"That passage jumped out like tiger's claws in a drawing-room comedy. Davis was the man, all right. What's more, as I think I reminded you, Manning told one great big whoppin' lie that night, which the same I spotted. He said the secret of how he was goin' to disappear was known only to himself."
Again Cy intervened with a repeated question.
"But if Manning and Davis hated each other," he asked, "how could Manning persuade Davis to help, him in the scheme? And why must they 'pretend' to dislike each other?"
"Oh, my son! If in Manning's scheme Davis was an accomplice, in fact the accomplice, are people likely to suspect him if they think Manning doesn't like him or trust him?"
"Come to think of it, no."
"And Davis could see it, all right. He couldn't believe Manning or anybody could dislike him, though a good many of us instinctively did. As to how Manning lured him on and trapped him..." H.M. paused.
"I say, Gil," he addressed, the District Attorney in a tone of slight apology, "you may have heard of the shootin' party we gave for Davis in the graveyard this morning?"
Byles turned on him a cold and formal eye.
"Officially or unofficially," said Byles, "I never heard of it. You shock me!"
"Sure, sure. Lieutenant Trowbridge never heard of it either." H.M. looked at Cy. "But by now, son, you've realized..."
"I should have realized at the time," Cy retorted bitterly, "that nobody in the whole damn world could have been as bad a shot as you seemed, unless you weren't trying to hit him. And that was why you didn't use tear gas? And the cops were all crack shots who would be certain not to hit him?"
"Just scare him out of his wits," the old villain answered reassuringly, "and crack his nerve as it cracked once before. I said, Thank you, gents, that's all,' to the cops, and I marched a broken-up Davis back to the house, and got the truth.
"And how had Manning got him snaffled?
"Manning, some time ago, proposed a piece of apparently crooked work to Davis, and Davis didn't turn a hair. So Manning went further.
"If they were entering into dirty work as partners, said Manning, they had each to have a document which would absolutely damn the other if either side betrayed. So they wrote two copies, each one writin' an alternate paragraph in his own hand, to the followin' effect
"Frederick Manning, who intends to elope with a floozie, will pinch the sum of a hundred thousand dollars from the Foundation Funds. In consideration of Huntington Davis's helping him with his vanishing trick, Davis will receive fifty thousand provided he gives up all claim on Jean."
"And they both signed an agreement like that?" demanded Cy.
"That's it, son. Manning knew, as far as he was concerned, he was as safe as houses. Davis didn't mind that bit about Jean, even if this could ever be made public—which it couldn't. If Manning has gone broke, then Jean's no longer an asset to Davis.
"But the fellow's in love with Jean!" protested Cy. "I swear he is! His acting wasn't that good!" "Sure he's in love with her, son." "Well, then!"
"I'm afraid," grunted H.M., "you don't understand the wrong type of these Bound-to-be-Successful boys. Davis would tell you, with tears of sincerity in his eyes, that marriage to the daughter of a poor man wasn't good sense. His social background, his athletic record, his brokerage firm, all deserved something better."
"I see," snarled Cy Norton. "But you seem to think Manning now had him in a corner. How?"
"That'll be plain," said H.M., "if I just tell you the final scene of what I'm goin' to say. Last night, at half-past seven, Davis slipped away from the baseball field with what he thought was a loaded .38 revolver.
"Oh, ah! There's the question of how that .38 Smith and Wesson got mixed up with my luggage. You know now the cops returned that. Davis went out to Maralarch with the gun, because he had plans. Instead of puttin' it in his overnight bag, the silly dummy shoved it into a deep raincoat pocket. Then he realized he'd have to hang his coat in the hall cupboard, as Betterton did. He hurried to look for a place to hide it. He found the kitchen empty. Then, standin' there with the gun in his hand, he heard somebody comin— and panicked.
"It was pure instinct. But I don't suppose he could have got rid of it better than by puttin' it on top of my bag near the kitchen door. Servants, even if they think you're loopy, still think what they find on top of your bag belongs to you—like a tennis racket or golf clubs.
"Davis knew he could follow where it went, and get it again. He did. What he didn't know was that the cartridges were now duds; Manning saw to that.
"So, at seven-thirty next day, while I'm at bat, he whips out to that cenotaph.
"Manning, all dressed again and with his disguise off, was waiting for him. It was gettin' towards a blur of twilight. And what a showdown!
"It gives me a creepy kind of feeling to remember that Elizabeth Manning, when she talked about 'a graveyard to let,' actually imagined last night what Davis meant to do to her husband! Davis—if he could muster up the nerve—wasn't goin' to have any nonsense about dividing money. He'd kill the blighter. Manning, of course, had to carry the key of the vault Davis would lock up the body there.
Those places, if you put the metal protector over the keyhole, are pretty nearly airtight Nobody would discover that body. Manning, to everybody's mind, would have run away; they'd look for him everywhere except here.
"When Davis stepped inside that cenotaph and closed the door, he didn't notice the partly broken window. The sound of shots, normally, wouldn't carry as far as the outfield.
"'Have you got the hundred thousand?' says Davis.
"'It's in there,' says Manning, and nods toward the pigskin bag. Actually, all Manning had was a couple of thousand from his own bank account.
"Davis takes the gun out of his waistband, under a loose sports coat, and fires.
"And there's only a click.
"Davis, beginning to lose his head, fires again. Only a click. And there's Manning, with those blazin' eyes we remember, just watching him.
"'I'm glad you did that,' says Manning, in the silkiest kind of tone. 'Because of course you won't get a penny of the hundred thousand.
"'Didn't it occur to you,' says Manning, 'that I'm now a fugitive? That I've disappeared? Everybody will know it in a few days. And you can't denounce me with your copy of the agreement, unless you denounce yourself too.
"'As for my copy,' says Manning, 'that's in my safe. My secretary has orders to give it to Jean, sealed, at noon tomorrow morning. Jean knows there was money being stolen. But she doesn't know you're willing to throw her over for money. And she'll see it in your own handwriting. Now get out''
"And that's what Manning had really done with his copy. Its effect on an idealistic twenty-one-year-old gal like Jean...
"Of course Manning was still foolin' Davis to the top of his bent about the money. And that's what drove Davis crazy. In his pocket he had a big penknife of a kind (they tell me) you can buy without bein' noticed. In that half-darkness he could open it behind his back.
"And Davis went for Manning with the knife.
"And Manning went for Davis with his bare hands.
"Two stab wounds in the side. Some wounds you don't feel immediately; a lung-wound usually hits like a red-hot poker. Manning started to go down on one knee—and got up again. He was still comin' for Davis, knife or no.
"Davis, for the last time, couldn't face those eyes. His nerve broke, and he ran out of the door into the graveyard. Manning, proceedin' in a kind of ferocious apple-pie order, locked the door of the cenotaph, put the key in his pocket and started after Davis.
"But he couldn't make it He collapsed against a grave only a dozen feet away. Davis thought for sure Manning was a goner. He could go back and dispose of the body when...