“I am Mrs. Conway,” she said, and flicked a crumb off the table with an over-manicured finger.
The name was scarcely a surprise. I had already surmised that this might be the woman whom rumor credited as being Bronson’s common-law wife. Rumor, I remembered, had said other things even less pleasant, things which had been brought out at Bronson’s arrest for forgery.
“We met last under less fortunate circumstances,” she was saying. “I have been fit for nothing since that terrible day. And you - you had a broken arm, I think.”
“I still have it,” I said, with a lame attempt at jocularity; “but to have escaped at all was a miracle. We have much, indeed, to be thankful for.”
“I suppose we have,” she said carelessly, “although sometimes I doubt it.” She was looking somberly toward the door through which her late companion had made his exit.
“You sent for me - ” I said.
“Yes, I sent for you.” She roused herself and sat erect. “Now, Mr. Blakeley, have you found those papers?”
“The papers? What papers?” I parried. I needed time to think.
“Mr. Blakeley,” she said quietly, “I think we can lay aside all subterfuge. In the first place let me refresh your mind about a few things. The Pittsburg police are looking for the survivors of the car Ontario; there are three that I know of - yourself, the young woman with whom you left the scene of the wreck, and myself. The wreck, you will admit, was a fortunate one for you.”
I nodded without speaking.
“At the time of the collision you were in rather a hole,” she went on, looking at me with a disagreeable smile. “You were, if I remember, accused of a rather atrocious crime. There was a lot of corroborative evidence, was there not? I seem to remember a dirk and the murdered man’s pocketbook in your possession, and a few other things that were - well, rather unpleasant.”
I was thrown a bit off my guard.
“You remember also,” I said quickly, “that a man disappeared from the car, taking my clothes, papers and everything.”
“I remember that you said so.” Her tone was quietly insulting, and I bit my lip at having been caught. It was no time to make a defense.
“You have missed one calculation,” I said coldly, “and that is, the discovery of the man who left the train.”
“You have found him?” She bent forward, and again I regretted my hasty speech. “I knew it; I said so.”
“We are going to find him,” I asserted, with a confidence I did not feel. “We can produce at any time proof that a man left the Flier a few miles beyond the wreck. And we can find him, I am positive.”
“But you have not found him yet?” She was clearly disappointed. “Well, so be it. Now for our bargain. You will admit that I am no fool.”
I made no such admission, and she smiled mockingly.
“How flattering you are!” she said. “Very well. Now for the premises. You take to Pittsburg four notes held by the Mechanics’ National Bank, to have Mr. Gilmore, who is ill, declare his indorsement of them forged.
“On the journey back to Pittsburg two things happen to you: you lose your clothing, your valise and your papers, including the notes, and you are accused of murder. In fact, Mr. Blakeley, the circumstances were most singular, and the evidence - well, almost conclusive.”
I was completely at her mercy, but I gnawed my lip with irritation.
“Now for the bargain.” She leaned over and lowered her voice. “A fair exchange, you know. The minute you put those four notes in my hand - that minute the blow to my head has caused complete forgetfulness as to the events of that awful morning. I am the only witness, and I will be silent. Do you understand? They will call off their dogs.”
My head was buzzing with the strangeness of the idea.
“But,” I said, striving to gain time, “I haven’t the notes. I can’t give you what I haven’t got.”
“You have had the case continued,” she said sharply. “You expect to find them. Another thing,” she added slowly, watching my face, “if you don’t get them soon, Bronson will have them. They have been offered to him already, but at a prohibitive price.”
“But,” I said, bewildered, “what is your object in coming to me? If Bronson will get them anyhow - ”
She shut her fan with a click and her face was not particularly pleasant to look at.
“You are dense,” she said insolently. “I want those papers - for myself, not for Andy Bronson.”
“Then the idea is,” I said, ignoring her tone, “that you think you have me in a hole, and that if I find those papers and give them to you you will let me out. As I understand it, our friend Bronson, under those circumstances, will also be in a hole.”
She nodded.
“The notes would be of no use to you for a limited length of time,” I went on, watching her narrowly. “If they are not turned over to the state’s attorney within a reasonable time there will have to be a nolle pros - that is, the case will simply be dropped for lack of evidence.”
“A week would answer, I think,” she said slowly. “You will do it, then?”
I laughed, although I was not especially cheerful.
“No, I’ll not do it. I expect to come across the notes any time now, and I expect just as certainly to turn them over to the state’s attorney when I get them.”
She got up suddenly, pushing her chair back with a noisy grating sound that turned many eyes toward us.
“You’re more of a fool than I thought you,” she sneered, and left me at the table.
CHAPTER XXI
Mc KNIGHT’S THEORY
I confess I was staggered. The people at the surrounding tables, after glancing curiously in my direction, looked away again.
I got my hat and went out in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. That she would inform the police at once of what she knew I never doubted, unless possibly she would give a day or two’s grace in the hope that I would change my mind.
I reviewed the situation as I waited for a car. Two passed me going in the opposite direction, and on the first one I saw Bronson, his hat over his eyes, his arms folded, looking moodily ahead. Was it imagination? or was the small man huddled in the corner of the rear seat Hotchkiss?
As the car rolled on I found myself smiling. The alert little man was for all the world like a terrier, ever on the scent, and scouring about in every direction.
I found McKnight at the Incubator, with his coat off, working with enthusiasm and a manicure file over the horn of his auto.
“It’s the worst horn I ever ran across,” he groaned, without looking up, as I came in. “The blankety-blank thing won’t blow.”
He punched it savagely, finally eliciting a faint throaty croak.
“Sounds like croup,” I suggested. “My sister-in-law uses camphor and goose greese for it; or how about a spice poultice?”
But McKnight never sees any jokes but his own. He flung the horn clattering into a corner, and collapsed sulkily into a chair.
“Now,” I said, “if you’re through manicuring that horn, I’ll tell you about my talk with the lady in black.”
“What’s wrong?” asked McKnight languidly. “Police watching her, too?”
“Not exactly. The fact is, Rich, there’s the mischief to pay.”
Stogie came in, bringing a few additions to our comfort. When he went out I told my story.
“You must remember,” I said, “that I had seen this woman before the morning of the wreck. She was buying her Pullman ticket when I did. Then the next morning, when the murder was discovered, she grew hysterical, and I gave her some whisky. The third and last time I saw her, until to-night, was when she crouched beside the road, after the wreck.”
McKnight slid down in his chair until his weight rested on the small of his back, and put his feet on the big reading table.
“It is rather a facer,” he said. “It’s really too good a situation for a commonplace lawyer. It ought to be dramatized. You can’t agree, of course; and by refusing you run the chance of jail, at least, and of having Alison brought into publicity, which is out of the question. You say she was at the Pullman window when you were?”