-hand with him just now. Well, he was the whole thing with your wife when she went away this fall and then he began to take up with the general's girl—sort of to keep his hand in, I suppose—the damn fool! For she ain't a patch on your wife. I guess Mrs. Langham had been tipped off to this new deal—that's what brought her back to Mount Hope in such a hurry, and she went to his rooms to have it out with him and learn just where she stood. I was in my bedroom and I could hear them talking through the partition. It wasn't peaches and cream, for she was rowing all right!" "It's a lie!" cried Langham, and he strove to rise to his feet, but Gilmore's strong hand kept him in his chair. "No, I don't lie, Marsh, you ought to know that by this time; but there's just one point you want to get through your head; with your wife's help North can prove an alibi. He won't want to compromise her, or himself with the Herbert girl, for that matter; but how long do you think he's going to keep his mouth shut with the gallows staring him in the face? I'm willing to go as far in this matter as the next, but you got to do your part and pay the price, or I'll throw you down so hard you'll never get over the jar!" His heavy jaws protruded. "Now, I've a notion I want to know your wife. I like her style. I guess you can trust her with me—you ain't afraid of that, are you?" "Take your hands off me!" cried Langham, struggling fiercely. He tore at the gambler's wrists, but Gilmore only laughed his tantalizing laugh. "Oh, come, Marsh, let's get back to the main point. If North's indicted and your wife's summoned as a witness, she's got to chip in with us, she's got to deny that she was in his room that day—you got to see to that, I can't do everything—" "On your word—" "Well, you needn't quote me to her—it wouldn't help my standing with her—but ask her where she was between half past five and six the day of the murder; and mind this, you must make her understand she's got to keep still no matter what happens! Put aside the notion that North won't summon her; wait until he is really in danger and then see how quick he squeals!" "She may have gone to his rooms," said Langham chokingly, "but that doesn't prove anything wrong—" "Oh, come, Marsh, you ain't fool enough to feel that way about it—" "Let me up, Gilmore!" "No, I won't; I'm trying to make you see things straight for your own good. What's the matter, anyhow; don't you and your wife get on?" Langham's face was purple with rage and shame, while his eyes burned with a murderous hate. Rude hands had uncovered his hidden sore; yet ruder speech was making mock of the disgraceful secret. It was of his wife that this coarse bully was speaking! That what he said was probably true—Evelyn herself had admitted much—did not in the least ease the blow that had crushed his pride and self-respect. He lay back in his chair, limp and panting under Gilmore's strong hands. Where was his own strength of heart and arm that he should be left powerless in this moment of unspeakable degradation? "It behooves you to do something more than soak up whisky," said the gambler. "You must find out what took your wife to North's rooms, and you must make her keep quiet no matter what happens. If you go about it right it ought to be easy, for they had some sort of a row and he's mixed up with the Herbert girl; you got that to go on. Now, the question is, is she mad enough to see him go to the penitentiary or hang without opening her mouth to save him? Come, you should know something about her by this time; I would, if I had been married to her as long as you have." Suddenly he released Langham and fell back a step. The lawyer staggered to his feet, adjusting his collar and cravat which Gilmore's grasp on his throat had disarranged. He glanced about him with a vague notion of obtaining some weapon that would put him on an equality with his more powerful antagonist, but nothing offered, and he took a step toward the door. "Don't be a fool, Marsh," said the gambler coldly. "I'm going to change my tactics with you. I'm not going to wear myself out keeping your nose pointed in the right direction; you must do something for yourself, you drunken fool!" Langham took another step toward the door, but his eyes—the starting bloodshot eyes of a hunted animal—still searched the room for some weapon. Except for the heavy iron poker by the grate, there was nothing that would serve his purpose, and he must pass the gambler to reach that. Still fumbling with his collar he paused irresolutely, midway of the room. Pride and self-respect would have taken him from the place but hate and fear kept him there. Gilmore threw himself down in a chair before the fire and lit a cigar. In spite of himself Langham watched him, fascinated. There was such conscious power and mastery in everything the gambler did, that he felt the various purposes that were influencing him collapse with miserable futility. What was the use of struggling? "You can do as you blame please in this matter, Marsh," said the gambler at length. "I haven't meant to offend you or insult you, but if you want to see it that way—all right, it suits me. You needn't look about you, for you won't find any sledges here; you ought to know that." "What do you mean—" asked Langham in a whisper. "Draw up a chair and sit down, Marsh, and we'll thrash this thing out if it takes all night. Here, have a cigar!" for Langham had drawn forward a chair. With trembling fingers he took the cigar the gambler handed him. "Now light up," said Gilmore. He watched Langham strike a match, watched his shaking hands as he brought its flame to the cigar's end. "That's better," he said as the first puff of smoke left Langham's colorless lips. "So you think you want to know what I mean, eh? Well, I'm going to take you into my confidence, Marsh, and just remember you can't possibly reach the poker without having me on top of you before you get to it! You were pretty sober for you the afternoon of the murder, not more than half shot, we'll say, but later on when you hunted me up at the McBride house, you were as drunk as you will ever be, and slobbering all sorts of foolishness!" He puffed his cigar in silence for a moment. Langham's had gone out and he was nervously chewing the end of it. "What did I say?" he asked at length. "Oh, all sorts of damn nonsense. You're smart enough sober, but get you drunk and you ain't fit to be at large!" "What did I say?" repeated Langham. "Better let me forget that," rejoined Gilmore significantly. "And look here, Marsh, I was sweating blood Saturday when they had Nelson on the stand, but it's clear he had no suspicion that my rooms were occupied on the night of the murder. You were blue about the gills while Moxlow was questioning him, and I don't wonder; as I tell you, I wasn't comfortable myself, for I knew well enough how that bit of burnt bond got into the ash barrel—" "Hush! For God's sake—" whispered Langham in uncontrollable terror. Gilmore laughed. "My lord, man, you got to keep your nerve! Look here, Mount Hope ain't going to talk of anything but the McBride murder; you are going to hear it from morning to night, and that's one of the reasons you got to keep sober. You've done your best so far to queer yourself, and unless you listen to reason you may do it yet." "I don't know what you mean—" said Langham. "Don't you, Marsh? Well, I got just one more surprise in store for you, but I'll keep it to myself a while longer before I spring it on you." He was thinking of Joe Montgomery's story; if Langham did not prove readily tractable, that should be the final weapon with which he would beat him into submission. Presently he said: "I've all along had my own theory about old man McBride's murder, and now I'm going to see what you think of it, Marsh." An icy hand seemed to be clutching Langham's heart. Gilmore's cruel smiling eyes noted his suffering. He laughed. "Of course, I don't think North killed McBride, not for one minute I don't; in fact, it's a dead moral certainty he didn't!" He leaned forward in his chair and looked into his companion's eyes. For an instant Langham met his glance without flinching and then his eyes shifted and sought the floor. "I'll bet," said Gilmore's cool voice, "I'll bet you what you like I could put my hand on the man who did the murder!" and as he spoke he reached out and by an apparently accidental gesture, rested his hand on Langham's shoulder. "You wouldn't like to risk any money on that little bet, eh, Marsh?" He sank back in his chair and applied himself to his cigar in silence, but his eyes never left Langham's face. Presently he took the cigar from between his strong even teeth. "Now, I'm going to give you my theory," he said. "I want to see what you think of it—but remember always, I believe in letting well enough alone! They got North caged in one of those nice new cells down at the jail and that suits me all right! My theory is that the man who killed McBride was needing money mighty badly and he went to McBride as a sort of a last chance. He found the old fellow alone in the office—understand, he didn't go there with any fixed purpose of killing him, his ideas had not carried him that far—he was willing to borrow the money if the old man would lend it to him. He probably needed quite a sum, say two or three thousand dollars, and the need was urgent, you must keep that in mind and then you'll see perfectly how it all happened. Possibly my man was of the sort who don't fancy disagreeable interviews and had put off going to the store until the last moment, but once he had settled that point with himself he was determined he wouldn't come away without the money. The old fellow, however, took a different view of the situation; he couldn't see why he should lend any money, especially when the borrower was vague on the matter of security. "Well, I guess they talked quite a while there at the back of the store, McBride standing in the doorway of the office all the time. At last it got to my man that he wasn't to have the money. But there was trouble ahead of him if he didn't get it and he wouldn't give up; he kept on making promises—urging his need—and his willingness and ability to meet his obligations. He was like a starving man in the presence of food, for he knew McBride had the money in his safe and the safe door was open. His need seemed the only need in all the world, and it came to him that since McBride would not lend him the money he wanted, why not take it from him anyhow? He couldn't see consequences, he could only realize that he must have two or three thousand dollars! Perhaps he got a glimmer of reason just here, and if he did he was pretty badly frightened to think that he should even consider violence; he turned away to leave McBride and the old man followed him a ways down the store, explaining why they couldn't do business." Gilmore paused. His cigar had gone out; now he struck a match, but he did not take his eyes from Langham's face. He did not speak at once even when his cigar was lighted. Great beads of perspiration stood thick on Langham's brow, his hair was damp and clammy. He was living that unspeakable moment over again, with all its madness and horror. He saw himself as he had walked scowling toward the front of the store; he had paused irresolutely with his hand on the door-knob and then had turned back. The old merchant was standing close by the scales, a tall gaunt figure in the waning light of day. "Why do you tell me you can't do it?" he had demanded with dull anger. "You have the money, I know that!" "I didn't tell you I couldn't do it, Mr. Langham, I merely intimated that I wouldn't," the old man had rejoined dryly. "You have the money in your safe!" "What if I have? It's mine to do with as I think proper." "A larger sum than I want—than I need!" "Quite likely." A furious gust of passion had laid hold of him, the consciousness of his necessity, all-compelling and relentless, swept through his brain. Money he must have!—his success, his happiness, everything depended on it, and what could money mean to this feeble old man whose days were almost spent? "I want you to let me have two thousand dollars!" he had insisted, as he placed his hand on the old merchant's shoulder. "Get it for me; I swear I'll pay it back. I'll give you such security as I can—my note—" McBride had laughed dryly at this, and he turned on his heel as though to reënter the office. Langham shot a quick glance about him; the store was empty, the street before it deserted; he saw through the dingy windows the swirling scarfs of white that the wind sent flying across the Square. Now was his time if ever! Bitter resentment urged him on—it was a monstrous thing that those who could, would not help him! Near the scales was an anvil, and leaning against the anvil-block was a heavy sledge. As the old merchant turned from him, he had caught up the sledge and had struck him a savage blow on the head. McBride had dropped to the floor without cry or groan. Langham passed his hand before his eyes to blot out the vision of that still figure on the floor, and a dry sob burst from his lips. "Eh, did you speak, Marsh?" asked Gilmore. "No," said Langham in a whisper. Gilmore laughed. "You are seeing just how it all happened, Marsh. There was a sledge by the anvil that stood near those scales, and when the old fellow wouldn't come to time, my man lost all restraint and snatched it up, and a second later McBride was dead. After that my man had things all his own way. He went through the safe and took what was useful to him,—and those damn bonds of North's which weren't useful,—and skipped by the side door and out over the shed roof and down the alley, just as Joe said." Gilmore paused, and flicked away a bit of cigar ash that had lodged in a crease of his coat. "That's the whole story of the McBride murder. Now what do you think of my theorizing, Marsh; how does it strike you?" But Langham did not answer him. The gambler's words had brought it all back; he was living again the agony of that first conscious moment when he realized the thing he had done. He remembered his hurried search for the money, and his flight through the side door; he remembered crossing the shed roof and the panic that had seized him as he dropped into the alley beyond, unseen, safe as he supposed. A debilitating reaction, such as follows some tremendous physical effort, had quickly succeeded. He had wandered through the deserted streets seeking control of himself in vain. Finally he had gone home. Evelyn was at his father's and the servant absent for the day. He had let himself in with his latchkey and had gone at once to the library. There he fell to pacing to and fro; ten—twenty minutes had passed, when the sudden noisy clamor of the town bell had taken him, cowering, to the window; but the world beyond was a vaguely curtained white. He raised his heavy bloodshot eyes and looked into the gambler's smiling face. He realized the futility of his act, since it had placed him irrevocably in Gilmore's power. He had endured unspeakable anguish all to no purpose, since Gilmore knew; knew with the certitude of an eye-witness. And there the gambler sat smiling and at ease, torturing him with his cunning speech. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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